the "straight" voice

It always surprises me the moment I hear it come out of my mouth to hover there like some macho, bowlegged alien with glittery, green scales descending in the air between me and that person whose mere presence has unsuspectingly beckoned it forth from some deep space inside my mind, a outer homophobic dimension within a sanctimonious universe I really thought I had destroyed or left way far behind.

Like the other day when a big, burly repair man in official facilities' coveralls came to our offices to look at a problem with the ventilation unit, and just when I rose from my seat to greet him, inadvertently out popped the sound not quite a bass down from a treble clef but still much lower in octave than my regular voice. In a slower tempo almost "pesante" in a full, deep tone came through my lips the foreign "Hello."

Then when the conversation begins between us, words begin to flow, and sentences start to pick up some speed, my speech fills with words and phrases I never use and becomes saturated in a uniquely odd accent adding the missing flavor needed to succeed in speaking in this heterosexual safety mode. So now the low, deep "Dude, come on into this other office where there's the problem. The vent's right over there, man," is not only peppered with unwarranted masculine addresses but also spiked with a blend of surfer dude, dude rancher and country bumpkin who have gotten together to chew on some fat and plan something manly like replacing the transmission, rotating the tires and changing the oil of either a huge Ford Bronco or muscled up Camero. You can only imagine how utterly embarrassed and humiliated I am if people are around who I personally know hear and recognize this artificial substitute.

Unfortunately, once this strange extraterrestrial voice has made an appearance and been sighted by my dialogue partner, I have no choice but to surrender to its forced abduction, for no matter how focused I concentrate my linguistical power to consciously change this foreign behavior, I find myself simply unable to neutralize the habitual phenomena. In other words, once it's turned on, it's on auto-pilot with no manual overdrive until the final good ole boy, "Bye."

I've heard time after time again, that the first step towards recovery and change is recognizing that this pseudo-macho speak happens and that I have a problem with it. (Check, ten-four, good buddy.) Then with my real voice, boldly yet brightly, seriously yet sprightly, declare my disapproval of this strange established ritual of going on a seeming pro-hetero-conformity mission because I am insecure in my being, falsely thinking the person with whom I am in contact emanates a need for me to exaggerate my male gender role and abolish any effeminate traces or sissy slang in order to maintain peace with the patriarchal majority. Finally, take the last step and commit to increasing self-confidence, work through personal vulnerabilities, and then ending that kind of talk once and for all.

So Mister "straight voice", today I'm sweetly yet firmly giving you notice. Although I am certain I learned you as a child and attempted to perfect you in order to survive in the world, and even though it's really been a lot of performance, impressionistic fun, now is the time to for you to go phone home because your body-snatching days of my true voice are over and done.

All the cool boys

Tonight, the cool three convene

in a dark corner of the scene,

all exclusive, handsome, and husky,

their smarmy velvet voices shaded

with hints of bitter freeze,

cold just so, that all the meek

stay away from their pride,

far off the party line,

over here under the Exit sign,

standing right beside me,

an adult suddenly transformed

into a gawky, awkward teen

wearing ginormous, shiny metal braces

covering anxiously crowding inadequacies.

With wordless, waning wallweeds,

I stand watching inconspicuously

this ever so captivating trilogy

wearing tight, toned skin

and through sexy, slanted grins

whisper somethings among the guys

below sly, snickering eyes

before pointing their unified

mirrorball glare condescendingly

over at – oh please, I pray not at me,

who even if in a bright green, silk-screened T

and side-cocked, black, tall trucker cap

could never hope to look as cool as that,

so the self-esteem of my internal teen empties

only to refill to the brim with envy.

Yes, I realize that I should come to my senses

knowing we're all self-conscious adult adolescents

when utterly stripped of all our pretenses

under last-call's harsh bright fluorescents,

but sometimes like tonight I just can't help it

that the insecure me feels like a big misfit

and becomes a dejected killjoy

annoyed by all the cool boys.

Couples Counseling

June 2, 2009

A week or so ago during the day while at work, I got up from my desk suddenly, walked into the 11th floor men's bathroom, went into a stall, shut and latched the door, pulled tissue from the roll, and then quietly began crying. There were only two prayers that came to mind that I offered up as I wept in that tiny, green-tiled closet: Please don't let anyone come in the bathroom right now, and what in the world is wrong with me, God?

When I returned to my desk and the waiting, glowing blue computer screen, I saw on Facebook that someone had just updated her status to something like, JANE "is so happy and joyful that God is SOOOO GOOD ALL the time!!! Thanks and Praise!" I read, I frowned, I wanted to throw up. I found myself completely nauseated by her brightness and bitter with skepticism. With a mumbled, irritated "whatever", I shut down the web browser annoyed and simultaneously depressed by how awful it must be of me to even have such thoughts about happy people and God. (Lord knows I, myself, am guilty of very similar status updates from time to time!) My eyes filled again, and I sat staring blankly at the flower filled plain on my computer's desktop become a churning kaleidoscope of colors through my tears. I felt so alone, displaced, sad, and doubtful, and I was frustrated with myself for feeling so alone, displaced, sad and doubtful. What in the world is wrong with me, God?

My therapist, who is truly one of God's blessings in my life, said that it was completely understandable that I might feel this way. For although these are bright and sunshiny days (for the most part), I am finding this period between Mother's Day and June 7th to be emotionally dark and stormy days for me. These days represent the time between the anniversary of my mother's suicide two years ago and the anniversary of my best friend's suicide three years ago. It is as intense as struggling with a stuck storm shelter door while the wind whips and the locomotive sound of a tornado thunders ever closer. It is at this place that all those promises God has made are suddenly difficult to believe; God's Love seems out of reach; sadness, mourning and grief cloud my eyes with doubt, and I blindly begin to question everything.

After explaining what was happening to my therapist, Barry, one recent session, he asked, "Chad, who are you angry with? Your mother? Your best friend? What would you like to say to them?" In silence, I thought about this, churned it, knowing how difficult it is for me to deal with anger as that emotion was taught to me as a destructive one (rather than one that could potentially be used constructively) I wondered if I could even manage to manifest it and towards whom. After a few moments, I said, "You know, I really think I'm angry at God." Barry pulled an empty chair out from the wall and pushed it in front of me. "Then why don't you tell God about it?"

I'm always a little hesitant when Barry wants to start one of these chair exercises, but I conceded and attempted to look through the empty chair towards God. "Do you see God?" Barry asked. Not really knowing what God looks like, I said, "No, but I can sense that God is there." "Good, then why don't you just tell God how you are feeling," he said, leaning back in his seat, giving God and me room to be with one another.

The words came hesitantly, "I'm angry with You because..." I stopped, paused. Was I really going to tell God this? Who did I think I was to say such a thing - to God? Something inside me said that it didn't matter. What did matter was that it is true what I felt, and God should hear it. "God, I'm angry that you let Mom die. I'm angry that I prayed to you over and over again to help her, and You didn't. I'm angry that I am trying so hard to keep on keeping on, and You don't seem to even be around or care. I'm angry because not only did Mom and my best friend abandon me, but You seem to abandon me too!" After a shallow breath, feeling like I had gone too far (I mean, this was God after all) I thought I should take it all back, but Barry asked me to just simply sit and be with the words I had spoken. So I let them linger there, let the truth of my feelings resonate, and without any judgment, allowed my mind to calm.

Something happened then that caught me completely off guard and surprised me. Instead of "hearing" what I thought would be God's explanation or perhaps God's defense or maybe even God' frustration at my feeling abandoned when that couldn't be further from the truth, all things I would likely say for God, I felt something else so real and simple and concise directed towards me: Just Love. I wish I could put into words the weight of the moment as that little therapy room filled with God's Love, the moment God listened, heard me, and Loved me.

"What is happening?" Barry asked, "What is this I'm sensing?" and I told him that it was Love, pure and genuine Love and that's all, shocked to find my therapist experiencing something extraordinary within those four walls alongside me.

As the appointment was ending, he asked what I thought about the session that day, and I looked over at the empty chair and said, "You know, I think God and I need to do this more often. Couple's counseling seems really good for us."

did Jesus shower on the third day

did Jesus shower
on the third day,
or did He smell
the dirty, musty,
sweet stale
of dead, damply
crushed, fallen
leafy sheets
like I do now
finally rising
from that bedroom
tomb draped
in two dusks
and sunless
clouds?

downtowntrain

local sliding doors
lips clinched tightly
beside asphalt linoleum
images are watched
in the white specks
floating in black tar
under lights vega blue
absent green leaves
as broken dead skin
falls into powdery
dust eaten by bunnies
scurrying underfoot
beautiful broad boys
oblivious blackjacks
dozing on orange plastic
seats anchored fastly
nearing the destination
between scratched tags
downtown