Thursday, December 10, 2015

sometimes when i see an attractive person i think, i'd like to get to know them. I'd like to see if we could have a relationship. I wonder what it'd be like to spend my life with them. To build a life. To have children, to not be alone but then i remember i'm looking at a man. so i can't have any of that. If i felt that way toward a woman dating and marriage would be possible.

Friday, December 4, 2015


I thought that by riding with the horsemen of firth I could hide from the jabberwocky. That he would seek others. But in the creative acts that formed me, I was bound to this demon. And I will never escape it, but must fight.

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Christmas Potatoes

Ethel Burbank lived for 94 long years, however she only had Christmas, in 93 of them.

It was December 14th, 2015.   An angelic little girl came to visit Ethel.  I assume she was her granddaughter, I had only worked at the Senior Center for a few weeks.  Her small perfect hands grasped Ethel’s gnarled stiff hands with arthritic bulges. 

“I brought you a Christmas present.  Here open it.” 

Ethel didn’t seem to notice. 

“Please Grandma.”  The girl’s father whispered something to her.  And she gave up.   “I love you so much.” And with that the little angel gave the most sincere hug, and kiss on the cheek I think I’ve ever seen.

One of the most painful parts of Alzheimer's is the way people who suffer from it sometimes react.  They don’t understand what’s’ going on.  It’s hard on adults, but even harder on children. 

“Get off me you little brat!” Ethel barked, “get out of here.”

Time paused at the angel’s face went from love to confusion, to sadness, to a full bawling.  Her father scooped her up and carried her from the room.  The daggers of the shattered mind, had flown once more.

I didn’t see them again, for the rest of Ethel’s life.  

The holidays kept on coming.  The snow fell.  Church groups came and sang.  Families bustled in and out.   Ethel had a few other guest, but she was even less responsive than normal.

About a week later, I was working the graveyard shift.  The lights were dim.  I was reading some blog.  And Ethel came shuffling down the hall. Cradled in her armss were TV remotes, pictures from our bulletin board of volunteers, and a banana.  Sometimes a patient will revert to hoarding.  A little flustered at having my quiet night shift interrupted, I took the items away and took Ethel back to her room.

Two hours later, Ethel was  going through the pantry.   Once again back down the hall with her.   She kept muttering “Christmas, it’s Christmastime.  Don’t you like the snow?  Do you think Anna will come see me.  She has such pretty eyes”

The next day Ethel was all about presents.  “Have you seen my presents? Can we go to Macy’s?  I must buy something for Anna.  Where is Mark?  He would take me.  You’re useless.  All you do is sit around here.”

Ethel coded that night.   She was gone.  I felt bad for not taking her shopping, not that it’s something we do, but still-- sometimes you just want to humor an old person.

As we cleaned up Ethel’s room, and organized the few things she still owned, I found some lumps under her mattress.  Solid, misshapen things, like her hands I thought, and immediately felt bad.  Pulling back the mattress there were a dozen or so potatoes.   Taped to each potato was a photo that I recognized from our volunteer or staff boards. Each photo had been scrawled upon.  Most were illegible, but some said “Merry” others  looked like “Christmas”  and on a photo of the little angel girl who had come to visit her before was written “love you.”

I wasn’t sure what to do with the Christmas Potatoes as we called them.   In the end we decided to give them to the people in the picture.  Some people were confused, but some had bright eyes as they received Ethel’s last Christmas gift.

I tracked down the angle girl, who I noticed had the most beautiful blue eyes.  Her name was Sarah.  Her father and her had adopted Ethel as grandma after their own had passed away.

I explained that we had found the potatoes and I knew it wasn’t a normal present—Sarah cut me off.

“Oh it’s the most perfect present ever.   Ethel was so nice and beautiful.  And sometimes mean…   But that’s ok.  She’s with God now and He loves her, and she didn’t know what she was doing”

“How do you know that”

“She saw me last night, and her hands were soft, and she gave me a hug.  And told me”

I took my own potato out of the my car, and kept it near my desk.  A gift is more than the present itself.  A gift is a vessel of good intent

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Nice boy

He’s a happy boy. Smiles all the time. Kind to a fault. Polite. Opens doors. But no friends. Being nice isn’t all that’s needed for friendship. He doesn’t connect He is different But he smiles. He is nice. At home he cries. He wants someone to love him Someone who can’t So he cries.

Friday, November 13, 2015

Going Back

Had pie last night with a group of guys, to offer support to a guy who is just barely coming to terms with his orientation/sexuality/whatever term he'd prefer. 

Sitting there, i remembered all the water under the bridge since i did the same thing. I know it's a common experience, the first time you met other dudes who like dudes. I sat there thinking, why does this guy have to go through this. I assumed he'll have similar dark nights and hard choices. That his life isn't what he thought it would be growing up. I really wanted to tell him to run back into the closet. Live the closeted life.

Cause being gay is hard. regardless of what you choose to do with it. 

But that's the thing isn't it. Running in back to ignoring my sexuality won't help people. I'm not talking about being public here, but i'm talking about admitting to myself I have an attraction to men. 

It can't be done. As much as i would like to go back to the innocence of when i was a kid, before i realized this thing--sometimes i'm happy with it, sometimes i curse God for it-- was part of my life, I can't. 

What i really was sad about was the loss of innocence. The loss of the simple life. It's a common part of growing up. 

The Garden of Eden was super fun. Lots of animals with bellies to rub, lots of trees with fruit that would make hecka sweet smoothies, and like plants, and also, no clothes. Seriously, they gotta just run around nekkid. But when innocence is lost, you can't go back. And really that's not the point. you enter a world that's lonely and dreary, kinda sucks. and people start to insist you confine yourself with clothing. But it's where you learn stuff, it's where you figure stuff out. 

So, yeah. Going back. doesn't happen. Leaving the closet, at least for myself has been good. I can't ascribe the crap of my life to the fact that i'm open about my sexuality. I had crap when i was in the closet too. Crap comes, but so does good stuff. Too make an awkward ineffective example, you can't get fresh milk if you stay under your blanket, you gotta go squeeze those cow teats yourself. 

Life gets complicated but it's gotta, and gets better.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Late for Dinner

Five miles in on a dusty dirt road, a young man walked alone.   It seemed a good thing to help the chap, so we pulled of and offered a phone,

Or ride, or food whatever the case we’d get him out of this dark night.   His smile had a catch, a pasted on look, his eyes never blinking or shuttered

“I’m seeking my friends out here in the dark” his voice was as smooth as a feline.   “will you give me a ride, up the road to my truck.  The engine last I heard did sputter”

We obliged, tis the way you treat strangers or kin who come needing your help in the country.   Man’s got a duty to help, another in need, in the dark wide expanse of Elberta.

Up the Slant road we drove, then I noticed the cold metal of a Mossberg pump action.   My foot pushed on the gas, the tires spun out real fast,  trying to gain enough traction.

“So what brings you here, out in the deep dark this night, your friends and you, what was your doing”.  My heart beat did race, but was beaten, and lapped, by the sprinting thoughts of my spooked mind contraption.

His lips barely moved, his words slithered out, “we’re hunting for sport and for game.  If we find ourselves enough we’ll be fed here for days.  Won’t need help from another faction”

We came round the bend, a red pickup sat there, I said “ I reckon this is the last I’ll be seein’ ya.”

His famished eyes looked my portly body up, and down, then up again.  His finger left it’s rest on the trigger

“You’re a lucky man” he said.  I was still full of dread, “my people, we don’t really like gristle."

Wednesday, October 7, 2015


There is a sponge inside of me, nestled between the lungs next to the cockles of my heart. The sponge is anxiety  defeat  self hate anger.

The sponge starts small, but it grows.  It encroaches  on my lungs giving me shortness of breath. I feel like I will suffocate.  It presses on the spinal cord making my body tremble and quake.   It slowly chokes my brain of blood bringing wild hallucinations of dread and horror as I lose body control.

As it grows I try to ignore the pain. To focus on something else.  Food.  Pleasure.  Or I lie in bed incapacitated, as it grows to fill every crevice of my unresponsive body.

In the end I can't compress it back down to a manageable size.  Sometimes it shrinks on its own.   Sometimes a friend hugs me.  He hugs me so long and so tight the sponge has no where else to go.  He hugs me and my blood flows again. My chest breaths again.  And my limbs respond to my requests again.

Please give the hug.   I feel so alone and the sponge is growing.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Hug me

i just want to be hugged.  I just want to be hugged for a good long while.  I want to be hugged til the deseased rotting cartledge of my chest is healed by your sweet embrace.   I want to be hugged til it does'nt hurt anymore. I want to be hugged, to know you're there, i want to be hugged and to give hugs.  The hug is the balm of the heart.

Just hug me for a while, while the fearful winds shake my core.   Lay here next to me.   I cannot be alone

i want to be hugged to feel some safety, and i want to be hugged as long as you can.  I know no hug lasts forever, but the imprint will help me stand

Tuesday, June 23, 2015


She speaks into the void. Calls my name, but can't see me right in front of her. She must be blind.
She is kind.  She pities me.  Good bye old woman.  He is coming to chase you off again.  His gaze locks onto me. He spits, sneers and leaves the room.  I hope she comes back.  I like her smile.
I haven't been the same since You died Sam.   We had always been so careful.  Dad came into the room. I thought he was in Germany.

"Faggot"." My son is a God damn faggot"

The gun erupted twice.  I blacked out. The fear was too great.  I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you Sam.  I'm sorry.   That damn old man still controlled my fear.  I thought I had broken away. But he appeared and suddenly I was a young boy again.  Like when I was seven and he found me wearing moms dress.  I knew he had power to hurt me.  A father you see.  He is your sire.  He knows you.  He owns you.   Even when you know you are your own man.  When he appears the primal fear erupts.  The first lessons learned return. And you freeze.  The skin doesn't forget the sting.  The mind doesn't forget the hate. And the soul won't ever feel whole.

I broke that night.  Every day it's the same thing.  I lay in bed, holding my tears inside.   But then night comes. And I can't control it.  I yell. I moan.  I hit the walls.  I throw things.  I am passion.  I am fire. I am amplified hate.  Finally I sleep. But someone in the hall wakes me.  Or the old man opens the door.

I don't know if he's a doctor, a shrink.  He tells other people my story.  Says I went mad.  Mocks me for my love of Sam.  Mocks our sacred bond.  And I get mad. I don't make it to the door. Something stops me.  But I yell. I moan.  I hit the wall.

He seems to get pleasure out of that. His guests jump. They mock my pain.  I hate them.
But every day I'm here. In this room.

She is back. I must be six In the morning. " Tim. Come here. Hurry.  He'll be here anytime now. "
She opens the door looking at the far side of the room opposite me.  I notice salt has been poured across the threshold.  Out of her bag she pulls a weird branch. Looks like it's from a sage brush plant.

She mumbles some words while brushing away the salt line.

As she does I feel reconnected to the world. My room doesn't seem my prison anymore.  I thank her. She cuts me off.  "Tim, there's someone special waiting for you under the cypress tree."
I walk out back.  It's Sam.  We hug.  And never come back.

Yelp review for Hoskins Haunted Bed and Breakfast.
Clint Williams 1 star.
I came here five years ago and it was great.  Most paranormal activity I had ever seen.  Screams. Walls being pounded on. Things falling. Plus it jus had this creepy vibe.
Now there isn't a peep. No noise. Old man Hoskins has lost his magic.   Maybe he outta try a honeymoon B&B. His place just doesn't have the same spirit it used to.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Sunday Conversation

"You take communion with your left hand you faggot. You know that isn't the right way. Why do you treat the holy as a thing of naught." I don't treat it as naught. The right hand is traditional. But not required. "You faggot. You have to be so different. You learned as a child to use the right hand. But now you mock it. You mock our Religion and you mock those who came before." It's true I was taught as a child to use the right hand. But there is no basis in the handbook for this. I see no directive to use the right hand. "Queer. You know it's not right. There is an unspoken order. You learn by watching, by mimicking why do you hate your family. Why do you make your mother cry." It's only the right hand dammit. It's more convenient. "The gospel is not one of ease and convenience. Your right hand shows respect. Your left shows your slippery slide away from the gospel. Away from your family. You hate them. You hate all of us." I don't hate. Not them. Not the church. But I do hate this guilt. So leave. You make me want to quit. But just leave me alone. "I'm always here fag. I'm here mocking you. You are so different. I live here. Ready to destroy you. I know you freak out. I will find a your weakness. I will push the crack. Spread the crack. You will fall. And I will take glory in your desperate cries for help which all will hear but none answer""

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Woman of Stone

Who do you mourn, oh woman of stone; what pain, or what sorrow, do you cry for?
Why do you mourn, oh woman forlorn; whose hand made your tears fall so lonely?
Who do you watch or'e full day and all night; whose corpse does your silence still call to?
When will you leave; from whence your reprieve? Your sorrow does serve you no more. 
But stay you will, cold quiet and still. Your wound is still open and dripping.
The pain stays with you. The sting becomes you and your choice to remain is eternal. 
The life that was lost should have been but one cost, but with you old man death got a couple.

Monday, June 1, 2015

Orange Soda

I wish that I wouldn't ruin our friendship if I tried to make out with you. I wish that I wouldn't betray your smile if I made out with you. But were friends. And that's all. And when I have a hard time I call. And we talk and we laugh and we don't even care how much sunlight has passed Then I wish that it wouldn't ruin our friendship if I just made a pass at you. I wish that that this moment could last forever when I lock eyes with you But there's rules and they say that our friendship will just stay this way. And I'm fine well-- I'm really not, but I love you enough to respect what you want And we'll be the greatest friends. Well play disc golf and smash bros until all time ends. I wish that these feelings were pure and platonic-I know that they once were but then I drank tonic and now when we lock eyes and you give that smile or whenever we hug then I get drunk for a while, with these feelings and thoughts that just won't ever be; You've been a good friend and that's all we can be. I just wish that it wouldn't ruin our friendship if I touched lips with you Cause you're married and straight and I'm single and gay. And the friendship we have is more than ok It's better than just some five minute flirt. It's better than a quick hookup that just leaves one hurt. Our friendship is real and I love what it is. You're my bro. A true bro. And if I had one wish I'd wish that our friendship would last forever just the way that is is. I'd tell all these feelings to go to hell. A true friend is needed for more than a spell. A true friend is rarer than albino deer I won't trade our friendship for those five minutes. Not that id even get those five minutes. So let's play some smash or find some great place to eat. Let's build a campfire and get off our feet. Spend a long day tossing frisbee in the park and then when it's over well sit in the dark
And I'll wish that this moment could last forever just with us being friends.

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Water on the brain

10,000 rain drops tap the earth in a consistent rhythm. Each on leaving a small impression. Suredly unnoticed when considered solitarily but immensely powerful in the aggregate. Like insanity which comes as our soul is assaulted bit by bit until it cracks and the dusty earth of reason is supplanted by the washed out mud of irrational fears, impulses and ideas.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Good times

how about a post that is about good things

I've lost 23 pounds.

i am performing well at work

i have great friends

i am able to focus more

depression is not near the issue, i think walking daily has really helped that.  they say exercise is as effective as antidepressants sometimes.

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Reaction to Radio Love Songs


What is it?

This potent potion, which changes hearts, clouds minds, and sanctifies souls.

At least from the outside…

People seek it.   It must feel good, so very good.

When it is taken away men weap, they wallow, they lose hope. 

It applies to all, the righteous, the wicked, the young the old.

A part inside each of us needs it.  

So is it the reaction of when two people meet who both have hormonal releases precipitated by the other?

Well that appears to be part in all of love.  For some that might be it.

It appears that the chemicals in our bodies are seeking a one, another to love.

Then the actions,   the love making for sure, but also the cuddling, the talking, the togetherness.

For some, a connection grows that is deeper than mere chemical.

And that is good. . . but for them, when that connection is taken away, it is a violent reaction.  Two souls knit in one, and the separation is a violent surgery.

Marriage seems to facilitate this deeper love.  Deeper connection.  And of course service, and time, and children and shared experience.

At least that’s what love appears to be as an outsider looking in.

It seems nice.   And I’d love to have it.   But for now, I’ll keep guessing what it is like.  And I’ll keep wishing there were less of it in songs.