I feel like I need to write this out, so it's no longer in me. Right now I am worrying myself sick about work. Sometimes I jump the gun; get ahead of myself. I worry I make poor decisions. I worry I do poor work. I worry I'm not smart enough. Everyone seems to be naturally inclined to the knowledge they possess, and I constantly have to review things I feel like I should know. I worry I come across wrong. I worry I hit "send" before I should; that I badger too often and can't leave well enough alone. I just want to be good at what I do, and I believe I am, most of the time. But it's the times I feel I fail that I can never seem to move beyond. And they weigh on me. And it makes me squirm. It makes my insides twist. It makes me feel like I felt when Joe Ben drowned in Sometimes a Great Notion. And I couldn't take it. How could someone write a death scene so devastatingly vivid? No, that isn't it. How could someone write something that described just the way I feel when anxiety is baiting me, when I am drowning? Those words on that page were the equivalent of every battle with myself. Fuck. No wonder it overwhelmed me to read.

I needed this. To write something out clearly. Simply. It doesn't solve everything, but I feel a little less like the world is caving in.

I'm trying to learn how to do this. How to breathe and let go and be strong rather than destructive. I think I can do this.

Perhaps some of us are born with our hearts already broken.

On Memorial Day I called my Dad. I asked him to tell me about my grandpa, James Earl Bass.
I remember vividly the sticks of spearmint gum he would give my sister and I when we came to visit. I remember the the magnets my grandma had that looked like chocolate candies, and just this year I realize that he must have known all along they were fake, but he always acted surprised when I would bring one to him like it was real and he bit into it. But that's all I knew. I was 16 when he died and that's all I knew and I am so very sorry for that. I watched them fold a flag in Arlington and give him a gun salute and now he has a stone that matches all the rest. And at the time his story was the same to me as theirs: silent.
You were a Technical Sergeant in the 3rd Infantry in WWII. Daddy told me you were shot at one point, and your feet froze on a few occasions. And then he choked up; he told me about a letter that came after you died from someone in your company. You were stationed in Africa and were trying to get your men out of somewhere when you came to an area of land mines. The writer said that you told your men, "Don't worry, I will get you through this. You just step where I step and I will get you home."
These stories aren't unique, and they aren't history either; they are still happening today. These men and women aren't fearless, but step on in spite of fear, because they must; and that is bravery.
I never told him thank you.
I never asked him a single question.
And that will always be such a regret.
So every chance I get, I want to say thank you now.
Thank you, Veterans.

Can I be?
Is there the slightest possibility?
With fingers crossed and eyes shut tight,
while wishing on right-side-up pennies.
But for what, and how, and when?
And does it matter?

Who am I?
An organ in need of tuning?
Played on Sundays;
Played for musings.
And somehow loved unconditionally,
Despite my pitch.
Or maybe for it...

Straightforwardly: I breathe deeply.
And that has to be enough.

Sometimes, I think I'm looking less for an answer, and more for the right question.

Rustling
Like any other animal.
The one antlered dear so near society.
The Scrub Jay in the Scrub Oak.
And I, running like some mammal with half a heart
(It beats brilliantly when complete):
Slowly, contemplatively, considering each step
(What if this is my last step?)
I’m wrestling.

What I want is to be contained.
To be pinned down, defined;
Placed in an air-tight container
with no escape for my spirit to seep through.
Because currently I am everywhere.
I am not a body with appendages,
But flagrant emotion dancing wildly.

Please, contain me?

I believe in God.
I believe in hope.
I believe in wishing.
I believe in someday.

I'm not used to being optimistic.
It's actually not so bad.

I watch quietly as all these stories collide interminably and they seem menacing. And my story sits silently, just letting the music bleed through me; the way coffee stains cheap napkins on patio furniture in the city. Or how you seem to effortlessly melt into my body.

And it moves me.

I’m bare.

My secrets are worn clean.

Drift wood drifting,

Smooth and honest;

An itinerant with misplaced wants and needs.

Until suddenly swept from the sea,

To be placed on your mantel;

For your benefit, your pleasure, your greatest desire.

Perched there, I am finally set free.

If this was a moment,
if moments were real;
I would touch her leg
and lick her chest.
I would cover her in spit.
And if this was a moment
I would never let her go,
and I would honestly be happy
and never let her go.

I want to save everyone.
...But maybe I'm the one who needs the saving...

I’m blistering.
Subtly taking in
Poison and alcohol (with water in between).
And I’m playing the keys raw
So I can savor the music (like red wine and tears and dreams).
And I’m laughing hysterically
Since it’s the only hysterical
I will allow myself to be.

I think It is difficult to be honest with ourselves.
I kneeled in tall weeds between Cottonwood trees
And wondered what it was I should be feeling.
Does anyone really have it figured out?
Or are we all just saving face…

Today I want to break things.
Today I want to run fast so nothing can catch me.
I want to be still for a minute.
I want to be still for just one minute.
Tomorrow I will try to be happy.
But today I just want to be angry.