DEATH
they finally uttered.
You are fluttering
between worlds,
in limbo with time
as we know it.
At least you're sober,
you tell me before
checking-in.
I wait at your bedside
finally at peace with
who you were as a person,
as a father,
as a friend,
and as my mentor.
I only wish you
would have known
what life might have
been like without
addiction. . .
Sweet Dreams
Friday, January 30, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Charmer
A memory of you
slid into my dream
last night.
Like a venomless snake,
you slithered past my heart
to terrify me without leaving
a mark.
slid into my dream
last night.
Like a venomless snake,
you slithered past my heart
to terrify me without leaving
a mark.
I stretched my fingertips
to that beautiful mouth,
but found myself clawing
at those charming fangs instead.
Paralyzed, I waited until the
fear transpired and reached
up to kiss you, when suddenly:
the alarm ripped my eyes awake.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Then and Now
I have been absent from life again.
Like a switch or a plug that forgot to be grounded properly.
I am volatile: sometimes shocking even the air around me.
Absense from Self is destructive:
if you're gone too long, it's difficult to find your way back...
and you become used to the Other - the chaotic abyss.
Yet I am back. I managed to pull myself from yesterday,
and into this moment - Now.
I remember why I left, and shall forget to do so again.
Like a switch or a plug that forgot to be grounded properly.
I am volatile: sometimes shocking even the air around me.
Absense from Self is destructive:
if you're gone too long, it's difficult to find your way back...
and you become used to the Other - the chaotic abyss.
Yet I am back. I managed to pull myself from yesterday,
and into this moment - Now.
I remember why I left, and shall forget to do so again.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Finish it
Flip me inside out
and tear the
skin off.
Let me bake
the shards
of glass
in hell.
Jump start a fire
under my
steel heart.
I have forgotten
what it feels like
to hurt.
Oh wait -
you gently reminded
me today,
when you
stumbled
into Cirrhosis.
and tear the
skin off.
Let me bake
the shards
of glass
in hell.
Jump start a fire
under my
steel heart.
I have forgotten
what it feels like
to hurt.
Oh wait -
you gently reminded
me today,
when you
stumbled
into Cirrhosis.
Monday, December 8, 2008
2:00 on February 30
Write me into
your day
sometime.
Allow me to wedge myself
into your notebook,
between
phone calls
and meetings.
Has it been so long,
that you have you forgotten
how to share space
with another?
Or have you just
typed yourself
into oblivion?
Vanished somewhere
between Outlook
and Word Perfect?
your day
sometime.
Allow me to wedge myself
into your notebook,
between
phone calls
and meetings.
Has it been so long,
that you have you forgotten
how to share space
with another?
Or have you just
typed yourself
into oblivion?
Vanished somewhere
between Outlook
and Word Perfect?
Monday, November 24, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Secret
Stamped -From his heart to the grave. He carried it on his chest until the day he died. Some say he wanted to start fights, others say he was just a believer. I knew better. I had heard the story more than hundred times, how he escaped prosecution. The beatings were terrible. They pushed and pulled his skin so many different directions that in the end, it was better they finally branded him. It was a mark that defined him: his life, his hardships, his hatred, and his reason behind his final act. Joshua Adam Slepinksy. Born 1916; Died 2006. The man who forgot what real was.
A long, long time ago, Mr. Slepinsky was my neighbor. I used to awake in the middle of the night to his screaming, and would run next door, terrified that he might wake up and think I was one of them. I would hurry and turn on the light, and quickly wrap a warm wash cloth around his sweaty forehead to calm him. Sometimes he cried, other times he would scream at me in a language I wished I didn’t know. Other people in the neighborhood were afraid of Mr. Slepinsky. They thought he was crazy – some even thought that he had gotten out of prison, but I had learned early on never to make assumptions: people can be wonderful, despite their battered shells. Looking back, I think I was the only friend the old man had. I never saw another car at his place, or any visitors stop by. In the five years he lived next to me, I never once saw another person knock on his door. Most of the neighborhood shunned away from him.
One cold Winter day I was out getting my mail, and I heard a crash. Mr. Slepinsk had slipped on his icy driveway. He had lost his footing, and had landed square on his back – the wind knocked completely out of him. That was how I met him. I went over to give him a hand – and although he glared at me through steely eyes, I knew in my heart that he was grateful.
From that day forward, I went over to my neighbor’s house daily. I would bring him the mail, cook him dinner occasionally, and clean his house while he would tell me stories of how he had been punished. He told me of his hatred towards them, and how they had maimed him for life. One day he lifted up his shirt to show me the mark that caused him so much grief: a swastika tattoo spread across his wrinkled chest – faded from years of neglect. The tattoo was so large, it nearly covered his entire torso. The ink had faded to a medium shade of gray, but it clearly was done with more emphasis than I could imagine. Mr. Slepinsky told me that he was a victim of the Holocaust. Sometimes while reliving the stories, he would start screaming in German – and I would pretend not to understand. Generally he would scream phrases consistent with torture, but occasionally throughout his ranting, he would mumble “Sieg Heil,” or Hail Victory – a term used by the Nazi’s throughout the War. I imagined he had heard the phrase so many times that i t was his subconscious reminding him of the terrible atrocities committed against his Jewish brethren.
I was making dinner for him one night during the Christmas season – Hannukah for Mr. Slepinsky, and he began his usual diatribe. He complained of his days of torture, and gave me a graphic representation that I shuddered when imagining. I asked him if he had any oregano – I was making lasagna, and wanted him to enjoy my homemade recipe, but I had forgotten it next door. He said that he did, and came over to the cupboard next to the stove where I was cooking. I’ll never forget what I saw next. Mr. Slepisnky was wearing a white tank top – with a light jacket draped over him. As he reached his frail arm above me to get the spice, I noticed a small scar on the inside of his left underarm. Old tattoo ink remained around the scar – and I was horrified by what it meant. For the next few weeks I would continue to visit Mr. Slepinsky, but in the back of my mind, the sinister memory burned.
My final visit came one night 13 years ago. He invited me for dinner to tell me about his life prior to the mark. He began lamenting about his wife and four children. Nostalgic memories poured from his heart, about the beautiful life they lived, and the warm Sunday dinners they shared. He told me about growing up in Germany, and the friends he once had. He rattled on about his mother and father, and the care they provided for their family. His father had two jobs and worked tirelessly to provide for little Joseph. He began to cry as he told me how his family had been taken from him. While tears rolled down my face, without thinking, I blurted out: “Es tut mir leid," the German phrase for “I’m sorry.” Mr. Slepinsky jumped out of his chair -seething inside. I have never seen such hatred from a person. He tore across the table in less time than it took me to realize what I had done. He shouted at me to get out of his house and never come back.
Two weeks later he moved, and for the next 12 years I wondered what had become of the bitter man. I prayed that he had met someone else to take care of him, and that he had somehow forgiven the young boy who lived next door so many years ago: a boy who himself had lost his grandfather many years ago the same War fighting against the Americans. Then last week, I stumbled across this headline, and knew that the man I wished I could have saved would have known the secret that I discovered:
Waffen-SS Survivor Shoots Himself in Chest, Carves
A long, long time ago, Mr. Slepinsky was my neighbor. I used to awake in the middle of the night to his screaming, and would run next door, terrified that he might wake up and think I was one of them. I would hurry and turn on the light, and quickly wrap a warm wash cloth around his sweaty forehead to calm him. Sometimes he cried, other times he would scream at me in a language I wished I didn’t know. Other people in the neighborhood were afraid of Mr. Slepinsky. They thought he was crazy – some even thought that he had gotten out of prison, but I had learned early on never to make assumptions: people can be wonderful, despite their battered shells. Looking back, I think I was the only friend the old man had. I never saw another car at his place, or any visitors stop by. In the five years he lived next to me, I never once saw another person knock on his door. Most of the neighborhood shunned away from him.
One cold Winter day I was out getting my mail, and I heard a crash. Mr. Slepinsk had slipped on his icy driveway. He had lost his footing, and had landed square on his back – the wind knocked completely out of him. That was how I met him. I went over to give him a hand – and although he glared at me through steely eyes, I knew in my heart that he was grateful.
From that day forward, I went over to my neighbor’s house daily. I would bring him the mail, cook him dinner occasionally, and clean his house while he would tell me stories of how he had been punished. He told me of his hatred towards them, and how they had maimed him for life. One day he lifted up his shirt to show me the mark that caused him so much grief: a swastika tattoo spread across his wrinkled chest – faded from years of neglect. The tattoo was so large, it nearly covered his entire torso. The ink had faded to a medium shade of gray, but it clearly was done with more emphasis than I could imagine. Mr. Slepinsky told me that he was a victim of the Holocaust. Sometimes while reliving the stories, he would start screaming in German – and I would pretend not to understand. Generally he would scream phrases consistent with torture, but occasionally throughout his ranting, he would mumble “Sieg Heil,” or Hail Victory – a term used by the Nazi’s throughout the War. I imagined he had heard the phrase so many times that i t was his subconscious reminding him of the terrible atrocities committed against his Jewish brethren.
I was making dinner for him one night during the Christmas season – Hannukah for Mr. Slepinsky, and he began his usual diatribe. He complained of his days of torture, and gave me a graphic representation that I shuddered when imagining. I asked him if he had any oregano – I was making lasagna, and wanted him to enjoy my homemade recipe, but I had forgotten it next door. He said that he did, and came over to the cupboard next to the stove where I was cooking. I’ll never forget what I saw next. Mr. Slepisnky was wearing a white tank top – with a light jacket draped over him. As he reached his frail arm above me to get the spice, I noticed a small scar on the inside of his left underarm. Old tattoo ink remained around the scar – and I was horrified by what it meant. For the next few weeks I would continue to visit Mr. Slepinsky, but in the back of my mind, the sinister memory burned.
My final visit came one night 13 years ago. He invited me for dinner to tell me about his life prior to the mark. He began lamenting about his wife and four children. Nostalgic memories poured from his heart, about the beautiful life they lived, and the warm Sunday dinners they shared. He told me about growing up in Germany, and the friends he once had. He rattled on about his mother and father, and the care they provided for their family. His father had two jobs and worked tirelessly to provide for little Joseph. He began to cry as he told me how his family had been taken from him. While tears rolled down my face, without thinking, I blurted out: “Es tut mir leid," the German phrase for “I’m sorry.” Mr. Slepinsky jumped out of his chair -seething inside. I have never seen such hatred from a person. He tore across the table in less time than it took me to realize what I had done. He shouted at me to get out of his house and never come back.
Two weeks later he moved, and for the next 12 years I wondered what had become of the bitter man. I prayed that he had met someone else to take care of him, and that he had somehow forgiven the young boy who lived next door so many years ago: a boy who himself had lost his grandfather many years ago the same War fighting against the Americans. Then last week, I stumbled across this headline, and knew that the man I wished I could have saved would have known the secret that I discovered:
Waffen-SS Survivor Shoots Himself in Chest, Carves
“I’m Sorry” Into Swastika Tattoo; Identified as Jewish Traitor
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Election woes
He says he loves us
reminds us that we are all
one color: Americans.
While the other
fusses over fiscal ideology:
Make the rich richer
and the poor poorer
She loves the promise of
closet space: you can betcha
Maverick will make it so!
He is a working man:
never falter, never fail.
Get back up!
Don't back down!
Push and pull
Grunt and Shove
Tag - you're it!
Tired of defending
my reasons
behind insight.
Veterans for McCain -
they shout and scream:
try to make me believe.
As if I love my Country
less - because I believe
in Hope and Change...
I may be the only one
in a Red world that
wears Blue, but
all the while
I dream for
you too...
reminds us that we are all
one color: Americans.
While the other
fusses over fiscal ideology:
Make the rich richer
and the poor poorer
She loves the promise of
closet space: you can betcha
Maverick will make it so!
He is a working man:
never falter, never fail.
Get back up!
Don't back down!
Push and pull
Grunt and Shove
Tag - you're it!
Tired of defending
my reasons
behind insight.
Veterans for McCain -
they shout and scream:
try to make me believe.
As if I love my Country
less - because I believe
in Hope and Change...
I may be the only one
in a Red world that
wears Blue, but
all the while
I dream for
you too...
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Painkiller
Pain swallows her slowly
Driven backwards
As her world slips away
Regressing, not progressing
She tries
She cries
She yearns, aches, prays
For help
Again and again
God doesn’t answer
She can’t hear Him
LISTEN
She cries
He has heard
Reality fades away
More pills
Make more pain
Distortion
Loss
Envy
Everything wasted
For her moment
Failed misery
Beaten by love
Driven backwards
As her world slips away
Regressing, not progressing
She tries
She cries
She yearns, aches, prays
For help
Again and again
God doesn’t answer
She can’t hear Him
LISTEN
She cries
He has heard
Reality fades away
More pills
Make more pain
Distortion
Loss
Envy
Everything wasted
For her moment
Failed misery
Beaten by love
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Thou Shalt Not Kill
Sleep deprived soldier
Death becomes a looking glass,
solemn eyes glare back at him
from the grave.
Staring at the barrel of the gun
again – for the third time today
He pulls the trigger for effect.
Roulette – the game of fate
It fails again, and he’s left
with memories of all
the lives he took away.
Tears roll.
Rockets blare.
Children cry.
He begs God
to take his life.
He has stripped fate
from the innocent
and wants punishment,
He covers himself
goodnight, and
closes his tear-stained eyes -
Hopeful that
tommorow
he can go home
Death becomes a looking glass,
solemn eyes glare back at him
from the grave.
Staring at the barrel of the gun
again – for the third time today
He pulls the trigger for effect.
Roulette – the game of fate
It fails again, and he’s left
with memories of all
the lives he took away.
Tears roll.
Rockets blare.
Children cry.
He begs God
to take his life.
He has stripped fate
from the innocent
and wants punishment,
He covers himself
goodnight, and
closes his tear-stained eyes -
Hopeful that
tommorow
he can go home
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Who Decides?
How is it that we ended up here,
In this catechism
bound by
His covenants?
Afraid to touch
to even smile
at one another...
The
magnifying glass
has broken,
yet we still
hide
under this veil
of uncertainty,
terrified that
what we might find
will keep us from
eternity.
You
are
damned
from
within,
condemned
by
love,
without
even
knowing
where
morality
hides.
Forgive me,
for I know
not which
words are
Lies,
Which Truth
simply
died with the
Cross...
Until then
my dear
Goodbye
In this catechism
bound by
His covenants?
Afraid to touch
to even smile
at one another...
The
magnifying glass
has broken,
yet we still
hide
under this veil
of uncertainty,
terrified that
what we might find
will keep us from
eternity.
You
are
damned
from
within,
condemned
by
love,
without
even
knowing
where
morality
hides.
Forgive me,
for I know
not which
words are
Lies,
Which Truth
simply
died with the
Cross...
Until then
my dear
Goodbye
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Broken
Tired of trying
Of feeling
Send me
Away
Bake me
Chill me
Whatever it takes
Flying low
Fuel is gone
Break
Secure my thoughts
They
Are Being
Swept Away
By this
Pounding
Migraine
Of feeling
Send me
Away
Bake me
Chill me
Whatever it takes
Flying low
Fuel is gone
Break
Secure my thoughts
They
Are Being
Swept Away
By this
Pounding
Migraine
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