Saturday, March 9, 2013

Nursing Home Carl Pt. 2

 (I always thought I would be above writing about love in high school, but what can I say, she's really hot)

When I'm with you, God makes sense.

Something about your imagination that makes worlds seems creatable. And something about your eyes that makes sins seem forgivable.

I didn't really believe that the same God could create math and poetry. Then I saw you smile. The curve of your lips. The perfect right angles of your teeth. And the beauty of it all. And I think,

'Ahh, God. Got me again. Good one.'

I guess what I'm saying is, if you wanted, I could be your Carl.

And you could be my religion.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

failing, losing, & dancing

I wanna be a champion.

I wanna know what amazing feels like. And I want to experience jumper cable lips. I wanna have a reason to raise my fist in the air. And I want to stand at half court and scream, anythings possible. I wanna have glory days.

And I'm not sure if it's fear or common sense that's holding me back. And I'm still trying to figure out why I put a happy ending at all of my poems. And when my happy ending is going to come.

But winning has taught me much. It's the losses. The laughter at each loss that has taught me most of the lessons worth remembering. A desire to win and a respect for losing, because I wanna be a champion.

Screwing up is necessary. Getting up again is beauty. And failure.

Failure is a part of perfection.

And dreams wouldn't really be dreams if I achieved them. And maybe I can't outrun these expectations or this loneliness, but I wanna be a champion.

Even if that means losing sometimes.

Failure asked Depression to Prom. And Loss is taking Knowledge. But I think I'm going to take Victory. And don't tell her I said this, but I think I'm going to try to kiss her.

Because maybe I was meant to make mistakes. And maybe these are my glory days.

I wanna be a champion.


Wednesday, December 26, 2012

here lies a ball player.

This isn't a love story.

But a romantic comedy nonetheless.

They warned about the violence in video games. The sex in movies. And the language on tv. But never about the romance in music.

That's when I met Paris.

The type of girl who made you feel bad for growing up. And for having written more essays in your life than 'I love yous'.

She tried to show me her Eiffel Tower. But I told her that's not what I'm here for. Then I let her see my sno-shack, even though I wasn't ready yet.

The type of girl they based main characters of off. And the type of girl they wrote songs about.

She didn't care that I liked country music. Or that I wrote about her in .99 cent composition notebooks.

The type of girl that made drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes look attractive.

Some days she'd wear pink. And other days she wouldn't even do her hair (those were the days she was most beautiful).

The type of girl that made you believe in the other side of 'sometimes'.

She'd wake me up in the middle of the night just to say hello.

The type of girl that could bring tears to your eyes with a black marker and a newspaper.

Now I see her in everything.

She ended up leaving me for New York. I don't blame her, he has a six-pack.
And he's a way better kisser than me, even though I meant it more.

But I promise you this, Paris will never forget her stint with Alpine Utah.

And I'm still trying to believe that there's life after Paris.
And I guess I'm still waiting for my happy ending.

But in the meantime, the wine is excellent. And I don't even drink.

"Umm... Aren't you a little young to be having a midlife crisis?"

"Whoever said I'd make it past thirty?"

Friday, December 21, 2012

i've never been good at goodbyes

My apartment was 5A.
I don't really know why I went. But that doesn't matter.
But I did go. And that's what matters.

The man above me, 6A, William Lee Barefield III, he was a ladies man. The French girls loved him. I would hear him up there every night with a different woman, screaming and laughing, and you know. He made me believe in sincerity.

The woman below me, 4A, Charlotte Charles, she was beautiful. I never actually saw her face, I only ever heard her voice. She would sing of Life, Love, and bowls of sugars in the kitchen in spring. She made me believe in beauty.

Then there was the girl who worked at the coffee shop down the street. Esther Greenwood. She would get me my coffee and pastry every morning. She was the type of girl that understood when you said, 'the usual'. Outside of my Mother, she deserved true love more than any other girl I had ever met.  She made me believe in 'reality'. And fairy tales.

Across the hall, 5B, was Cosmo Kramer. One time, I was on a late night stroll and I saw him run over a dog. He made me believe in potential. And his crazy friend, George Costanza. He made me believe in redheads.

Phyllis Dae Sloan, 7C.  We had the best elevator conversations. She was a lot more than small talk. Sometimes I wonder if she invented Paris. She made me believe in being myself even if it didn't make others 'happy'.

Ren Stevens, I don't even know what apartment number she was. But I saw her jump. What a way to die. She made me believe in effort.

The janitor, Greg Ostertag. I watched him grow the best moustache I have ever seen. He made me believe in not shaving.

In 3B, there was Eva Harper. We only talked once. She taught how to properly eat a cupcake. She probably won't remember that she did, but I always will. She made me believe in hellos.

The doorman was Harold Miner. No matter the weather or the time of night, he would always be there holding open the door. He told me about the dunk contest of '94. And everything he's learned since. I hope he knows I was listening. He made me believe in Paris.

Then there was Dick Tidrow. My roommate.  I was sick of cleaning up his messes, so I just started making messes with him. And somewhere in between my first cigarette and our late night talks, it happened. I think it was when I was listening to a Cat Stevens song. But I can't be sure. He taught me how to ask a girl on a date. He said I had to learn how to do the kissing part on my own, so I'm still working on that. Other things he taught me about: Paris, jealousy, dialogue, chairs, instructions, stealing, remembering, words, direct orders, duct tape, bricks, Life, Death, thoughts, fears, Love, and introductions. He made me believe in myself.

There were many others: Lois, Sally, Mimi, Gene, Susan, Rene, Pete, Mr.Fox. Just to name a few.

Everyone said something, at least once, that meant something to me.

Thank you.

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Nursing home Carl

He never told me his actual name.
I called him Carl.
Gray-haired, war-veteran, nursing-home Carl. Cane and cardigan included.

"We met in Paris, 1st semester. We had know each other long before that, but that was the first time we met. It was in the library, we reached for the same book, Call of the Wild, Jack London. Me for a school report, her for entertainment." He leaned in toward me, resting upon his cane, his eyes widened through his thick black-framed glasses, "We made out, until we got kicked out." He sat back with a chuckle.

"I'll never forget that summer dress. Cream, with yellow flowers."

I looked up at him as he spoke, his lips were dry, as usual. His speech was slow, as if he was allowing the words to get to heaven before he spoke again.

"And, oh how'd she dance," he closed his eyes and tilted his head back slightly, re-imagining it in his mind, "and i'm not talking about dancing like moving your hands and your arms and your feet," he waved his hands around and continued, "I'm talking about dancing like letting go."

"She would tell me things like, 'Many men hold a key to my heart, but you, you are the only man who was born with one,' And it wasn't the words she used or the way she said it, but the way that she meant it."

He looked off into the distance, "She always loved rooftops."

He broke eye contact with the distance, looked down, and began to chuckle, "I remember, one time," he was forced to stop as his chuckling grew to giggling, "one time, she was so mad at me," tears began to form in the corner of his eyes because of his laughter, his face wrinkled because of his smile, "she stomped her foot on the ground, pointed to the door, and yelled, in the dead of winter, 'Go get me a snow cone and don't come back 'til you do!'"

We both laughed. It grew quite, again he looked down, he pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. Straightening the corners with his hands he looked up at me. The tears were still in his eyes, but they had changed, they were sadder. "She never did get that snow cone."

I too began to cry.

"And every time I get blood on my fingers," he now held back sobbing, "I want to blame her so badly," he paused, "but most of the time, it's merely just a paper cut."

I had only asked his religious beliefs.

i am just green with jealous rage right now

Nothing Gold Can Stay
by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Love once found, is now but lost;
His heart, the only cost.
But boys like trees, they lose their leaves,
And girls and wind, the conveyers of grief.
The first is the harshest of the Winters,
The heart, freezing over it's cracks and splinters;
Snow once beautiful, bright and white
Fades to gray, like the dying of light
It all, eventually melts away,
For nothing gold can stay.

The first verse by the Master, the second by me.