A LIFE WELL LIVED
When I was a little boy me and my grandfather would often just hangout, watch movies, go fishing, play chess, hike, go to lunch just guy stuff. He regaled me with stories and what to expect in life; how to treat people, how important family is, how important God and country are, made sure I brushed my teeth and to never be embarrassed or ashamed to hug or show affection toward the family – lessons of life. Lessons of life I’ve carried with me that have sculpted into the man I have become and who I want my kids to know and emulate. But the stories, good God, the stories Pop would tell me were tales of adventure and excitement beyond belief. As I grew older, I grew more skeptical and began to silently question the veracity of his sagas. After Pops passed and my father was in his golden years dad agreed that Pops truly was long winded and imaginative but dad confirmed to me that everything Pops had told me was absolutely fucking true. Pops, I should never have doubted a single word. A life well lived…
SWEET GIRL
SWEET GIRL Her voice was as thin as a razor, giving out paper cuts with her tongue lashings. Not unlike the strip club barker. Remnants of relationships sadly broken at her feet. Nary a moment’s thought to repair the damage inflicted whole or incomplete she couldn’t save a relationship if she wanted to. Destined to swill acidic commentary made her a personality that left scars upon the unsuspecting that would never fade. The beautiful people hovered on the vitriol that poured forth when she decided to opine on the shortcomings of less fortunate souls who couldn’t keep up. She died alone in a bed with notched headboard and vomit. Grace was wasted on her, she needed to die sooner.
SELECTIVE GENES
Do not tell me it’s not good for me. Do not tell me I cannot smoke cigars. Do not tell me I can’t drink Jack Daniels. Do not tell me I can’t eat a Twinkie (or a box of Twinkies!) Do not tell me I cannot jaywalk. Do not tell me I can’t climb the ladder, (I choose not to climb it!) Do not tell me! I’m 93 years old for Christ’s sake!
THE ALLERGIES OF WIND CHIMES
THE ALLERGIES OF WIND CHIMES My thoughtless neighbors hang wind chimes without regard to known wind charm allergies suffered by those living next door. There oughta be a law banishing wind chimes near my bedroom window. The tinkle of glass resonates not unlike the nasal tone irritant of the buffoon who doesn’t recognize his or her own ceaseless mind-numbing chatter that is nothing more than ceaseless mind-numbing chatter. oh, for God’s sake take down the folded and bent silverware wind chimes and use them to feed your neglected children. …and your artsy-fartsy kiln fired pottery chimes clunking in expectation of a gust of wind insuring broken ceramic sounds like the pitifully sorrowful bird trapped in the fireplace chimney trying in vain to escape the flames while thinking, “Why me?” The wind doesn’t need your help, it is everything it is supposed to be as it is. It rustles music through every tree. And why don’t my neighbors rake their damned lawn? There oughta be a law!
SEASONS
SEASONS More seasons have come and gone than are left on my calendar. I still walk this beach everyday just lower and slower always looking back making sure my footprints will take me home again. I watched last summer like every summer before, not much changed; the chase of love continues. Young lovers, summer romances, girls trying to impress each other, boys trying to scratch the itch of raging hormones with little success. But now it’s fall the beach is desolate, alone, deserted, wind swept, rain hardened, tide eroded just the way I like it. I have to be here everyday, this same stretch of beach as I leave a map of memories in the sand. It’s easier to find my way home through fall, winter and spring. It’s only summer that is confusing but still in a long-lost familiar way.
CUISINE
CUISINE Lazy months, fickle decades of passions collected like menus from the finest restaurants of New York, bistros of Spain, delis of Hackensack, cafés nestled along the Champs-Élysées, taco wagons of Tucson, deep fried havens of State Fair Midways from Canada to Mexico and every greasy spoon skirting Route 66. We’ve filled a libraries-worth with menus of love and emotion. Every item uniquely flavored yet, each sharing one common thread of delectability; they gauge my words in retrospect clinging to the last vestiges of love. Therefore, let me be your past the one who writes upon our heart’s recipes of a lifetime of fine dining until we have cleaned our plates, washed our palates ultimately finding ourselves sitting politely awaiting dessert.
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A PADDLE OUT
A PADDLE OUT…for my friend, Guzo! A paddle out on a glorious glassy fall day. Board gliding effortlessly through the still morning tide. Mother Ocean herself the guide. Other days her torrential waves swirling eddies, unforgiving riptides leave me just as breathless. Paddling into the storm of her heart I feel her pick me up (The Step) she has me and I her. She allows me her solitude as long as I show respect and proper footing. There’s a sound to surfing, beyond the waves themselves, the gliding heard only when in her arms. Sunsets and sunrises are countless, ever changing yet predictable to time and season. This is God’s house. A valuable old friends’ mantra resides forever in my heart: “This is my church!”
CHEERS
every night. I sit at the bar, there’s always a drink waiting for me. No one else comes to this tavern, tended by a barkeep whose black vest name tag reads “William”. Even though there are other bartenders, there’s only one vest. (who knew taverns had uniformed personnel?) “William” polishes the bar top as if it’s his own personal classic car, never meant to be driven again. Only for show, not for go. An unseen jukebox, volume down low, slow bye-gone-era dance music barely fills the air. Music meant to merely distract. I need never order a fresh drink and I never see tonight’s “William” fill my glass, he’s continuously polishing the chrome headlamps of the back bar. My eyes begin to redden from the inside out, eyelids blink slower. I need to be home before they quit all together. Drinks are always on the house but I leave a customary tip and a smile. As I leave I look over my shoulder telling “William”, “Nice car!” “Thanks. It’s a Duisenberg!”
LOVING ON BORROWED TIME
LOVING ON BORROWED TIME I know how and why I chose you but for the life of me I cannot find a reason you allowed yourself to fall in love with me. So, why did you agree to go out with me? There was no trust fund, nor fancy car, no cleft chin good looks. I barely catch my own reflection in department store windows. You held my heart in your hands, gentle at first then over time your grip would ease, sometimes letting go. I remember you running back into my arms, into my life, into my heart time after time. Were you unsure of me or yourself? I was always surprised when you returned and never really surprised when you left. Never expecting you to stay or return. Thinking our time was over gave me time to heal and be thankful for what we did share. Then, with your usual flair and the jiggling of the front door handle, you made your entrance again as if you had just returned from the store. I was always pleased and puzzled. And so, taking advantage of each other continued despite my insecurities advising me that we were loving on borrowed time.
Bon Voyage
Bon Voyage While walking my dog today I glanced skyward spotting the reflective fuselage of a passenger jet, I guessed 35,000 feet overhead. I could have easily missed it; no contrail, no noise, no little hands waving from little windows. I watched it for about 15 seconds then it just stopped, stopped in flight, hanging there. That can’t be normal. 10 seconds! 10 seconds it hung in the ether! I thought that must be an eternity for a passenger jet to idle at 35,000 feet. 10 seconds later it disappeared from the sky. I wished them “Bon Voyage”. Lola barked. We walked on.
THE BARGE TO STYX
THE BARGE TO STYX Where do the insane go when they die? Is there a special heaven or hell awaiting the mentally not well? White lie insane to criminally insane are the guidelines of madness capable of inflicting exhaustive pain and hellacious sadness. But where do they go in the afterlife? The devil doesn’t have time to deal with idiosyncratic mental maladies, it would take up too much of his valuable time with such satanic formalities. Is there a notice posted at the pearly gates in heaven directing the insane, the afflicted, the homeless the colored, the wandering poet, the undiagnosed to the Pearly Prejudices Entrance around back? (…follow the yellow line to the blue line…) Punishment Guidelines & Definitions: White Lies? A sin, (regardless of the color of the lie) ENTRANCE DENIED! Criminally Insane? ENTRANCE DENIED! Morally Insane? ENTRANCE DENIED! see addendum: Addendum: Probation & Restitution; (consideration possible…TBD) What is the place where the insane will dwell? Together? Certainly not, as the strong would pray upon the weak. And we couldn’t have that in Heaven as it is on earth! But where DO they go? Old Joe, a White Lie Story Teller (Heaven help his soul). Once, repeatedly he explained: “back in the olden days the less mentally fortunates were stripped naked outta their clothes and sins. We ain’t saw ‘em since.” History dictates each are escorted to Kharon, a Louisiana Barge out of New Orleans (the official Insanity Way Station). Tugs always at the ready! Chairs of questionable comfort we’re made available for the long slow downstream boat ride. Pulling away from the pier the unfortunates, ever puzzled yet delighted in the insanity of it all, never question the large crowd come to see them off. From behind Trinity Church Mother Superior turns a cheek in shame. Drifting further downstream every church steeple of Jackson Square genuflects at the uncertainty the unfortunates face. As the passengers drift along Representatives of the Holy Roman Empire line their balcony giving dismissive blessings while toasting from bottomless cups filled with Christ’s blood, feasting on the Eucharist as lunch time bells peal the sins of man without a blink or care. The bishop, feasting in private, avoiding acknowledgment of the insane spectacle drifting below his palace, as so directed in the Bishop Handbook. Molesting altar-boys was not covered in last year's handbook so he failed to not consider it a sin. Did hunger for sinfully young flesh cause him to be White Lie Insane? A little insane? A lot insane? Criminally Insane? Morally Insane? Or not insane enough not to be denied entrance to his blessed beyond? He knew how and when to be forgiven, but what of the insanity he inflicted? The unfortunates, oblivious in mind and deed, ride their river barge downstream to the confluence of the Styx to the unknown afterlife out of sight, out of mind, literally.
TIL DEATH DO I PART
TIL DEATH DO I PART Do not take me yet death. I do not fear you, I fear but only what I will miss and still selfishly desire. The road which brought me here is filled with love and joy, triumph and loss, accomplishment and too often sloth. Upon this road I stand no longer envisioning future trials and decisions. Here the road ends, upon it I am stranded. Yesterday is complete tomorrow no longer offers insight of expectation. So, I stand waiting. Waiting? (Sloth raising its prickly head) I cannot find my way facing a tomorrow I cannot foretell. No direction nor purpose beckons my call. Life has come to a halt even as the future of my children’s children face the adventure of life ahead like the meadow or forest of trees yet to be explored. Death do not take me yet even though my life is overfilled and its offerings taken advantage of. When young I could foresee my way my trail, my destiny. Now, I stand motionless wanting not this path to end. Death do not take me yet for I am too selfish for you. I am incapable of and unable to lay down just to let you take me without a fight.
THE IMPORTANCE OF PUPPY LOVE
THE IMPORTANCE OF PUPPY LOVE No one prepares you for the impending anguish of the depth of a broken heart when puppy love suddenly skids off the road on a lonely highway. It is your first love, there’s no expectation of agony when you’ve never been there before. The only lesson learned about the end of love, then and ever after is that it hurts. Not the good kind either. The First Aid Instruction Manual dictates the only cure for pain associated with Broken Heart Syndrome (Formerly known as Puppy Love Broken Heart Syndrome) is time. A bitter cure, to be sure. Time and some nonsense about going fishing in the ocean. I thought I was too young for a broken heart. My folks laughed about how cute I was having been stricken with Puppy Love Broken Heart. I hated my parents for the first time as they relished in my pain and confusion. It wouldn’t be the last time I would hate them. Puppy Love fortunately happens only once, like First Loves, the pre-orgasmic first loves, just not as serious. Falling out of love took planning. Falling in love was as easy as catching the flu. The immortality of love is a given when falling in love. It is constant, indelible, as intimate as Puppy Love. Time did teach me when falling out of love it is imperative to maintain my integrity. Integrity would be the only asset I could ever salvage. That and my clothes or at least some of my clothes.
MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVES
MESSAGE FROM THE GRAVES The dead do not lay silent in their graves quietly in repose for the dust of centuries to claim their bodies physical. Every veteran every fallen soldier’s family hears the screams of battles courage, last breath drawn, last sob wept, last cheer of battles victorious, last click of a mine, last piece of flesh torn from stalwart bodies, last draw of the cigarette, last cheers of the little league home run, last splash in the pool, last parting of stolen kisses, last father’s handshake, last medal pinned to overburdened uniforms, last hand held of comrade as life ebbs from enemy wounds, last glance a dying soldier’s eye acknowledging the promise to tell his mother of her sons last breath. So, the dead do not lay in quiet repose for they fought for the honor to be in formation with their comrades defending hallowed ground of this brave country for the ages ever to be honored. They scream from their graves to fight on.
POET GUIDES
As closet poets we are authors of our own destruction unless we share the depth of our word. When we share we discover others revel or commiserate with us as intended. First easy lesson learned is that those who refuse to accept our language, well, they don’t matter and are not to be feared by our quietly fragile egos. It’s a journey, it’s our journey to share the thrill of being alone.
The Serious Business of Holding Hands
The beginning, the serious beginning of any relationship starts with holding hands. Getting passed the talk, the anticipation and the insecurities begins the physical. The serious business of holding hands begins timidly almost as fragile as gossamer wings, Fingers intertwine, faulting a little like a child’s first steps. Your hand larger than hers must be gentle, gentle enough to hold a hummingbird yet lovingly confident telling her you would fight a war for her if she asked. The beginning stages of holding hands is awkward, electrifying. Not unlike the anticipation of winning the lottery (I think) as well as filling your heart without consequence. The electricity generated by two hands has been compared to the gaze of lovers over the lights of Paris. The serious business of holding hands is a prelude to tomorrow. The first time she takes your hand is as memorable and indelible as the first kiss, the first embrace, as the inevitable trail of clothes puddled on the bedroom floor, to be cherished when those rainy winter nights need kindling to restart the fire in your hearts. The first time happens only once it isn’t meant to be spent carelessly like that time, you drove too fast in the rain on bald tires. Take care to recognize the wonder of first times then you will understand the serious business of holding hands.
SHE WAS NEVER ALONE
She Was Never Alone Photographs of dead relatives, friends and lovers scattered around the single brass bed. A tattered eons old quilt filled with more holes than colored thread lay spread out as it was when she took her dying breath and last sight of the black and white images that were all that was left in her life. She'd outlived everyone she had ever known the same way the whale swims out to sea never to be seen again. The same way young crows are never seen. A shaft of light had burned a hole in the drawn shade filling the room with the color of a decayed tooth. It had been her sanctuary her hiding place where even demons feared to tread. She’d only asked her family, friends and lovers for one thing, a photograph of themselves when they were happiest, like when the orange blossoms bloomed filling the air with their bounty. She deeply inhaled the richness of her friends always smelling orange blossoms as she relived each image of happiness. Newspapers clippings blanketed every space of the creaky wooden floor. Articles of her glory days of debutantes, of socialites of whose elbows she rubbed, obituaries whose photographs preceded them beyond death forever engrained for posterity. The floor worn where the old woman walked, when she could still walk, like a path in the woods. As she walked that path of newspapers the floorboards began to speak. She wasn't alone or for want of company she had only to walk the newspaper forest to hear the laughter of soirees, premiers, laughter and tears of 10 decades of a fulfilled life. When she could no longer walk she took to bed surrounded by her life in photos. Sometimes when the floorboards would creak she would smile. Sunlight shone through the torn shade circling the room during the years. She watched as the world spun faster out of her control. She'd given up control when she was 90 now just along for the ride into eternity. She lay back on her grandmothers quilt and photos of her life. When the sun reaches to door I'll leave. On her 100th birthday the light teased the hinges of the door, the floor creaked and she smiled into eternity.
TRANSPARENT DESIRE
Transparent Desire Wear that sheer linen dress I like so much. The one that the sun smiles through. Your beguiling ways captured my spirit a lifetime ago. Promise me you won't stop that way you looked at me. Every night I watch you sleep I'm in awe at your ability to smile in slumber. When we talk your smile always reaches your eyes, speaking volumes of love nurtured through time. Sitting close to me while driving down the interstate, your hand comfortably on my thigh. Your head on my shoulder. And when we kiss, your hand upon my chest over my heart. I know you can tell when it skips a beat. The way you tuck me in at night then rip off the blankets with that crazy little laugh that betrays your anticipation of pending desire. Our passion hidden, resting momentarily somewhere in the peaks and valleys of the disheveled sheets waiting to be reawakened after we catch our collective breath. Never retire that linen dress, for even the light in the hallway would dim in disappointment. . Silhouettes are nature's subtle distraction of imagination especially in the early evening glow. Your gentle smile is the beacon guiding my constant safe return home and to your silhouette.
MORNING UNFOLDS
Morning Unfolds The full moon above the Animas reflecting mercury-like. Polaris brightens. Dawn approaches giving breath to a fresh start. Tule Fog hovers above the warm waters, a still life scene. Ever fleeting moments in time. Not a bough bends, nor breeze whispers. Denizen to field mouse stand in silence waiting, watching, being, integral pieces. A new day beckoning a call to prepare what lies ahead The sun vapors the fog, the rhythm of the day awakens. The breeze charms the leaves into a symphony found only from perches above the landscape below. Each note dawns its citizens into their daily chores. The forest wiping sleep from its eyes conjures magic filling the air. The voices of the river come to life on their journey from where they slept the night before to destinations downstream, to what awaits tomorrow. Morning has broken…
MORNING UNFOLDS
The Fishermen’s Shadow There’s a lake I fish deep in the Rockies filled with trout as big as your arm filled with excitement filled with magic filled with the shadows of fishermen past Like me they return for the experience not the catching rather the fishing and the rituals involved They’ve all passed but can’t leave. Their shadows give them away But so few know of this lake their shadows no longer hide as strangers approach no reason to as the lake is lined with hundred year old pine, aspen and oak each resplendent with its own shadow easy access camouflage if desired to glimpse a strangers bait tactic or lunch The fishermen’s shadows know my truck and often gather round as I park in the empty lot. Shadows dissolve as faces appear men connected to the faces decked out in waders, shorts, winter coats obligatory stupid hats festooned with hooks, spinners and flys of every imaginable shape, color and size of which never were used in life or in shadow. Most proudly are adorned in useless overstuffed fishing vests. Now used for sandwiches, snacks and a beer or 6. Names are known, handshakes are hearty tales are tall lies are plentiful and not a single fish on a stringer to be seen. But none are here for the catching Only the moment caught in time of friends fishing together. As the day expends itself and fishing slows eyelids become heavy faces begin to dissipate shadows grow long But never fade. Until tomorrow then when the fishermen’s shadows resume fishing and the shadows of grown men play along the shore like little children once again never catching a single fish. For which the trout are thankful.
BLUSH
Blush The blush begins at attraction if you're lucky to see it. It is the aurora borealis of the northern hemisphere of a woman's body. When it appears it often betrays a woman's guile, stark in contrast to what she may say her body tells a different need, a desire. It is rarely elusive. She might as well give in to the desire for your body. Her blush signals the onset of Spring. A flower in bloom. The freedom of children running through a fountain. Sometimes it is something I have said, maybe the way I said it. Sometimes it is a look I share that begins the soft glow of sunrise across her chest and neck. It is as irresistible to me as a moth to flame, as a drop of rain to a single blade of grass, as vanilla wafting from the kitchen, as a child eyes a puddle. A woman's blush heats her soul, stirs her desire, whets her passion and there isn't a damn thing she can do about it.
“Cheap Wine On The Untested Palate Is Delicious And Happens Only Once”
“Cheap Wine On The Untested Palate Is Delicious And Happens Only Once” My aged memory oft replays a time of late night drives filled with anticipation The warmth of a young lady’s fertile willing body sitting close to mine. Her hand on my thigh an attempt to break my concentration to pay more attention to her. Too young to understand traffic laws as well as she did the laws of attraction or animal instincts. The drive-in was only a block away the Boones Farm Berry Wine properly chilled stashed beneath the front seat along with remnants of previous forays into the world of teenage sexual adventures. Her hand moved further up my thigh as I paid the $2 ticket price for a double feature we would never watch. Parking my ‘57 Nomad on the upslope in the back row among the rest of my high school class recognizable by make model and color of cars, fogged up windows well before the first feature added to the animal appetite waiting to be fed by every salacious teen in attendance. We snuggled up preparing for 4 hours of uncontrollable lascivious unsophisticated sloppy dangerous acts of animal deprivation that a pair of teenagers with limited knowledge and awareness of what we were truly capable of. Running out of fresh ideas within minutes bodies willing and re-willing to re-engage knowing tomorrow hips and groins and lips and tongues would be so deliciously sore yet indelibly imprinted upon our memories long after we’d forgotten each others names. How sweet the Boones Farm Berry Wine was back then…
Theater People (for my dearest Marty
Theater People (for my dearest Marty) What others don't know about life on the stage. Roaring greasepaint, smelly crowds don't begin to see the many levels of theatrics. Costumes on, make-up applied, Fresnels a fire Lekos flooding the stage behind deep blue gels. House lights dim curtains part finding you and me center stage. You in your regal alter-ego, my lothario persona with eyes gleaming, uncertainty to motive. We become our own audience bathing together in foot lights. Looking out over empty seats in silence yet filled with innuendo and anticipation. Suddenly we laugh uncontrollably at the scene unfolding. Ah, rehearsal, never to be taken lightly.
The Reluctant Corpse….
She was dead She didn’t have the courtesy to introduce herself before her demise I was alone when unconsciousness felled me from the stranglehold of Jack Daniels to my pillow top mattress where I awoke to a dead woman next to me in bed She was staring at the ceiling fan I looked up I looked at her “Good morning “ she said nothing We didn’t recognize each other I got out of bed. From my bathroom mirror I watched her as I brushed my teeth My mind raced thoughts curiously spinning webs thicker than my limited brain could grasp “Did we? Didn’t we?” we’d never know The police arrived a few minutes after my still disbelieving call reporting a dead woman having appeared in my bed After small talk I agreed in discussing further with downtown detectives about what I didn’t know After multiple trips around the globe of police uncertainty my world went 1930’s black & white film noir “Where’d you meet her?” “In my bed.” “What was her name?” “She didn’t say.” “How long did you know her?” “From 7:15 until police arrived at 7:23 this morning.” “What was she doing in your bed?” “Not breathing.” “Did you kill her?” “Never had the chance.” “How’s that…?” “She was already dead.” “How’d she die?” “She didn’t say.” “Have you ever seen her before?” “Not while she was breathing.” “What do you remember?” “I was alone. I got drunk. I fell asleep during Carson. I woke up. I wasn’t alone anymore.” “Don’t leave town."
Waiting in the Shadows
of Tombstones with Open Arms
Waiting in the Shadows of Tombstones with Open Arms A sudden hush befell the cemetery occupants as I entered their park. Always wary of the living pushing their inferred sentient senses and pseudo somber emotions across these hallowed grounds. But they all knew me and recognized my footsteps almost immediately. Rising to greet me, others in shadows just beyond recognition, a simple wave, which I returned. I asked if Bob Evans was near and the call went out. A few minutes later my old fishing buddy Bob moseyed over, we embraced and he asked: “Why don’t we see you around here anymore?” I told him: “there’ll be plenty of time soon enough, Bob. Don’t rush me.” We had a good laugh, then I told him: “Vera’s in hospice, Bob. she hasn’t got long.” He said; “Yeah, I’ve been sittin with her this week, holdin her hand tellin her the change is easy and not to be scared none. I spect she’ll be here later today. Me and the neighbors have a place fixed up real nice for her!” I said my goodbyes hoping the change would be easy for all of us. Bob met Vera at the gates around 4 o’clock. She was smiling as bright as the sunrise, healthy as a young doe. Walking through their park, they were holding hands. Together again.
ADDICTION
ADDICTION (A Love/Hate Tale) Harvesting my pills in my “Safety Shield Pill Cutter Tray” I salvage the last vestige of my wellness to stave off inevitable withdrawals a sickness I know as well as addiction itself A vicious cycle that a pill junkie as myself endures to chase away caustic implied notions that I am the pill junkie that I am I look fine I look normal I speak coherently I even form and express cogent thought but the silken beauty of this pharmaceutical bitch calls like the song of the siren’s promise of love’s eternal gift A day later I am faced with fewer fragments of my opioid roommate and a full week away from my prescription vacation A decision is pending, imminent: extent wellness or expend it and come what may tomorrow?!? FUCK IT! I down what’s left and lick the residue from the cap …I’m healed, again… 6 days later: Seppuku is a viable alternative to withdrawals but my cowardice triumphs reasoning maybe a stranger will suffocate me if I ask nicely…and the pharmacy is closed on Sunday Monday will bring my demise or salvation Monday morning as the pharmacy screen raises I am clean drug free a human once again I still get my prescription I keep the meds bagged hidden beneath my bathroom sink out of sight I no longer need them 2 hours later: I’m bored FUCK IT! I’ll just take one… and the devil laughs