Ole tub water

We used to fill up that old tub in the back and share the bath water, when folks heard word of it they made a fuss but we defended ourselves. Saying "Ah, we're just saving some water, no need in wastin' two tub fulls" But truth is. We were scared. We were scared of washing off our sins alone, so we shared that tub. Scrubbing at every little sin we could find, and if some were to stick back on our bodies when we got out..well, that'd be fine, cause we'd be carrying them together. And Lord knows we could use all the help we can get.

I was seven the first time I sewed scripture to the cuffs of my suits. I was attending my uncle’s funeral. I say uncle because legally that’s all he was to me. I don’t even know his name, mom had this to say about him: “oh him? yeah sweety(I hated when she called me sweety) he’s your uncle. Wanna have a little secret? before your daddy married me your “uncle” used to make kisses on me” I ignored mother that day, I ignored mother most days. Now don’t get me wrong, I loved her. But I did not love her words. I haven’t loved someones words since I was three. The last words I loved I heard on the radio “we offer a discount on towels” we offer something about those two words stuck with me. Anyways. I borrowed thread. I kidnapped a needle and I sewed a chapter of Habakkuk to the cuff of my “dashing suit” thats what my aunt called it. She’s the type that calls everything dashing. Makes me sick. I sat in the pew of a musty church, pinching my leg. stepping on one foot. occasionaly peeking at my scriptures. I do the same thing now that i’m older. My wife. when she picks me out a shirt she asks: “Hey babe, what scripture do you want to wear today?” I never answer. She knows. That was a day. Thats what I would say, “That was a day” I never learned descriptive words. Later when my age became larger I learned that “weird” would have been an appropriate word. “That was a weird day, I saw my first bra, dead person and realized I look nothing like my family” You’re probably wondering what my age is. Well by calender talk i’m 27. But in the world of science i’m only 13. I never paid much attention to science. Why do people want answers for everything? I have to stop talking now, sorry for such a weird ending but I have to sew.

How Whales Communicate

When I was seven I knew a man who collected paper cuts. He traveled from library to library adding to his collection. The collection he hid on his spine and under his socks. When I was eight he showed me his spine. riddled with cuts. A spine painted in fiction, horror, living and children's books. When I was nine he would lay on his stomach and let me read his spine with eager fingers. That's where I learned what a kiss was. What it is to lie to your parents. How to grow flowers in a tub. By the age of twelve I had started my own collection of paper cuts. "How Whales communicate" was the first cut to sink itself behind my knees. When I turned fifteen he let me peak beneath his socks. He wouldn't let me read. Just look. He promised by my eighteenth birthday I could read the cuts between his toes. By the time I was seventeen he had moved on. He hadn't died, in fact i'm not sure if he was ever born. He simply moved on. Leaving me. a young man. a young man with knees full of paper cuts and fingers that craved a spine.

When I learned of how mother cut her tongue on those pages my tongue cried to feel the sting of sacred edges. My bones ached for the breaking I knew those pages could bring. hit me. cut me. rip my sides out. I would scream at her locked door. The door she hid behind cutting her tongue on those sacred edges. The day mother let me in I walked in on all fours with a hunger for anything she left. But mothers tongue was gone. Her bones were no more. She licked all those sacred edges. She was broken by every last page. She was no more and I fed upon her flesh. But a child shouldn’t feed upon a sacrifice such as this. A child. me. a young girl. never left that room again. never tasted the sacred edges and felt the breaking of pages. I just was and never could be. For the rest of my days until my spine was worn down by the windows light and my legs married the dust.

I used to ask my knees why they smelt like the sea, I only asked because my knees have never seen the sea. But somehow their wrinkled faces held the scent of traveling winds. I used to know this man who carried bottles by his side. Bottles full of truths but he bottled them up. to afraid of how they would make people feel. I used to be the type of sinner that only prayed for my forgiveness on sunday afternoons. I used to be the type of sinner that held hands to tightly and left bruises on toddlers wrist. I was a vessel of holy water with not a drop to spare. And when you came crawling out from under my legs I knew your face. I knew your wrists and I remembered your thighs. But you remembered not. You didn’t know my face or know my wrists.

I never asked to be accountable for all the sins my father committed down in those mines. I’m sure if he knew i’d be the one paying for his wicked ways he would have thought twice about doing them. At least that’s the way I like to think about it. Nobody wants to think of their father as a wicked man. Last month he put on his nicest pair of slacks, took the change from grandmas rainy day bucket and went down to those mines. That was the last time I saw him. Cracked hands digging for a few quarters, pennies and mistakingly picking up a button is the last image I have of him. Days later the post man came, the one with the limp that seems to switch legs depending on the weather. He brought me a letter. Boys like me never get letters, I get the occasional Happy Birthday card from my aunt in the city but it’s nothing more than an obligatory gesture. I stood on that porch with the heaviest letter my hands had ever held. My old dull schrade knife slide right through that letters spine only to find hundreds of paper scraps all with black bold face letters on them. My fathers sins. They mailed me my fathers sins. I carried that letter till my hands were just as cracked as his. I carried that letter till there no longer was any rainy day money in grandmas bucket. I never married and I never became promiscuous. I never wanted children. I never wanted them to receive my letter full of scraps of paper with black bold face letters on them. I never wanted them to be accountable for my sins.

Before sister was born brother and I cut down the old weeping willow behind our house. We made sister a crib out of that old weeping willows bones in hopes that it would save her from falling between the cracks of mothers worn down bed.

After sister was born brother fell from the kitchen table with rope around his dry neck. And a note stuck in his sock. “I got the job”

After brother was buried mother started dancing with the pastors who carried hollowed out Bibles. She wore long dresses and no longer hid in her worn down bed. Mother left a note on the kitchen table. “I took the job, feed your sister”

After mother took the job I fed my sister leaves and fresh water from the stream that runs under our porch. Sister and I never left notes about jobs. We never ate at the kitchen table and our beds never became worn down. I grew old. She grew up. She married a man who already had a job. She had children who never feared falling between the cracks of her worn down bed.

After sister married. After sister became her own. I left a note on the bathroom sink. “I never could hold a steady job” I fell between the cracks in mothers worn down bed.

My mother counted coins on the kitchen table while father brought home letters from other mothers. My sister hid her novels under blankets and sheets while brother hit his girlfriend in the living room of grandmothers. Our family held no secrets. Shame was not our thing. Uncle called our sister while our power flickered out. Brother begged for his inheritance in hopes to move away. Brother moved away with camel cash and a used out zippo. Mother read the bible but never read the words. Sister still hid her novels. Father kissed the floors of bankrupt restrooms. I sat. I stood. I watched and I cried. I was I and they were they but in the end they saw us as them. My attemps to break out never prevailed. Until that day. When the wrecking balls came. Tore down my flesh and ripped up my legs. I was a house. I was a broken shelter. You thought I was a child but your thoughts were wrong. I was four walls with a ceiling and a scared floor. I had four eyes one on each wall and a door that never offered freedom.

Your tattered legs all stained with salt while mother clutches rubble and calls out fathers fault. You sat on uneven legs in sister marys chair, she combed your nails while you bit your hair. And for seven years you wore bandages on your knees in hopes of removing them in your brothers sacred seas.

You wore a borrowed dress to the party of senses. Your skin crawled. Your bones ached and your stomached cried for the comforts of home but your arms went forward. Your legs craved the attention of the floor. And your eyes preyed on the ones drinking their elixirs and smoking their poison. You were caught up in the gusts of an age in which an existentialistic heart was the only thing that could get you by. Your fingers danced on freshly washed linens while your legs dangled on sheets stained with tears. Your eyes met the ceiling. Your feet never touched sacred ground. Your palms full of paper cuts. Your eyes full of dust.

I haven’t washed my lips since that night I kissed her casket. Since the night I hid behind the pew and waited for everyone to go home so I could stay up with her all night and play one more game of checkers. Hear one more story. Make sure she didn’t need a glass of water. And after she let me win at checkers. After I fixed her flowers and sat a glass of water beside her bed. I crawled back behind the pew and hid till the sun woke up.

Smacking the alarm to hush it’s cries I slowly wake up. My warm feet pressing against the cold ground. Sleeping lungs awoken by the afternoon air. My suit laid out on the chair ironed and ready. I dress myself in the mirror making sure not to miss a button. You always made fun of me for missing buttons: “You’ve been doing this for fifteen years and yet you still miss a button, silly man.” All my buttons aligned. Tie tied right. Pants and belt on. Jacket resting on my shoulders and a freshly combed beard. ”I sure hope her parents don’t bring up grandchildren again.” I whispered to myself while fixing my hair.

The gate cired like it always does. Your father and mother in their regular spots. I sat across from you and adjusted my tie.

“Your mother liked her flowers”..

“I still think your father hates me”

Twirling my fingers while I stare at my shoes.

“Well..the place on Elm is still for sale, I know we can’t afford it right now but it’s nice to dream.”

Fixing my already fixed hair.

“I’ve missed you at my place, you left your brush on my nightstand. I was going to clean it for you but I know you like to do things a certain way”

Looking forward.

“You know I love you..right? I always will. I always have. Jenny and Ted invited us to one of those dress up parties. I know you hate those kind of things but I thought it’d be nice to go”

“Yeah you’re right, let’s just stay in tonight”

“Sir. Sir.” I look around to see a man in his blue jumpsuit with part of his supper still in his beard. “Sir, it’s after 8 I’ve gotta close this place up.” sighing. “A few more minutes?” he gives me a look of obligation. “Sorry sir, it’s cemetery policy. not mine.” “I understand” I say while brushing the dirt off the back of my pants. “I’ll see you tomorrow dear. Sleep well, I’ll be sure to say night to your parents. I still think your dad doesn’t like me. Night”

She held onto my ankles as she was swept out to sea.

Her hair full of salt. Her eyes full of me.

She held onto my ankles as she was swept out to sea.

Her body becoming the waves as they crashed upon me.

My feet no longer stand on those shores.

I've barred up my windows and sealed up my doors.

I sensed your storms a coming a long time ago.

Now I hide in solitude humming the songs I only know.

Humming the songs you only taught me.

The day you held my ankles and were swept out to sea.

I laid outside. Trading stories with the stars. He told me of his love. He told me that he never demanded his children to shine. They chose to. He began to tell me the names of the stars. I listened. Held the names close to my heart. My humble lips could never pronounce their names. For they were names which I’ve never heard. Names of kings and queens that ruled lands in my dreams. I yelled.shouted and cried out questions. He replied with the simplest of answers. i have not the heart to repeat them. He spoke of my children. He spoke of seeing my future.youwerethere. As I laid there and heard his tales he began to dance for me. Thousands of his children danced for me. silent dances. silent moves. yet they were so loud to my soul. when he began to say goodnight I cried. he saw my tears. a cold breeze crept up my spine and I knew it was his way of saying hed be back.

Thank you moon. Thank you sky. you make me feel small. So small that I can barely see. yet I feel your great love inside of me.

-jason.

you always knew.

We were both so young. But in our hearts we felt brave and old. We were inseperable. If I ran through fire I knew youd be right behind me. On the nights you weren’t in my bed I laid and starred at the glow in the dark stars we put up last summer. I could always spot our star. As I laid there counting fake stars Id wonder if you were doing the same thing. if you were ok. if you found the note i hid under your pillow. And some nights Id lay there wide awake hoping to hear you tap at my window and carry me off into the neighbors field. Where wed run barefoot. jump. dance. twirl. fall to the ground. Having perfect conversation..without ever speaking. And wed sneak back to my window. id crawl through. turning around to help you in but youve already ran off. you always knew when to run off. you always knew how to hold onto to the perfect moments. Id fall back in bed. pull out the tiny pebble you snuck in my pocket. hold it. and sleep.

Bending Dream

“He sat on his porch smoking his pipe, rocking in his chair while taking in the sweet but stout flavor of his pipe. As the smoke bellowed from his beak he noticed her in the corner of his eye. Standing there calmly waiting for him to notice her. He slowly turned his head letting her know that he knew, then slowy turning his head back. Removing his worn down pipe from his beak, the last bit of smoke flowed out.

“I missed you.”


As she stepped off the path the smell of his pipe urged her to go on. She knew he would be on the porch, he always sat on the porch on days like this -would he even want me back?, did he he even realize I was gone?- She spotted the cabin. The cabin she had learned to love and the same one that drove her away. She could hear the rocking of his chair and the subtle draws from his pipe. Turning the corner. There he was just as she had imagined, time froze as she stood there waiting for him to notice her. Her stomach dropping as he slowly looked at her, then looked away. Hearing him say “I missed you” she no longer saw him, she only saw the tears.”

-anonymous

bones.

My bones have been moaning and ever so slightly growing. It started the day that you slept on my hollowed out chest. It started the day you left your little treasures in my palms. We were convinced we had stopped growing before we met you. We were confident that our arms would never reach the top shelf. We were wrong. As are most who think they will never grow. For we started to grow and now we can reach the highest of shelves. And our bones owe it all to you. You whispered into them. Begged them to grow along side yours. Sang them the songs that others sang to you when you thought you had stopped growing. But now we grow. you. me. i and us. Our bones are growing and we are ready to dance upon the legs of others and beg them to grow with us. To show them. To teach them. To tell them that their tiny bones can grow.

Dirty old creek rock on my chest.

She made me kiss a rock once, did I ever tell you that? It was the same summer she stopped talking to me because she started to shave her legs. even though there was nothing to shave. “it’s there. you just can’t see it.” I’d just snarl my nose and run off to catch some frogs. Now back to how she made me kiss a rock. She knew I loved her. She knew that every boy loved her but she had a special liking towards me. She asked me if I ever thought about kissing her. Of course I said no. but she knew I watched those lips of hers. if she knew I practiced on the back of my hand or a pillow she’d make fun of me but deep down she’d be impressed. We were picking up creek rocks to build a dam down on Old Sacklers creek, he was a gentle man with a firm heart but he didn’t mind us messing around with his creek as long as we didn’t spook the cows. She threw a piece of mud at me and shouted out: “Go stand beside that tree and put your hand on your head and the other in your back pocket” “why?!” I shouted back while picking the mud out of my ear. “Im gonna kiss you silly, and thats how grown ups kiss.” I knew she was wrong but that small part of me thought maybe. just maybe she was right so I stood beside the tree and I placed one hand on my head that was hot from the good Lords sun and the other in my back pocket. well what little was left of it. I lost the back part of my britches last week when I was running from this duck. yes a duck. they can be mean when you’re messing with the eggs. She walked over and told me to close my eyes. She said something about how grown ups when they kiss they like to close their eyes because it makes them feel like it’s a dream or something like that. So I shut my eyes and waited. Before I could even get into that grown up dream I felt a warm wetness press up against my lips. I held my eyes shut for a few seconds before opening them to see her standing there with a hand covering her mouth and the other holding a rock up to my lips. “damit all!! I have no need to be kissing creek rocks.” I stormed off and cussed her silly name all the way home. She stopped talking to me that summer because she started to shave her legs and hang out with the boys who had hairs on their lips. We went our seperate ways. She told everyone about me kissing that old creek rock. But what she didn’t tell them mustached boys and shaved legged gals was that two nights after she tricked me she climbed up the tree behind our house and snuck in my window. She laid down beside me in my bed that didn’t even fit me and played with an old creek rock. the same one that she made me kiss. We didn’t say a word. I could hear her breathing and slightly dozing off but I didn’t close my eyes once. or my ears. I took in every second. every sound and every breath. She eventually rose up looked at me with eyes that had so much to say. so much potential. she took that old creek rock and kissed it. laid it on my chest and went out my window. We didn’t speak for many years after that but occasionally we’d steal a glance at each other and just grin. I still have that old creek rock. I’m sure when I get to be an old man and they decide to put me in the ground the people will look in my casket and wonder why theres a dirty old creek rock on my chest

Fist fights with the constellations

There was a fist fight with the constellations and I was the heavy hitter but I walked out with two black eyes and a broken wrist. I entered that smokeless hospital with a fire burning in my throat and smoke bellowing out of my pores. I was asked to sit but I chose to stand and when told to run I took my time. I took your time. I took his time and some of hers. I saw the doctor and I sang him my song but he had no time for my silly songs or elegant rhymes. He was a serious man. A man of serious. He told me I had died already but was able to bring me back. I told him he had no idea. I told him I had died four times since I entered this room and fell in love twice. I told him my lungs are full of engines and my veins had all but been drained. He prescribed me worldly medicine but I told him I don’t need this mess. I have a prescription given to me by a girl with soft hands and strong blood. he laughed. i cried. I left that hospital with gloves in my pocket and my hand in my hair. My car was rusty. My car hasn’t worked for six years but it gets me where I need to go. to those dusty parking lots. to those swinging bridges and around the corner. I was worried that your door would be open. I hate when your door is open. I want to knock. I want to wait. I want to anticipate the jiggle of that knob and then tune my lungs to the key of your door bell. I was wrong and oh how I was so right. Your door was cracked. your door ajar and you on the bed where you have been for the past 23 years. Your pillows worn down and your sheets untucked. I slid into the harmony of your blankets and made shadows with my hands. i sang to you but you were deaf. I tasted you but you were tasteless. You were an empty vessel in which I poured so much. You were a vessel with a hole in your corner. So I left the harmony and I broke out into a dance for one last time. I knew what had to be done. I knew my car would only make it as far as wall street but you lived on Elk Wood. but i would walk. and i would ware down these new shoes. i’d sell my shoes to be in your arms. you knew this and yet you never asked me to sell my shoes. you loved my shoes and when we met you asked them to tell you a tale. but we all know shoes can’t talk. just the laces. the laces that wrapped around your ankles and brought you into my veins. veins. I entered your house and i tore down a wall. I ran my hands in your hair and i tasted the tasteful. *you listened with your lips and you spoke with your ears. you were my knight in shining armor. the pea to my pod and you made everything taste like a holiday. i told you my secrets and i told you my past. I even mentioned my future. you included yourself in my arms and you ate ice cream while i painted you a portrait of someone i once knew. and then burned it to make one of someone i just met. we found your old bed and slept in it. legs stretched over the side. a blanket for one. and a pillow for two. i whispered good morning as soon as you fell asleep. you whispered i love you when i was waking up. and that is how this story begins.