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.

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.

Post 81 - Cruel is Casual (poem)

The black on that butterfly's wings
only serves to promote the glistening beauty
of its iridescent blue.

It fans those wings
with laconic grace
until

my dog curiously nips
at it.  Leaving
a cripple.  The snap

unintended.  The result?

Fatal.

Post 80 - The Day You Were Born (poem)

You arrived without a name
because with your mother's stubborn
aplomb you punched
your ticket into this world
when you damn well felt like it.

She says you look like our grandfather.
I see it too.  The steadfast strength of a sugar tramp,
and your father.  You are born
of the mountains and the sea.  From

a deep legacy of kindness,

compassion, and human decency you draw.  The world
bettered by your presence.  Now sleep.  Rest
to tackle the life
ahead.  It will be magic,

just like you.

Post 79 - Cactus (poem)

CACTUS

You see me
in the desert, happy
to be alone.

You forget me
for a time and discover
I still thrive.

But I need
water, I need
touch, I need
connection.

Ignore me
and one day you will find
a brown, shrivelled husk
with no purpose
left but to casually
hurt you.

Post 78 - Love (poem)

LOVE

It's not a shield,
it's a boat.
Weathered,

beaten,
as two captains try
to keep it afloat
in black, angry seas.

Together they must
commit lest it sink,
capsize,
dash to splinters
upon rocks.

If either is tempted
into the sea
by merfolk,
or thirst,
Sirens
or the promise of cool currents
they will discover

the lie that lives
beneath the waves.
Regret
has no power to right
an abandoned ship.

And so two captains work
together to survive
a world that wants their boat to fail.

Day 80 - The Real Vampires (poem)

They don't want
your blood.  They want
your stories.  Head nodding
in patient

understanding
as you tell of pill addiction,
a heart stripped by careless boys, children
you wish
were never born.
Heartless

they are, feeding
on your raw, bleeding
life.

Day 79 - Want (poem)

WANT

Asleep,
your knee shifts gently
outward.  You wear

a parted robe.
It slips down a delicate path, laconic.
Your thigh exposed,
but draped

in shadows that draw me
with their promise.

Day 78 - Near Death (poem)

NEAR DEATH

I saw the taillights, gathered
like geese, distracting me
for a moment
from the car laid across the middle
of the road
like a woman reclining
on a bearskin rug...relaxed
and ridiculous, but

there it was.

And I nearly plowed into it, visions
of fire and glass, rolling and death
flashing as I pulled left, spun out
in a median I was fortunate to reach
while my heartrate
stayed curiously unaffected.  Somewhat
nonplussed, there was nothing to do,
but get back on the road and drive
home.  After
I stopped off for a diet coke.

Day 77 - Sins Of The Father (poem)

SINS OF THE FATHER

I find tears at times
spring unbidden at the brightness
of that boy's heart.
I'm told

there was a time when
I was of similar outlook, but
I can't remember it.  I can't
remember a lack of darkness
in my outlook.

I know all the ways
I've gone wrong, been wronged
and wish to protect him
from classmates falling victim
to cool, lovers swayed by
others, self-doubt imprinted
by genetics.

I hope
I have the wisdom
to guide him
to be different
than me.

Day 76 - On Poop And Sadness (poem)

ON POOP AND SADNESS

It becomes clearer
with age that what comes
out is largely influenced
by what

we take in.

Day 75 - Empty (poem)

EMPTY

I dunno know
if I'm a gilded vase,
a plain cup or a used
tin can,

but I've got
nothing in me
today.