Thanksgiving Diner
Category: Writing and Poetry

As the door swings open it swipes the silver bell positioned on a bracket just above it. The cold air delivers a man packaged in wool from what looks like head to toe. This is the exact reason I have to work on days like this. No matter what holiday it is, there is always some straggler that moseys in here to pretend our fixins are just as good as any family made holiday feast. This is the kind of guy that brings a smile to the manager/owner Stan's face. Justification in his mind for making me come here today. It is safe to say I hate this man from the start.

He heads for the table in the corner. They always do. If we had tables in the bathroom I am sure he'd take it. Anything to avoid being seen. He removes his knee length coat and thick yarn scarf and hangs them on one of the hooks on the wall we have for just that purpose. He is wearing faded jeans, a button down shirt with a dull colored tie. He has tennis shoes on and I can only imagine the socks underneath are athletic and white. Those are just guesses though. Think Eddie Bauer meets WalMart. His face is pale and hard like he hadn't been in the sun since September…last September. And he really needs a shave. He has what only can be described as 2 months of pain growing on his face. Like a constant reminder that this is not who he is supposed to be.

I'm sure he can sense my distain as I come to take his order. Still he is all cordial smiles and yes ma'ams as he orders his meal. The Thanksgiving Special is what he orders. Of course he did. They always do. A high pile of turkey, not so lumpy mashed potatoes, fresh stuffing (not that Stove Top shit), green beans, a roll, and some gravy to smother the whole thing. All of that for just $8.99. Hell, If I didn't know the cooks I'd probably order it myself.

He is the only chap in the place. But I don't even think he notices. All his attention is focused on the window. I would say he was looking out of it but with night taking hold outside and the "mood" lighting that Stan has set in the diner, the window is mostly a mirror now.

I can only see the back of his head as he stares at his reflection in panes of glass. He is touching his face and running his fingers through his beard. Every stroke seems deliberate and searching. Almost as if he was a blind man trying to get a mental view of his own face.

As I approach his table with his Thanksgiving Special in hand he slowly turns away from the window and back towards me. I notice a glistening track from the outside corner of his left eye that continues all the way down into his facial hair. He quickly runs the palm of his hand over the track to erase any evidence. "Is everything OK Mister?" I ask. He looked up and directly in my eyes. It seemed like an eternity before he uttered a response When he finally did, a smile and a yes ma'am was all he offered.

The man finished his meal faster than we had made it. It seems to me that he had taken more interest in our windows than he did our Thanksgiving Special. Soon enough he was grabbing his coat and scarf and bundling back up to face winters fists. He paid his bill at the register and then walked back to the table to place down a tip. Then without making eye contact he walked to the door, opened it to trip the silver bell one more time and step out into the cold.

I went over to the table in the corner to clean it off and collect my tip. His dishes were stacked on top of each other and his silverware was placed in the main plate as well. Napkins and paper place mats were all balled up and thrown on top. It looked like if I would have given him a rag and some soap he might have even washed them for me. Pinned beneath the salt shaker was two dollar bills and a spattering of change. I lifter the salt shaker and picked up the money to put in my apron pocket.

Now laying on the table where the money once laid is a photograph. A family photograph. It looks like one that you would get from Sears or JC Penny. In it there is a man and a woman and two young boys. I immediately recognize the man. He wore a lot less facial hair and even less pain in the picture but there was no doubt it was him. There was a different smile on his face than the ones he had been giving me. The smile in the picture included his eyes. All four of them in the picture shared the same expression. I turned the picture over and noticed he had written on the back. At the top and underlined where the words, "Frozen Happiness". Below that he wrote, "They say that family is forever and sometimes that's just not true. Be mindful of all their feelings, so what happened to me never happens to you."

With a tear dripping from my cheek and the photo still in my hand, I walk into Stan's office and hand him my apron. I won't be working anymore holidays.

Cory C.
© 2008 Thanksgiving Diner

10:48 PM - 23 Comments - 24 Kudos - Add Comment

In These Arms
Category: Writing and Poetry

When you are in these arms
You will feel no harm
I will protect you from all
I will cushion your fall
I will lift you above
With an unyielding love
I will shield your soul
From all that is cold
I will protect your heart
Like it was mine from the start
There will be no lies
And no reasons to cry
There will never be pain
No love that is in vein
My words will never scorn
Because it is you I adore
You will never be alone
For it is my heart that you own
I will hold you tight
When there is no light
I will provide a spark
When you're lost in the dark
There is no need to fear
When trouble comes near
Put those fears to rest
Lay your head on my chest
For you will feel no harm
When you are in these arms

Cory C.
© 2008 In These Arms

4:17 AM - 25 Comments - 20 Kudos - Add Comment

What Defines You?
Category: Writing and Poetry

I was at a bar with some friends a couple weeks back. I was minding my own business like I normally do at a bar (I don't drink so there is not much else for me to do), when this strange looking guy next to me taps me on the shoulder. He was an older gentleman. Probably a little too old to be at the bar that we were at. He had his full winter garb on, long coat, scarf, and a stocking hat. The hat was the kind that has the ear flaps and extended tassels dangling down. It may have been 30 degrees outside but it was hot as Haiti in here. He looked as out of place as a straight line in a Van Gogh painting. The odd looking man taps me on the shoulder and asks me, "What defines you?". "I beg your pardon" I reply. "What defines you?" he repeats. That's what I thought he said.  But on this night in this place to a total stranger it makes no sense. I smile and laugh in that awkward I hope that was supposed to be a joke kind of way. I then turn back to my friends and go about my evening.

It wasn't until I got home that night and started thinking about the strange man at the bar that I comprehended his question. Listen, this could have been a drunken question from a drunken man and by all accounts that is probably what it was. Hell he could have been trying to say "Look behind you!" as some well endowed female walked by. Whatever the case, I heard him say "What defines you" and that is all I thought about while lying in bed. Below is a 4 AM special I wrote that night.

What Defines You

I am defined by a mind that has no OFF button
And a mouth that has no ON button
A backflow of thoughts, ideas, and emotions dammed
By the one damn thing I have the most control over
The spill over leaks onto pages and in some cases ears that have no idea where it is coming from

I am defined by the haunting mistakes of the past
Not just by the mistakes I have made
But by the ones that I have seen others make
Because any fool with a nerve ending knows not to put his hand in the fire once he has been burned
It is the man that can avoid the pain and still learn the lesson that benefits the most

I am defined by the jagged shards of a fractured heart
And it's unholy ability to mend itself
All for the sole purpose for another chance to be fractured again

I am defined by the blinded belief that there is someone out there that won't be afraid to love me
Someone wiling to be entrenched in chasms of not only pleasure but also in pain
Someone who will hold my face in the dark and hold my hand in the light

I am defined by a barrage of emotion that I want you to feel
But have no idea how to make you feel it
I sit in loneliness wishing someone is watching
Like some sort of weird Truman Show experiment
Viewers would know my story
They would see where I have been

It is with this I know my true definition is incomplete
I have yet to think all of my thoughts
I haven't felt all the pain
I am not done making mistakes
And I am still holding on to the idea of love

You ask what defines me
The only thing I have to offer right now
Is an awkward laugh
And a turn away smile

Cory C.
© 2008 What Defines You

10:25 PM - 34 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

What Kind of a Man Writes Poetry? (revised a bit)
Category: Writing and Poetry

With the condescending eye and a laugh under his tongue as he asks,

"What kind of a man writes poetry?"

As if I am the pariah

Well let me tell you…

A man that bleeds when he is cut

And not only by a blade

But also by life's wielding circumstances

Circumstances that otherwise get trapped by the walls of this body

Ooze out in thoughts, metaphors, and feelings

So watch where you step my friend

I wouldn't want you to slip

On my manhood

That I bleed out for all to see

I never grew up wanting to be a poet

It was a poet that grew up inside of me

What kind of a man writes poetry?

A man whose only sense of belonging is through his endless search for someone who believes in him

A man who doesn't know how to love or hurt other than with his full heart

A man whose family's only sense of function is through that of dysfunction

A man who is searching

Searching for words that describe pain, pleasure and everything in between

In a way that makes it easier to understand at the end of the day

Because understanding might just be the bandages that cover these wounds

I write poetry

But you see these words aren't meant for everybody

Like a voyeur peering through a window of ones soul

You either like to watch or you don't

But make no mistake as you look

That figure you see with the cloak of fake expressions lying carelessly in a heap on the floor next to him as he mind fucks his every thought

That is a man

Fake expressions that normally hide real emotions are abandoned here

Because poetry is a place he comes to feel real

This is where he comes to battle the demons of pessimism, dissidence, and strife

This is where he comes to praise the demons of love, passion, and life

So what kind of a man writes poetry?

I do

When it comes to matters of being a man

What exactly do you do?

Cory C.

©2008 What Kind of a Man Writes Poetry?

4:43 PM - 20 Comments - 16 Kudos - Add Comment

Now I Lay Me
Category: Writing and Poetry

Now I lay me down to sleep
It's in my dreams your heart I keep
I'll close my eyes with thoughts of you
With hopes those thoughts are carried through
So if I die before I wake
To the grave your love I take

Cory C.
© 2008 Now I Lay Me

2:12 PM - 33 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

Diet Love
Category: Writing and Poetry

Sick of all of the heaviness, confusion and suffocation that comes with love? Well do I have a product for you!!!

DIET LOVE

Yes Diet Love has almost all of the things you love about Love without some of the things you don't.

Diet Love has half the Emotion
Half the Caring
Half the Effort
And most of all Diet Love comes with HALF the Love!

Yes ladies and gentlemen, boyfriend working late every night?
WHO CARES!! You got Diet Love.
Girlfriend spending a lot of time with the girls?
SO WHAT!! You got Diet Love.

Diet Love is guaranteed to not take up most of your time.
Diet Love reduces the amount of Favors, Tasks, and Chores you normally do.
Diet Love will even help in the bedroom.
You get off and your partner doesn't???
OH WELL…You got Diet Love!!!

Diet Love does not come without side effects

Diet Love contains double the Drama
Double the Heartache
Drains all of your Sanity
And most of all Diet Love contains HALF the Love.

So hurry up and get your Diet Love before we are all out.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

I have no ability to love less than fully
If that is wrong then let me be wrong
It seems like a colossal effort to hold back on the accessories of love
I just don't have the arms for it
I do not know how to care any less
I do not know how to put forth less effort
I do not know how to hide this emotion
This is me
This is love
If you want Diet Love you can go back to the store
Because all I have to offer is Full Calorie

Cory C.
© 2008 Diet Love

2:16 AM - 28 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

The Unknown Man
Category: Writing and Poetry

You see we pass each other at this same time every day
We must share a similar commute
I see him every day and always get the feeling I know him
Yet I am vexed by the notion that I can't figure out who he is

I know I've seen his face before
Just maybe at a different time
Loneliness now scars his face
His shoulders are weighted
He seems lost

His hair looks like a winters sky
And his skin seems as cold as its snow
His eyes scream of plundered dreams
And the anarchy of past love
He shoots a lie with every smile
He is a man who foolishly believes he is hiding his emotions
The truth is every one of them sticks out like a flower in the concrete

I swear I know this man's face

If he would just make eye contact I know I would remember
But he never does
As if locking eyes would somehow allow you to download all his painful secrets
He offers only a quick passing glance
He is ashamed to be seen

I have seen his face before
But I cannot stare any more
I know I will see him tomorrow
Maybe then I will have my answer
As for now, I will step away from this mirror
In hopes that someday soon I will recognize the man I see every day

Cory C.
©2008 The Unknown Man

4:16 AM - 34 Comments - 32 Kudos - Add Comment

Because
Category: Writing and Poetry

Because I can't look into the greenness of her eyes and not see my future
Could it be the blindness of a fool desperate for sight
Maybe
But the only thing in this world worse than a broken heart is not knowing
Not knowing sits you in a cave of black with no match
I will not be doomed to blackness when I have a path of brightness right in front of me

Because she is the only person I know that makes me think in poetry
Words and metaphors used to describe indescribable feelings seem to transition seamlessly from nowhere
Poems come to my mind like animals to a stream
Everything is natural

Because life has a way of making you feel like you are doing a jigsaw puzzle blindfolded
And because she has a way of being my eyes
Guidance to separate what is on the inside and what are on the edges
She throws away pieces that don't go
And guides my hand to the one's that do
With her everything fits

Because my heart is not whole without her
It beats twice as hard to make up in her absence
Like I'm running in a marathon without moving

With her here I breath easier
I feel more
I live

And mostly because I believe
I believe in her heart
I believe in her soul
I believe in her unbelievable ability to make me feel like a man

Now please, ask me your question again

Cory C.
© 2008 Because

10:28 PM - 30 Comments - 30 Kudos - Add Comment

What Kind of a Man Writes Poetry?
Category: Writing and Poetry

With a condescending eye and the laugh under his tongue as he asks,

"What kind of a man writes poetry?"

As if I am the pariah

Well let me tell you…

A man that bleeds when he is cut

And not only by a blade

But also by life's wielding circumstances

Circumstances that otherwise get trapped by the walls of this body

Ooze out in thoughts, metaphors, and feelings

So watch where you step my friend

I wouldn't want you to slip

On my manhood

That is out for all to see

I never grew up wanting to be a poet

It is a poet that grew up inside of me

What kind of a man writes poetry?

A man whose only sense of belonging is through his endless search for someone who believes in him

A man that has loved so deeply to only have love not returned

A man whose family's only sense of function is through that of dysfunction

A man who is searching

You see these words aren't meant for everybody

Like a voyeur peering through a window of ones soul

You either like to watch or you don't

But make no mistake as you look

That figure you see with the fake expressions in his hand that normally hide his real emotions

That is a man

This is where he comes to battle the demons of pessimism, dissidence, and strife

This is where he comes to praise the demons of love, passion, and life 

So what kind of a man writes poetry?

I do

So now I ask you,

What exactly do you do that makes you a man?

Cory C.

©2008 What Kind of a Man Writes Poetry?

1:19 PM - 32 Comments - 28 Kudos - Add Comment

Looking for Direction(s)
Category: Life

I need to get away. Maybe more so than I ever have. Everything around me is where I don't want to be. So I am leaving. Today I jump into the car and drive. I have no idea where I am going. I have packed a small bag and my iPod. The rest I am really not sure.

Cory C.

3:09 PM - 28 Comments - 17 Kudos - Add Comment