Night Time Birds

Nighttime birds are quiet in their trees

For the bugs they are a-humming.
They’ve forgotten the words to their droning tune
Yet still they keep a-buzzing.

Night time birds are purple, black, and blue
Depending on the sky around them.
They settle high up in the trees
So the cats of the night can’t ground them.

The wise old owl, a sentry, stands
Ever asking who approaches.
The nighthawk flies low and patrols the ground
Though no one knows his motives.

Midnight bells toll across the city;
The daytime birds are sleeping.
The nighttime birds keep to themselves
For their loneliness is creeping.

The darkness a thin blanket forms
A shallow comfort, empty.
Clanging echoes soon cut through
The knife’s tracks are wide and many.

Silence shivers down to the quick.
The root bursts forth from its foundation.
Total freedom or listlessness
Reduced to interpretation.

The breeze; she bustles here and there
Unafraid to throw an elbow.
Unsure footing on loose-knit ground
Taunted by the sleeping sparrow.

There’s sorrow in the nighttime air
For all who are awake.
Slumped shoulders frame a heavy heart
Then the spirit begins to break.
The cracks are small when sleep first flies
Beneath the sparrow’s wing
Yet they grow as I lie awake
Remembering everything.

I cry out as the night envelopes me
A suffocated scream
Then I collapse as I recall
Darkness is only silence seen.

The nighttime birds... they know the same
They’ve heard it behind the snoring
So they keep their eyes low; ever-searching
For the first glow of the morning.

When it comes, their job is done
To sleep they can surrender.
The reins return to the mighty sun,
The daytime’s proud defender.

He punches through the stillness.
The daytime birds start chirping.
Morning bells play harmony
For the brand new day that’s lurking.

But morning is just a distant dream
Still hours in the making
The nighttime birds still hold their posts
And you’re still far from waking.

The stars that shine so far away
Are hidden far behind the clouds
Even the bravest shrink as they poke through
Shackled to their self-doubt.

The nighttime birds are quiet in their trees
And the bugs are still a-humming.
There are no words to their droning tune
Yet still they keep a-buzzing.

Fish Bowl

"Do you ever get the feeling that your in a fish bowl where the water is slowly evaporating? You swim around all day and night in your half gallon universe, always searching for something new on the plastic pirate ship, which forms the centerpiece of your existence. You swim, sink, and float all the while wishing you weren't trapped in your own filth and hoping the water will eventually stop disappearing. You pray that one of the people outside, whom you see waltzing by day by day, drink in hand, will take a brief moment to help a brother out. Wouldn't it be nice if just once someone could spare a few ounces of water?

But they don't. They don't mean to be rude, but there simply isn't time. Or they would love to help you out. Really, they would, but they've been so thirsty for so long and you've got water anyway. It's not like you don't have any. Which would be the resulting predicament for them if they helped you out, as they quickly point out. Although their casa maybe be your casa in theory, their beverage is another matter. Besides, would you really want to swim around in water contaminated by people cooties. The human mouth is a disgusting place. I know I could never be a dentist.

So you just swim back into your sunken pirate ship to search for treasure once more. Boredom can be lethal and there is nothing else in your half-gallon universe to dilute other than yourself, your byproducts, and this plastic ship with a gaping breach in the hull. Treasure? I don’t think so.

Some people claim they enjoy their own company. These are the same people who would love to help you out but would hate for you to have to live in squalor they had anything to do with. If there were any convenient way for them to help you without detriment to your well being, it would happen in a heartbeat. But they’re looking out for you. You must remember that. It is with your best interests in mind and deep in their hearts that their inaction continues. So many reasons to maintain the status quo. These same people will continue to elaborately construct their own mythology day to day and constantly adapt it to the current situation.

No one truly enjoys being alone for extended periods of time. From an evolutionary perspective, the need for companionship ensures the continuation of the species. From a creationist standpoint, it is an inborn need to connect with other creatures in hopes of catching a glimpse of the Creator. The point is this: loneliness is an inherent part of our make up that discourages prolonged solitude.

But some of us, hereafter referred to as 'fish', don't have a choice. We love the idea of other people. However, when confronted with the reality of other active, sentient beings in close proximity, a slight mental itch develops. The itch grows more intense the longer the evening drags on. Through out dinner, it gnaws away at the fish, screaming in his ear that THIS ISN'T RIGHT!!! The following explanation of the problem's exact nature is always muffled, leaving the fish frustrated, nervous, and with a ringing in his ear.

Eventually, the fish will realize what it is that won't allow him, just this once to enjoy this. Were it only a simple psychological need, such as the familiar and comfortable confined space of his bowl, something might be done. But this is a primal command, screamed from a part of the brain his ancestors had long since forgotten. He can't process the salt of the earth and sea any longer! He must leave the ocean and get back to his fresh water tank."

The audience was silent. The past five minutes had passed in silence. No laughter. No heckling. No nothing. He put the microphone back on the stand and walked straight off the stage, back to and through the door. As he walked, he heard the MC mumbling over the public address system, which meant absolutely nothing to him other than the fact that "this thing" had indeed "been on". Lost in a haze, he drove home in the night in silence, broken only by a sigh of relief to be back at his fish bowl.

Just A Girl I Used To Know

He had loved her. Or at least that’s what he told himself in the dark, waiting for sleep to pounce. Or when the neon lights bathed him in their maternal glow. Or when he gazed across a saturated subway car at a young couple, lost in each other’s presence and completely oblivious to his. But the passing lights always drew his attention like a moth’s, until his focus resettled on the solitary figure staring at him in the window. He had loved her until she had said it one day, in a voice like shattering glass. She was gone.
But that was a long time ago. They had come and gone since with no significant upset, merely a hobby and barely worth mentioning. He carried on with life, more like the victim of a bad haircut than an amputee. He had lost something, no doubt. But until today, he had never really thought about it. It had nothing to do with her, though in passing he might have convinced himself otherwise. A creative fire, once devastatingly beautiful and fueled by an endless cycle of observation and fusion, had finally reached a point just past the horizon. It was dying.
Like the innocent victim of lethal disease, the knowledge of the existence of an end contributed in hastening it onward. Wasted canvases betrayed the stillborn ideas, suffocating in their lack of momentum. He was tired.

But this was his swan song. A masterpiece. His magnum opus. Her long, brown hair fell past her shoulders and a soft smile cast its shadow across the face of the sun. He painted her not as she was, nor as she had been. He painted her as he remembered her from a lifetime ago. And although that same lifetime may have distorted his memory, it made no difference to him. Here was a reality more tangible than anything he’d ever known. There she stood at the top of the hill, basking in the halo Helios himself placed upon her head. She looked down with mercy and compassion at the mortal below. He returned her gaze. Filled with sorrow for past sins, he returned to the religion of that summer and readily reassumed his role as zealot. This graven image, crafted by his own hand, made him an idolater once more. With every brushstroke, he disappeared more and more into his creation and withdrew further from the cold academics’ reality. He felt the grass between his toes. The sunlight danced on his skin and a gentle breeze tossed their hair. He could see the lake in the distance.
The breeze became a howling gale. Helios fled as the thunderheads rolled in. Roaring across the lake, lightning impaled the air and he watched helplessly as she ran down the hill for shelter. Desperate as he was, he lost her the light that flashed right in front of him.
“Who is that?” she asked, cracking the sky and closing the door behind her. The world around him shattered and fell away to reveal the studio. She sat the brown grocery sack on the counter and walked over to admire his latest work.
“Oh, no one…” he said nonchalantly with total disregard for his racing heartbeat. “Just a girl I used to know.”