Survivor, I too

I'm a survivor,

Not in the same sense as my father,

I've no disease that I've beaten.

But I'm a survivor.

I survived gang life in elementary school.

A tall, cocky, womanizing youth that had a 

Crew to steal lunches and kisses.

I survived my parents' divorce.

The endless name calling, chess playing, betrayal,

Jesus Christ we're fucking children, YOU'RE CHILDREN,

You're niece, your nephew, your grandchildren.  

What makes you think we can handle this shit?

It's ironic...that the boy you forced into adulthood

Learns the truth about all of you in the end

And can't let go of the hate inside you planted there.

I survived my mother's second marriage...barely.

The touching

The door opening at night

The unrelenting anger

That I faithfully endured

For you to throw me out

Once I was no longer a weekly check from Dad.

I survived High School.

Smoking pot and drinking like it was my major

Working 40 hrs a week to buy food and clothes

Nearly getting beaten daily for a Mexican deported.

I lettered in three sports

And waited for my chance to run.

I survived that 18 wheeler.
The brush with death would change me forever
And not just physically.
When you hit an object that large
At 60 mph
You can't help but lose a part of you into the abyss.

I survived 6 years in that awful meat grinder.

It's bad enough to pour your heart and soul

Into the lives of those you don't even know

But it's a slow death to do it to those

Who will only tell you you're not good enough

And fabricate reasons to destroy you.

I survived my own divorce.

I learned what it was like to be my father,

To have someone you've trusted

Walk out on you and not look back.

You too, are a heartless fucking bitch.

I survived the doctor visit

I survived hearing the words...hospice...two months.

I survived the uncertainty because, well...he's my father.

I survived the fear, the sleepless nights

I survived the Morphine, the ice chips, the Ativan,

hearing him say "help me" and having to say "I can't".

And the betrayal of my own ghosts

until I became a cold, broken shell of my former self.

But I'm a survivor.

Father Time

My father's kitchen table

was a hand-me-down

from my grandmother,

the paint-chipped surface

would hug your coffee

in the smokey blue haze

when the old man wouldn't-

couldn't.

There was love in that house

though I don't recall

ever feeling like I needed

to hear it then

like I do now,

it was everywhere-

it was in the ice cold pepsi-

the door that wouldn't open

from the seasonal shift-

in the soggy food dish

that was my husky's-

even the ghost of my mother

that haunted my father

until he found peace

through his most unforgiving battle.

I remember stepping over

the buckets upstairs

that would catch the water 

from the leaky roof

and caring more about 

the girl who wasn't calling me

than the slow erosion

of what had been the last place

that I can remember 

calling home.

My father's voice echoes 

within those walls

for me to slow down

not run

through the house.

Time was moving fast enough

for him

all he wanted

was to slow it down

just long enough

to hug me.

arodnap

There's a crashing
sort of sound
when my feet hit the water
and the cold
embraces me-
like the shroud
of studded plate mail
with my family crest
keeping safe this knight's
jousted heart.
I know I'd not make it
from the top
but my mind wanders there
then to being wrapped up
by one last kiss.

I pretend none else can
hear me
see me
and I talk to you.
What is it
you would
say to me
if the door were shut?
If I painted you?

As the distance grows
and the road lengthens
I hope
to find silence
to be peaceful
to forget
to never forget
to be fair enough
and I shall tell you.

Blackberry

Who knew
The blackberry in NY
Could be so bitter

I know

You lurk
In shadow
Reading
Reading
Reading

Find another
Mouth to sour
Since you're mute
for words

Of your own

Perhaps

I often joke that my son's temper is of Eastern European Decent.  Inside I know that to be a fallacy.   Perhaps it has been said that my rage needs attention.    

And perhaps, PERHAPS, there is an element of truth in that.  But it's not as if it is going unnoticed by me, or fed.  Is it healthy for me?  Certainly not.  Does is live and breathe in me normally?  Absolutely.  Is it at a critical point that could become, well, undesirable?

When I was young my favorite TV show/Superhero was The Hulk.  I would play, quietly, until someone would comment about "What a nice boy" then I would turn, growl, flex, and try to show how bad ass I was for a 6 year old.  You're jealous.

Suppose it is possible that it's no accident how the green fella and I came to find one another.  I have certainly become less reactive in the last 5 years.  Do I still worry that I could turn lizard-like without warning, I wouldn't say I was worried.  

It helps to know my limits.  Nominations are coming this month and I intend to resign as the President of the non profit I sit on.  I had a curious lunch date today, where an employee from that organization came to me and asked that I help with the ED who has, reportedly, got a huge need for either an attitude adjustment, or retirement.  The whole time I sat there listening, I just wanted to throw my plate, yell out "Who gives a fuck?!?" All I could think about was my dad, and how bad I wanted to have lunch with him.  To talk about fun things, or life, or anything other than the shit that seems to be swarming around me.  I told her I can't help her (seems to be a common theme for the past 3 weeks, and informed her of that little memory I have), that it's all I can do right now to keep myself together.  I've done my part.  MORE than my part.  I moved them.  I tried to move the board.  I give up.  I'm done.  Not just with that organization, but with mental health completely.  I've really reached my limit, not of what I'm capable of, no no no.  My cape still has a lot of life left in it.  But not in this current climate, location, for these people.  They've had all of me that they're going to get, baring a life-altering miracle.

After we ate we shared some info about my dad's last few days that I hadn't had a chance to tell her about.  It was good to get it out, but she immediately told me a story about when her mom died.  Not her fault, that's what everyone has done.  Erin wouldn't have done that, but I can't talk to Erin anymore.  There's yet another recurring theme.

Think I'll go finish my drink.  Who knows, perhaps I'll actually sleep through the night.  PERHAPS.

A long distance call

In the midst of my drive home from work Friday I had a lapse of reason.  Wanted to call you.  Actually told myself "think I'll call Dad", and started to fumble to my phone to get to my favorites list.  Mikey called me instead, and I realized only after we hung up what I had done.  That I didn't have a plan with Verizon that would allow me to dial you direct.

Hard to believe.

Life seems to be a solitary prison in the days since my Father's died.  Between being surrounded by too many to list, to just a few, or none; feels alone all the same.  Empty.  Feel angrier than ever.  Sometimes.  Feel crushed others.  People ask "What can we do to help?"  Leave me alone, I suppose.  Can't believe my brother is getting married in less than a week.  While I was able to (nearly) harness my emotions long enough to get through my Father's eulogy, I wonder what it is I'm to say now for my brother, how I'm suppose to do it with my head held high, in a way my brother deserves.  I talk to myself.  Especially during the long rides to work that leave me with nothing but time to think.  And think.  And time.  And I talk to you.  Out loud.  Wondering when I'll get chills because I think you've made the long trip to hug me.  

Scot says I have to be my Dad now, his sidekick for projects, but I am not my Dad, and I feel as if I am reminded of that, almost constantly.  I want to ask for help, but what? from who? how?  And would I trust any of them, I doubt it.  

I realize this is not poetry, nor very poetic.  I have hundreds of lines in my mind, feel like I could write for days on end and not get it all out.  Such is my creativity, I suppose; to feel most inspired when most heartbroken, but I don't really feel like writing.  This part of life is the cruelest.  I hate that my son will experience it, that other's don't appreciate their parents like they should--don't spend the time with them that they have, that there are parents that don't love their kids and the kids of others like my Dad did.

My thoughts for now are too frail.  Angry over a slice of pizza with wings, but knowing that I'm not really angry over that, and not giving into the projection my fierce heart is pushing for.  A target.  I've had visions of my coffee cup flying through my television, or of my fist sending my mirror into a thousand glittering shards that would resemble my dreams.  Shattered.  Broken.  Fighting the urge to run away.  Not for good.  But I think I finally understand why Billy ran.  He escaped all the sorrow because he couldn't handle it.  My ego tells me I'm better than that, and I can remain.  Must remain.  "If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs..."  My heart tells me I'm a damn fool, and it screams for me to do as he did, then come back an even stronger version of myself than the one who sits before a laptop avoiding sleep.  

For now I stay.  I drink my coffee.  I wait for the fire inside to burn on the right side, and for my roar to be healthy.  You begged that I not lose my sense of humor.  I'm trying.  Really.  But my chest is heavy.  Really.  And my coffee is getting colder by the second.  A painful reminder of time I can't have back.