by a rose named Tania

i jogged to the bus stop yesterday morning. it was still before dawn. i felt great, rushed but great. as usual i left the porch sprinting. it was dignified sprinting with my head up and my arms close to my sides. my body swayed side to side, swift but more so elegant than exercise. i do this every time. i don't know why i'm always running late when i have to catch the bus. usually, i don't break a sweat or even end up panting. but yesterday i felt dampness weighing on my body inside my clothes. and my chest started hurting. like someone was on the inside, pushing hard on my heart. suffocating me into myself. i looked toward the bus stop and saw two figures. i had time. i walked the rest of the way. the bus stop is only a block from my house. and in fact, the bus ended up being 20 minutes late. my chest kept hurting, but it was a dull pain. i guess what a broken heart would feel like. it didn't feel like what they describe as a heart attack. i was so nauseous. i just prayed. 'please god let this bus hurry up.' 'please god just don't let me pass out.' 'please god, i can do this. i know i can do this.' it was awful. my mind went prickly. it felt like boiling blood was swishing inside my head. the dark of the morning became the color of light pounding in my head. my breath was short, heavy and scary. i honestly felt like i was going to pass out. i remember bending over. spitting thick globs of saliva, trying to calm something inside of me. i told my mom and elo about it. but i didn't tell my mom i think it was a panic attack. i guess i was embarrassed. or maybe i didn't want to break down in front of her, again. when i finally got on the bus. i concentrated on calming down. i told myself i would ask my mom for a hug. i really needed one. but when i got to the house, i just didn't. i told her i was really scared. i tried to describe it to my satisfaction. but i wasn't honest about it all. the words i needed i couldn't find. elo said she thinks it was an anxiety attack, too. after all this time, in this city, with these people, i'm not surprised

'The 12'
parts 5,6,7

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the water. the quality of its soil. its people. what about a city deteriorates it. it's not the weather. unless the weather is a gauge of breathing seasons. seasons of humans. coming and going, and claiming and disclaiming. bastard townies. not bastards as anything other than illegitimate. arrived in intrusion. in most cities, this wave is called and treated as tourism. in other cities it is a predictable fluke of chemistry. timed and never quite accepted, but ongoing nonetheless. rerooting the city's origins. origins rerooted, rebooted so often that the links can't be traced. what do these cities think of this. blessed. cursed. deteriorating in a bastard mentality. looking normal. carrying on normal. not normal. except in the commonplace of its deterioration

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Philip ~ Bartholomew ~ Thomas

influence: TESTS . . . LOYAL . . . DOUBT :legacy

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a collective mud mentality. unhappy. and happy to enlist as many as possible. doubting anything long-term good will or can come. up for the test every time. because the test is now habit. loyal to a culture of tears + weep, spite + fight, living miserably

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when there is hope, there is more hopelessness to swallow it. when there is help, it is from miserly public servants. who look at you and see what they use to be. what they are one day's work from returning to. there is true hope; there is true help. but getting to it . . . but recognizing it . . . but telling pride to shut the hell up . . . but getting past this culture of stagnation. it really is sad. these cities drain life from their people. their people drain life from these cities

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why stay?

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there must be something worth holding on. the predictability of life in these cities. the absence of motivation and aspiration. it being a city of no ghettos. not structural ghettos. but it is plight with ghetto mentality. if the narrator dies, does it die with. if the narrator doesn't care, does it continue to matter. who has gotten above and away from it. and looked back. vested in it

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they say god doesn't give more than you can bear. i disagree. firm policy: break and build. breaking in what you bear is how you realize what you are capable of, what you cherish, and hopefully, why. it's a calculation of simple figures. but break went rogue in these cities, slow travels in breaking. with each new tenant the salt - admirable and vibrant before turning sterile
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this is not loonspuddery. the topic is not of conspiracy. but is of working theory. what obligations does a tenant have to these cities. do the cities have obligations. when is it ok to settle the account as delinquent? is it betrayal to leave. is it defeat to return
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maybe the issue is not the cities or the people. rather the dream. that there is something to not making peace with what is. with not settling for less, giving up. is it reasonable to assume that opportunity + desire won't always miss each other. i gave you milk not solid food for you are not yet ready for it. can a child special order solids. and if so, will not yet ready for it assert itself. jesus sought phil. and, phil was thronged in tests. are these cities; are these people a test. a test gone wrong, terribly wrong. that truth and purpose are subject to the perfect murder. or a test disciplined in its execution. how does doubt get out of its own way. and loyalty? is this the stuff the disciples who turned back were made of. worshipping. believing. repenting. on hours. oblivious off hours. i'm going to the enemy's camp and taking back what belongs to me. that's what living in these cities, with these people, is - being in the enemy's camp, searching for belongings

a portrait

lightning zipped across the sky. i was in the south. passing through ga. it was a mostly clear and blue day. then out of no where came these streaks of red and orange. these cloud-kissed fiery hues. it was beautiful

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it looked like veins on god's hands. maybe it looked like his temple pulsing to someone else. but i saw the image of his hands in my head. a gentle hand reaching out. to me i imagined. i wanted him to touch me. i wanted his blood to slow to a speed that allowed him to touch me. but the streaks came and left the sky quick. full of purpose and path. not an accidental brushing. if he touches me, i think it will be an accidental brushing

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aren't our paths meant to cross. i want the experience to feel planned. i kept watching. wanting the streaks to come back. thunder came. by the time i left ga., all of the threat of rain was gone. i think i was holding my breath. for many states, my mental state changing digressively with each u.s. state. i needed the streaks. i needed god to reassure me he was still there. but. i knew he had been there and was now gone

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i wished i'd went with him. instead of riding the interstate. going back to the place i came from. cortland. tully. . . to the same old but loyal things. a fabulous apartment in a horrible place. a decent job from solid references. shaky financial means to a mundane life. as i got closer to getting back, dark clouds crept in. stern grays and scattered white

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i saw the face of a mad dog in the clouds. facing toward me but not directly to me. snarling. its eyes wide and expecting the next victim to cross its path. i was overwhelmed with tears. i just started crying. i knew it was a bad decision

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i tried to get help from two churches in fla. they refused to open the door. saying they'd be open sunday. where is the refuge if not at church. and if they turned me away, wouldn't another and another. i slept in the car. slept on floors. ate church's chicken until i felt like throwing up from the thought of eating it. i worked the temp agencies, and found myself in the thick of the same things i was trying to get away from. so i packed my trash and trashed it. resettled my bags in the back seat and trunk. and started home

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oh, god. i call it home so easily. and i really went through this. first feeling like i saw the hand of god within my reach. then several hours and states later. feeling like i was entering a place of hell. but back then i didn't make the connection. i just came back into the same committed disappointment. wishing i'd never left. because then. i wouldn't have to explain why i came back