The Push Pull


Whether I’m lost or not is irrelevant.
I’m here, aren’t I?
I’m at where I’m at and like it or not,
the surroundings are perfect
it just depends on how I look at them.

Like I said,
whether I know which way to go or not
doesn’t matter
I’m here
and God knows there’s a reason for it

I’ve been listening to the words in my head
(they pull me in sometimes)
but they also push me when you come too close

This seems to be how it is with relationships . . .
They scream when I don’t want to listen,
and they turn away when I want to talk.

I call this the push and pull,
which reminds me,
I’ve been having these debates
about who I am
as opposed to who people said I was.

I thought about that time,
let me think . . .
Where were we?
I believe it was south of Sunrise Highway
One of the boys laughed at me and said,
“You’ll never make it.”

But I’ve always wanted to ask,
when he said, “Make it,” what did he mean?
That I could never be like him?
That I’d never succeed?

Or maybe I should hold off on this
maybe this is something he can answer
when he comes home from prison.


Like many,
I have my yesterdays tied in a shoebox.
I keep them tucked underneath my figurative mattress
just in case my scars need company
or I forget where I came from

Get it?

between figurative and actual is the line,
which separates physical and emotional.

Cuts and bruises heal,
but heartache?
Hell, heartache can linger for centuries.

Back when The Old Man passed,
a friend of his accidentally burned himself.

He burned his arm, but what he said
made more sense than anything

“I felt like I needed the pain,” he told me.
I understood that.


words cannot materialize our emotion

….and pain is the only way our bodies can cry.


Can you hear that?
That’s the sound of water running.

That’s the springtime at work; melting the ice from winter
so you and I can breathe again,
or dance in the rain,
or walk along the shoreline

I’ve always found the beach fascinating.
But then again, you already knew that.

I view the indentations along the sands as meaningful
as if to cushion the footsteps of man
as he walks with his curious questions
while watching the seagulls
and asking the waves for answers.

I speak better in places like this.
Maybe that’s because the answers manifest
in memories of something beautiful


Maybe it’s just the sand beneath my feet
absorbing my footsteps,

like clouds beneath the steps of God the Father.


An old man on Archer Avenue used to ask me,
“What’s shaking?”

and if I asked him this, he’d say,
“Ain’t nothing shaking but the leaves in the trees,
and they wouldn’t be shaking if it wasn’t for the breeze.”

I believe the breeze is the earth’s afterthought
wind is the earth’s voice, or memory, and carries with it the scent of rain.

My words are my afterthought
and this is my voice,
or memory
or form of expression to clear the thoughts
that weigh me down

So, whether I’m lost or not is irrelevant.
Pretty soon,
the summer will change our side of the hemisphere

and I, like you
will walk in the warmth and forget about the winter.

Whether I know which way to go or not
it doesn’t matter

I’m still here, aren’t I?

. . . . . .there must be a reason for that


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