Marvel at the moon. It doesn’t matter how.
Sit on any porch. The moon, it always watches back.
Take a sip of moonlight, touch it to your lips.
Let your knees find soiled ground and raise your eyes-
I admire the moon for having lack of contact.
I admire the moon for being consistent.
I admire the moon because it admires
each of us who are looking back.
Every dusky evening, until it hides, but not on purpose.
It’s too aware to be gone without warning.
We all need to understand being gone before being back again.
Marvel at the moon. It doesn’t matter how.
It lent its shadow, all the way to me-
and while it removed my disbelief I saw the moon dance.
I marvel at the moon because it found its way.
Thank you for reading
Writing is my time to talk. I loved writing this short story. If you aren’t familiar with any of my short stories, this is a good place to start.
Two boys go on a night time adventure looking for ghosts. In the basement of a Church.
Please, check it out.
Anxiety seeps through walls
You can nearly see it
You can nearly touch it
My brother called a month ago to ask if I’d like to be his best man. This will be the fourth time I will be the best man in a wedding. I’m not sure how this keeps happening.
My younger brother has always been my soft spot. He was my saving grace.
He asked if I would do an old-fashioned best man’s speech.
He said, “With how you are with your words I’d like to hear what you have to say. Just please include the memory when I threw the rock through your window at 3 AM because I locked my keys inside.” He was outside drunk. Alone. Happy.
While my brother was talking about the wedding I tried to stay in the moment. I’ll admit I did drift.
With everything that’s happened in the past few months, including nearly losing my wife due to an internal rupture, and internal bleeding, I drifted. I started to imagine myself at my brother’s wedding. Me going into the old systematic fold that I’ve always used when I’m around many people. No one knows. People will tell me it’s great to see me and I’ll think something along the lines of, ‘We gain too much knowledge and we die.’ I’ll shake their hand and observe how much time I think they might have left. Some people seem to have a harder time absorbing knowledge than others. They’ll ask me a direct question and I’ll answer them very quickly. And we’ll head to the bar.
All the legends of writing that I care about. Fuck em.
I still love them. Ben Franklin ran away from his wife and stood in front of windows feeling for wind. How many quotes should I read.
Hem, my favorite.
Buk, you old fucker, finally being known, talking about creating, always creating no matter what, baby.
Em..oh Em. You stood at the top of your stairs. You wrote your heart out.
You did’t pay for shit. You disregarded everything but yourself and had nothing more to do than think yourself into words.
I’ve been to your home. I lived near you. I see how they think.
Faulkner. Steinbeck. Let’s reach back and pull a bone,. None of you bastards talk about raising a child. None of you. As much as I think you are all brilliant. You are weak.
Take the trash out. The one filled with shit diapers.
Smelling while you walk. Hoping you can make it to the dumpster before they wake up.
Wake up. Don’t wake up. Don’t fall asleep. Fever. Screaming while you hold your cell phone in front of you thumbing your way to, create baby, create. Fuck you Buk. I know I could kick your ass. Walk on all the glass you want. You’ve become the same annoyance you complained Hem was.
The every day happening of an infant turning into a young child, cared for by a man is dispersed into feminist hatred.
We father’s who take care of our children will be forgotten. None of you are willing to write about us.
She paints death alive again. Cement cracked. Who said that? I did. Where’d you get it. I heard it once. The sky raged looking for shelter. Pulling at faces. Where’d you hear it? -In my head. And that’s why I trust her. The foundation of our souls stood upright releasing each of us freely.
Dedicated to my Wife. Megan.
I sat down to write but watched the rain instead.
Who am I to refuse its beauty.
A broken mind allows for growth in the gray areas-
While friction’s greatest accomplishment is to create life
Yes- a shadowed moon does repeat
It’s the middle of the night
A small something is breathing
Onto my neck
He’s on my pillow
And his forehead is lightly
pressed against my neck
Megan must have brought
Him in with us
into a bed and
Loves to get up and play
In his room
He’s such a good
He climbs into the
Rocking chair and rocks
Himself back to sleep
But for now
He’s breathing on my neck
And I’m awake writing this