From Writing

So Much For the Shack

Small, green, hot, stuffy, dusty, primitive, gross. For eleven years this little seemingly ancient shack, apparently a beach house, had been our home away from home when we went to Bethany Beach every summer. This hut did not have air conditioning, electricity or indoor showers. My mother and I hated it, and the only reason…

Toad

July 23rd, 1999. Durham, North Carolina – one of the hottest days since I had been at the American Dance Festival. Appropriate. As quickly as it had come, it had ended. I would soon be thrown back into what was painfully familiar to me. The only difference being that I now refused to accept it as actually being “my life.” What a difference one month can make! In four weeks a 12-year old boy could perfect his grande jete entournant, a Texan could enjoy a bowl of New England Clam Chowder, and a sheltered girl from Baltimore could fall in love.

My Place

From far across the great divide
I see what it might turn out to be
Once I fall into the chasm
Once I finally find my place

Sure enough, the coast is clear but
I cannot take a single step
Strangled by a lingering stigma
Keeping me from finding my place

For You

Night’s shadows prowl about
Your presence keeps me unphased by the darkness
Not fearing
Not hearing the horrors of the world that surround
Fixed in one warm position
Longing that the night would never end

Requiem for Yesterday

Stoplight waltz and the way you said things
Words danced gracefully off the tip of your tongue
Charisma, baby, you’ve got it
And your eyes are drowning in it

The Constant Shuffle

In this constant shuffle, chaos is imminent. The silence is precious and petrified, peace becomes noise and panic that never settles. In this perpetual derangement the kinetic confusion is punishing, it assaults my sense of center and grates at my ears, nerves and conscious. I can’t think, my brain is in this eyeless storm, churning around itself as it washes over the shores of my isolated stretches of sanity.