Jerry

Thinking back on the kindness and good humour that was Jerry Ledbetter used to leave me in tears. To be frank Jerry was an alcoholic who accidentally drank himself to death before he made it to 26, Jerry was also one of the kindest and most genuine people I knew despite his tendency to be really silly sometimes. I had an insanely bad epileptic episode when I was 24, and after the seizure I woke up not knowing who I was, where I was or what was happening. When emergency services folks did show up I started getting aggressive with the cops and Jerry and My friend Diane calmed me down and got me into the ambulance. I was in hospital until about four in the morning and Jerry was with me the entire time making certain I made it somewhere safe. I'll never forget that. The kindness. That was Jerry's core character trait: Kindness. 

Dream

An impending apocalyptic battle has lead to the flight of most of the ancient houses and powers of earth's greatest warlocks,  sorcerers, and witches. My father having uncovered a treasonous plot for the escape of one our greatest allies has lead him to ensnare our ally Billy and my father has begun to consume his essence into a Soul Phylactery just as Billy is almost consumed and destroyed in the process I show mercy and stop my father from completely consuming our ally and force my father to heal him (which uses up a great deal of my father's remaining power and life force.) Billy betrays us like my father warned and evacuates himself to mars leaving myself and a small group of wizards as the final defenders of earth. We are doomed by my mercy.

Strange old aching comforting wishing a burden a compulsion for running fits with no shame. I've never had it in me to find a door. Medication by the shameful. I'm drinking myself into someone else. Hour can't alter misperceptions, my humbling shaking fits. Just to get out of this frame and shape some words. I wrap a knife in my glass and swallow like a friend.

In my life you're not a footnote

After a weekend of metal and delicious coffee I dreaded the drive home. It wasn't more than a few months after you had passed. The entire ride I scanned the road for some marker that you had been there perhaps an empty soda can or something else that had by some strange grace touched your hands and made its way into world. As we came closer to a place I assumed you must have left from my world became filtered by saline. I could find no mark on the road, nor great upheaval of earth, nor rosary mile marker where a man such as you had passed I expected a chasm to echo what was in my heart. Instead I was only left with the memory of your beautiful laugh slowly fading in my ears. I gripped the wheel tightly and spun out a playlist of standup to blush by and tried my best to match my laughter to that which I missed most.

nightmare

Transforming our big-rig into an uncanny amount of what appears to be stacked cups me and a young female acquaintance approach a massive bridge that is under construction at the Ashby exit in Berkeley. We are waved through but my associate decides that using a grocery cart will be the easiest and safest way to bridge a gap in the bridge. Instead of lodging it in the gap and crossing however she just jumps in the cart and blasts into the chasm. She tumbles inside. I run to find her being rescued by two riot grrls but the hand holds they use break away. I grab a hand hold and swing over the precipice and grab hold of all three but my strength immediately and increasingly begins to fail meanwhile the hold I'm using begins to unbolt. I'm screaming at the girls to climb up my body and get to safety but it's all about to fall apart when I suddenly wake up at 3:45 am. 

Frente

A thousand nights of closing cafe Mekka with Lieanne Campbell and Danielle listening to Frente. I was going to be a rock star and I would sit and write poetry with Megan Goetsch. I thought Nevada City was one of the most magical places on the planet. Perhaps I was not wrong. Almost twenty years have passed and the one thing I can hold in my head for certain is that there is gold in them hills.

Laura

I remember having an elective art course where I sat with Laura Meade cracking jokes and hoping she would love me and take me away from the torments of my seventh-grade hell. She was a grade older, and I called almost every other night that summer. Eventually, she started high school, and I was, like, a million miles away. We reconnected the next summer over some weed and a beedie cigarette. She had gone full punk hardcore. I was still in that bizarre hippy punk Nevada City mode. By my freshmen year, we were acquainted but distant. I went through a weird phase of biting people I adored. I was deluded into thinking it was cute somehow. The Friday before Christmas break, I gave Laura a big hug and gave her an Apple sized bite on her arm through her leather jacket. She punched me and told me I was a jerk. I was crushed. I meant to apologize. I thought about it all that break, and the Monday after the break, I was ready to apologize thoroughly. My friend Sierra Steine was talking about someone having died over Christmas break. It turned out it was Laura Meade. It was the second time in my life someone close to me had died. I'd never quite figured out how to sort all that. Twenty-one years later, I've learned to ask if someone wants to bit and how hard. I've learned to say I love you, I'm sorry and goodbye.

Good morning munitions

Defensive chatter hot-potating between the clever tethers of two adult sized wounded children. The bridge of trust falls again after another early morning munition round leaving that ever telling silent and space filled antagonistic peace. And after all this drama and missmapped aggressions all he can say is "Hey babe thanks for the tea. "

This punctuated punch pulling that leads to self expression is like a snake eating it's own tail some nights. It's like we're fogging the glass with our own breathe fumbling descriptions through a locked glass door but the only key is too see the other clearly.

Dandelion

Dandelion ear head on hills plastic lined trees spin the compass around pink stained optical talk circles still smiling. Breathe sigh like and moving out with a head on the hills and an ear made of flowers the long staring contest with night fades into morning.

Cross Room eye catcher

Cross room eye catcher your turn to stare and pretend not to notice smoldering
Cat corner an old friend from more brave days we grew and shrank
Ten years passed and the mattered matters less still sentimental romantic streaks of fresh blonde hair
Then it was Autumn leaves falling a bright lightning yellow flash on the periphery
One glance away and the trees are green twists and changes
Still counting every branch and drop of sweet sap and every coloured leaf

Cement step melancholy

The shy burn of a cigarette haze out clutters the gentle trickle of a fountain. The smell of California pine trees harkens to times of trying to hide in piles of leaves and playing with the family dog. The sun used to burn such a hot halo around my summer jubilation as I walked miles to the country store with my yard work money in hand to buy cheap candy and drink cola in the shade of an apple grove. Now it is summer in the bay and the wind carries away the heat as I sip sparkling water and eat fruit under the shade of a cellphone tower.