He Crawls

He finds his place in the room. He can not yet walk. He crawls. His head is heavy. He uses it to gain momentum. He’s a smart little thing. His shoes incorporate Velcro which is uncool in most elementary circles, but he doesn’t mind. He craves not schoolyard popularity. He crawls on. Carpet burns are avoided by perfectly fitting jeans. “When will his hair grow in?” wonders his mother out loud with full expectation of receiving an answer. “Is his hair red?” his father quietly retorts.

Both questions remain unanswered… among others.

Who is this little guy? What’s he thinking? Where is he going?  What will he become; post tiny shoes and jeans, post carpet and clean walls, post toddling? Where will he go? What type of food will he eat? Is he a vegetarian? I mean, this is a life we’re talking about after all. A human. A brand new heart beat. Everything he does, he does for the first time! And it’s all epic, at least to him...

What's he doing? Is he praying? Is he sleeping? Is he playing hide and seek with us all? Or perhaps he's trying to find a new world to explore between his legs underneath and beyond himself.

He rolls. He flips over and for a moment is dizzy. “What happened?” he thinks. “Where am I? What is this squishy stuff underneath me? Who are these people? Do I know them? I think I’m going to cry. That usually gets mom and her milk over here. Wait, that’s mom right there. Is she laughing at me? She is. Don’t laugh at me, mom. It’s going to make me cry. Wait, everyone’s laughing. I’m definitely going to cry now. Here I go, you guys are so going to get it… Wait, what’s that between my legs? Is that another world? I better check it out…”

Photo by Matthew Whitehead.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Well, that's cute

God, what have I made of your face?

Out-makes the cold impossible

touch tenderly me, sweet

for the dark is no scare to me.

the clutch of your coat covers any distinguishing we require

and though we dont know what we are—to each other, I mean,

I know now must last

crunch all snow with your eyes' look,

and bury yourself further into me.

Go. Dig, you cute monster. Dig.

The fake moonlight will guide you in.  

And know (place inside you, please)

that what breath parts these lips

courses for you, comes from a lung

[that gasps only (you),

that is clinched by the cold,

and held by your eye's look]

But know that we, misshaped things,

can stand frozen solid for each other

and melt with the breath and become one dark 

Photo by Fred Watford.  Words by Jordan Shappell.

Always Dreaming

And so the children pose games
While we wage
Dreams
Over their hearts
Are answers unfound
By our findings
We scientists
Uneducated
Like God once was
Before the honesty surfaced

So dance
They said

And I feel for those
Who feel
What isn't real
Should have been
Let's at least believe
In what we are holding
Dear to us
Trust

The little ones
Promise only smiles

And I dance for the Children
Who hold hands and food
Never ungrateful
Always playfully encouraging
Making science
Out of moments
We
Might let slide
Head first
Dreaming

Always dreaming

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Really Now

Really,

My reflection is eating me beautifully,
I am everything I see,
I interpret me through the…

Creating and discovering me at ounce,
Often seeing my future is reading the signs of it around me,
And seeing signs of my past has held more weight than the moment they reflect,
Without trying, my past and future spill into now,

Authentic,
Inauthentic,
Real,
Unreal,

Its not about what I want as much as what my want is a reflection of…

Faking it, isn’t really,
Making due with, isn’t really,
And really it isn’t for me in the end…

Which is the reflection? ME OR THE …Really?

Photo by Amanda Grupp.  Words by Will Gillespie.

A Father's Approval

Little-man Cautiously looks Big-man in the Eye

Big-man nods allowing Little-man to Cry

Flower Square

She’s electric

Burning embryos, cosmic

Super sonic she is

Full of myth and zing

Creating phone lines

Giving rise to children

Breathing underwater

A pink dolphin sonogram

A mermaid like chance

A birthmark shaped like Africa

A memory shaped by nutrients

She’s old, older than you think

Yet, we’ve known her to be young

Only seen her as young

But she’s old

Powerful she is

Electric she is

Incomprehensible like the sunrise

The force of rotation

She is the circle

The Jedi force she is, the

Man she is

Imploding from the inside

Stretching power from the outside, electric

Lost she’s not

Dark and cold, hot and red at once

Crying, balling, wailing,

Whose going to cut the cord?

She paid the electric bill

Good with math she is

She owns a abacus

She shot JFK

She opened the jar of pickles

Electric she is,

She’s electric.

Photo by Sadie Myers.  Words by Rashaad Hall.

4

On the snow was a sickness and I found it glaring as did many before with the urged wary of a century
of core hard at peering

There is a place laid out and I have no opinion nor do I spare what the answers consist of caring we
ironic to the touch still

Moving forward cautiously regretting each word as it forms itself ugly and angry for what was once
desired pure and swam

Once the following articulation held an honor for the concentrating addiction found glory within hope
felt hand grenades fire

How bout a beer for the boys...

How bout a beer for the boys...

As I get older I learn and I grow. And I watch my friends as they learn and grow. And I'd like to stop for a second to check in. To remember all that was and what is still to come...

Things used to be simple. “Come over to my place friday night. My dads going to order pizza and rent movies.” I remember how excited I got when I landed my first ollie on a skateboard. I remember going to dances and looking at the girls in awe. Terrified. Taking in every second. I remember alcohol. How it tasted that first time. “What's the difference between whiskey and Rum?”

The world was huge. I remember thinking that traveling to Europe or Asia or South America was an impossible crazy romantic dream. But I wanted it so bad. I wanted to go everywhere. I started simple, organizing road trips visiting friends from one college town to another.  Life had no bounds. Part time jobs were a game and new friendships were my occupation. Then came the theatre world and living in Chicago. I sold my car and got a bike.  I started riding the train and the bus.  There's always something new and exciting.  Life seems to make sure of it.  

On my journey living in Virginia and Milwaukee and Melbourne Beach and Jacksonville and Chicago, traveling to nearly 40 states and 10 countries, I've learned a lot.  I've had some great experiences and I have some rad stories to tell around the campfire. But the best thing to come out of my life are the relationships that I've made and have been blessed to keep with my friends. I know some amazing people. I want to take a moment and appreciate that.

Now, when I say boys I don't necessarily mean the male sex. The term boys is more specific than that. It refers to people that I can't simply call friends. When I call you my boy, it means we are friends for life. It means that I can go days or months or years without speaking with or seeing you and the love won't suffer for a second. When I call you my boy it means that I would trust and honor and believe in you until the bitter end. It's an overdramatic term, I'll be the first to admit that. But I dig passion and I believe in true love among friends. I believe in having boys.

So here's to my boys in Chicago and Florida and New York and DC and California and Colorado and Connecticut and London and Spain and Chile and everywhere in between.

How bout a beer for the boys...

Dark Water Streets

On the streets for too long
The darkness changed it's mind
The river flowed just to flow
Laughed at what I couldn't find

Had everything to fight for
So I swam against the current
There was oxygen and hair
I lost everywhere we went

These are the ironies of agony
And we don't have to like it
But there's an answer in death
And we must acknowledge it

I fought simply for arrival
A steady heart of hope
There was only my survival
No shipyard and no rope

Awaying me from slipping
Breathing to the beat
Of water pavement dripping
Found a lifetime at my feet

Sat in the darkness for too long
The streets, they changed their mind
The river flowed just to flow
This ironic tale; not solely mine

Life Is Sometimes Black And White

A haiku:

Birds were always there

You reached your hand and pointed

I finally looked  

Dear...

              

                                                                                        

Tiny Chan

Marching with an
Upbeat brigade
Plastic colorful
Multi renegade

Curious about purpose
Not one still or single
The colors don't bleed
But they do intermingle

Smiling is the operator
A conductor of sorts
When asked "who's this?"
She physically retorts

Lifting them up one by one
Exclaiming each friend's name
Blue Swan!  Big  Tim!  Rondo!
What a funny happy game

The friend's are all pleased
Feeling equally appreciated
By the care and the love
This Tiny Heart demonstrated

when Papa gets His paints out

Smiling waves of ideas
Told to speak clearly
The honesty will come
Storyboarding a train
To ride into the future
Promising the present
I won't let you down
My team mine heart

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Happy Birthday Papa: Make a Wish.

Sincerely, Your three peas in a pod.

Photo and Words by Sadie Myers.

富士山 Neverending

want to climb with you abyss white tip agony and less than pain forgot your name last time we spoke to each other way to go to town on a pair of monkey legs towering tall like goats feet on a rock cluster re dismember without a card confirming consistency training the youth to find their backpacks with isolated umbrellas and interesting sleeping habits worth paying attention to while minding you it was never the mountains fault that cheerios came after milk and that grandma said yes for a reason no matter where the typhoons were dancing and without doubt there was once a fallen tree of apple juice texas toasts to the glory of a national past time with no one to call home boy what a life to live in the shadows of lost sun light on the sundays to come without an issue of survival regret and disconcern about the one actual triumph fit with drawings on the front and back of the envelope crayon canyon mountaineer deer speaker

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

White

Artistically waiting for the snow to fall.  The ice to shave. And to
know that's all. That God will give tonight. Wake up in the morning
and know what's right.  Lost in the sorrows of many tomorrows. And a
white scarf that promised me an answer. Camoflauged like cancer. A
dancer in the body's black box conservatory. Ending stories with
shoulda coulda woulda. So sad. Too bad. That there weren't more
heroes. More famous dumb shows. After who knows how many ties.  Forget
the for guys who brought us to this moment.  Darn it!  All they did
was sign a paper some other man scribbled on. What about what the rats
have so neglectively nibbled on.  Tribal gone. And all that's left is
a smile. By a girl wearing white. With an often awkward mile. To walk.
With no shoes. She shoulda worn boots.  And that bumb woulda left us
alone. But heels are priceless. When in Rome. We kill. Always sign the
Will. Unless. What's the deal?  Did someone say snow? Look out? I
can't be bothered by your antics. Lock it up samantics!  I'm losing
all cause. Forgot which is the ceiling and what be the walls. Tell me.
Please. I'm begging. Answer, or I may convulse or spasm. Did you catch
the ferocity as I went for sarcasm. I'm not sure why I'm taking this
out on you. What's one plus one? ...

Photo by Fred Watford. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Lost in Translation; An Actor's Frustration

Slipping on the tongue. Numb. To icey toes. Who knows whose fault it is that auditions break hearts. That futures hold fate. That all things have weight.  And some weigh more than others.  There are no exceptions to those rules.  And no receptions post our duels.  We are stuck.  Forced to marinate in our choices.  As glory floats away on the raft we couldn't afford at the time. Bored with the rhyme.  Stop on a nickel to say thankyou.  To the passed.  And then we start on credit.  Pushing any cents under the rug. And I remember a day when the dogs dug just to dig. Because they used to have yards. We used to have barns.  And the Bard.  People used to use pencils.  Then pens. Used to grieve for our sins on stage.  Fight for honesty on screen.  But we lost that. Somewhere in translation I suppose. To what God only knows as a friend. But what happened to 'the story'.  I don't bend and I don't fake. Anymore. Who for. Smile at least once. Pig farm. I remember your charm. Where is it now. Gone somehow and we're left here with Dow. And his commercial industrials.  And you can tell Mr. Jones that I've seen enough.  Enough of the cattle.  Enough of the table.  Enough of the couch.  Enough of this fable. There's too much blood and not enough heart.  Too much type and not enough part.  The noise is loud but there is no sound.  In Tracy's words: "Give me one reason to stay here, and I'll turn right back around."

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Kinda Cold Sunny Day Riding Bonus

 Photo by Sadie Myers. Titled by Dustin Whitehead.

After Hours

Photo by Sadie Myers.

split-personality light bulb

shocking but not worried
hoping but not blurried

today is our life
at least for a while

let's see what we can do
split-personality light bulb

let's see if we can change
let's make our home on range

diversity's a curse sometimes
but that is us, you and I

We can not change our making
So here's to the lope and hoping

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead

Five More Minutes

If I could fly I would

If I could chance- I should

So I guess "here goes nuthin!"

Off the ledge I go

To a land of "I don't know"

When perhaps I never will

Maybe that's my curse

Or my blessing, which is worse

It means- All this is good

And this little train that could

Is bound to find a future

In many a different pasture

And that's just the facts

What about the unknown

Or the ungrown

All that's yet to be

What will be of me

I don't know

So I point a big toe

Neglecting the others

And I jump

Pretending I have feathers

And maybe next is a blurr

Or a he and her

Or a dancing bear

Or new underwear

Who knows?!!!

Not this guy

This guy beeing me

I suppose we shall see

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

Love and Marriage

Thinking about things

And a tone

Rings

Not for me

Because I'm gone

Not Broken or missing

But presently unrepresented

Pensive

Certainly not working

In a fishbowl liquifying

Where everyone can see

No one cleans the glass

And refilling is a task

Meant for heroes

Would she if I asked

Well, there my mind goes

Gone

But not done

Thoughts

Let me find another one

There

That's much easier

'I'll have the chicken sandwich.'

Photo by Sadie Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.

I thought You Were Music

 

Photo by Sadie Myers. Titled by Dustin Whitehead.

Goin' to the Chapel

The Sun...

These words are for the sun:  I didn't want to see you last night.  So I took a taxi home.  It was five fifteen when I opened the door.  I slept like a baby.  I woke as a man.  The year is two thousand eleven.  You are here.  Today is the start of something.  Thanks for reminding me to live.  Thank you for the light.  

Photo by Sadie  Myers. Words by Dustin Whitehead.