Strawberries

Spring,
And the air is cool but not cold and there is a sense of warmth to come and the trees are in bloom and the birds are singing and the grass is flowing and wavy and the bushes are turning green again and everything smells like strawberries and its a nice smell and everyone is in a good mood and I'm just happy that I made it this far.
Winter,
Too long, too boring, too cold, especially when you don't have heat in your house, too cloudy, too slow, so much to think about, too much time, I mean, too full of adventure that I didn't need, but probably needed, in the long run I mean.
I like the snow. Looks nice when it falls. I like the snow.
Spring makes you know your still alive, though.

on the different heavens

MUNICH, GERMANY- some time ago:
The sound of the Muslim's prayer in the morning.
He is up at dawn, sing-songing to the southeast where the bright orange disk of the sun grows with every passing minute.
I wake to it and stand on my feet, shirtless, and tie the strings of my flannel pants together so they won't fall from my waist as I walk to the sink to wash my face.
The morning rushes on. The man prays with it.
I walk out into the dawn, the towel across my bare shoulders, drying my face and hands. A breeze meets me and I shiver with it, then my body adjusts.
The Muslim prays on. He doesn't notice me at first, but then I see his eye dart to the side where I now stand as he bows his head again and touches it to the ground and continues. I walk to the edge of my balcony three stories from the ground and stare at the early risers of the city, then walk back and decide, instead of walking back inside, to stay in the breeze a little.
I lean against the white wall, still cool from the night, and watch him.
He finishes his prayer minutes later.
I step forward, hardly thinking to myself that the two of us have become great neighbors in such little time.
"You think He hears you this early?" I ask, half being a smartass. "I mean, you woke me up."
He does not look at me, but he smiles. "He hears at all times," he tells me in his thick African accent that doesn't match the pale German landscape around us. He tidies up the balcony he had been praying on, picking up his rug- or whatever you call it- and straightens two plastic chairs and his round little table.
"Come in and eat with me." He gestures me into his side of the apartment and he leaves the balcony and walks into his kitchen and I follow him because I'm not in the mood to make myself anything, still without a shirt.
"Something greasy?" He asks. "Are you hungover this morning?"
"Not yet." Truth was I was still drunk.
"I heard you come back last night. Alone this time?" He begins to fry something in a pan on the stove and brews water for tea.
"Yeah. Unfourtantly."
He laughs.
"You Latins. You only care about two things: sex and drinking."
"You should try it sometimes. It can be fun."
"Well, sad for me. I can not taste the fermentation of wheat, nor grape." He sets two cups down.
"Probably a good thing," I say. "Can get you into trouble."
And then I go on and ask him what in the world would possess him to wake up at this hour everyday, still half being a smart ass, and he simply says "Heaven" and I guess I can understand that.
Makes more sense then not.
"Probably a good thing," I tell him, and he agrees.
We keep talking, a little about heaven and God and all that fun stuff, and we eat and we drink the warm tea and we talk some more, still about heaven but also now about soccer, which is a little easier for me.
I finish my food and thank him for it and he welcomes me back for more whenever I want it and I tell him to be careful what he wishes for and then leave to go change and get ready for the day ahead of me.
He does the same.
I leave.
It's nice that we've become neighbors.
It's nice when two totally different people become friends.

on the roads again

A thousand people all around, but the truth is I'm alone.
I'm tired as I walk down the sidewalk and through the criss-cross of streets that makeup down-town.
It's a party night. I'm in no mood to party.
The air is cold and I have to pull my jacket tight to fight the wind that blows through the darkness. I squint my eyes and they well up as cold air rushes upon them.
The smell of rain fills my nostrils. A sour smell.
There's shouting in the streets that I walk through. Music explodes from car speakers as they rush by me, bass rattling, or from the inside of the bars and clubs which I pass. There's fun and noise everywhere. Laughter comes from an open door as a drunk stumbles out. Smoke pours out with him. Two girls scream at each other, each on one side of the street, trying to figure out where their other friend is. They're drunker then most of the people I pass. The air is thick with noise.
I'm walking.
This is me running again.
I can't hear any of it, the noise. I'm too caught up in my thoughts.
It's not a good thing. It means I don't know what's next and I hate to know what is next.
My thoughts laugh at me. My thoughts mock me. And I can't escape them.
So I walk.
I wish I could hear the song that plays from a bar that I pass because I know that it is one of my favorites.
But there are only my thoughts, only them to fill my ears as they whisper and shout into them, and all I can do is think as I walk...or run.
"How can you be so far away, when you're still in my heart?" I ask myself.
And that's all I can hear.