DNA

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I am Not Who You Think I Am

I Am, Unfortunately, Exactly Who You Think I Am.

I am outwardly friendly and happy.

Am inwardly, afraid and insecure.

Unfortunately juxtaposed,

Exactly what you expect.

Whoever 

You want me to be.

Think twice.
I am nothing more than meets the eye. Or 

Am I?

In the Defense of the Dark Arts

It's charming, in fact, that a class made to Protect Against

has brought so many together.

Recipe for Joy

The chill of a night air.

The overcast sky hiding the soft shimmering moon.

The solo string of outdoor lights that somehow, dimly yet barely, illuminate the whole back yard.

The top half of a lawn ornament flamingo teetering, nose-first, on said string.

The aftermath of two hastily drunk Moscow Mules.

The cool beer in my right hand.

The faint murmur of ambient conversation with the compliment of loud, live music -- 

   The talent. 

     The energy.

The fairy being handing me a beverage promising me, "It tastes good.

  Like juice."

The silhouettes of the two giant palms in the yard next door -- 

  The trunks so large it would take two of me to wrap my arms around them.

The company of friends and Phamily.

The hugs.

The soft blur resulting from the mixture of the vodka, Tecate and that fruity beverage.

The laughter.

The subtle tug of fatigue and a perfectly timed

  "What are your thoughts about heading home?"

The late night raiding of the refrigerator.

The purr of the fuzzy ball of fur.

The gentle slide from consciousness to slumber.

Joy.  

Responsibility

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All the Things I Have Ever Loved

I am all the things I have ever loved:

Being warm. Being dry. Blankets. Hugs.

Family. Friends.

Spaghetti. Red sauce. Long noodles twirled around my fork.

My Little Ponies. Inspector Gadget. She-Ra. Rainbow Brite.

Kitties. Hide and Seek. Memory Games. Scavenger Hunts.

Outside and playing Lost Girls. 

The soothing sound of the water. Warm sand between my toes.

The tall thin boy a year older than me whose gaze I could never meet.

Emo. Scream-o. Basement shows.

Goodwill. Messenger bags. Home-made patches. Safety pins.

Eyeliner. Ball-chain necklaces. Cuffed jeans.

Adam. Pot. House parties.

Summers in Door County. Beach days. Sue's magnificent breakfasts.

Driving around in cars.

Adam. Walks in the woods. Fractals.

Late night omelets. Roommates evolving into friends.

Freedom. My black Honda Civic. Quick drives to Madison.

The Irishman with a quick temper but an unparalleled generosity.

Travel. New experiences. The thin line between strangers and friends.

White rice. Steamed. With soy sauce.

The brief summer with a tall skinny representation of wanderlust.

That infectious laugh.

Beers and food television. Video games. Late nights at bars.

Grilling a tenderloin on a Madison rooftop.

Getting kicked out of training for playing Minesweeper too loudly and giggling too much.

My car again. Road trips. Couch surfing.

The Playa. The West Coast.

The week with a boy who blew glass and brought home organic juice.

Philz. The Golden Gate. Carousel rides with a boy from the Midwest.

Huelo feet. Tiki Hut. Sundays on Little Beach.

Hitchhiking.

That same boy and camping roadside. Walking up a volcano.

Selling everything and island hopping in Asia.

Being warm again. Being lost.

San Francisco. Diversity. Culture.

Josh. Then Goober. Then Logan.

Creating a home. Neighbors. Neighborhood.

23rd Produce. Duc Loi. Sun Fat Seafood.

Basa. Radish. Yamo.

Support. Family. Phamily.

Netflix. Rainy day excuses to do nothing.

Still Goober.

A rack full of wine. Cooking while listening to my favorite songs.

Lazy Saturdays reserved for writing.

We Wear the Mask..

We wear the mask of self-consciousness

Of pretending not to care but caring

Of being outwardly what we want to be inwardly

We wear the mask 

Of wearing the mask

For someone else

For everyone else

We wear the mask.