You never really say goodbye to red dirt...

Oklahoma, you are so generous to let me wear your skin.
You cling to my face in breeze or gust so I don't forget
your windwords in their absence.

You wear crimson and clover as work-worn wranglers by day
and nothing but the classiest of little black dresses by night;
you grow exponentially irresistible.

You paint boots copper sunset on towering plateaus.
Your red dirt is armor unmatched; your people etch you
into their skin with sunbeam-smile pride.

I hold you chained to me like a pocket watch;
even when you slip from my hands, you only fall so far.

Every reunion will be Ferris wheel belly drops and rodeo heartbeats.
I ache something fierce for you already.
I'm glad that through even the strongest of storms,
you never really wash away.

Triumph - a found poem

He died at age 66.

   - Something in the air -

When the boatmen push away

he leaps up,

scowls

“Of course it made a wonderful story.”

Uncle Larry

There are few things in life more soothing, more comforting, than a hug from a loved one. For some, they’re even medicinal in a way. Research has shown that 8-10 meaningful touches are needed per day to maintain happiness and wholeness in spirit. For a brief moment, all worry and care and pain and suffering can be drowned out by the sound, the feeling, of another’s heartbeat against your own.  What if this were the only effective medicine you had? And what if fear and ignorance denied you of it?

            Lawrence Walton Young was born on July 1^st, 1952 into a troubled home. He was the sixth of eight children. This man was my uncle. He was thrust into a life far less satisfying than he deserved. From youth, he was denied the love he needed by an abusive-turned-absent father. In 1959, when my Uncle Larry was seven years old, his parents separated for four years. From the ages of 7-11…very formative years for a young boy…Uncle Larry learned what it meant to experience a lack of love, and for the rest of his life would be driven to seek this love an acceptance from other sources. My father, Uncle Larry’s younger brother, told me that Larry was, “…smarter than all of us.” But even still, without guidance and nurturing, all Larry could think to do was to run in search of the love and acceptance he so desperately needed.

            In 1970, at the age of 18, Uncle Larry joined the US Army. As a member of the infantry, he proved to be an excellent soldier. He was awarded a variety of recognitions, including being a sharpshooter. In January 1971, he was sent to Vietnam. By April, he was at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, DC. He had earned two purple hearts during his four months in country, the second one because of mortar fire that tore through his left leg, damaging it so badly that he should have lost it. But he didn’t…he healed. And though he was told he shouldn’t ever walk right again, he did that too. Uncle Larry was a fighter. He received a medical discharge and at 19 years old he was back to where he had been before, no longer a part of the place where he had found some semblance of the acceptance that he craved.

            Having already experimented with drugs and alcohol prior to his joining the Army, Uncle Larry returned to these things with a newfound fervency. The horrors that his 18-year-old eyes had witnessed in Vietnam only served to fuel his desires for numbed emotions. Through his experimentation, he came across a drug known as BAM. Popularized in the early 70s, this form of methamphetamine was taken intravenously. Though Uncle Larry’s drug and alcohol use, and again, a deep-seeded need for affection, inevitably led to promiscuity, it was eventually determined by my uncle that the sharing of needles was what led to his contraction of HIV in 1989. He was 36 years old. My father and my pastor were in the room with him when he got the news. He was devastated. And through all of his trials and struggles and addictions, my Uncle Larry was still a man. I want you to know this: Habits do not always have to shape the individual. My Uncle Larry went through the hard and terribly awkward task of calling and informing all the women he had come in contact with of his unfortunate diagnosis. I can only imagine that this was one of the most difficult things he had to accomplish in his life, but nevertheless he did it.

            Uncle Larry was diagnosed at a time when AIDS was emerging rapidly and little was known about how it worked or how to fight it. Paying for everything himself, my uncle tried expensive herbal teas, dietary changes, exercise, and of course AZT. However, his lack of knowledge about the ease of transmission and how badly it decimates the immune system ultimately allowed for Uncle Larry’s life choices post-diagnosis to counteract his attempts at fighting the disease. He continued in his alcohol and drug use, as well as his promiscuity, though he was far more careful in methods of prevention of the spread of the disease. I say this not to judge or condemn my uncle in any way, or to present him in a negative light, but rather to illustrate the power of addiction and the extreme loneliness and self-destruction that his situation led him into. Unless you have been diagnosed with this disease, one can only imagine that this man, whose actions sought only to bring him some sort of approval by someone, somewhere, these actions, this quest for belonging and emotional reprieve now condemned him to death.

            Uncle Larry drank himself to a stroke in 1993, and he spent the majority of the remainder of his battle with AIDS in the VA Hospital in Beckley, West Virginia. During this time, a second stroke ravaged his body, further depleting his immune system and driving him closer to his death. Far more devastating than this, though, was the most times, though not always only, perceived rejection he continued to feel from his family. People continued to be frightened of this seemingly unstoppable virus, and even love for a brother could not overcome this fear. My uncle’s siblings did not visit him nearly as often as they should have, certainly not as often as he needed them to. And this continued absence in his time of need is what, I feel, eventually led to his inability to fight any longer.

            My Uncle Larry passed on March 22^nd, 1995. He was 42 years old. I was nine and had seen him only a handful of rememberable times, most in the hospital. His six year battle with AIDS ended with a military funeral. My father has one of his purple hearts and the flag from the ceremony. My Uncle Jerry has the other Purple Heart and the rest of Uncle Larry’s medals. And now, 22 years after my uncle’s diagnosis, we still have no publicly known cure for AIDS. But something that is known, has always been known, is that there is little that can destroy the bonds of love and family, and the human spirit. I exhort all who can hear me right now to remember that no matter what, love. Without boundaries, love. Without limitation, love. Without ceasing, without condition, without hesitation, love. And hug those you love as often as you can. Though your loved one may pass with a broken body, let them go with a whole and overflowing heart. 

Train Love

Let’s get married,

she says.

When?

Yesterday,

she says.

Impossible, I say.

Time

She responds,

Time is fictional.

It was made for trains.

I wrote the railway a letter.

I told them that they didn’t need to stop

here anymore.

Our wedding day will always be yesterday.

Our anniversary will be tomorrow.

We will never celebrate it.

Anniversaries disrupt continuity.

We will not be hash marks on a doorframe.

We will be marked by the growth of mountains

and the erosion of stone

This heart beat is a stutter-step

Keep this dime-store orchestra body

in unison with your lilting hands.

She packs her batons

in her grandmother’s suitcase.

She is ready for this journey.

I will follow.

Sailboat

1)      You are a regatta in a rainstorm.

All thunderbolts and lifejackets,

you are hell-bent on capsize.

Hulls scream splinters in retort;

Poseidon nods his approval,

you strike worthy in his sight.

But no one cries out to him for aid.

Sometimes waves crest higher than your faith.

2)      My palms are rope-shredded and baby pink.

My fingertips are teeth-tattered, but can still

elicit tones beautiful from string.

Let me sing you complacent.

Calm your ragged breath,

hold your inhale a bit longer.

Fill your lungs to aching with this respite.

3)      An albatross glazes itself like fine pottery across the sky

leaving thirteen years of continuous flight

in his wing-beat-less wake.

He has seen storms like you before

but he long ago molted away his fear of you.

He knows to go over you now.

He knows that flying through you is a death sentence.

4)      The thing about the eye of the storm

is that it’s temporary. And you know

that when this harpy of a hurricane returns
it will be far more destructive than

prior winds could have prepared you for.

If the definition of insanity is repeating the same action and

expecting a different result, then why do I still expect answers

to prayers continually offered in various languages

when my sanity is all I have left.

Yet I continue with my mallet, repairing the gaps

in my storm-stretched framework as though it will make a difference.

5)      Blustering back as though you own

every ocean-bound vessel, your return

is an uneven firefight.

Your winds turn over graves still left

half-buried from your last trip through,

showing no mercy in your swath

of destruction. You target the weak seams first.

Lowering my sails serves to reduce the size of my bulls-eye hide

but your aim is pinpoint. Here’s to hoping

I still know how to shake a bogie.

6)      My father has been teaching me how to sail

since I can remember. We had lessons every Sunday.

His father never taught him much of anything,

so maybe that’s why it’s so hard to let go. 

I need to see him happy before myself.

7)      My shipwreck heart sinks like a sieve

every time I travel through your tempestuous weather.

Your winds blow fiercer than my boats can handle.

But there is enough wood at the bottom of my chest

to construct an armada and I’m still not afraid of your

bluster. You will not beat me. I will sail again.

                      

In here, we are righteous

Standing here among these hearts

and minds, intertwined and tangled

like lovers’ limbs,

we are reminded

     of what we are

     and what we are not.

Stained

uniform pieces litter

floor and bodies but we

do not focus on the negligible.

The important things…

they are found in air around us,

bouncing off each other like atoms,

truth and fellowship.

In here,

we are giants.

Far larger than the fates

that conspire against us,

we tower over them

like terrible lizards.

They don’t frighten us in here.

Our teeth are larger than theirs.

We have survived asteroids.

This is more than mortar and

stone. This place is sanctuary.

We remember who we are

in here.

We are flesh and sinew.

We are mind, will, and emotions.

We are temples unto ourselves.

Wash yourself holy in our smoke.

In here,

we present to each other

offerings of concrete

for faulty foundations.

In here,

we are equals.

Wearied souls who find rest in the

rejuvenation of each other.

In here,

we are quenched.

We are self-governing.

In here,

we are righteous.

Discoveries in my kitchen at two a.m.

1. My family goes through hummus 

    like its candy. There is a Ziploc bag
    of fortune cookies in the pantry.
    Four different types of salsa
    in the refrigerator and no tortilla chips.
    I am the only member of my family who speaks
    another language efficiently.

2. There is a single dirty cat pawprint 

    on the floor. Only one.
    This makes the direction it faces arbitrary,
    though I cannot help but wonder
    what the single pawprint is made of.
    There is nothing this color on the counter,
    and the cats don’t go outside.
    Sometimes footprints are just 

    arbitrary. Sometimes dirt is 

    unexplainable.

3. There are more vitamins and
    supplements and additives in
    the pantry than food. My brother
    is the only family member who works out.
    My mother is a pseudo-vegetarian,
    my sister and I retired from this diet. 

    There is no need for so many pills.
    I don’t know who takes all 

    the vitamins. I just want the food.

4. Dark Mocha Almond granola bars do not
    sound appetizing at this time
    of night. I like all of these things.
    I even like them together. But I need
    something more filling. Late night cravings
    should be fully sated for fear
    of returning in the form of crazy dreams
    or werewolf transformations. I read
    an article where a twenty-six-year-old
    woman didn’t understand why three men
    backed out of marrying her;
    she also has Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder
    and goes self-admittedly bat-shit-crazy
    for five days a month. She likens herself
    unto a werewolf. I don’t want this.
    I need something more satisfying
    than a granola bar.

5. I cannot decide between thin-sliced honey
    turkey and an apple. My mother
    is sleeping in her bedroom which
    is off of the living room which
    is off of the kitchen in which
    I am making more noise
    than I should be at this hour.
    My father is on a mission trip.
    I know she misses him. She should
    sleep. Apples crunch too loud.
    My mother picks good apples.
    I choose the turkey.

Sometimes angels are made by mistake

She giggles as much when she's happy
as she does when she's nervous.
It's hard for me to tell
the difference between the two
Sometimes it's harder for her

Her smile doesn't easily mask her ageless insecurities
mapped out on teenage arms
Some call her broken.
Label her as stained and unforgiven
Unforgivable, even
Even...

Odd how Lucifer was once an angel of light, and
though she never thought herself equal to God,
sometimes she still tries to see His face
between calling out His name in vain and taking him in pill form
A pharmaceutical communion, fingering her pills
like rosary beads
Say ten "Hail Mary's"
Take five Mollies
Cry out one loud "Our Father"

Maybe it's all the same to her
It's hard to make a distinction between heaven
and hell when you live both simultaneously,
had to save yourself from a freefall
when your angels are falling with you
Her parents,
upon learning of their 15-year-old
daughter's meth addiction,
decided to make it a family affair
All three of them spent
the next 18 months forgetting
how to be a family
by shooting up together

Three years later,
having missed too much school to
graduate on time,
she's not sure whether finishing is
even worth it.
But she's finally learning
to feel
to breathe deeply
to heal slowly
Her mouth crinkles when she smile
Her eyes, heavy with sleep,
cannot close without the voice
of a stranger chasing nightmares
from her head
Like so many wolves in sheep's clothing
she is faithful to both her
faith in God and her
lack thereof in man.

And his heart,
the one holding the light at the end of the tunnel
So quickly she strides towards it
Anxious for salvation
Expectant on its extinction
Keep walking
He may be the one to
save you

...or he may not be, but remember
Faith is defined as belief in
something not yet seen and
Faith in something is better
than feeling helpless
So keep believing
in whatever it is that
holds you up.

Salvation will come.