This Condition

I got this condition see.

I got no rhythm.

I don’t know up from down.

I go left instead of right.

Quick instead of slow.

–

I got this condition see.

I love rhythm.

I feel it in my bones.

I smile when it’s right.

I need it daily.

–

I got this condition see.

What I want I can’t have.

I touch it.

But can’t grab hold.

It flows through me.

–

I got this condition see.

Feel like a kid.

Loving the ride, always the passenger never the driver.

No words to explain, no structure to understand.

All gut no brain.

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Brawl (I)

The rowdy night grows silent. Streetlights like spotlights stay fixed on empty stages of sidewalk. Two friends, buzzed, pass through the city.

Muffled shouts on a sidestreet. Thuds. A panicked yelp.

The friends turn the corner, see the beating, one kid with hands raised and the other above, fists falling fast.

The first friend halts, searches the scene, alert heart pounding. The other dashes forward, bowls into the brawl, throws the attacker back and turns to the crushed kid. Then the attacker’s on his back, hand to pocket and a knife, an angry shout.

The attacker dashes; the friend collapses.

When The Fall Comes

You’ll look for love in new places. You’ll reach out to friends, old and new, to hug, to laugh with, to cry with.

You’ll have vivid dreams about your beloved.

You’ll tell stories to shared friends, and you’ll write things down.

You’ll have emotions that you’re unable to put into words.

You’ll take the photos down off the walls and the mantle.

You’ll want to get on with your life.

You’ll feel guilty about wanting to get on with your life.

The shape of your day, the way you move about your life, will change.

You won’t be the same.

Miles From Santo Domingo

I moved here to San Francisco from the Dominican Republic three years ago.

I live upstairs from my younger son, his wife, and two daughters. He convinced me to move here when his mother, my wife, died.

I work three days a week at the barber shop a few blocks away, on Church street. Most of the Dominican people I know in the city come here for their haircut. It doesn’t feel much like home, but it feels more like Santo Domingo than the rest of San Francisco does.

Everything I know about is far away and doesn’t matter anymore.

Shit Rolls Down Hill by David Novak

Jim had always thought that the phrase “shit rolls downhill” was completely figurative in nature.

Yet as he squatted at the top of the hill, Jim learned that he had been wrong all these years. And it completely changed his view of the world.

He watched as it plopped along, as it descended downward towards the plains below, tumbling haphazardly and grotesquely yet still somehow maintaining a semblance of elegance, as if it were dancing between all those blades of grass.

It was only his first day camping, Jim realized, and he had a lot to learn about the world.

Burritos and Romance in Toronto by Michael O’Shea

Michael sat down across from me at the Burrito King. He looked tired, like he had just moved his family across the Pacific, only to discover his Filipino degree was useless in Canada. Which was all true.

I silently nodded. We shared a name, but more than a plastic table divided us.

He drank his Jarrito and changed the subject. “Are you married?’ he asked.

“No.”

“Good. A woman will change twice in her life. Once when she becomes your girlfriend and again when she becomes your wife.”

It was time to go. He got up.

“Good luck.”

“You, too.”