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FEEL FEAR
“That guy doesn’t have any fear.”
My longtime friend Jeff used to say
about me often in front me, near
a machine built for speed in a parking lot,
bar, party, around a fire or wherever
old stories get rekindled – as if I wasn’t
there. I can’t explain why
some are drawn to the edge, to live fast
near places most avoid. Velocity, Adrenaline,
Testosterone held together in youth
make a delicious cocktail some call
“Wild.” Hunter Thompson once said,
“The Edge… there is no honest way
to explain it because the only people
who really know where it is are the ones
who have gone over.” I don’t recall
how many times having to pause
for Blue lights to hear words like:
do you know how fast… you can’t,
shouldn’t, that’s illegal, catch you
next time – see you in court. Coming back
a few occasions under Red lights
hearing: how many fingers, can you feel…
you could’ve, should’ve, cannot believe
you didn’t – you must have an angel.
Fear can be turned and projected
like a shield. Sometimes you can smell it
on an opponent as they go
down. Tuck it behind a name
badge to stand in serious corners
of a club where others escape
under dancing lights, loud music
and strong drinks. Feel it
on a head shaved to support a friend,
swimming with chemo, during a time
of skinhead uprising. Heard daily as most
turned to avoid and occasionally tasted
as some returned to scream assumed hate
I left them uniformed to keep
their pride in confronting stupidity.
As time etches glass. Slamming Wild
mellows into sipping Perspective.
Love holds fear. A blend
could walk in front of getting another
pet, close an open hand, freeze
a mind, lose pieces of a broken
heart. In our place where it is better
to be feared than afraid, I am tired
of paying for what others stole.
Tired of being feared for what others
have done. I get to shoulder
a fear that comes in the form
of an unearned invisible decrepit sign
created by monsters. The word [Beware]
written with body fluids of others.
It can be seen by unknown women
who go out of their way to avoid
sharing a sidewalk. Heard in the stressed
air near a vacant seat. Noticed
by a child taught to stay away
from the lone-strange-man.
Perception does shift
when my spotted dog walks me
through awakening blooms, falling
leaves and assorted flavors of rain.
And it disappears when surrounded
by my daughter’s wiggly girls. Seems
I now have a few angels.
There are many edges to the dark
force labeled Fear.
Feel them.
Or don’t.
Feel Fear
“That guy doesn’t have any fear.” My longtime friend Jeff used to say that about me often, in front of me, near a machine built for speed, in a parking lot, Bar, party, around a fire or wherever old stories get rekindled – as if I wasn’t there.
I can’t explain why some are drawn to the edge, to live fast near places most avoid. Velocity, Adrenaline, Testosterone held together in youth make a delicious cocktail some call “Wild.”
Hunter Thompson once said, “The Edge… there is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.”
I don’t recall how many times having to pause for Blue lights to hear words like: do you know how fast… you can’t, shouldn’t, that’s illegal, catch you next time – see you in court. Coming back a few occasions under Red lights hearing: how many fingers, can you feel… you could’ve, should’ve, cannot believe you didn’t – you must have an angel.
Fear can be turned and projected like a shield. Sometimes you can smell it on an opponent as they go down. Tuck it behind a name badge to stand in serious corners of a club where others escaped under flashing lights, loud music and strong drinks. Feel it on a head shaved to support a friend swimming with chemo, during a time of skinhead uprising. Heard daily as it turned to avoid and occasionally tasted as some returned to assume hate. Found hitting the face of an attacking dog.
As time etches glass, slamming Wild mellows into sipping Perspective.
Love might hold fear. A blend could walk in front of getting another pet, close an open hand, freeze a mind, lose pieces of a broken heart.
I shoulder a fear that comes in the form of an unearned invisible decrepit sign created by monsters. The word [Beware] written with body fluids of others. It can be seen by unknown women who go out of their way to avoid sharing a sidewalk. Heard in the stressed air near a vacant seat. Noticed by a child taught to stay away from the lone-strange-man.
There are many edges to the dark force labeled Fear. You either feel them. Or you don’t.
Pinned Permission
Permission from the artist to modify his work was not what I sought, well it was, but I wanted him to do it – not me.
The first time I saw the piece was in a magazine. It was being used to promote a biker event somewhere down South. The second time I tore it out and pinned it to a wall. A couple weeks later I looked online for this event, which led to more searching until finding the artist Jeral Tidwell. I began following him on Social Media and eventually purchased his book Sketches. It has two versions of this design, one rough pencil and one finished in ink. Again I felt drawn to it, but not completely.
Surfing the Internet a few months later led to a notice that Jeral would be at Bumbershoot the next week as part of a printed poster art exhibit.
“Really like your work, this one in particular – found a version in a magazine.”
“Oh great wasn’t sure I’d have much of a following up here.”
After about a half hour of talking and purchasing some prints to be autographed, “Hope you don’t mind but I’ve been wondering what you’d think about changing this one a bit, something like this.”
“That’s a cool idea, do it.”
“Uh… Okay great, thank you.”
* * *
About a year later I met with another artist Roni Falgout who blended the work, added her touches and pinned it to my skin.
Kindness
Loneliness forms silently like layers of rust on an unused surface. What if kindness is an antidote to loneliness? Some sort of unintended return on a moment. An exchange of glances, a connection of eyes trading a gesture for an expression – causing a change.
Proof can be as slight as making another smile. Anonymous as packaging food for strangers who need or preparing a meal and joining hungry people. As lasting as giving an abandoned animal a new home. Quiet as standing by a friend whose luck changed. Sudden as showing up at a door that hides abuse. Strong as being a wall for momentary blocking and pushing off into a new direction.
The gift of kindness may not tip a permanent scale to be measured on some karmic score card but it might simply remove a layer.
Hola ’18
I’m the kind of person who ________
I’m the kind of person who would rather know than wonder — to find out. As I’ve often said, “You won’t know if you don’t go.” That being said I always have more enthusiasm when signing up for writing conferences, workshops and classes than I do in the day(s) leading up to them. Stubbornly I drag myself to them with a new notebook, caffeine, open ears and soak up. You see I have a battery that for years I wasn’t aware of and for it I need to keep going…
Yesterday I was reminded that “You don’t know what you don’t know”, “You’ll absorb things will come back to you when you need them”, “Have fun and be honest”, “Retain subsidiary rights”, “Eighty percent of published material doesn’t earn out”, “In poetry the writer gets to chose the right margin
(aka. The Line)”
and possibly most important, “Don’t be afraid to fail.”
Monster
Staring into the future as if to see something misunderstood, possibly hope – probably not. The resting baby on her shoulder waits, her two boys still wait.
“Nothing changes through the one-way window. Growing stubble, anchored tight crows feet guarding steel blue eyes, his sun baked skin doesn’t even sweat” was scribbled on the old police report, now exposed for granddaughters not met to read.
The assumed word Monster now appears on his face above Husband, Dad and Grandpa.
***
I always learn something when I cross my favorite bridge, this time it was for a “Faces” writing workshop taught by Matt Love September 16th 2017.
Rust in Peace
Summer’d
Tired eyes awaken anyway to stare
through coffee steam Blended lines
turned by the sun overlap as if stickers on an edgy club wall
Torn stubs fall
from an overbooked calendar pausing
to be glanced at like posters once stapled to a pole
Sore feet crush grass burnt brown and bleached
in time
Fresh wrinkles appear like scars
on a machine built for speed— traded for a moment
Photos pile
waiting to be reflected on and laced into history
Energy spent, bartered and consumed
in the season of the sun Leave one Summer’d
Can Bryan Write? 