The Terrorist

From time to time, Torin and I visit random stores after leaving mommy at her work. These stops afford us valuable out-of-the-house exposure and squelch the monotony of being overly-routined.

As I eye Torin bouncing up and down the aisles, my bosom swells with elation at the sight of destruction by baby. Actions that would at least cause store chaos and prompt expulsion when perpetrated by me (an adult) are actually tolerated, if not celebrated, when done by my squirmy toddler. “How cute is that!” exclaim fellow shoppers and store attendants, admiring the swiftness and effectiveness of Torin’s toy-tampering, junk-jumbling, merchandise-meddling, package-penetrating behavior. If curiosity were an art stroked on canvas, Torin would be Picaso—brushing Cubism everywhere he scampers.

I envy the separate set of rules applied to him and others of his kind. Freedom is much more complete for them. As age increases, the cage size decreases; an older dog has less space in his kennel than when a pup. Or maybe it’s just the ultra-thinning of lines—so that they are so very easily crossed as to therefore exist to confine us with exactitude.

In a modern world so defined by rules, laws, and attempts of order and with the populous perpetually cognizant and wary of dangers both foreign and abroad, I secretly house my own WMD. Watching Torin terrorize makes me devilishly giddy inside. I can cross the line, experience freedom, and destroy—all by proxy through my immune-to-all-laws terrorist.

Who says you can't like terrorists? Nothing wrong with mine.

The Silent Voyage

Crimson sunrise
breathes another day,
lifting shadows off dreams.

Yet silent man lies in the mirror.

A vermillion visage,
a gaussian ruby,
lost in the mist of memories.

Surrounded only
by hollow years—
misunderstood.

Mirrors of lies of silent man.

An aegis apparition
of golden reflection
strafes but shudders in vane.

It's raining voices
in the glass prison—
a fortune in lies through my words.

Lie silent; man the mirrors.

The soft glow
of a mango cocoon
bound in cotton.

Wait for sleep
or after life—
for the funeral of this friend.

Man lies silent in the mirror.

Though wakes
in the waken war,
blooms beget bronze.

Trial of tears forsaken—
a change of season
waxes under a glass moon.

Home from the degrees
of inner turbulence;
beyond the life of a solitary shell.
Through her eyes, I see no more lies.

No silence of lies, but lies silenced.
A crimson sunset.

Wolves of Timber

Wolves of timber growl and wail,
barking back the colonist.

Their groves—
rooted by Natives,
reaped by nomads,
razed by inhabitants.

In stalking packs they hunt to haunt,
the sproutly ones not needless.

But echoes whimper during the light
when the gloom cannot cooperate.

Another member slain amidst the chains.

Howls too high in the firry air to intimidate,
muffled by the roar of the bladed fight.

Yawps unheard save from the carrion dwellers;
If only packs could ascend the soil.

Their groves then—
raised to inhabit
reaping nomads’
native roots.

Forests’ wood branch, but pines stumped by spines
of sapless shadows rake clear the lands of the wolves of timber.

My Little Shadow

Torin is now over one year old.

The comment directly above can be stated simply enough, but when read and thoughtfully evaluated, there is somehow a fantastic level of complexity squirming between its single line.

I’m not sure that I’ve ever uttered a simpler sentence that has in fact more greatly totalized the breadth of impact, state of feelings, and summation of existence relating to my current case in life. Over a year? It’s inconceivable. I feel certain that more meaningful and lasting developments have occurred in the last 379 days than the previous 10,642 days of my mortal walkabout.

There exists no perfect analogy that portrays the colossal change from pre-father status to fatherhood. No analogy could fully illuminate the intricacies and chronicle the composition of this transition. But to attempt…

I think of my shadow. It is predictable—in its level of brightness, contrast, transparency, sharpness, and skew—based on the light source(s), and its exact attributes are known at any given moment without any process of thought. My shadow’s predictable behavior is an established norm, found and formed from nearly 11,000 days of precedence. Then, after all those years of “normalcy,” I notice while working in the yard one summer afternoon that my shadow has become distorted, elongated substantially to the southwest. I gasp, lean forward, and squint in wonder. I gyrate left, right, shake my rake, and steer my shears all about, attempting to “test” my shadow. And the shadow goes right, left, rake droops lifeless, and shears maintain motionlessness. This can’t be happening. What is going on? Has there been a reboot? Or a new, upgraded operating system of reality? This is so different. In toying for some time though, I self-remark of the remarkability of this new state. Though new and initially shocking to my being, this “just-came-out” norm is fresh. My shadow (my son), still generally follows—trailing just behind—but acts independently and with such newness and soul. The transition to fatherhood has been logic-altering and sameness-busting, but this reboot has brought optimization.

A state of flux and over-predictability is alike to being zapped continuously with a growth-atrophyzing ray gun. Staying the same is decreasing.