Remember

Different
The first time he smiles
he is labeled.
Not like the rest of us.
Defective
Contaminated
Compromised
They never let him forget.


Separate
He has a pet
with fangs.
Run from him. Fear him.
Lost
Emotional
Angry
It keeps them away.


Superior
He finds respect
in a new place.
We can use him.
Efficient
Intelligent
Commanding
He could be comfortable here.


Uncomfortable
His routine is disturbed
by a man.
I think he needs a friend.
Irritated
Surprised
Challenged
This is new.


Satisfied
The next time he smiles
he is accepted.
You are one of us.
Questioned
Teased
Loved
They never let him forget.

Before the sun

Afraid and emotional.
To be alone is common. He is and always has been alone.
He has so much to offer buried under what no one has accepted.
Duty he hides behind.
Easier to pretend he doesn't feel at all, because how can they understand?

Sometimes I cry for him.

Waiting on a dream

Sleep dearest sleep
I know you are tired
That coat is heavy and wet
And so much soul spraying out
All those wings burst into ashes
Smothered specks of dirt
You wanted it right
Wanted it over
Enough to hide
From me

Sleep dearest sleep
Let it float away awhile
I wait for you
In my dreams

What I have left

When I'm tired
Shambling down the dragging seconds
Sucking down air in sleepy gulps
Blinking at the floor
I dream of you
And rest.

When I'm cold
Nothing to emote
Pulling tighter at a jacket
Wanting some sun
I remember you
And warmth.

When I'm late
Typing with frantic fingers
Vaulting up and tripping down
Bursting lungs and heart
I think of you
And peace.

When I'm sad
Curling into a tense twist
Clutching at shivering shoulders
Licking at trickling salt
I go to you
And joy.

When I'm alright
Greeting a friend
Thinking with spoken words
Sitting at a desk with nothing to do
I have you
And a smile.

Brown and blue

Brown

He sits alone in a quiet, deafening room, blood thumping to echoes of merely memory. Safe, now, in the cool darkness, a life apart from the dusty dying sand. Pounding through his eyes are the sun and the heat and the speckled uniforms that didn't hide him quite well enough. A dream. Only particles of days gone. He cannot sleep.

Limp

They've given him a plastic stick. Frosty metal and molded rubber to hold up what is left of a man. Psychosomatic. In his head, muddling reality. He offered his life. It was borrowed and returned broken.

Sweater

An extra layer between him and stabbing icy gusts. A neutral color for a nondescript man with a cane and a limp and no place to go. Except maybe this chair. He punches an embroidered pillow behind his back, shrugs into peachy threadbare velvet upholstery. It's no good. Tapping his third leg on the wooden floor, he waits for something. Maybe he hopes. Either way, when the tall man beckons, he chases him through the door.

Scarf

The place smells like wine and tomatoes, spices, garlic. He blinks uncomfortably at the red-checkered table. Simple conversation has not gone well. Dark hair suspended over a pale, moon-lit face and glowing eyes send him sprawling over the smallest of words. His companion must be cold, still wrapped up in woolen warmth.

Run

Over crumbling brick roofs, down clinking shaking metal stairs, through whistling shadowy alleys, across shouting paved streets they gasp and pull and chase. It's a mistake. His friend says something mad. Breathless and helpless, he laughs and follows again, ducking and darting and hiding to home.

Blue

He stands by a car mounted with glaring, flashing lights, absorbing all, seeing little. Past the yellow strip sits a man he trusts, tugging jerkily at a red-orange fleece blanket. His friend speaks to a gray-haired detective, looks over at him, stops talking, flaps the blanket in the detective's face. He sees only his friend's eyes, open, clear, focused back on him as the man with the blanket approaches. He is reassured. He will rest.

Wake up call

From the depths of sleep, she heard a whistle, so familiar but so foreign. Spock rolled over, noting that she was on the floor, for some reason, and it was surprisingly clean. Three tones, low-high-low. She wanted more sleep. She wanted her bed, not the floor. Spock groaned as she hoisted torso off the ground. She flipped her hair out of her face, blinked twice, then let her elbows buckle beneath her and she collapsed again. 

Kirk and Bones were laid out on the bed and a chair, respectively, in a darkened room that was definitely not her own. She didn't think one slept in a dream, did they? Maybe just in hallucinations.

The whistle again. "Janelle." She waited. "Janelle, wake up."

McCoy opened her eyes, rolled her neck. "Is she still asleep?"

"Yeah. I don't know how we're going to get her up; it's generally impossible, right? JANELLE." Another whistle.

"Maybe you should just get that," Bones suggested.

"Yeah...guess so..." Spock stumbled to her feet and flicked the switch. "Spock here, reporting on behalf of the captain."

"Oh." Chekov sounded faintly surprised. "Well, we are approaching Beta 3. Will the captain be joining us on the bridge for first contact?"

"Of course, Lieutenant. We're on our way; Spock out." She flipped off the comm switch and flopped onto the bed by Kirk. "CAPTAIN KIRK."

Janelle blinked and started to sit up. "Where?"

"That's you, Janelle," replied Bones, eyes closed and relaxed again in her chair. Kirk withered a bit.

"Oh, right."

Spock patted her shoulder briefly. "So, they want you on the bridge to . . . make first contact, I think, with a new planet. Sound doable?"

"Umm . . . sure, I guess?" 

"Yeah. This will be interesting. Caitlin, wanna come up there?"

"Sure."
"Right. Lead on, then, mon capitan." Spock gestured to the door, then she and Bones followed the captain out the door.

BEING NEGATIVE AGAIN

I am not fond of being negative.
I prefer being happy.
Couldn't tell from this blasted blog, could you?
I complain a lot.
Here I am again.
Complaining.
Sorry guys.
I'll shut up now.