Brian Cummings

You left town about sixteen years ago. One Tuesday in March you were sitting in front of me in a science class. Then you weren't. But I heard you were doing pretty good for yourself.  A new pair of boots showed up in time for the first snow. And your second son is saying his first words. The car starts every morning and no one mentions that night at Ray's anymore. I wonder what you think about every night in that second just before you fall asleep and dream of the old boulevard and that house on the corner you told your mother you would buy for her when she retired. Does the sting of no one clapping when your name was called during graduation from eighth grade return? Does the smell of Kristen after your first kiss at my birthday party bring back the chill of November desert nights? Or do you hope this is the last night away from home?

chasing god

It is somewhere between 6 and 7 am on a Monday. I don't know. The clock in my car isn't working. I mean it works. It keeps time. Some time. But not here. I haven't bothered to change it. If it is wrong and I am late somewhere then I am late. Fuck it. Because I can't rely on my internal clock. I've thrown that off balance with pills, lines and stories that make me blush.

It is 6:34 am. Monday morning. I am driving east on the 101. There are clouds all above me. I am covered. But there are two spots, two holes far off in the sky that push me back to looking at the cover of my bible studies book in sixth grade.

See, god gets two things. He gets sun rays. And he gets early morning orange.

At least from me, that is what he gets...