I submit

Chris and Jamie first met the night Stanford defeated USC. It was as if the Stanford campus had been turned upside down and shaken.

Each mission-style wall was buckling under the excitement. The fountains were thrashing and flooding high into the sky in lavish ribbon-like arcs. For these two freshmen, still grappling with the ominous nature of this new academia, the tumult was at once frightening and enjoyable. They were ecstatic, of course, but this game just illustrated again something that they had been hung up on ever since arriving. They could sense that with the passing of each bursting fountain they might never understand this place, could no matter how long they labored trace out a path or plan their landing.

For such an extraordinary occasion it should have been that Chris and Jamie meet under entirely unique circumstance. They could have locked gaze while passing Natty Ice at a frat. They could have bumped into each other while dancing at Maples. Maybe Chris was the man she saw leap across fire in the quad, fire licking the soles of his tennis shoes. Or, just as likely, they might just have locked lips during the final notes of “All Right Now,” playing at Trojan stadium – ground zero - in the Stanford Band.

Yet, unlikely as it seems, these two freshmen, with the best night and worst case of Shaken Baby Syndrome behind them, met while retiring exhaustedly into rooms across the hall. A consoling “Goodnight” was all that was needed to set things back in balance. It was all that was necessary to alleviate any worries that may have kept them awake against the pillow, gazing up into the ceiling. The night carried on at 3 am in a nearby frat, in a hotel in Southern California, and across campus for every fountain and student, but Chris and Jamie drifted into sleep much closer to home.

Micah's Chris and Jamie Story

Chris and Jamie first met on the night Stanford defeated USC, the greatest upset of all time. Chris was never much for sports. Chris’ father spent Saturday and Sunday afternoons watching the games at a pub three blocks down from their house.

Chris and Jamie first met on the day Philadelphia police arrested a man suspected in killing two armored truck security officers. Jamie had never held a gun. Jamie’s mother was forced by her step-father to flush out deer from the woods so he could shoot them with a high-powered rifle.

Chris and Jamie first met the day two Shiite leaders in Iraq reached a peace agreement aimed at ending gun battles between their followers. Chris and Jamie did not care much about the war in Iraq. Chris’ brother had briefly flirted with joining the military, but was more interested in flirting with the military recruiter. Jamie’s interest in the military peaked while watching The Hunt for the Red October in seventh grade and then quickly subsided.

Chris and Jamie first met the day suspected Islamist insurgents killed a Somali Army general in an ambush in the capital. Chris and Jamie knew a little about Africa. Chris knew that African slaves were brought over to America as part of the triangle trade along with molasses and rum. The slaves lived in the South and remained there until Abraham Lincoln freed them all with the Freedom Proclamation, but things still weren’t perfect for a long time. Jamie knew that the Hebrew slaves built the pyramids in Egypt under the brutal rule of the pharaoh before being freed by Moses and God. The Hebrews followed Moses out of Egypt, across the Red Sea (parted by Moses and God) into the Promised Land which had to be emptied by God first. Years later the Hebrews produced Jesus, who died for all mankind.

Chris and Jamie first met the day a typhoon killed 4 people in Taiwan. Jamie was a much better swimmer than Chris. Chris had a pool in his backyard when he was in elementary school, but never learned to kick and stroke at the same time. In fifth grade Chris’ family moved to a smaller house that had no pool. Chris had to share a bedroom with his brother. Chris did not see the ocean until his high school took a senior trip to Southern California. Jamie started swimming competitively in second grade. She won her district championship in fourth grade and was ranked fifth in her age nationally in sixth grade. Jamie stopped growing after sixth grade and became a substitute on her high school swim team. She quit the team her junior year and has not been in the water since.

Chris and Jamie first met on the day 28 people died in Cuba when a train hit a bus. Chris worked as a bus driver after high school graduation. He started as a courtesy bus driver making $19,000 dollars a year. After two years he moved up to shuttle bus driver and added on $2,000 a year. Chris hopes one day to become a direct hire bus driver and make $39,000 a year. Jamie rides a bus and train to work everyday. She wakes up at 5:30 in the morning and walks down the street to the corner were she waits for the 6:13 bus to the train station. If she is lucky she catches the 6:33 train which arrives in the city at 7:23. If her luck holds once more, and the bus is running a little late, she can catch the 7:23 bus from the station to her work. This gets her to work at 7:43, enough time to catch her breath and order a cup of coffee before she starts her filing. If she misses the 6:33 train she does not get the cup of coffee and has to enter her work through the back door to avoid her boss.

Chris and Jamie first met on the day a suicide bomber killed at least five at the Kabul airport, including one US soldier. Chris and Jamie were at an airport on that day. Jamie was the only passenger on Chris’ shuttle bus from downtown to the airport. Chris and Jamie talked about the weather, the traffic, and the end of summer reruns.

One of Those Dreams

I’m driving. No. I’m cruising. On 280. Alone. In the driver’s seat wearing my sunglasses that don’t really filter out any sunlight anyway, let alone UV rays.
But I don’t care. There are hardly any other cars on the road—or maybe I just don’t notice. I feel light and free, like I’m just gliding on the asphalt.
Smooth, effortless asphalt.
One hand on the wheel, the other arm on the car door propping my head up, I glance detachedly at the speedometer. I’m going 80. 90. 95. 150. 200…
I can’t stop.
I’m going fast. Too fast. Out of control.
I take my foot off the gas, but I just keep going faster. 250. 300. 325.350.400…
I am panicking. No other cars. No people. No police.
But I’m panicking. Like I’m expecting it. Anticipating it.
What is “it”? “It” is a brick wall. A big, red one.
And it came out of nowhere. In the middle of 280.
And in a split second I am going to hit it.
It's one of those dreams.

Jamie and Chris first met the night Stanford defeated USC

The chaos of my Language
My touch
My senses
Eat at
What I want
What urges
My Life
To continue...
each Step
Heavier to lift the leg
Step forward
and continue on...
through the Rubbage
that remains - vacant
yet Crowded by the homeless
Thought, which beggs
For sympathy & nourishment
From my bleeding hands
Which can offer nothing
But the pain you so seem
to want
to live through, even though
Nothing Remains
Take my small, childish hand
in Yours and walk me
through my broken mind
until we find the Light
In my wasteland of darkness
That is my mind
My Soul

Insufficient the Merely Decent Man

I sit

And wait

For the day when I

Am not paralyzed

By the party-affiliation box

On a voter registration form

Or

I do not have to qualify

My belief in God.

For

My back hurts,

And this chair

Does little to support me.

Questionably Unworthy of Post Number One

I was born so long ago
That I can hear sometimes
The way above me, slowly,
Cold water smoothly glides...

-insert disclaimer here-
[for some reason, my poem refuses to appear in white font.. try highlighting it with your mouse?]

Come.
Let us rape the garden; I hear
their apples' moon milk flesh might
lick my bare wounds
Shut.
Come.
You can be the neon dripping,
muscle-tearing ravage flavor of the peach.
Like the sun-son.
Strike
with your sickeningly standard physiochemical
form, human.
Come.
The heaven's drenched with silent stars,
my poison swims so poignantly to clothe
the lamps in mist.
Grasp.
I want your paranormal laughter.
Come. Our witch brews amber blood tonight, bronze syrup,
liquor,
liquid jam--regardless, I am floating,
death in doses is my rebel ecstasy.
Walk
the fallen corpses of the ancients,
Breathe raw pine, feathery birch skin,
Trace the ideal-less curve of my prison.
Come.
Whisper not the truth. Lithe rain echoes
too scalding pure. Instead,
soak me in illusions, partner.
Come.
We both prefer the glossy green to
rancid pink indulgence. Let the refreshing sour
bite
drown you. In doses,
our witch brews sickeningly
standard neon dripping moon milk death.
Come.