Childnoises

off gym walls

With kickballs

You see that kid?

With tissue-paper skin

And black eyes

Surprised!

Eyes closed, I listen as patches of my psychiatrist's words filter through the haze.

"...Extremely treatment resistant. I think we should consider shock therapy."

My eyes fly open. "Shock therapy?"

I study the diplomas dotting the wall as he explains the procedure. Messily scribbled crayon masterpieces break the monotony of academic certificates. "I like you Dr. E," one child raves in lime green writing. I would like him a lot better if he weren't talking about screwing with my brain.

"Let me think about it."

This is a stunning, moving film. There are no wasted images, no extraneous words. Each frame, each spoken phrase has a powerful impact. Yet the real beauty of it is that its message and tone feel accessible and uplifting throughout. Karina Epperlein's award winning documentary, "Phoenix Dance," is a visual and spiritual journey--a reconnection with a childlike curiosity and trust.

"No matter what happens to us, no matter how it may appear, whether it is sweet or sour, praise or blame, it's all for good. It's molding, it's reshaping, it's training, you never leave training, and in the end, it's beauty."

You flipped me off the first time we met.

You, laughing and maniacal from behind your windshield, Mary

clinging to the door, begging you not to drive home.

Fucking asshole, I thought...

In the dark of night

she heard

Soul speak

"You are a prophet."

Is this a poem: "An empty gift box, blue striped and snow flaked, sits on a table, a reminder of your recent visit.

You came to celebrate my January birthday, bringing forsythia blossoms coaxed from the heart of winter (not forced, for that is not your style). I almost turned you away, feeling anything but celebratory in the throes of my sun-starved depression.

He had what the balding white guy wanted, and he knew it.

Wasn't too many white guys in this neighborhood after dark, otherwise. This one had a woman with him, a girl, really. Young. Fresh young, blonde, pretty. Nothing had been near those veins. She was new enough looking that back in old Willie Johnson's day, even a businessman like Clayvon would have felt obligated to send her home and tell her to leave this shit to the hard-core fiends, and go back to smoking herb in her little pink bedroom, like on television.

I board the #6 bus in Minneapolis' Dinkytown neighborhood, heading for the Uptown district. Once there, my plan is to make the short walk to DreamHaven Books to drop off some fliers for my upcoming reading. Instead of taking my usual spot at the front of the bus, I decide to head for the back bench. I know the bus driver: He's good about announcing the stops into the microphone, his clear baritone voice easy to understand through the dodgy lowest-bidder sound system that Metro Transit favors.