Bara’ Shema

 “Bara’ Shema”

the man read. “I will therefore be calling you Shema. If you don’t like that, well- that doesn’t really matter,” he declared.

“What does that even mean-”

“Some to know, Few to find out,” he echoed in reply.                                                                          “Oh, while I’m thinking of it…” He again got up and pulled another scroll of similar appearance- though much older looking- out of one of the drawers underneath the collection of bottles. He grabbed a cloth Messenger satchel from the tabletop and dumped it of it’s contents; then tossing the scroll in my direction- of which I missed catching and it hit me in the face with an ironic thump.

“ha! There’s your sign!” he exclaimed in amusement. “I’m giving you that, but give me your word that you won’t open it until you get to where you are going,” he said with an abruptly stern face.

“How can I open it when I get there if I don’t know where I’m going?” I prompted.

“You’ll know when you get there, of course.” he replied, matter-of-factly. “You hear little bits of this and that in the Winds, you meet him, her, It here or there- you piece it together and you’ll figure it out. Who knows, perchance you’ll even figure out what you actually want somewhere along the way- I’d guess you’ve no idea anymore, eh? But you won’t divert my attentions to this detail-you must swear it,” again solemn.

“My yes is my yes,”I replied quietly.

“Good, you learn quickly.”

“I’m in awe of how helpful this is.” I returned the humor, dryly.

“Well, luckily I’m in a particularly favorable mood today, because I can feel the rain is coming again soon here, so I’m going to show you what you want…and what you need, and what you think you want and need.”                                                                                                        He reached for the  floorboards under the red table, removed a few, and dug around in the sand for a minute before producing a flat, rectangular, tin box. “if you still don’t trust me enough at this point that the meat wasn’t poisoned, you’ll have difficulty with this next one, but I’m accustomed to opposition-but it’s a good thing to still encounter now and then…” He set the box down in front of me- of which occupied a decent amount of the minuscule table’s face, and flipped the lid to reveal 40 divided sections, each filled with what resembled miniature cranberries of all varying color; blends, shimmer, or even phosphorescence. There were tags in each division, so small I had to lean in and squint to read them. They read: Purpose, Numbness, fulfillment, Business, Apathy, Love, Sense, Accomplishment, Separation, Validation, Peace, Beauty, Expectation, Illusion and countless others of the like.

“These are what most of them come for, everyone wants one more than another, for whatever their own reasons are- All parts of life, part of the unquestionably, cyclical institutions we all come to know. But all of these are merely temporary illusions to make you feel whatever it provides for the time it lasts; and I’ll tell you, all my years of study have never permitted the knowledge of how to extend their effects. At first it seemed like a profitable way for a man to make a living, but after enough years it grew from mildly bothering me in some way, to deeply disturbing me some days- but I admit that despite all this, I have often used them myself. The Work, the Wait, the Journey- to me seemed to unfailingly take more than I could ever procure for all the effort. Now I know this sounds selfish, but I am just a man as well- one who knows and has seen the order of things, and this is what I’ve become proficient at: helping people feel a just a little bit better, for just a little bit of time.

People find themselves wherever they always do. They wander- some longer than others- but many find it too lonely, too “absurd”, too unbearably tiring, or they simply cannot stand the anxiety of never knowing what– good and bad, though increasingly most often the latter in these times. Many start to seek out Routine, Security, Worthiness, Acceptance-” he pointed at a few more of the sections.”Love is always the most ‘popular’, the most sought-after, and consequently misunderstood of the lot; with Validation and and Security following closely behind. So many running around, looking for “the one”, but how many ask me how to become “the one”? Few, too few…”

Sensing that his tangent was of experiential importance to him, or that perhaps he didn’t often get visitors who cared to listen- I did not interrupt his disquisition, though I had often thought the same things to myself.

“but we’re all ‘one’-some closer in resemblance or proximity than others-but I assure you that this rock…”he plucked a small white stone off the top of one of the candles and held it in his palm- was once water and the water once a rock. They both tend toward lower ground, as streams find their way to the ocean but are never emptied- different characters and the same story. But until then, on we go looking for a proverbial drop in the ocean. Love very well may be in the many, many things and places everyday unseen or overlooked. It’s simply not always so obviously over saturated in the name of self-interest…” he paused in a barely perceivable change of  expression, as if he had suddenly lost his fervor for the subject.

Well, luckily I’ve got  six different kinds of Love formulations here- ” with restored animation-“I can thank the Greeks for that idea- so that I rarely run out of that one. 

“but why bother at all?” I queried,”I mean to waste your time here with a bunch of luna-eh…people, all for that’s nearly equivocequal to nothing?”


Locked and Loaded

It’s been hours and I’m locked 

just lying staring at the clock

the walls begin to close in again

all I want’s for everything to end

It doesn’t take me high anymore

Nothing makes me right anymore

One, two, three, more

Just like you; bored

Mix it all and I’ll not care

Live or die, it doesn’t matter

Feel better, be better

Real’s not always preferred.

Listen better, see better

The feeling sublime, undeferred 
I always say this is the last time

But it’s been a whole day and I feel like I’m dying

So I’ll bring back the burn

Just To bury the hurt

I never seem to learn

And I get what I deserve

I’ll be clean I claim at every day’s eve

But soon as I start suffocating 

I will take

I will be



to ease the pain


What’s the diagnosis?

such a grim prognosis

Does not play well with others

can’t tell if I just need another

Pill to kill the way I Feel 

A high to hide what’s the most real

I can hide it with a smile 

for a little while

But it never goes away

A blade to kiss the wounds and try to make it better

I could lie to you behind these benign words and letters

But no matter what I do- 

To where or to whom,

 I may run away

But it never kills the pain
Nothing satisfies my soul

That’s why I chose 

To be Alone
I’m not trying to be so contrary

I’m just trying to make it home 

I don’t mean to be so difficult

And over analytical

I don’t mean to be so irritable

So sick, so scared; so unreliable

But I think we can agree

On that that aching empty feeling in the soul

I know I’m not the only one

Who in a room of people

feels all alone

Nothing holds all of my soul

It’s why I chose

To be alone.

11.4 11.11 

In the wake of October, I always find

But when the day is over, why bother sending signs?

I lose in November,

And then it’s December-

Where I’m wearied  of striving,

When it’s all I can remember


Never more.

Four years and four nights alone, long;

You left me worn, dragging on-

Useless and wanted.

Have You forgotten?

I wandered so far,

Just To be lost at sea;

Striving for Something; 

Just to pray for, to bleed.

I’ve poured out my needs

To Death, my friend;

I’ve slept without dreaming 

Only to this sordid end-

A nameless faceless decade Descending 

Into the countless forsaken Seasons unending

Bound by inhibited fruition for unknown reasons

But It’s mystery still keeps whispering in the breeze

But will it-can it; ever be un-

In just the way that it was all done?


             You think they’re just words; the minute breaths you use and your idiosyncratic verbiage… But to me it may be a world- because it’s not just what you said. You don’t know the constellation of details why those few words could stop me in my tracks, freeze time, or send an intrinsic shiver up my spine. 

What you don’t know. 

       You don’t know that what you just said- in its exact timing, measure, reference, and nature- it was whispered in the lowest darkest places. It was screamed from the shrouded peaks of the mountains, and wept into a vial centuries ago. It was scrawled in blood on the walls of this temple; long, long before you even knew my name- in a place you’ll never hear me speak about. Written before time: all contained in such a word so simple and inconsequential to you- with justice seemingly undone to what you meant. 

I wish I could show you.

But words never did, could, nor shall they ever say what I saw in such a simple statement. 

         Why did you come when I didn’t call, so afraid. who sent you- what do you see when I say my words so elementary, veiled, and weak? What good could you see in them- in me? 

Why would angels even send word for a soul so lost; tripping over my own countless prayers, echoing across the caverns of Sheol?      Here, slowly degraded to only a sordid desperation by the hand of unforgiving time and broken allegiance; where life before hardly even remains in memory, or the person so changed by it all.

Can I believe that those words were really meant for me? 

Do I have the audacity of courage to risk entertaining the notion that all my years of petition were even heard?

I do not hope for answers. 

I scarcely even hope at all- in anything, anyone, any sign. 

There are no such carnal saviors. 

I’m not confident that there are even eternal ones. 

Right now all there is are all these words, the ones you just said, and all of the things we don’t know about them yet. 

11.4 Ever A Day to Be Reckoned With

I’ve been sitting numbly in this rickety chair in your personal waiting room for the past three hours. The same old familiar sounds are shrieking their piercing suggestions in my ear, and my perpetual visitor looms in the corner waiting for me to get back.

Always waiting.

A part of me wishes you could see the claws and talons lodged in my back and ribs; but I tried to stand strong and stoic for your examination. I’ve learned to not cry so much anymore, so you can think I’m finally OK. It never did anything but embarrass me anyways; after all, I think you don’t understand my tears because you can’t see the wounds- you can’t see them or hear them. But they’re standing just over in the corner.

 Is my own discipline of secrecy and suppression killing me- or is it the only thing holding me together?

I don’t want to make you too feel helpless or uncomfortable, so I didn’t look for the words to answer how I ended up here.                                                  You asked me how long it had been since I’d let anyone see me.

            “Years,” I replied;                 but then realized I had only said it in my head.                                                                        I nodded vaguely.

As soon as I’m alone again, I finally take a breath and sigh deeply. I can’t for another minute ignore the torment scouring every nerve ending in my body. It’s been worse than I remember it being, while I was lost in the naivety of the day or two that it was gone. There’s no refuge or cessation as there usually is.

Did I take two,three, or four? 

I roll the bottle back and forth in my hands, contemplatively. The phone rings and I lose count again. I can’t remember shit anymore.        If it’s been hurting for weeks or months- I can’t tell, because the days blend together so swiftly I can’t discern one’s ending from another’s beginning. The pain stabs it’s rousing reminder, interrupting my thoughts and I finally release my inhibitions to relapsing again.
But now there’s blood everywhere; though not enough for the pain- and I realize what a fucking stupid thing I’ve done again;Too much, too fast and there’s blood soaked through my shirt and favorite jacket. Sure it’s got its rips, patches, and cigarette holes; but I’ve always refused to let go of it, like it’s some old friend or such.

My vision starts spinning, and goes completely blurry. I’m feeling a bit disconcerted this time because now I’ve found myself out in the hills again, feeling a bit faint and delirious, and my legs are shaking just enough to frustrate the trek home. The throbbing pain at the base of my skull intensifies and I steady myself on a rock, feeling my stomach lurch threateningly against my diaphragm. I wish my stomach would stop wasting my time and I could actually throw up for once; Maybe it would help.

I realized maybe I wasn’t best to be by myself tonight; I usually try to not to let it get this far, and all the little “if you ever need anything”s were echoing in my head. But last time I did that I ended up getting locked up. I wouldn’t want to survive it again.

Then there it was again, increasing in volume and urgency; the familiar siren that something was very, very wrong. It had been a while, so I simply ignored it, along with every other sign yelling at me that some unknown factor was ready to imminently implode if I didn’t fix it. I ignored them too. The horizon was still rather far off and continuing to grow increasingly blurry, but I kept walking toward it anyways- unsure of where I was headed or would end up this time.