Tag Archives: god

Technically, I never made any threats

My choice of words may have been nasty. Anything beyond that is inference on your part. And as for whoever is about to score? May god bless him or her. And for the record, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I could be pull-my-hair-out frustrated, and at the end of my rope. But I will always love you, reckless words and thoughtless text messages notwithstanding. Anger only moves me for a second. Love moves me for life.

That southern thing

Some of it is obvious. The drawl. But the longer I’m here, the more I listen, the more I am inclined to believe in ghosts. Things happen here in the shadows. Everybody knows the truth but no one’s quite ready to acknowledge it. Let alone say it. God forbid out loud. Maybe I’m reading too much into things. Maybe the eggshells I hear crunching are only because of love. And I’m listening a bit more intently. Intensely. Intensity. I’m writing this prose on a phone, one finger at a time and I appreciate the deliberation this allows. Normally the words don’t just flow. They spew. They insinuate themselves in the most unlikely of places. That’s wrong. Water comes to rest where it might flow. It’s not trying to be; it sorta just is. That’s one of those lessons you sometimes accidentally happen upon. Unless, of course, you are like me and don’t believe in accidents.


“You’re a drunk.”
“You’re a punk.”
“I’ve been one since I’ve known you.”
“I thought you would grow up.”
“Well, I’m never not going to be punk. I have it tattooed on me for god’s sake.”
“Yeah I know.”
“Do you think I would ever take it off? That is me.”


“You know what you are? You’re a gargoyle. You’ve been around since the dawn of time and are very hard to get rid of.”
“I’m your girlfriend.”
“Not any more.”
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“No. I broke up with you about two months ago, I just never told you. God, that feels good. I feel like I just broke out of Shawshank.”
“That’s not nice.”
“You haven’t been nice in two years.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too. But we’re done.”


It’s hard to sing with your soul. To let that voice, your true voice, out. Sometimes we are bigger than we are. And it makes it harder to be smaller again. Learn to live like a god, and you will be one. Feel it in the moment. Bigger, stronger. Everything all the time.

I’ve fallen

It’s over. Thank you, God it’s over. I can see the light. I kiss grandma. I hug uncle. Then a voice rises. “Go back. You’re not finished yet. Go back.” It’s like a womb. It’s so warm and I don’t want to leave. “Your daughter. Your son. Go back.” I wake and I run home. I grab their hands and lift them to the sky. She giggles. He mocks her. And I try not to cry.


I’m filled with gross sadness. The future looks brighter than it has in a long time, but I find myself having staccato bursts of five-second weeping. My friend says “You can’t look at yesterday, there’s only today and maybe not even tomorrow.” She’s right, of course. But my kids live in yesterday, today seems so ineffectual, and tomorrow scares the shit out of me. I don’t want what I had and I hate what I have. I’m on my knees with hope and humility that the sun decides to rise tomorrow, and whether I deserve it or not, takes a shine to me. God, please help me. Faith can help. But I’m still human. Of course, I’m going to be scared.


“Men are always surprised. When they do the right thing, they want congratulations for it. Yeah, you took out the garbage. Big deal.”
“No, no, no, no, no you’ve got this wrong. It’s in our DNA.”
“I don’t want to hear this.”
“That’s because the truth stands in contrast to your statement.”
“I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“Your job is the kids and to be soft and nice. That’s just the way god made it. That’s why you always get custody and don’t go to jail as much. Men are not nurturers. We’re not gatherers. We don’t naturally gravitate to keeping the place clean. Our job is to kill wooly mammoths. And you can’t get pissed at me just because they’re extinct.”