Secrets

You can't leave your room

without passing by them

or stepping on

brushing against

walking under them.

They're absolutely

everywhere, unavoidable.

Last week,

your dog buried one in your back yard

by the yellow slide,

close to where he hid

your dad's old left penny loafer -

the one with the hole where his big toe

showed through.

It no longer showed through.

Your younger sister,

though still small,

took one of her own home with her

from the park

and put it on the highest shelf

in her bright pink room,

next to her favourite doll,

where no one could find it.

No one could find it.

She even made it a bit tough for her

to reach back up and get it.

Just last night,

at that big family gathering,

I saw your uncle softly spit one

behind your mom's ear.

I don't know how he kept it

in his mouth

for so long,

but the saliva will surely keep it tightly tucked

in your mother's hair

with her pretty, green, dangling earrings

as a barrier

to keep others from getting too close

for her liking

and

to keep it

from getting out.

They lie under creaky floor boards

in old houses,

where no one would dare to look.

Parents put them

in closets,

under beds,

behind all the monsters,

which keep the kids

scared to peak.

And they are even coated in spit

from uncles' mouths -

disgusting,

repulsive -

but with a shiny, metal exterior

to make people smile and think nothing

of the slobbery, dirty things.

Like the native Americans

who fell for trickery

and traded their land

for shiny metal objects,

because they were pretty.

They, too, lie in the waxy glaze

of those shiny metal things,

which caused the corruption of lands

hundreds of years before your dog

thought to bury his in the soil,

where the same mistake

had taken place.

My own aren't too difficult to find.

They reside in a few locations -

in an art room,

a ceiling tile of a freshman dorm,

the closets of an old school.

Mainly, though, in my room,

behind my canvases,

on the canvases.

Next to the paintbrushes and paints -

watercolor, acrylic, oil.

Usually acrylic.

They're in a wooden art box,

underneath the pastels

and the ebony pencils.

Others have seen them and

received them.

Look there

and you're good to go.

They're good to go

and the price range isn't bad.

Ancillary

Yesterday, you ran through my mind

as I ran through a field.

Simultaneously, my joints unhinged,

and retracted,

while your name ricocheted

from one side of my head

to the other.

My cleanly shaven, pale white legs

propelled me forward,

lifting one foot in the crisp air

while allowing the other to

forcefully pound the Earth,

slowly sending vibrations through

paper thin grass blades of

pine, jade, viridian,

teal, lime, harlequin,

et cetera.

Several of the blades swept

against my exposed ankles and sent

chills up my calves,

ascending toward my thighs

and sky

was the limit for my goose bumps,

which caused every inch of my body

to quiver.

As you lightly brushed

your finger tips against my frontal lobe,

you tampered with the remote

to my emotions.

I tripped over a rock,

distracted by the thought

of you.

In my clumsiness, you too

stumbled, and left a finger print

on one of the buttons of the remote.

My face was covered with dirt

and my elbow had a scrape.

I was not alone, though, in injury.

You bumped your head

and the letters of your name

jumbled up,

leaving me

in my own thoughts' dust.

I steadily regained my balance

and gathered my thoughts.

You were back in the centre,

as if on a treadmill,

running my system.

When my pace increased,

your image,

your name,

all of you became more

prominent.

The brown hair which matched

the bark on the trees I passed

on my way through the field,

and which enhanced the same dark colour

of your eyes,

never fully open -

literally or figuratively.

And your pristine facial structure,

equal to the sheer beauty

of the magnificence by which

I was encompassed.

I suddenly stopped to think about

ANYTHING

but you.

ANYTHING AT ALL.

Nothing.

A breeze caught onto my hair

and carried it as far as it could

before it was pulled back

by its attachment to me.

I wish the wind could have carried you

far

far

far away from my being.

But you didn't move.

You stayed constant to your place in my mind,

as you do

every day,

in my maze of a thought process.

My heart,

without an apparent reason,

pounded and

beat, pulsating and waiting

to rip through my sternum and

free itself from captivity.

And I looked down the opening

of my turquoise t-shirt,

and the beat showed through my skin.

I placed my hand over my chest

just in hopes to stop the outrageousness.

You banged just as hard against

the lining of my skull

in an attempt to keep my attention,

which gave me a throbbing headache

of, well, "epic proportions,"

so to speak.

When the pain and the obscurities were

unbearable,

I woke up.

JAMIE WROTE THIS!!: Thomas the Tank Engine

It is only a dream I have,

not to be taken seriously.

I buy the ticket.

I get on the train.

And I ride it everywhere.

Only it speaks to me,

"Now Jamie, don't say a word

about this.

Or we'll both be out of tracks

to ride on."

I never said a word.

Didn't feel the need to.

Thomas was his name.

He was a mighty fine tank engine.

Strong.  Cynical.  Wise.

Compassionate.

The steam he created...

Well it just gives me 

shivers

thinking about it.

One day, I'll be old enough

to own that tank engine.

Then I'll be able to show the world

how much

I love it.

How much

it loves me.

I'll be able to ride it through town,

blowing the whistle and waving

at the curious bystanders.

They'll never understand.

But at least it will be

legal.

Forbidden Fruit

My alarm sounded at 5:30,

as it does every morning.

My body uncurled from its fetal position.

Left leg, then right leg,

my limbs unraveled and

brought me from my bed,

through the hall,

down the stairs,

through the door,

and to my garden.

Three minutes had swiftly drifted past me

on my way.

With time comes age.

I was three minutes closer.

I made my way through the garden -

past the cherry tree and

away from the watermelons -

until I came to a certain fruit.

I planted my feet firmly into the ground,

squished the fertile soil between my toes,

as if to burrow myself in the Earth to be

a little closer

to that fruit,

that spectacular life force,

thriving on all of its surroundings,

no matter its conditions.

I gazed at it, lovingly.

And I stood,

reversed,

and played.

Over and over.

Every day for nine months.

Sometimes, I would take my own time

away from that beautiful being.

But I would,

nevertheless,

return

at the end of every break,

filled with elation to see

how it had changed -

with time comes growth -

and how it had grown.

My time with it was

a euphoria

of sorts.

The rest of the fruit was good,

colourful, bright,

but it always came and sooner

or later

it was gone.

Always the same.

That fruit, though, lived longer than

the others

and followed through, stayed true

to its purpose.

A couple of weeks ago, my alarm sounded

at 5:31.

Late.

My toes curled and I let out a groan.

I had to see that fruit.

It had been nine months.

I dashed through the house

to get to my garden.

I stepped into it,

refreshed by smells of herbs

and tomatoes and cherries and

watermelons.

And the Earth.

I once more steadied myself

in front of that magnificent organism.

I gazed, longingly.

I reached toward it and, subsequently,

received a prick.

The fruit's leaves had thorns.

One bite was all I wanted.

I reached again.

Pricked again.

Again and again.

I stopped.

It wasn't ripe. It was aged.

But it was not ready.

I was not ready.

One bite is all I want.

With time comes age and

with age comes growth.

And that garden embodies one fruit

I have yet to experience.

One bite

from this forbidden fruit

is all I want.

I am not ready.

Time will tell

as I wait and age

and it ages and grows

and I grow and experience.

But I will wait.