the writer in me

Home-Style Electro-Shock Therapy

2011-10-03T16:00:00.000-07:00

If you've never experienced the arm-numbing pain of accidentally touching the metal of a plug as it goes in the socket, or the life-altering shock of peeing on an electric fence, consider yourself lucky. If, however, you feel that these experiences are necessary to a well-rounded education or have a sick sense of humor, you could always do what we did and install your own industrial-strength, electric fence around your suburban yard.

See, when I was growing up, we had two fantastic dogs. Unfortunately, one of those dogs was an amazing escape artist, and no amount of scolding and landscaping feng shui was going to keep her in the yard. So, our next best bet was to head over to the hardware store and purchase an electric wire to run along the bottom of the fence. Little did we know... No, really, little did we know...

The setup we purchased was some heavy-duty stuff. Over the course of the next several years, we watched grass burn on the wire. Not to mention the frequent discovery of small birds who had bitten the wire, thinking they had found the world's largest worm, only to find their beaks were burned onto the wire and their hearts gave out from the shock. Despite these gruesome discoveries, we ran the wire around the whole yard. The yard itself was pretty small. So, our little basketball court on the side of the yard had an electrified out-of-bounds line (which was hilarious to watch kids get shocked by when they fell or stepped off the court). The dogs, well, they were only slightly fazed by the new setup. If the female dog wanted out bad enough, she would endure the shock and take off.

All this is to give you an idea of why, or how, I came to be electrocuted so thoroughly. You see, that female dog, Natasha, not only tried to escape the yard, but she would sneak out of the kennel we had built for her and Copper, the male dog. So, we had run the electric wire around their kennel, too. Cleaning that kennel often fell to the kids, or we would spend some time in there with the dogs if nothing else entertaining presented itself. It was on one such occasion that I found out exactly how powerful our fence actually was.

While my parents were doing yard work, my brother, sister, and I kept them company in the back yard. I immediately gravitated toward my dogs and began to play with them in the kennel. After awhile, I started to lose interest and leaned against the chain link fence surrounding the kennel to talk with my dad wile he worked (By the way, chain link fences are made of METAL. METAL is awesome at conducting electricity...like one fricking step below standing barefoot in a puddle of water while a nearby electrical wire jerks around and sends electricity arcing through the air). As I wrapped my stubby eleven-year-old fingers through the links, I shuffled my feet forward so that I could dangle backward...big mistake.

As I leaned back, grasping the metal fence, my shins came into contact with the electrical wire and completed a circuit. In an instant, electricity coursed through my body. My hands squeezed tighter on the fence and stuck there as I yelled and jerked around.After what seemed like an eternity, I was able to throw myself backward from the fence and landed on one of the dog houses and then down to the ground. As I lay dazed and beginning to freak out, I hear someone ask if I'm okay, but it's filtered through uncontrollable laughter. I feel someone help me up, but their grip is unsteady as a they too are racked with rolling laughter.

Apparently, watching a kid get electrocuted is pretty funny. Granted, it was likely only for two seconds, and I was perfectly fine, but at the time I felt totally betrayed. There I was, nearly ending up like the scores of dead birds stuck to the wire, and everyone could only laugh. To be fair...I probably would have been cracking up, too.

Being on the Other Side

2011-06-12T00:07:00.000-07:00

When the word hit the street
that you had someone new,
someone to pass the time with,
my world took on a whole new view.

I'd always been that guy
who looked for the next big score,
but little did I know
you were just what I was looking for.

But now I'm on the other side,
looking in at what you had found.
Now I'm on the other side,
wishing I was back on greener ground.

The days passed like years
as I saw you and he grow together.
And each time I saw you,
my sunny day turned to cloudy weather.

Because being on the other side,
looking back at what I left behind,
I've found that someone new
was not what I was meant to find.

Being on the other side,
watching you with him on greener grass
I knew that I had ruined it
and let my opportunity pass.

Now I'm on the other side,
looking in at what you have found.
Now I'm on the other side,
wishing I was back on greener ground.

So while you're on the other side,
looking looking back on where we were before,
please remember what we had
and come back to me once more.

Frustration of a Nation

2011-05-18T15:28:00.000-07:00

Driving down old highway 61,
long after my day of work is done,
I notice billboards and yard signs
giving something for people to hide behind.

It is this frustration of our nation
deterring the concentration or our generation.
Placards, posts, and hidden agendas,
even against those who defend us.

Images of fists raised for La Raza
as young people march through the plaza,
while those trying to teach our future leaders
are being attacked by the lowest bottom feeders.

Generations hiding behind excuses and allowances
accepting mediocrity in the name of tolerance
just so the chaff and the wheat
can find a happy middle place to meet.

Who will rise and say, "Enough?"
Who has what it takes to be unerringly tough?
Will it be democrat, republican, or libertarian?
Or will it be the religious despite being labeled sectarian?

No longer be content to hide behind borrowed rhetoric!
Don't be ashamed to be a political heretic!
Speak like a man with a passionate soul,
and never be content with pleasing the status quo.

Don't let the frustration of our overburdened nation
make you resign yourself to a lesser station.
This life is no longer just about getting by.
Your limits are only established by how hard you try.

May 2011

29 of 30: Walking His Path

2011-04-29T22:58:00.000-07:00

This is the beginning of her road.
Unsteady, unkempt, and abandoned.
The girl,
and the road,
have already merged.

Her path,
though oft left untraveled,
is a rewarding one
filled with peace
and beauty
the likes of which few have seen.

At times it may be rugged,
at others the loneliness may take toll.
Yet, always she will leave room beside her
for her unseen companion,
and His presence
will steady her
as she walks her path with him.

April 2011

30 of 30: What Matters

2011-04-29T09:30:00.000-07:00

Time and again it has been said,
"If it really matters,
then you must make time for it."

Just as often it has been said,
"There's just not enough time."

Rarely do we merge these sentiments
into a meaningful reflection.
Rarely do we form opportunities
to analyze them in a single,
in-depth
discussion.

If we were to juxtapose
these two heartfelt cries,
we might notice a dilemma.

That which we value
yet discard because of so little time
just might be
what we should be making time for instead.

And, if time is truly given to reflection
We might just stumble on an answer
as to what is missing...

28 of 30: To be continued...

2011-04-28T20:25:00.000-07:00

A chapter ends
As another begins,
But the story will continue
In this story that we spin.

27 of 30: I do it for you, Jesus

2011-04-27T19:35:00.000-07:00

I first heard your song in a small town church
The mighty hymn drove away my gloom.
And whatever mission that brought me there
Disappeared in the glory-filled air.

You brought joy and shared your gifts by degrees
But I was convinced that you spoke specifically to me.
And my life turned on its hinge in that grand room
As I abandoned a path that was leading me to doom.

Oh, I do it for you, Jesus--I love you so,
My kingdom is new but it's going to grow.
Our castles will shimmer with silver and gold,
My faith is so lovely and will never grow old.
And I offer this promise--this one thing I know:
I do it for you, Jesus, for I love you so.

I left that church no longer on my own,
I make my own kind of music each day as I grow.
And all the while I work I am reaching towards a time,
When you return to find me and finally take me home.

It took much of my life to do what must be done,
Collect the pieces of the puzzle, you're the final one.
I was shaking as I asked for salvation and you know by now I guess,
It made me happy ever after when I finally said yes.
Oh, I do it for you, Jesus--I love you so,
My kingdom is new but it's going to grow.
Our castles will shimmer with silver and gold,
My faith is so lovely and will never grow old. And I'll shout from the mountain tops, hello there down below,
I do it for you, Jesus, for I love you so.

My life could stay the same but you know it never does,
But God I still remember how excited I was.
Feelings of safety I'd never known before,
But salvation whets the appetite, I want to have more.

Still, I do it for you, Jesus--I love you so,
Your kingdom is flourishing and still it will grow.
Your castles all shimmer with silver and gold,
I do it all for you now, Jesus. For I love you so.

inspired by / adapted from "I do it for you, Jane" by Harry Chapin

Lyrics found at Leo's Lyrics

26 of 30: Idea Man

2011-04-27T13:58:00.000-07:00

It's easy to be the idea man,
to create images for others to create,
to ask questions to prompt reflection,
to pose options for others to pursue.

An idea man keeps his distance.
His investment is one of little time,
little risk,
and no monetary loss.

An idea man is creative,
innovative,
and safe in his distance.

But that idea man can be more
if he so chooses.
He can become something greater,
a leader.

An idea man can take his ideas,
his innovation,
his creativity
and throw in some risk,
some effort,
and be the first to take the leap.

That man's got the right idea...

April 2011

25 of 30: It Doesn't Work if You Aren't There

2011-04-25T13:29:00.000-07:00

There's a common idea that runs rampant,
despite often being proven wrong,
that most things will work out just fine
if only one or two pieces are missing.

The next time you write a poem
sing a song, collaborate on a project,
or build an object,
think about the effect when something is missing.

Take _____ __________ for instance.
Is ___ as _____________
____________ parts ____ __________ _________?
Can you __________ _________ I'm ____________ -
with full _________________?

Or what about the tripod,
the one you're building to hold a painting?
Can you spare a leg?

To make matters worse,
what if you aren't alone?
What if you,
and your partner,
decide the tripod doesn't need a leg?
Can you prop your painting
on a stick?

Don't assume you know what's best.
Don't presume you aren't integral to the rest.
Take the time to contribute...
You might be more important than you expect.

24 of 30: Why Write?

2011-04-24T04:25:00.000-07:00

It's a common question,
especially as a teacher of teenagers.
They wonder what could be so awesome
about writing stuff down -
which is interesting
when you have to always tell them,
"Please put the book aside for now."

However, I cannot ignore such a challenge.
When they say, "Why write?" -
Tell them:

Write to fill the empty spaces in your day,
and you never know what you might discover.

Write to share that hidden truth,
and you never know who will listen.

Write to change the world,
and you might be surprised at the effects.

Write to stretch your imagination,
and you might be surprised at where it will take you.

Write to spread a message,
and you just might be heard.

Write to process new ideas,
and you just might learn.

Why write?
Why not?

23 of 30

2011-04-23T23:59:00.000-07:00

A is for Annie who pretends not to care.
B is for Bobby who just sits there and stares.

C is for Cori who sits there and mocks.
D is for Dana in her mis-matched socks.

E is for Evan whose homework is missing.
F is for Fred who makes jokes about kissing.

G is for Gina who forgot to bring her poster.
H is for Harry who looks like he put his hand in a toaster.

I is for Ivan who gets in trouble when he talks.
J is for Janice who runs and never walks.

K is for Kyle who fell fast asleep.
L is for Lisa who never says a peep.

M is for Margaret, the overachiever.
N is for Nora , the expert deceiver.

O is for Owen who will always raise his hand.
P is for Pamela who always has to leave for band.

Q is for Quentin who is a straight-A student.
R is for Rachel who is not very prudent.

S is for Steve, the class "car guy."
T is for Tom who is extremely shy.

U is for Unice who can be a bully.
V is for Victor with shoes he refuses to sully.

W is for William who never comes on time.
X is for Xena whose name feels like a crime.

Y is for Yasmine the friendliest kid.
Z is for Zach who sat in the back and just hid.

(Disclaimer: This poem was inspired by "The Gashlycrumb Tinies" by Edward Gorey. This poem is not intended to represent any of my student, past or present - simply generalities in the spirit of poetry. Any and all resemblances are purely incidental.)

22 of 30: Short and Sweet

2011-04-22T21:45:00.000-07:00

Forbidden treasure,
apple fallen from the tree,
man fallen from grace.

Nature of mankind

Imperfect in creation

Perfect in his eyes

21 of 30: The Life of a Cog

2011-04-21T05:40:00.000-07:00

A clock ticks the seconds away
as women and men toil
to produce a product
worthy of the light of day.

Minutes passing noisily
while silence hovers
over mind-less masses
well-trained cogs.

Hours fall in the name
of business as usual,
securing the worker bees
to their professional hive.

Yet, when that whistle blows,
the time clock chops,
and the engines rev,
what is to show from these tired,
lifeless pieces
of corporate machinery?

A product to be sold,
bartered over, and criticized
based on glitz and glamor...
not their blood and sweat.

20 of 30: Haiku

2011-04-21T05:32:00.000-07:00

Sandbags and plastic,
tools of the engineer's trade,
battling the grand flood.

A forgotten seed,

blown on the currents of wind,

blooms in our garden.

Lightning bugs grow bright

sliding over the tall grass

silent troubadours.

Grandpa Nearly Killed Me

2011-04-20T14:45:00.000-07:00

Vacations were always interesting with my family. Each year we would take a grandparent or a friend. My brother and I each took one of the neighbor kids, my sister took a high school friend, and my parents each took one of their parents.
The most memorable year would have to be when my dad brought his dad. We were taking a trip to Utah and had thought Grandpa would like to revisit the mountains and shop in Park City. Being only eight or nine years old, I thought this would be pretty cool. Little did we know, my grandpa would try to kill me.

     The mountains rushed by on the left side of the minivan as we ascended the mountains in Utah. Massive boulders and towers of stone were a blur, while the other side of the van only afforded us the view of a steep drop. As we cut into the mountains, we began to see more trees and streams. Yet, my brother and I were only interested in searching for arrow heads or animal bones. We hoped to one day find a carcass like the one my dad had come across the year before.
     As adults do, my parents and grandfather began to talk about the beautiful scenery and how there were so many opportunities for magnificent pictures. They fancied themselves talented photographers, but these were also the people who took a shaky video recording of a bunch of wild horses, with cheesy Native American music on the cassette player, through the passenger window of a minivan! Look out Jacky Cousteau and Freida Lee Mock!
     Anyway, they decided to pull over by a little bridge that overlooked a medium-sized stream. My brother and I would get to explore along the quiet road, while the adults could take pictures while watching us out of the corner of their eyes.
     I slowly wandered from the far side of the road to the edge of the bridge. As any good boy knows, the best view of rushing waters is over the railing. My parents shouted the requisite warning, “Be careful getting up there! Don’t fall!” They were always such worriers.
     Conscientious as I was, I hollered back, “Uh-huh!”
     As I bent over the railing, the roaring of the stream filled my ears. What I saw below me was no mere babbling brook. I was looking into one of the biggest rapids my young eyes had ever seen, having never been to the Grand Canyon. There were nearly three dozen moss-covered rocks strewn about, kept glistening by the water as it rushed down the mountain. I couldn’t resist, my mouth was watering…what’s a little kid to do? I let the spit dangle from my mouth in an effort to get a completely accurate reading of the distance down to the surface.
     The spit tumbled through the air as my legs suddenly lifted from the concrete and my head rushed down the side of the bridge, following the loogey to the water. My mind spit out a very grown up, Oh, SHIT!as my mouth let out, ” Ahhhh…”
     As quickly as I began to fall, I stopped. I realized that my legs were bound together and there was something grabbing the back of my pants. I looked up, or down since I was looking in the direction of my feet, to see my gray-haired, grinning grandfather laughing so hard he had tears coming down his cheeks. But his laughter soon stopped when I began to cry and wiggle, nearly making him lose his grip.
     Grandpa, or Satan as I began to think of him, hauled me back onto the bridge and doubled-over with laughter once more. I, on the other hand, was shaking like a leaf and crying as I ran for the safety of the van. Finally climbing to the very back and sniffing away my fear while building the anger.
     My dad, giggling, approached the van and asked, “What’s the problem?”
     “Grandpa tried to kill me! He held me over the freakin’ bridge! Didn’t you see?” I cried.
     “What? He had you just fine.”
     “He could have dropped me!” I shrieked.
     As calm as a man dying of laughter could be, my dad asked, “Why do you say that?”
     The answer was obvious to me, “He’s old!”
     My dad walked away laughing quite loudly and told everyone what I had just said. Rather than hang around, everyone piled back into the car…laughing and cracking jokes. Only mom seemed at all sympathetic, or maybe she was shaking her head and wiping away tears because she couldn’t believe how funny it all was.

19 of 30: A Warning to a New Teacher

2011-04-19T06:23:00.000-07:00

Warning:
Should you encounter an angry student,
proceed with caution...at your own risk.

You see,
angry students have no filter.
Their fits will cause them to forever
spit fiery insults in an effort to fight
your fledgling authority.

Unless,
you approach them with a respect
usually reserved for grease fires,
electrical boxes, and jagged glass.
Though they may be dangerous,
if handled improperly,
there is a right way
to defuse the situation.

Though I can provide a warning
and that simple reminder to use respect -
just as with a raging brush fire
or a howling tornado -
I leave the rest to you.

18 of 30: Better Late Than Never

2011-04-18T07:06:00.000-07:00

"Better late than never,"
is a motto best left unsaid.

You see,
it doesn't always apply.

As you run,
hurrying to catch the last flight
of a plane headed to your job interview,
is it really any better to be late?
If you had never shown up,
you'd have had more time to try to keep
the job you have.

As you sprint,
hurrying home from the pharmacy
with a single item in a brown paper bag,
is it really any better that she's late?
If she'd been on time,
you'd not have had a series of small heart attacks
as you began to panic.

Really,
"Better late than never,"
shouldn't be a motto
or a way to console
the habitually tardy.

Instead,
console them
with a watch.

17 of 30: A couplet

2011-04-17T20:04:00.000-07:00

Some might call writing a couplet a cop-out,
but I'm too tired to listen to them shout.

16 of 30: A Dilettante of Deception

2011-04-16T03:07:00.000-07:00

As a teacher of teens,
I have quickly become
a dilettante of deception,
an expert at evasion,
a cognoscente of calumniation,
you might say.

"Mr. Heitz,
I can't stay after
to make up work."
I'm sure you can if you try.
"No, I mean...
I have to babysit...
my little sister...
my parents won't let me stay after."
Really? And how do you know this?
Is there some sort of telepathy
between parents and kids that I am unaware of?
"Ha...um...
I forgot...
until just a minute ago."
I see. That must make things difficult.
How about we call, just in case there's
some sort of mix-up. If you're wrong...
well, shall we'll add a detention to the homework?
"Um...their both at work.
It should probably be fine."
I know. See you then.

Steadily,
I have become a fan of fibs,
a gourmet of guile,
a specialist in subterfuge,
as a part of my job description.

"Our printer is dead,
so I can't turn in my paper."
Good thing you can save it,
email it, or hand write it.

"I forgot we had homework!"
It's almost like you should have something,
perhaps an assignment notebook, friend to call,
website to check, or e-mail.

"Our computer crashed,
and everyone lost everything!"
That's a good one,
except
I saw you on Formspring last night,
commenting on blogs,
and e-mailing your friends through school.

As a devotee of deceit,
or an epicure of excuses,
I've heard them all.

Nevertheless,
if you are creative enough,
I might just let you slide
out of respect for your skills.

15 of 30: Daddy's Ditty for Izzy

2011-04-15T21:35:00.001-07:00

Isabella Pearl,

daddy's little girl,

the sweetest in the whole wide world.

She is so sweet.

No, she can't be beat.

My Isabella Pearl.

(She tolerates me when I sing it to her.)

Honeymoon Horror

2011-04-15T14:30:00.000-07:00

“Jeez, Mel! Why’d you have to get us the 44oz. cups at the last Kwik Stop? I’ve got to take a leak like no other.” Craig was shifting in his seat like a five year old that just learned how to tell his parents he had to go potty.
           “Well, just stop somewhere. We don’t have to keep driving.” The annoyance was already showing through her voice. On their way down to their honeymoon condo in Arizona, Craig had refused to stop going through Iowa because he was sure they could make it through the whole state without having to stop. They had just made it to Council Bluffs when the dummy light had come on and they had to hurry to find a gas station. The scariest part was that their GPS kept taking them to ones that were closed, and they just barely made it to a Phillips 66 that was still open at 3:00am.
          “We’re in the middle of New Mexico, and I really don’t want to stop already. We’re only at three-quarters of a tank,” his reply showed his impatience and still wounded machismo. He smirked as he suggested, “I could always make a ‘trucker bomb.’”
          Mel let out a quick bark of a laugh and said, “You do that and not only will I kick your butt, we’ll have had one of the shortest marriages on record.”
          “Fine,” he relented, “I’ll stop at the next exit.”

          The next exit was Trementia, a fairly small city that seemed like it shouldn’t be too difficult to navigate. Their GPS had only acted up that one time in Iowa, so they were sure they could find a gas station without a problem. However, as they navigated the streets, they found that they were winding through neighborhoods and into a construction area.
          Mel finally spoke up with a warning, “I don’t think you should take the next turn. There’s a ‘Road Closed’ sign up by that next road.” The sign she was referring to was leaning against a bush off to the side of the road.
          “Don’t wor…” Craig’s words were cut short as he made his turn and dropped into a pock-marked dirt road. More specifically the underside of a new road, not yet paved. “Whoops, I guess it really was closed,” he chuckled.
          “Christ, Craig, I told you it was closed.”
          “Oh, quit your whining. The gas station is right there at the end of the road.”
          “What, you mean the entrance is right there next to the big dump truck?”
          “Backhoe, but yeah it’s right there.”
          Craig swung the little four-door Caprice into the lot of a rundown gas station. As he parked, facing the store, he took in the scene and let his imagination create stories for each of the elements. Running of the left side of the store was half of what used to be a stone retaining wall. The white paint was chipping off and still covered the litter of stones scattered across the ground. Hobbling next to the wall was a mangy dog. It was hobbling because it only had three legs and looked as though it was already half dead. Craig began to think, My God, this would be a crazy setting for a horror flick or some sort of story from The Graveyard Shift by Stephen King.           The store itself wasn’t much to speak of. The requisite glass windows that exposed the front of the store were grimy and didn’t even look as though anyone had even attempted to clean it with their spit. One of the doors was propped open and temporarily blocked as a lone customer stumbled through the door. This lone customer was obviously drunk and an old hand at the practice. He ambled with the steady confidence of a bum who had spent a lot of time in the bottle and thought he knew how to hide his inebriation. No matter how smashed he seemed, though, he kept a wary eye on Craig’s car.
          The only other living soul in the area was the clerk behind the counter. He was only about eighteen, judging from his demeanor. Resting against the counter, he leisurely flipped through a magazine (Craig guessed a Playboy) and seemingly falling asleep every few minutes. Craig got out of his car, locked it, and approached him in a friendly manner, preparing to joke the younger man about sleeping at his post. Before he could say anything, the clerk looked up and began to speak.
          “Passing through, I bet. Since you’re not parked at a pump, I suppose ya want to use our can.”
          ”Well,” Craig replied, slightly startled but regaining his composure quickly, “I had thought about buying one of your delicious microwave burritos, but the service here seems rather shitty. So, yeah, where’s the can.”
          The kid cracked a small smile and kept his cool tone, “Heh, you’re a funny guy. Hey, funny guy, the nice, inside pissers are out of order. Go around the side of the building to the old ones. Ladies is the door on the right.”
          Craig bit his tongue and walked out of the store, imagining what tragedy might befall this clerk if this were a freaky tale of murder and intrigue. Passing the car, he stopped to tell his new bride he would be back, but to keep the doors locked until she saw him. After feeling as though he had sufficiently protected his damsel, he continued to the side of the store and found the restrooms.
          Almost gagging, Craig opened the door and walked into the stinking hole of a bathroom. Lining the walls was even more grime than was on the front windows. The sink was sagging off the wall and topped with a dented, old sheet metal mirror. The kind of mirror in which drunken high school kids would try summoning the Candy Man or Bloody Mary on a dare. The one urinal was covered with a plastic bag, which was only enough protection from people needing to relieve themselves, not the smokers who just had to have a place to drop their glowing remains. His last hope for relief was a dented-in stall. It was the kind of stall that makes you wonder what makes people so mad as to punch or kick a slab of metal and fiberboard that houses a commode. Really, do they just think, Aargh, I gotta crap. That makes me so angry I just gotta hit something!
          Advancing to the oasis of relief, Craig chuckled to himself. Not only because of the little bit of Dane Cook comedy that had run through his head, but because he was sure he would get to read some classic bathroom wall literature. He hated using public restrooms, but he consoled himself with knowing that he would get to read some pretty witty poetry and prose. He was, after all, an English major.
          He closed the stall door, using quite a bit of effort, out of habit. He refused to admit it was because the old, drunk guy had freaked him out. As he let loose with a sigh of satisfaction, he began to peruse the reading selection:

          Mike was here! -> Mike’s gay -> No i’m not! -> Not you…the other Mike

Nixon’s innocent! It was the guy on the grassy nole!

          If grace comes from Shakespeare’s tales, why can’t something be done about these smells?
          Craig was just beginning to wonder what this Mike guy did to piss off somebody in each state when he stopped short and tied it off at the next message:

           1:15
          Don’t be seen
          I’ll be coming
          you best be runnin’
          With a slightly shaking hand, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the time: 1:14am. At first Craig reflected on the lack of originality and apparent irony, but then his breathe caught in his throat as he remembered the staggering drunk leaving the store and began to rationalize. First, the message is probably 25 years old. Second, it could just as easily mean 1:15 PM. Despite his own reassurances, Craig began to panic just a little. As he was trying to stuff everything back in their proper place, he inadvertently got a little on himself. Without even meaning to, he thought of another bathroom classic, No matter how you shake and you dance… His mind continued to return to the drunk guy as a quick half sob / half laugh escaped his throat as he wiped his hand on his jeans and wondered at the stuff that popped into people’s heads at the oddest times.
          Just as his hand reached out to the door, slightly more steady with each passing moment, Craig heard footsteps scraping the threshold of the restroom’s doorway. Without the slightest bit of hesitation, Craig hopped onto the seat of the toilet and began digging his phone out of his pocket. Checking the time…1:15am…and the signal…nothing. Another sob escaped as he cowered on the disgusting seat and leaned against the tiled wall. Just then noticing that the latch had been broken off the door.
          A moment passed in which Craig begins to scold himself for such cowardly behavior, when two scuffed boots peek under the door. The right one had a deep dent, and the laces on the left one had long since eroded or been cut away. Slowly, the feet began to shift side to side. They looked like they were making little dance steps. Then, the stillness was slowly broken by the sound of the door scraping open.
          Craig began to scream as he saw it all played out as though he were floating above it all. The old, drunk man pushed open the door. He was dragging Mel behind him by her hair, and Craig, weeping and screaming, couldn’t help but notice the clean cut stretching across his wife’s neck, from ear to ear.
          Ignoring Craig’s cries for mercy and the assistance of God, the old man pointed steadily at the warning scrawled on the wall. “I done my part in trying to warn you,” he said in a calm voice. He then dropped Mel to the floor and shuffled away, all the while muttering, “I done my part. It’s on you now. She seemed like good folk, too.”
          But Craig wasn’t hearing any of it. He fell off the stool, onto his knees and began sobbing over the lifeless body of his darling bride. Through his cries, he didn’t even hear the second set of footsteps coming through the door. Through his cries, he didn’t even think to look up and notice the store clerk walking in, carrying a large knife.   Through his cries, he didn’t even feel the blade plunge into his back and take the life from him.
          As this horrid scene played out in Craig’s mind’s eye, a pair of running shoes peeked under the stall door. The right one had the sole coming loose. Not because they’re neglected and beaten, but likely from being well used. The left looked nearly immaculate, except for the grass stains gracing one side. Slowly, the feet began to shift from side to side. Then, the stillness was slowly broken by the sound of the door scraping open.
          Craig began to scream and blubber. He was already beginning to relive the maiming that he is sure will soon come as the swinging door reveals the concerned face of his wife.
          Craig, weeping like a small child, gazed at her in disbelief. His wailing subsided as he began to suck up the snot and his lower lip did that little flipping thing it does when kids are trying to get their crying under control. Gradually, he slipped down so that he was sitting on the toilet seat, and he let out a shaky laugh.
          “Oh my God baby, what’s wrong?” Mel pleaded.
          “Nothing,” her husband replied, “really nothing.”
          Mel pressed on, “This isn’t nothing! You’re sitting here blubbering like a baby, and now you’re laughing like a maniac. Tell me what’s going on. Are you having second thoughts about marrying me?”
          Craig gathered her in his arms and reassured her, “No, Sweetie, no. I just read a really powerful poem. That’s all.”
          As they stood there, Craig laughing while his devoted wife stroked his head in concern, the store clerk walked by the open door with a small smile on his lips and one hand sliding a knife into his back pocket.

14 of 30: Innovation

2011-04-14T20:13:00.000-07:00

They say that necessity
is the mother of all invention.
A truer statement
I don't believe you'll find.

However, invention
is not a miracle child.
As with all other things,
a father is required.

Innovation is the father
of all invention.
Innovation provides the seed
that necessity sparks.

This happy little family:
father, mother, and child;
innovation, necessity, and invention,
functions best at home-
the most comfortable environment.

April 2011

13 of 30: Sleep

2011-04-14T02:41:00.000-07:00

Often elusive
Constantly making us late
Rarely long enough

12 of 30: The Art of Concentration

2011-04-12T12:44:00.000-07:00

With eyebrows furrowed,
back hunched,
and leaning forward,
we can certainly
puzzle out
anything thrown our way.

With legs dangling,
eyes wandering,
and mouth jabbering,
you can certainly
kill time
and avoid most anything.

When that bell tones,
that buzzer sounds,
startled glances come from all.

Concentration is an art,
one that requires focus,
whether to engage
or avoid.

11 of 30: Writing 30 in 30

2011-04-11T19:39:00.000-07:00

sustained creativity
beyond a simple week
proves a daunting task

many a topic there may be
and many a phrase to turn
but the process still looms-
threatening to overwhelm