“Natural” is on my skin I wear it every day Some days I lather it on thick To stun and then decay

An “act” moves fast to show my past And stick the landing twice To win a friend is in the end The nicest way to die

When the world stayed in to pray My skin was free to breathe How cruel to let open pores sing Without an audience

As the space will grow between My acts and shiny skin Who will let you be alive Before ending themselves

That did not rhyme so bonus round To satisfy your ears My blanket tastes like statements made Before there were no fears

Tragedy could plague us all If acting natural Unless we drop our faces made For social beck and call

Going back to my childhood home was never part of the plan. Not yet. Not in my late 20s.

I got the call in the middle of a meeting with my co-workers growing impatient in hushed tones. The patience in the world always seems to run away when money is involved. It was my brother and he rarely would call me at this time knowing I am always quite busy.

"Mom is sick," he finally muttered with a fittingly reluctant delivery. "Well, give her some medicine," I quipped while pushing down a nervous tone that already began leaking into my voice.

"No. Jacob. You need to come in."

His sternness stung my cheeks into a wince. The words oozed out of the phone and plugged my ears. I couldn't hear anything else. Nothing else mattered.

I left my meeting and colleagues twiddling their thumbs without a second thought. It was perhaps the longest plane ride of my life that brought me back to the front step of the hospital I had once visited for stitches in the 5th grade. Broken test tubes.

How could she be sick? Sick with what? She's not that old. I'm too young for a dying parent. How can I give back to her if I've only really just gotten into my working life? This isn't supposed to happen!

She'll be fine. She has to be fine.

Thoughts were whirling as I finally reached her room where my siblings greeted me and ushered me in. I did not like their faces. All twisted and drenched in doubt.

"She has something for you," my brother said with an unexpected crack in his voice.

I walked past them and up to her bedside. She looked nothing like how I remembered her, quite frail and discolored. I could only force a soft smile as she turned and began to recognize me in perfect slow motion.

"Jakey, you came." Her voice was cold and raspy, lacking the hum it used to have when we were safe. She lifted her hand ever so slightly which I slipped my hands into and raised to my face as I went to a knee.

Beneath her right arm, she held a Bible as she always seemed to have one nearby.

"Have you been reading?" I asked. She gently shook her head without losing sight of me. "Have you been praying?" She smiled and squeezed my hand.

"I have something for you," she said while turning to her left.

In her other arm was a small blue stuffed animal that I hadn't seen in perhaps a decade. It was a gift from one of the early birthdays that I could only barely remember. A stuffed blue whale that always played the main antagonist in my childhood adventures.

"You remember Benny?"

"Of course"

"You hated Benny. I got him from Paris. Have you ever been?"

I never understood her obsession with Paris but it seemed to be where she got all the stuffed animals just so she could happily remind us of where they were from.

"No mom, not yet."

In the passing days there were a few other bedside chats that any son would be grateful for. When she finally passed I was left with Benny and mere projections of moments that lived as me. I would visit them regularly and revive my rivalry with that arrogant whale that called himself "Benjamin." He was the head honcho, the powerful dictator, the Captain Hook of my young fantasy domain. Yet I would always vanquish him, always foil the great scheme of evil that threatened my world. It was my mother's hand that always played the part in perfect character. She always animated the perfect bad guy.

Now he rests in my arms with no puppetmaster. No great mover. No rising hero to wrestle his fuzzy blue fins.

I place him on my bookshelf. Our bond becoming stronger.

"Hey Daddy, what's that?" I spin around seemingly caught in the act. The act of falling to the dark side...

"Who? This?"

"Well, this is Benjamin."

The pillow feels hot. It seems to be smirking beneath my cheek, as if plotting to drain all the moisture from my face. I sweep my right leg over the other. The rest of my body follows closely behind to forcibly land in my second most reliable sleeping position. I want to just go to bed. But I can’t stop thinking.

How could she just take it?

You can’t just take toys from people you’re supposed to love. They just do it whenever they want to get back at me for nothing! They think I’m dumb but I’m not. I’m smart! All they care about are grades and getting what they want and being evil while having evil thoughts and evil attitudes while hatching evil plans with this stupid bed to make me so sweaty and uncomfy all the time!

Enough!

I don’t care anymore. Last time, I said the next time would be the last time. Well this is the next time, and now I have to make it the last!

Everything feels blurry. Even my thoughts. But my action is precise. I go to my dresser with a spirited arm swing but silent feet. Perfect execution. Packing my favorite shirts and pants and socks and undies. Just as I reach the window behind my bed I am struck with a moment of loss. My shoes. They are downstairs. There is no way I could get them without waking up the family.

It’s too late now. I have to go. I gingerly stutter the window open and then quickly work to the screen which is alarmingly squeaky. Placing my bare foot on the window sill I hoist my body up and out of that square to freedom.

Freedom from the tyrants. Freedom from oppressive regimes. Yeah I’m smart. I know a lot of words that they don’t even know. Freedom from a place where toys are always on loan. Freedom from stupid love that they stupid pretend. I lick a couple streams of salt water from the side of my face.

Where should I go?

I swing down to my hands so that my feet dangle towards the ground.

I may have misjudged the height… But they’re evil.

I drop.

On light’s timely birth I descend on that big metal box Sore eyes and tight fibers Lead me to the arc of nature

Lay hands in open cold box To find crimson gem A beacon of her sweet salutation Fellow man wrapped sweet buds

I pour her love on glass And surround it with friends The crown is her’s Even next to faces staring back

Placing juice of life to mouth Blood on lips, flames on plate Experience drowned in red light Bubble that chuckle out from depths

Dash to ascend steps Back up to what’s known

Rest and remember That sensorium flare

Bring me that parchment Which lies on the south-facing shelf And I will show you how magic is born

Through dreams and cliches A battle is fought In search of what is pure and true

How often it is that these places thrive And breed on the unknown But we liven the power with passionate words

Magic is thought to be in the air And love can surely last a lifetime Yet I live to find boulders that move with my mind

Awakening begins as a glimpse A moment in time followed by similar ones Separated by a sea of other moments Awakened moments are often spaced like this But one hopes to bring them closer with practice and rituals As the frequency increases The more awake you become And the more alive you feel Until one day you drop out of your body completely And all that remains is being

I resent that Wouldn’t you? Hold on Take a moment to be hoisted into my being like a child being placed in yellow wellies before taking on a rainy day

Well You could do it if you made the effort Maybe you need more empathy in your loins I resent that With a passion I do If my friends were here they’d tell you what’s up They’d tell you how I think and act I wouldn’t need to say a word

But I resent that Speaking is my forte I dream of ancient characters who made such acrobatic sounds and sinful gestures The mere prospect was a novel art then And envy sets in quick as yet another heartstring to disappoint But I digress

I resent that I am tired of resenting And I resent that I resent all that is wrong and all that reveals as right I resent happiness and sadness Lightness and darkness Dogs and cats People and demons I resent those lessons in kindergarten that taught us opposites

Out in the distance, one can find troubles with ease and certainty But the moment is shocking when you realize there is no distance between the issue and yourself

He would be leaving soon but his expiration date had not quite arrived. A friend had told him, “God is just as stubborn as us,” as a way to pump some humor back into the old man’s veins.

In younger years he often thought of what old age could be like and would promptly return to the present with a keen sense on how to gain success in his world. Surely, it would just take some time and effort to work his way up the socio-economic ladder and move to America. That’s where the real lives are made.

Now, he finds himself in a cramped living situation while the world outside his son’s home seems to be falling apart. Was it ever any different before? If he were to think hard enough there was a time when life was simple and tending an Irish farm was not simply a means to an end. It was a way of life and one that held meaning before his ambition was captured by tales of great adventures beyond the sea.

His son clicked off the television and performed a yawning stretch-and-stand as a jumpstart effort before preparing dinner.

“Why’d you do that?” he said in a grumbling tone, “we were watching that.” His son did not appreciate his feistiness and quickly snapped back.

“What? Do you just plan on watching commercials? The game just ended!” The son had to yell so the hearing aids could fully detect the words.

The old man let out a resounding “hmph” before tossing both arms at his boy dismissively. As the son peeled away into the kitchen, he began to drift off into thoughts of mystery and sadness. He knew his time was almost gone but the dramatic moment just hadn’t quite happened yet.

Any day now, he often thought. God will take me any day now. Can he not see my suffering?

At 7pm his son promptly brought him his food and a glass of water which he laid on the wooden table beside him. Would this be his last meal? More meat and potatoes? He felt like yelling some Yiddish slur that remained a relic of a past era but he allowed his frustration to gradually resolve to a new focus.

“Maybe you could bring me one of those cookies that your friends made,” he slid the question over to the other side of the room while his eyes remained fixed on his plate.

“Dad, you’ve had too much sugar today already.”

There was a pause and then he reached for the utensils like a coal miner picking up his shovel before heading back into the mine.

I know you mean well and I love you, but I’ll be leaving soon. I know I will be.

After his nightly exercises he got ready for bed and slid into pajamas with the help of his son. His whole body ached with discomfort and it felt as if the weight of gravity was too taxing of a task to maintain anymore. He slid into bed and accepted a “tucking in” that rang of the same quality as that of when he was a child. His son left the room only to return moments later with a small cookie to offer him.

“Here, there won’t be any for tomorrow though.”

“I won’t want any tomorrow, but you were right I don’t need it. I’m too full.”

He closed the cookie in his son’s hand. “You have it,” he insisted.

The son took it back and proceeded to the door with a solemn look in his eyes and then turned back to his father briefly.

“You know he’s gonna take me soon right?” the old man said with moisture collecting at his lower eyelids, “I’m ready and he knows it. So don’t be sad.”

“I know Dad,” the son did well to keep his composure, “I’ll save this for tomorrow.” He flashed the golden brown cookie between his two fingers and finally closed the door behind him.

“Aubrey!”

“What are you doing?”

“Aubrey! We need to leave! Now!”

Susan frantically tugged on her friend’s cherry red parka as she stared off into the distance with glossy eyes.

“Hey! We can’t die here,” she exclaimed urgently.

As she tried to hoist Aubrey over her shoulders the heat from the blazing wreckage around them rose to more motivating levels. Sweating bullets, Susan successfully extracted them both from the flaming helicopter that had been toppled to an incorrect side. She hopped down to a grassy footing besides the belly of the doomed machine.

Dark storm clouds brewed to the east and sent ever-intensifying weather cascading towards the girls. Susan’s lucky party hat had been blown to one side of her face from gusts of wind while she struggled to readjust her grip on Aubrey’s torso.

“Did you really have to wear those ridiculous parachute pants,” Susan scowled, “I don’t care for your gaudy flair when it’s taking full advantage of my face!”

“You’re one to talk,” Aubrey snapped back as her trance finally resolved, “Maybe we would be doing better if you hadn’t eaten those ridiculously colorful mushrooms you just insisted on having!”

“Mushrooms?” Susan dropped her friend to the ground with a newly scrunched expression on her face.

“What are you talking about,” she projected quite assertively, “this isn’t a tangential mushroom trip.”

“You still don’t remember?” Aubrey growled matching Susan’s energy.

She propped herself up on wobbly arms as she regained feeling in her various limbs.

“You claimed it was an ‘essential Easter egg’ that you’ve ‘never finished with before,’” Aubrey made mocking googly eyes while flashing air quotes. Only to realize she made a grave mistake and whooshed down to a face plant before her still recovering body could save her.

“Bleh,” she continued after wiping dirt from her lips, “yeah, after eating them you started forgetting a bunch of stuff and I started losing feeling in various parts of my body,” she began to ramble more anxiously, “that pilot said it would wear off but I think he’s dead now. This is not good, why did I let you convince me to come here…”

“HEY!” Susan interrupted, “listen, it doesn’t matter. The fog will be rolling in soon and we can’t be here when…”

Suddenly, a thunderous voice boomed overhead and sent volts of surprise through both of the girls.

“Are you ladies gonna be having supper, or what?”

The ominous voice of a much older individual pierced through the simulation.

“The food is getting cold and this is no way to act if you want the same service next time,” the godly voice of a mother pushed groans to the back of their throats, “now get your sweet tuchuses down here now!”

Susan blushed before turning the dial on her wrist clockwise, initiating the gradual crumbling of their surroundings.

“Gotta do what mama says,” Aubrey shrugged and flawlessly broke from the chaos of their previous setting.

“She would be so much worse if you weren’t here,” sighed Susan, “let’s finish after dinner.”

Who is to say what life is without you? You who is maker of all that is

This is no love song to the best candidate in the sky Or a mere whisper of what life with you already knows

Here lies an echo to bolden your text As if you added some width to lengthen your final paper due tomorrow

It is unclear who steals your love most In fact, most still struggle to find a soapbox To stand on To aim such gratitude at the bullseye

A passionate fan reveals themselves only to those who pay attention And a calm mind is your prerequisite to spotting their figure

Hence you and I are interchangeable I believe, “relationship,” is what they call it Find that space where clear water crashes on powdery white sand

Then you’ll know what you were missing Then you’ll know life without them Then you’ll know thyself