If there’s something inside that you wanna say,
Say it out loud, it’ll be okay.
I will be your light.
Dry the Rain, Beta Band, 1999
Dryuary Day 11
I didn’t put alcohol down eleven days ago and suddenly have this miraculous event. I’ve been healing in pieces and parts for years.
You know, I thought this journey was going to be about sweating and constantly eating pretzels to mitigate the shakes. Nothing could be further from the truth. Physically, I feel good. I’m not sleeping alot, but I’m sleeping well.
I wake up everyday with no hangover, no tiredness…
I rest under a tree with boughs fruited and leafy long. Poor but happy the bumblebee drones ‘round my naked ear, bare but for a wisp of hair. With homeland fallen and prospects crumbled, I shall see the threshold to home no more, and rather must join the bustle of my native land spurned.
Entry level positions.
Lifting a lashed lid, I balance the lone shot glass on my head. The archer groans back an arrow. As the bow vibrates, my muse runs screaming, away, so far away from my heart which until now was bursting with verse.
I stood on my porch this morning after the kids left for school. We’ve had a whopper of a storm the last few days, so the bus didn’t come until nine due to icy roads. I blew smoke into the sunbeams and sipped coffee. Today, I’m taking down all the holiday decorations. It’s such a depressing task.
Jar-Jar, our current, feral lap cat, came to see me. She sat on the table, licking the black, velvety underside of her forepaw, and then shot up and froze, looking me straight in the eyes.
“It’s a sunny day today,” I said, “so…
You are disintegrating
Into everything around
The worm we dug from higher ground
You have let go of ego
Ego is no longer you
Closer to nirvana
Since the porter’s whistle blew
Kundalini Express, Love and Rockets — 1986
Dryuary Day 9
I’ve always been comfortable with people I don’t know. I’ve always been a great stranger. This is when I have a clean slate, when no one knows me.
It was summer 1990. I had met Chris over spring break on South Padre Island. He was tan, with salt bleached curly hair. …
Last quarter moon rising
this Easter morn’,
glowing gold on low horizon,
a candle snuffed in slow motion.
Violet thistle and lilies inhale
sleepy sunrise, and exhale
all of our daily prayers,
streaming up and up,
As baby spiders
on tiny weblets rising
like musical notes high above
the cedars and the glimmer
of Lebanon’s tear-streaked face.
Shall we wear the moon
as Enlightenment’s crown,
easy and without thorn,
or toss it away,
The table has always
been set, prepared
with a billion fold-out chairs
and white tablecloths
waving in the breeze.
In Lebanon they say Al Messieh…
Alan Asnen often writes about social justice. This piece is hammering in its truth, in its postulate that we are not on a road to grace.
I encourage everyone to read:
American writer based in Lebanon. Creative nonfiction, short fiction and poetry. Thank you for reading.