Post 88 - Vapors (novel chunk, prologue)

  I can tell you the exact moment my world broke apart.  2:13am, Saturday evening, mid-October, 1988. I was 14. I was drunk. I got raped.
  It happens a lot, so it doesn't make me special.  It seems to carry extra shame when you're a dude though. You're not supposed to allow that to happen.  Suddenly you're blocked off from any hope that you will ever be able to call yourself a man.  When you live in a world that demands you can blow through a 12 pack with the boys, build a fire, beat down a jerk and satisfy your woman endlessly with your 10 inch cock, what are you supposed to do when you've had another dude's dick in your ass.
  What I did was die.  My hopes were gone.  My options gone.  Any thought of self-esteem or being able to be of any worth to any human ever, especially a woman, effectively scorched from the Earth.  So I turned to a string of cliches to try and keep going forward.  Eventually I discovered a unique ability.  Since I hated myself, I discovered I could step in and take the heat, almost regardless of the situation.  Because no amount of disapproval or disgust could outpace what I felt inside.  I might not be able to fix myself, but I could give others the chance to grow and move on from their mistakes, simply by taking on their blame.
  It's made for a difficult and often lonely life, but it was the training I needed to handle the day the Vapors came.

Post 87 - This Is Chalk Street! (poem)

Every cataclysm
should have a day like this.  As twilight descends
the squeals of children drawing
with colored chalk on a broken street.

Ears perked at the jangle
of an ice cream truck. Screaming
with delight, begging for cash, making
sure everyone is provided for.  Looking

out for each other with intensity you rarely find
outside of foxholes and cults. Sharing ice cream sandwiches,
chocolate banana pops, untroubled
by germs,

or rain.

Post 86 - Sadness (poem)

They need
a better word, something
deeper for days like today.

For lines full of food stamp
users, unable to feed
their family, pride
chipped to the bone
as technology rejects
them.

For skies so wet and gray
it seems sunlight will never
shine

For bright children, states
away. Unreachable for hugs
and silly whispers.

For Her, confused and frustrated,
struggling like Atlas. Beautiful.
Then again

maybe

that word perfectly
captures the day.

Post 85 - Reality? (poem)

You simply cannot
live
a decent life
concerned about others
thoughts.

Post 84 - Tortured (poem)

Punishment comes to the righteous,
and the douchebags alike. Because
life doesn't care about who

you are. The same
person that is a hero to some
is a monster to the woman who saw
him eat her heart.  She died

just as hard
as any victim does.  And the reckoning
cannot be visited upon one

if it is not visited
upon all.

Post 83 - Sunrise (poem)

Sunrise, a cliche
of rebirth as firey
as the Phoenix.
Boring. And it is fractured

as a metaphor, for what you want
to bring across is compromised
by reality. Sunrise brings blindness,
heat, burns to unprotected skin.

It marks you, like a dog
pissing on a new carpet, destroying
the lovely newness you are so excited
to explore.

Post 82 - That Day (poem)

That day hurt

worse than any other. In the way

you can only admit

when dying;

because the shame

of the hurt is almost worse

than the pain. Admitting that you need

love, attention, consideration.  That her missing

what you need

was the deepest cut

you've ever felt.  Knowing

she didn't get it. Now

she does,

but she didn't. In that time you were inconsequential,

and died.