For my Anna Belle

For that which we have
and have forever
let go of
but never really
held onto

for your lips

for having extended
your ever gentle hand
to massage my cold
broken heart

to heal me
then break me

and for having drawn
from my very breath
the words that would ultimately
force us apart

and for knowing
that in all my mystery
ghostly though I
will now remain

so shall remain
that which drove
the tears of joy

my love.

my most pure
concentrated
unspoiled love

may there come
for us
a day when I
once again

riot
at your soul's door

A dusty ashtray

It's not that I miss you.

I miss my father

and the way that he would 

cringe when he took his first sip

off his cold can of refrigerated Pepsi.

Or the way he was so casually cool

with whatever pothole he would

find himself driving over.

He was a great smoker.

Not like the kind that struggled to imitate 

someone they imagined were cool.

No, he was a natural.  

It was clear to anyone who watched him

that it wasn't about addiction,

he actually enjoyed the whole process

the same way a small child

enjoys a sandbox or a frisbee.

Maybe someday I'll miss smoking,

or the sandbox,

I might even miss you.

Until then I'll miss my father,

and the hope that one day

I'd hear from you again.

looking in

It's a broken window

an unwanted hug

unreturned cry out

that I miss you.

Crying is useless

in usefulness unfounded

by countless hours

of searching for a light.

You can hear me.

I can't hear you.

But I can see you

seeing me

as you saw me.

Would you say

me too.

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