The slow dance ends.
The pairs on the floor break apart.
He steps back on the floor, and his body
Begins to move in time. The song is fast, and
He moves to the middle of the crowd. In an instant,
His feet are still. The scene blurs before him.
Without thinking, he pulls the twenty-two from his jacket.
Without realizing, he jabs it into his stomach.
Without warning, a shot rings out.
Panic ensues, followed by grief.
Three days later, the funeral.
"Where will we put them all?" asks his mother.
A sea of black descends upon the casket
The sadness, the anger, the confusion are palpable.
The scene clears before him. In an instant,
His feet are moving. He laughs to himself as
He realizes the foolishness of such an act.
A girl taps him on the shoulder.
Another slow dance begins.
The battle rages.
The soldier, removed from his companions,
Stumbles forward. All about him
Are forces opposed. To him, every arrow,
Every broadsword, every dagger
Is aimed at him. He sees a helmet.
He puts it on, and he goes ahead.
The hail of weaponry is heavier.
A shield is at his side; he picks it up.
The onslaught continues; it intensifies.
A chest piece, a leg armor, gloves - he dons them all.
He stands fully shielded, impervious to the incessant attacks.
The battle subsides.
Decorated, he travels about the countryside.
When he enters other towns, he can sometimes shed his armor.
More often than not, however, he feels the barrage
Though it has long since passed. The suit shields him
From more than the weapons. It is a skin
That separates him from the world. He can touch nothing;
And nothing can touch him - only the armor.
He knows he would benefit from removing it,
But what if a stray spear?
A chance he won't take.
Inside him, the battle rages.
Perfection reigns here.
I'm in the driver's seat.
They do what I want them to do,
they say what I want them to say.
I'm running the show-
I hold all the strings.
In here, they are socks on my hands.
Out there, they wear socks on their feet.
It ends up that they drive me.
Sometimes I feel like a sock - and sometimes
like I'm on the end of a string.
Perfection is impossible here.
The puppet show suits me nicely.
And I can't force myself to give it up.
Two brothers.
They sit in their toy chairs,
They drink from their toy cups.
All seems peaceful.
A long time ago, it was.
They would cooperate, not compete.
They would get along, not get into fights.
Life was so easy, and their friendship made it that much easier.
That time was white, today is black.
They hurl expletives and punches.
Words are to them as guns are to the inner cities.
The chain of excuses to quarrel has no end in sight.
Not even separate rooms can quiet these brothers.
When they are adults, they may find a way to make peace.
But for now, they can only continue their bitter war.
Life is more complex, and their conflict makes it that much harder.
Swimming in the deep blue of the pond.
Hiking the trails that surround it.
Breathing the crisp Rhode Island air.
Sleeping outdoors in a sleeping bag.
Working towards merit badges and ranks.
This is Boy Scout camp.
The bitter taste of the food penetrating my mouth.
The feeling of homesickness burning from my stomach.
The detachment from the rest of the world.
The yearning for the ability to communicate with others.
The relief at the sight of my parents at Orient Point.
This is also Boy Scout camp.
Two facets, two attitudes,
One experience, imprinted on my memory for all time.
Given the name of an Apostle.
Baptized as a believer.
Told about the church (but of
Free will to choose)
Finally exposed to Mass at Scout camp.
The "bread" - feels like Styrofoam.
Taught that God loves all His subjects.
Free will to choose-
something I must use.
God loves me as His child - then
Why does he cut me loose?
When I seem to need him most
Why must I fend for myself?
All that I have - I've worked for.
He had His chance -
and He failed.
Inside the walls -
All is fine.
I am greeted -
I reciprocate.
I sit in the circle -
I contribute when they need me.
It sates me -
It gives me hope.
Outside the walls -
It totally flips.
I am discarded -
I will not return the injustice.
From afar, I watch the circle -
I follow its progress.
It wrenches me -
I gives me despair.
Sitting in the corner
a Pepsi bottle (I won't drink Pepsi)
filled with everything
kept hidden from the world.
Parts are moldy
others are spotless.
If this trend continues -
they'll never be unfurled.
These things - they stay bottled up.
I want to understand -
There is nobody to explain.
I want to scream -
There is no patient ear.
I want to punch something -
There are no objects sturdy enough.
I want to cry -
There is no available shoulder.
These things - they stay bottled up.