stress/fractures

"If it ain't broke, don't
fix it,"

they say.
'Cuz broke hurts. Like
a bag of bones tossed
over the front of a Huffy, or misplaced skin left
on pavement as payment for speed,
a dismissed
heart, or bank
statements.

"Money can't buy happiness,"

is true, but
like a child denied hugs the lack
can sure fuck things up.

"I would rather be happy
and poor, than miserable and rich."

But
I'd be happy
to give happy and rich a try.

"You can't take it with you,"

but
you also can't re-eat a perfect steak,
or re-kiss a first kiss,
or re-see your first sunset.
Sometimes I want a little right now
in my life.

Not very Zen
Buddah, with
his jolly elf face and great
golden belly.  That richness
comes from breath and perspective, but

somedays
I don't want to study for the test, or
back down from the anger flecked spittle
in my face,
or R-E-L-A-X. Thanks
anyway Mr. Rogers.

When the kitchen light flickers, and
the goddamned roaches are at it, and
my back acts like an asshole, and
the isolation grows into a black cape covering the horizon,

I don't want
my higher self.  I just want
ease.  To have the load lifted high.
Let Atlas shoulder the world.

And yet, maybe
despite my desire to spite myself,
I look around.

At love,
at children, at another broken pair of glasses
that will have to be fixed or replaced,
and I'll be repaid with a huge hug and
a thank you more sincere than I could muster
for a winning lottery ticket.

At thousands of little joys around me
like ants that I battle on the reg
because my youngest eats Pop-Tarts like a wood chipper
and spreads the crumbs like he's Johnny fucking Appleseed!!
And he smiles like he invented the smile.

I love my life.

Because no matter what they say, broke
isn't destroyed.  And if you're lucky,
broke can be repurposed into something

beautiful

Good Fences

"What's with all the noise?"
No

"Hi, my name is ... "
or "Howdy
neighbor." Just rude,

invective tommy gunning
out of a trembling Parkinson's
mouth as youthful
rage gets watered down
through a cataract glare.
Sorry

the wife with wrap
around shades and West Hollywood
bitchiness sucked
the life out, leaving
a desiccated gourd
where

a man should stand. But

old and dying doesn't bequeath carte blanche
to be
an asshole.

Yeah, About That... (poem)

You say
you hate drama,
but you create it.
Purvey it,

enflame it, and survey
your small entertainments.
Your tongue, slimy
and foul as the bullshit you eat up
daily to distract

from the hell you create.

Burying pain,
compassion, understanding, fear
with judgement and whiskey.
Your eyes permanently blurred
so

you cannot recognize
your image
mirrored.

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.