dry

“DRY”

I’m dry

No stories,  no words

No brilliant combination of phrase and metaphor sliding into stark realities and exploding into the colorful and comforting

No hiding behind tales of depravity and murder

No resting in hidden corridors

I’ve been pushed out into this waste land and I’m wandering around a prison of crazy fuckers pulling at my universe

And work going crazy

And Christmas shopping and changing diapers and the whatever

Even now, bent over the twigs furiously working the kindling to spark a fire

PTA and juice cups and Thanksgiving dinner

And I’m just tired

My wife and I have regressed to short mutterings instead of conversations

Mentally and physically spent and wasted dry

And I’m cooking this dope to get wet

But the wind blows and puts out the torch flame

So I settle for a shot of whiskey and the only result was this lousy poem that I’m even ashamed to publish on a fucking internet blog

So because of that,  I know that I should

So I do.

father issues

“father issues”

Dad – you suck

You left me before I could grow up into the man I am today

You never met my kids, or my wife

You never saw that I had my own place and a good job and a car

And that I worked hard to get some place in life

You suck for not leaving any money for me to bury you with

I had to have you cremated and I had to listen to your cousin yell at me about how Jews don’t cremate their dead

But she was unwilling to part with one dollar from her millions, to help out

You suck dad, not because I hate you or hated you when you lived

Actually you were a very cool guy, which I learned to appreciate after I got older

A single parent of 70 plus years for a teenage boy didn’t really have a ton of bright spots

But after, when I could learn to appreciate the experiences of life – I understood you better

But you suck because I do think you were cool but you fucking died on me right before I got married the first time and had your oldest granddaughter

You would have tormented her with that, “give me some sugar!” shit you used to say

But it makes me smile because she would have loved you and squealed when you kissed her cheek

Why did you go to Vegas?  And eat that bad lobster tail?  And come home and get sicker and give up and not try to get well?

Why does it turn my stomach every time I say that you died of malnutrition?  Because you wouldn’t eat

And the nutrient IV only kept you afloat

It wasn’t enough to cure you and bring back your strength

Strength that I admire in you now, looking back at memories

You were always big, but not scary

I remember your permanent five o’clock shadow

You used to dry shave in the mirror in the hallway downstairs

I felt safe with you

We had our little life routine going and I miss it

I miss you

Our kitchen table was covered in a tapestry of papers from your work

Little notes – sometimes one phrase scrawled on an entire sheet of stationary

Your quirks amuse me now

As much as I chided you while growing up – my friends and I secretly poking at your idiosyncrasies

I was just jealous that you and my brother were friends, but I was just a son; not a friend

Why did you wait to have me until you were almost 60 years old?

Why were you so powerful and smart, and fearful and able to keep up with and overcome everything?

And suddenly you are afraid of food?

You must have known the death that would ensue as a result of this!

You must have known that your body would eat ITSELF and your soul would refuse to remain attached to it

I remember the last time I saw you alive

I sat across from you in the hospice room – you could barely move and you could definitely not speak

I handed you a cup of water with a white bendy straw in it

You tried to get the water up, but it only went halfway in the straw and then kept falling back down into the cup

This happened two or three times and my guts were filled with terror

And then hopeless sadness

I realized this would be it

So I sat there and told you that it was okay, if you wanted to let go

I loved you and I understood that it was time for you to give up and just float away

The next time I saw you, the funeral home gave you to me in a black, rubber box

Too much t.v. had made me expect a decorative urn

I took your ashes to the grave sight of your parents, whom I’d never met

But I knew the place because your brother was buried there when I was fifteen and I remembered the way

I dug a small hole on top of your father and mother’s graves and I poured your ashes into the dirt

From the dirt, and back to it was the only way I guess to do something meaningful for you

I was surprised that the grey ashes seemed clumpy and thick at times

And it didn’t seem like it could be you there, when I felt like you were somewhere else entirely

You suck dad

Your grandson is a handsome, little boy and he makes fists all the time like I did when I was a baby

His name is Jaxson

And every day he makes me think of you

five dollars

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revolution - Part I

“revolution – Part I”

Run through the streets, you mad warriors

Holding up shield and buckler with strong left arms and right hands viciously gripping swords and spears

Prepared for your fight – your enemy laughs until you draw near enough for them to see the murder and chaos in your eyes

The needed tools to bring about the right

There are trumpet players in your ranks – sounding out the alarms

There are flag bearers raising banners of TRUTH, JUSTICE, and EQUALITY

You’ve spent time in dark caves smelting steel blades

You’ve swam through deadly currents and your muscles are tightened by the resistance

You’ve practiced delicate sword play and accurate archery

But now the skirmish is upon you and it’s time to tear open tender bellies and expose the rotten guts of the evil doers who have sucked the blood of the common masses

They’ve eaten too much to even digest it all

And you will expose them with battle cries so severe your voice can barely carry them

You will shame them by burning their castles

Structures of glass, wood, and stone

You will bind them hand to foot and take them outside to the streets where everyone can see

As they acted in secret, their massacre will come in the bright light of day

And once they’re fallen on the edge of your sword

Once they’re speared through and fixed to the walls

Once you severed the ropes of their catapults and hamstrung their horses and demolished their chariots – you will find new architects to build a new city

And their magicians who spoke lies and put them in power – you will burn them with fire

So click the end of your pen and clear your throat and offer the blank page

And get your battle armor on

Clothe yourself with humility and service, and sacrifice

And with doing all and having no thought for yourself

Swing your blades so hard that they whistle in the air

Dig into your heart and use the hurt to fill your quiver

And your rage and your experience and your brilliance – is a fire!

So light your arrows and sling them across their darkened skies

Keep pushing

Keep writing

Keep creating

Keep speaking

Keep doing what is right, when it all seems so wrong

Long live the revolution

more kids

“more kids”

Kike – I remember the first time I heard the word

It stung more than I thought it would

The poison enriched by the chuckling and inevitable jeering of those around us at the lunch table

My “friends” joining in – having no choice other than siding with the bully

This, along with the pubescent weight gain, mixed with the laziness in the overprotective approach of my father, sprinkled with the distant judgment of my mother – kicked off a cycle of self deprecation not seen in humanity since the days of post holocaust

I learned quickly how to make badges

Little badges that turned into shields that deflected all arrows

The strongest and greatest of which, was my ability to put myself down to the lowest part under the earth and carry others with me on that journey

So that only one of the two outcomes would ensue – I would be pitied and thereby left alone; or they would respect my resolve in the face of such a violent internal storm and somehow fear me as a lunatic who loved to hate the self that he loved so much

Hey, big nose!

Hey Jew nose!

Do you get presents as CHanukkah and at Christmas?

Do Jews celebrate birthdays?

I wasn’t prepared for public school and these frequent inquisitions

I went to a private school for little Jewish boys and girls up until grade 5, and in grade 6, the kids hadn’t yet mastered the artistry of hate

I realized why my older brother had shot a boys’ kneecaps out when he was fourteen years old

I realized why my dad would pat his pocket, the one with the .22 caliber pistol in it

I wanted to act out and hurt them

Make their stomachs sick and make them embarrassed and afraid, and suffer like me in front of everyone at the lunch table

Hurt their mommies and daddies and little brothers and sisters

And their friends and their animals and their clothes and their room and their toys

I wanted to burn it all and make them watch and then eat the ashes and then stare at the decay until they were as sorry as they could be

But I lacked the courage to pull triggers and cut skin and tie boys naked to trees in the woods

So I pointed guns at myself and cocked the hammer until my finger became weary

Running blades across my skin, I cut deep and made wounds that created scars that would show forever

And exposing myself and holding myself prisoner, I let myself become devoured by the beasts in the woods and by the thick blackness of the night

Then I grew up and all of these dickheads wanted to be my friends on Facebook

Then everyone was trying to “catch up” and organize school reunions

I had a family now and I wasn’t a kike at the lunch table any more

Now I was a grown man with a wife and children and a job and money

And my muscles were strong enough now to fight anyone who tried

And I knew how to insult as well as or better than the rest – I could make words HURT

And I showed them because I never replied to their requests for friendship

And I never attended their reunions and gatherings

And I tell my daughter that when someone is mean to her at school, to make sure she tells the teacher and tells us so me or my wife can talk to that kids’ parents

And I forgot about my mother telling me the same things, and those words terrifying me and making me want to puke

But I think that I’m doing okay so far as a parent, and having the chance again to repeat school and dodge the ugly

And if I screw it up, I’ll have two more chances

And if those chances don’t work out as planned, then I guess we’ll just have to have some more kids