Everything I'm Not.

I'm no artist, but I can paint you a picture with my words.

I'm no poet, but I can think of one hundred and one ways to tell you I love you.

I'm no astronaut, but I can take you to the moon and fly us through the stars til we reach the heavens.

I'm no Superman, but I can catch you when you fall from the sky.

I'm no Clark Kent, but I will write all about it, under a mask, and not tell you it was me.

I'm no magician, but I can make us disappear from this world.

I'm no wise man, but I can follow your star until I find you.

I'm no French man, but I can introduce myself in french. Je m'appelle Insolence.

I'm no gardener, but I can pull out your weeds even if my hands get cut.

I'm no Spiderman, but I can kiss you passionately in the rain. Even upside down if you want.

I'm no preacher, but I can write a three hour sermon about your eyes.

I'm no singer, because well, I can't sing. At all. But that doesn't mean I won't try to serenade you.

I'm no advertisement, but I can try to convince you to want to be with me in 30 seconds.

I'm no homeless man, but I can beg for you to be my shelter.

I'm no hobbit, but I can travel miles on perilous roads to give you a ring. *will you marry me?* Precious, I know.

I'm no hairdresser but I can play with your hair for hours on end.

I'm no French man, but I can French kiss.

I'm no gatekeeper, but I can try to hold both of our demons back.

I'm no Thomas Edison, but I can light up your world.

I'm no chicken soup, but I can be good for your soul.

I'm no Phantom, but I can make music with you. Scars and all.

I'm no Rauol, but I can be dependable and have nice cheekbones.

I'm no archaeologist, but I can dig up your secrets and piece them together.

I'm no calendar, but I can make every day feel like the weekend.

I'm no Winston Churchill, but I will never, never, never give up on you.

I'm no weather man, but I can touch your warm front or your cold back. The temperature tomorrow has a high of falling asleep while star gazing and a low of separation.

I'm no vagabond, but I can make wandering aimlessly the most fulfilling experience of your life.

I'm no cruise control, but I can have you not worrying about when we get there.

I'm no Leonardo Decaprio, but I can find you in your dreams and fix our reality.

I'm no construction worker, but I can take our bricks and build something for the world to see.

I'm no English teacher, but I can inspire your words.

I'm no alphabet, but I can put "u" and "s" together because us lasts longer than "u" and "i".

I'm no Midas, but I can make your skin golden.

I'm no French man, but I can take you to Paris.

- I'm no Insolence is Bliss, but I can write you this.

Sunday's New Kind of Sacred

There's a new gospel going around. 

Spread the word.

It will change your life 'cause I know it changed mine. There are religions for discovering God but this is for discovering yourself and the world around you. When we give talks, we all preach hallelujah about crayons and love and bricks and the moon and more love and whatever is on our mind.

The prophet is Harold Miner, not the one who almost hit the stars but didn't reach them and missed the moon on his way back, but a humble, observant, wise man. A man who is seeking revenge halfheartedly, not because he lacks the effort but because he lost the other half of his heart a long time ago at space camp. He claims it is now somewhere between the Asteroid Belt and Saturn's ring yet doesn't go looking for it because the belt doesn't match with his tie and the ring makes him question his fidelity.

Our church is Paris, and we meet there whenever we want, the doors are always open but it takes a good thought to get in. We pass the sacrament on our keyboards and read scriptures with mouse clicks. There's a magic in the air because we all attend church naked, leaving our masks, winter coats, and hair gel at home. We let the scars and the imperfections and the humanity show. Most people show up on Sundays, and that's when the night lights of Paris shine the brightest. For there is love in that city. The new sabbath is special, not because of the holy ghost but it sure is holy and it definitely is comforting.

We pray to the omnipotent Nelson (and on occasion, we pray out loud). He is our deity and our judgement. With the gospel there is no heaven nor hell. Instead, there's artists and tourists, and it's an unorthodox religion in that the almighty Nelson can determine if he feels like you go to the heaven or hell of Paris, but ultimately it is for you to decide where you belong.

We're having a baptism for everyone on January 10th. See you there.

- Your Captain, Insolence is Bliss

Dependence.

I am no ones motivation

I am free to go

Unacknowledged precipitation

Nurturing wherever I show

I am no ones shelter

I am not a storm

Seeking to be your helper

Break you from the norm

I am the lending hand

I am invisible

(you can't see me)

My offer always stands

And will give of it freely

I am the graveyard shift

I am neither sweet nor sour

This fog will never lift

No more sun for your flower

I am an empty suggestion box

I am no ones home

Falling asleep to the ticking clocks

Sharing this solace alone

- Insolence is Bliss

The Monster Under My Bed Hates the Red Sox

The monster under my bed tells me stories. Tales of his younger years and the one time he fell in love. I tell him how the Yankees are doing and give him the best websites to pirate music from because he doesn't have a job. And if he loves music half as much as I do then I don't consider that a crime. I'll tell him all about the movie I saw and whether it was worth seeing or not.

Sometimes, when it gets really late, like so-late-that-your-facade-and-your-pride-disappears hour at night. Our talks become intimate and sober. He'll tell me the things that make him sad and all he has to hide from other people. I go into detail about my great list of insecurities and my anxiety and even though he can't relate on most of them he gives his whole attention.

And in that moment that gives birth to silence, right when the crickets stop chirping, we talk about our fears. He's worried that one day, he won't be able to scare children like he used to be. That he will never find a spot under a bed big enough to support a family. That one day the bed he stays under might collapse on top of him.

I talk about how I worry I won't be able to get an adequate education, that won't get me an adequate job, that won't give me the adequate funds which won't make me an adequate husband and father and when you equate that I'm an inadequate person. I also want to tell him I'm afraid of having a handicapped child but I don't because I don't know if he would take offense to that. And that scares me.

I continue to tell him how right now I'm an adult but I don't feel any older and I'm worried sick that I might never shed this skin and grow up. I'm scared silly that responsibility won't carry more motivation in the future than it does. I'm fearful to say more, but afraid to stop talking.

I tell him I fear God but not as much as how I fear what will happen if I don't fear God. He says he doesn't know a God, but that just scares him even more.

The future is what we fear. That much we agree on.

Right now all we have to be afraid of is if the Yankees are gonna win.

- Insolence is Bliss

Memory is a Fickle Thing.

It's there, in my mind. Yes I am thinking of you, April 22.

It was just after Easter, around noon, on a Tuesday. I hate Tuesdays. They called me down to the office. It was urgent. I felt like a million bucks just like any 7-year old who gets to leave class. The scene was so surreal. My aunt stood there, overwhelmed with tears and sorrow, but she was not alone. Beside the leftover Easter decorations, there was the two office ladies' faces, the ones who I had seen almost every day of school and belonged to the class of "adults" who never showed expression and seemingly lived at that desk, yes those faces now streamed with tears and messed up mascara, the unbearable mortality emanating from every soul within each pair of eyes in that room. And then,

a pause.

No one could bring themselves to tell me. Oh, that memory is so clear. By the time all the sniffles and hesitation and slow phrases were over, I couldn't believe the words. They echoed in my head like my brain was an asylum prison cell with no windows. Like a recording studio with broken microphones from all the tears. She was gone? No. The hospital must have saved her. A group of doctors who went to school for it, lost sleep for it, spent their careers to save lives. I was so confident. I even told her I was okay enough to go to school. She said she was glad I was doing well in school, and wanted me to be happy there.

That was the last conversation we ever had.

I remember.

I remember your nickname that only you had for me, the one you would say as I ran into your arms when I came home from school. I remember your hair and your laugh and your smile and how everyone complimented on them. I remember how you complimented others too, on seemingly the most strange and simple things, but it was so genuine that they loved it. I remember looking at the way you treated him and thinking to myself that it was beautiful. I remember all our time in the car together and that one crash that wasn't your fault but you weren't angry with the other person. I remember the Cayenne Pepper punishments when we were misbehaving. I remember the Flintstones vitamins you made sure we had every morning. I remember the incredible joy from doing nice things for you, because I wanted to. I remember how sick you were with each pregnancy, and the look of pain it would put in your eyes. I remember the expression of joy after you gave birth that radiated so brilliant it made up for all that pain. I remember that Easter, when you told us about love and remembering Jesus and how he died because he loves us. When you told us that you wouldn't trade the world's riches for us, and I believed you.

Yet I remember.

The ride with my aunt that I would rather have been riding with you. Even if we had to be in another car crash. 

The desperation of trying to find solid ground when my heart was trembling from the after shocks that earthquake caused. There was no Richter Scale to measure the way I felt.

The way I was treated as an unfortunate case and no one cared to help make reality consistent again.

How I had never seen a grown man cry til then, and the emptiness in my dad's eyes.

All the meals the neighbors made for us, but no matter how delicious, it wasn't your cooking. 

I remember the empty seat at the table, the extra Christmas stocking, and how we now fit in the side row at church. And how I hated that.

The next morning you didn't take a shower. You didn't wash your hair. You didn't pack me a lunch with the note on the napkin you include. You didn't kiss your husband before he left for work that day. Or the day after. When I began to doubt God and my beliefs. My baptism that you couldn't come to. Or the school play. And how I was the only kid by himself for Muffins for Mom.

I can't forget when I first realized I knew an angel. I can't forget you, but the memories are slowly fading away.

But I remember that I'll always hate Easter.

- Insolence is Bliss

My Musings on Winter.

It snowed today.

I don't know if today was the first snow,

 but I know I almost died twice when my car drifted.

Today I became an insect.

You see, insects are much smarter than us.

They wear their bones on the outside.

Ours are inside.

We are just more

stupid,

fragile,

susceptible to love.

I sat by the fireplace today.

I drank hot chocolate today.

The fire warmed my exoskeleton

but the hot chocolate went right through the cavity in my chest

and made my stomach warm

and my throat burn

and my mind race

and it only lasted a moment.

A moment as fleeting 

as your warm embrace.

Yes, that melodic, euphoric embrace.

The painfully short one.

You are justified though.

It probably hurts hugging someone with their bones on the outside.

It probably hurts even more loving someone with their bones on the outside.

According to Darwin, I'm smarter right?

Survival of the fittest, yes?

Maybe I should become a bear tomorrow.

Hibernate.

Skip Winter, and the cold that comes with it.

But I became an insect to protect me from this weather.

Then why am I using these bones to protect my heart?

Because if you can't touch my bones than you can't hurt my heart.

But I can't seem to figure out why the fireplace

 can't warm me the way your skin does.

Or all the hot chocolate in the world

Even with marshmallows

Couldn't satisfy or comfort the beating heart under my bones.

I am evolution! I am efficient!

If this Origin of Species,

if this is surviving,

Then why can't I shake this feeling from my bones that 

 this insect isn't alive at all

because I am devoid of that look in your eye,

 that energetic, life-filled gaze

that vibrates my senses

and makes me feel.

Perhaps Darwin was wrong.

It's not about who has longest life span

or the best chance at reproducing.

It is about drawing with your crayons

and making yourself worth introducing

and your personality seducing

and listening to the hearts that do sing.

Because choosing to be human

and losing the insect

Erases confusing assumptions

and abusing regrets

My Musings on Winter.

Vacationing By Yourself

(A picture of me sleeping)

The only open room the hotel had was the honeymoon suite. I enjoyed the box of chocolates, the scented candles, and bed all alone.

(97.3% sure I can't find anyone who'd marry me)