It happened again. Another active shooter, this time at an elementary school. It was only a few years ago when Ethan shot-up Safeway, killing two people. But this time it was an elementary school . . . This community is grieving. This community is bleeding. The richest city in the richest state is broken. Schools should be safe. They say he, a 16 year old kid, shot through the locks with a shotgun. I’ve worked at Silver Rail Elementary School several times; I’ve worked at alm

I think I’ll love you forever which is a bit of a bummer since you aren’t here and since forever sounds pretty long born to be broken always left hoping better days will rise with the sun why did it have to be this way? I know this is my fault and I can’t ask for help the world around me melts and I can’t ask you for help my pride is telling me to hide love in disguise, dressed as fear turning slowly to face the shadows you belong here I think I’ll love you forever and not j

Will you die with your music still in you? Will you still have love to give at the end? Did you forgive, or will you go with a chest full of regrets and a belly full of shame? Did you let fear lead or did you bleed for what you believed? What did you see? And what did you do? Will you die without ever touching the truth? Were you used? Were you played? Did you act a part on the Grand Stage? Did your soul ever burst out of you through art? Did you burn hot with passion? Or did

some kids skip down the hallways some run but these kids saw the barrel of a gun pointed at them numb shock denial grief what kind of God has this part of his/her plan? what kind of evil is this? three kids and Megan won’t see their loved ones ever again. he robbed the world of them. where’s the light now? where’s the hope? this darkness is so loud right now. disabled kids were targeted. fear pain guilt shame it comes and goes in waves.

I imagined: A corn maze and a haunted house A concert or two Romantic dinners Tender sex Kinky sex Long hugs Dog walks and naps Movies and baking Her naked body intertwined with mine as we watch the sun rise Coffee and poetry Wine and her laugh Long drives and wishing we had more time I imagined this, but what I’ll probably get is: a winter full of regret and a chest full of guilt A dull ache A cold bed And head full of bullshit

I wonder what those kids would say to us today? If they could tell their parents one more thing before they leave, I wonder what it would be? But, we won’t ever hear them speak again. Schools should be safe. He took a shotgun to the special education room. Sick fuck. Those are my kids. Innocent. They were innocent. Megan was there. But she’s not here now. He got her. I think I know what she would say—it’s stuck in my head, “The only thing more powerf

I want to hang up on my mom as she rattles on about nothing on the phone. I don't have any good news to the questions she's asking. But before she says goodbye, she asks if there's anything she can pray for. For the first time in 20 years, I answer the question. “The kids and their families,” I say. “And for Megan.” “Okay. Of course. But is there anything for you I can pray about?” I hesitate. “You can pray for Stanley . . . And you can pray for Kaitlyn.” “Is she okay?” “I d

Megan’s Facebook bio reads, “The only thing more powerful than hate is love.” She’s gone now. The Silver Rail shooter got her. 10 years ago she worked at The Boys And Girls Club. I barely knew her. But she was kind. She was a sweet human. Pray for her family. Pray for the kids. Pray for the parents. And pray for the community. Even if you don’t believe, pray for them. First there was Ethan, The Safeway shooter, and now there is sweet Megan, a victim of The Silver Rail shoot

Send me a math problem that'll make me shit my pants. Send me a weird-ass Instagram reel you find oddly hilarious. Send me the songs you are feeling today. Send me another book suggestion. Send me this month's lesson plan. Send me another love letter. Send me a voice message telling me about the best part of your day. And send me one more chance, even if I don’t deserve it. Send me a sign letti

Thank the trees for the air you breathe. Thank the sun for her light and warmth. Thank the soil for giving you room to grow. Thank the water for keeping you alive. Thank the animals who died to feed you today. Thank the friend who makes you laugh. Thank the lover who becomes your best friend. Thank your dog for his loyalty. Thank the plants for spreading their seeds. The life around us gives us everything we need; And: The trees, The wi

Where have all my pillows gone? . . . My bed is missing a few things lately. Definitely a few of these damn pillows, But also: Her warmth, Her heartbeat, Her arms, Her snoring, Her moans, Her cold feet, And her head, as she curls up in a ball and rests it on my chest. Sleep is cold and shallow here in this bed. Tragedy echoes in this head. My dreams dance, slightly out of reach again; While my memories hav

There is a little boy sitting in the corner of this room crying into his hands. A fighter stands guard, protecting him, never letting anyone get close. There’s a woman knocking on the door. The fighter jumps, ready to brawl, but the little boy grabs his arm and shakes his head, wiping away his tears. He walks by the fighter to open the door for the lady, letting her in. She nods to the fighter and sits down by the boy. They play a game of Uno, while the fighter watches, a

We’ve been through hell and now we look back to see we have a few demons following us closely. Our shadows invite the demons in. But I promise you, Love, I am fighting them. The person who broke me tells me I am too broken to love. And I understand what she means. The irony stings. The demons sing. But I promise you, Love, I am fighting them. Don’t you remember, I was also tasked with forgiving the impossible? So I know how hard it is. I know how scary it can be. I

Sunlight from the window shines on his face. Slowly, and with an exaggerated wince, he pulls out his sunglasses and puts them on. Still uncomfortable, he cracks his neck, pulling it violently from one side to the other one. An unknowing sigh leaves his mouth. There’s a beautiful woman looking at him illuminated in the massive beam of light. What she sees in him, he has no idea. You see, he is wearing sweatpants, slippers, a very old hoodie, a ball cap and his sunglasses—no

I like to sing poorly. And I like to pretend to be an idiot. I like to write like shit. And I like to pluck at a guitar I never really learned to play. I like to be a mediocre fighter who was almost good. And I like to paint horribly. I like to sit on grass and read a good book and not think of it as wasting time. I like to cry over a tragic story. I like to romanticize things. I like to believe in magic. And I like to rush in to save the day. I l

Forgiveness and . . . What else was it? Shit, you already forgot? Golly, dude. Get it together. Try to remember . . . Eh, I’m sure it’ll come back into the ol thinking box up here if I keep typing. What’re we forgiving again? Ourselves? For being so afraid? For being so god damn pathetic? Oh . . . For the silence. The silence! That was it! Today’s focus is on Forgiveness and Silence. See? It usually comes back to me. I fear I’ve gotten so comfortable disappearing into stories

Writers write. Fighters fight. Lovers fuck. And drug addicts look for their next hit. Imagine being all of it? Fear pushes people away. No one will stay if they don’t feel safe. Fear poisons everything. Poets hurt. Readers disappear. And fear spreads like a fire. Burn me down. I am tired of hurting. Thinking myself into misery is one of my best skills. Mix in a little booze and I vent. Add in the weed to make me anxious. Sleep is the only relief. A shit job is the cherry

I have two stories raging inside of me: One full of hope and love and heroics and faith and trust and belief and light, And the other story is full of disappointment and darkness and jealousy and pain and regrets and nightmares and fear and walls. One of the stories dominates the other one for a while. But never forever. The other story fights back. The other story rages. The left hand And the right hand each have something opposite to s

It’s going to be okay . . . Wrong. Try again. Uhhh. . . . What? If you are going to sell yourself a dream, make it a better one. This isn’t a dream, though, this is my life. Exactly. It’s going to be great. Be selective with your words. If you are going to tell yourself an affirmation, make it a better one. It’s going to be— Try again. Stop living in the future. Er . . . Go on. You got it. It’s right there. So simple. So clear. So obvious. Oh! Der!! It IS okay. It IS gr

Jorts; even when she looks like a goof in jorts, I tell her, because I really mean it, “You are so beautiful, Babe, that I'm pretty sure whenever the sky gets a glimpse of you, he blushes, and that's what sunrises and sunsets really are.” “What?! What Instagram post did you steal that one from?!” she says. “That’s a Clint Haugen original inspired by traffic and the selfie you just sent me.” She is the most beautiful human to me. And she always will be. Even in Jorts. CH 8/1