By The Grace

Looking myself in the eye for the last time in a mirror strewn with cocaine, straw deep in my nostril, inhaling sharply, I stopped in mid snort and said ‘you know what, I’m done’. Perhaps it had something to do with my partner in crime saying something about the deplorable conditions in coca leaf processing plants. Like how rats sometimes fall into the vats of coca leaves and the poor motherfuckers who work there don’t give a shit if you snort ground up rats. Quality control in cocaine manufacturing it seems is somewhat lax. I said, ‘you finish it pal, I’m done’. He thanked me profusely and snorted away like there would be no tomorrow.

We walked outside into the ridiculous July humidity of a South Florida midnight. Jittering and babbling, we chain smoked and talked about the future. Plans and dreams, money and fame to be made, taken and ridden doggy style until the globe was awash with our ectoplasm and blood. Magnanimously we anointing the ill illumined huddled masses with our brilliance. Then the buzz started to wear off.

My heart felt like wet tissue being force fed from a fire hose. Capillaries in my brain were like tangled fishing line caught in a propeller. I got in the car and prayed I could make it home so that I could at least die in my bed. I needed Valium and a bottle of wine so fucking bad but I had no more money and barely any gas in the tank. The heavens in my skull were spinning cyclones and my rapid breath became pants pissingly shallow. I chanted repeatedly, why am I here again?, why am I here again?, why am I here again? Stupid, stupid, stupid. When are you going to learn? What is it going to take? 

I made it back to my parent’s house. Went to my room, took off my clothes, turned out the lights, wrapped myself in blankets I though may well become my death shroud and laid upon my bed. I closed my eyes and fell into a collapse between sleep and wake. I became aware of two warring factions of rats within the walls of our house. There had been much hatred and bloodshed. So many rat mommies and babies left without their daddies. So many rat limbs lost in battle. So many left to die in the rafters, cursing their forsaking thankless absent rat god, skeletons littering the spaces between layers of gypsum and timber. So many rat psyches tattered and raped forever as they bore innocent witness to the atrocities of war. It culminated in one universal rat epiphany:

IT”S ALL MAX’S FAULT! KILL HIM!

I broke out of my trance with strangled scream. I smoked more cigarettes and fell into a fitful sleep. Therein I do believe I then met the Devil. Not just my own demons, but the Devil as it appears when it wants to consume each one of us, in a form most personally seductive and beautiful to its object of prey at a given moment. Somehow I found the strength in that moment to not become Satan’s midnight snack and consequent morning shittings.

Somehow, in spite myself and addictive tendencies, I found the truth.

After many years, I wrote this poem about that night. About the lover and friend I lost to that evil drug. It is called ‘By The Grace’

The night

the rats

in the walls told me

it was time

to stop doing cocaine

came just before

the morning the Devil

taunting me in a dream

in which she tried

to seduce and intimidate

but I fired back

with the 23^rd psalm

at 4:15 a.m.

Just before breakfast

the marsh was quiet

and the bible became my friend

on the day

that started too early

but began

almost too late

for my heart

to survive

my companions

failed suicide.

Her arms and her neck

I would cuddle no more

but speak

at a distance

to her ghost

that dwelled

within her skin

torn by ropes

unseen by all

except me.

I said

there but by the grace go I

and there she

goes away from me

with the coming of the dawn

the lie recedes

the dream

blends into day

and the night

thank God

is over.

Until next time,

All my love always,

Max

...a passing of vision...

I grew up in Miami during the 1970s. There were abundant supplies of cocaine, pills, weed, speed and angel dust. In the days of pre-AIDS awareness that stoned, anonymous and unprotected sex with strangers in semi private places was a common way to spend a Saturday night. Hell, a Tuesday morning or a Thursday afternoon or a Monday lunch hour for that matter. If a person, like, say, me for instance had a predilection towards bisexuality and curious nature of the realms of human consciousness, an overactive teenage libido, a naked contempt of authority, a deep belief that every last thing my parents ever said was wrong, wrong fucking wrong, well, it made for a very busy social calendar.

Somehow, I never spent any time in jail, caught any diseases or killed any significant amount of brain cells that haven’t been restored through my current practices of yoga, a very active devotion to magickal spirituality as well as a large and diverse group of family and friends that love me as much as I love them. It helps also that anytime I’ve ever lost sight of my blessings that a long line of people manifests before me and threatens to beat the living bloody shit out of me to help remind me of who I am and the grace of my life.

In my early 20s I got profoundly burned out on promiscuity and recreational chemical consumption. I wanted to meet the love of my life, my exclusive and monogamous lover, the other half of my heart, the part of my soul long missing. I began to pray. I prayed while sitting on the edge of my bed every morning and night for a year. She (or it very well could have been a he) finally came into my life one day. Today, July 24, 2011 is the 24^th anniversary of my eyes first receiving her vision as she came around the corner in the arts building of Florida International University. Her big blue eyes were the first thing I saw and I forgot for a second to breathe. My life has never been the same since.

However, if I said that everything from that moment forward has been a neverending parade of hearts, flowers, unicorns and rainbows that would be a huge reeking hill of bullshit. To accompany and compliment the joys of her in my life, there have been some tough damn fucking times since then that would have split many other couples up. I could here start spouting off a list of those spaces in time, but those are stories not for now but for the future ruminations. But it’s those damn fucking tough times that in retrospect make me realize how special we are and what a blessedly fortunate son of a bitch I am. I've said this before, but it's the truth. The right prayers get answered. Not a day goes by that I don't say Thank God.

This poem is called ‘.....a passing of vision....’. Years ago, I was walking around our old house. The voice said ‘Go to your desk and start writing. No, you don’t need to first go get a cookie or a glass of wine or a cup of tea. You need to go to your desk, shut your big yap, pick up a pen and start to write.’ What resulted is below. I’ve voiced this in spoken word performances and used it in pieces of art. I don’t know if this is the best poem I’ve ever written, but it’s sure as heaven and hell, my favorite. I’ve never edited a word.

How blessed am I

that you should pass

through my vision

if only for a moment

in this speck of an hour

on the back of my life

The continuing deluge

the fervent maelstrom

for an instant ceases

and we are frozen

in mid dance step

on the edge of a roof

in the midst of turbulent night

If I may bless you

with my limited light

my soul will have grown

by simply knowing your silence

assured by your smile

across these miles of distance

that two strangers

know as a bridge

a blockade

and a simmering smoke

of a dream of past lives

on gas lit roads

with horses and carriages

that carried our lives

were too soon cut short

by the boredom of time

that forced us

to separate our embrace

that I promised would be eternal

but my aspirations towards eternity

and cajolings of God

fell short of my wishes

and ruptured my dreams

until now

Here you sit

with your hand on your face

and God

how I wish it were mine

Accept this, my love

as a crippled gesture

slicing the veil of eternity

The gaslights burned dry

and have been replaced with/ the fire

of electricity

while inside

the hammers and stakes

that oppress my vampire heart

have long since broken clean

at the shafts

For it is my love

that erases this blackness

the trials by fire

threats of the weary

and crimes of the tortured

could not distract

from my feverous life

 that pours like sweat

from my liquid soul

I keep you in mind

in the depth of my sleep

and each time I die

the dance resumes

as if it never had ended

while the roses I brought

and the wine that you chilled

dance in crystalline stillness

and the angels wonder

how a love such as this

could be so divine

Until next time, all my love,

Max

PS. Before posting, I let her read this. She kissed me and said “I love you’.

Do-ocracy

Last Friday I visited the local office of the Department of Labor to reopen my unemployment claim. This will be the third time in two years. One consistent thing I notice every time I go there is the lack self-pitying, woe is me expressions on the faces of those filing claims. There is a sense of acceptance of their situations. Resolution and determination of iron is in the hearts and minds of my fellow unemployed brothers and sisters. There is a faith that we will survive and a realization of what is of true value. We are strong and will do what must be done. We save the whining and bickering to the politicians. It seems to be what they do best.

I wrote this while waiting in line.

Woman with four children

ahead of me

in the unemployment line

properly quaffed

for a day

at the office

she no longer

occupies.

This is America

not the one

my father fought for

not the one

we learned in school.

This is the one

we stagnate in

for these four children

to rebuild

with clawless hammers

and broken

shafted

pickaxes.

This is the America

we have come to love

to pledge allegiance

in all her malignancy.

Patiently waiting in line

for the surgery

to divide she and we

from the pox

that assails her.

For the record, politics from either side of the aisle gives me a splitting headache. They seem to be the source of our problems rather than a means for change. A friend of mine uses the term ‘Do-ocracy’ meaning if something needs to be done, do it. Someone needs help, help them. Don’t dawdle, don’t quibble, if it’s the right thing, do it. Just shut up and do it. While I’m tempted to skewer all of the corrupt politicians, lawyers and CEOs and release a profanity filled tirade, I’ll squash that ember. They say power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely. We are all human beings and were I on the other side of the power equation, I don’t know if I wouldn’t become corrupt too. There is no us and them. We are all one. Beyond our eternal souls, all we have is each other. I just wish we lived with a system that was based on humanity and compassion rather than the zero sum game it is now. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, I know, I know, I’ll go back to smoking my hookah now.

Independent vermin

snacking on smoked sturgeon

lying in court room

because they never heard

the real version

Goldilocks and her Grandma

on the stand for murder

got christened with a hammer

then the judge

called a holiday

In the court room most distressed

time had come to take the test

so I lifted up her dress

to expose her curly flintlocks

But the geometry of her cemetery

was to say the least contrary

to the expectations of the many

and disappointment of quite a few

The garden of Eden had been eaten

and the snake was within speaking

the masses were hastily retreating

because the carnival was dead

Insane minds formed a posse

nailed Jesus to the crossy

buffed and shined their lacquered vernacular

and discussed it over coffee

Righteous wimps on sinking ships

stormed the court room with effluvium

‘Stop this noise, give us our toys

and we’ll create a more perfect union’

Screaming turned to crying

rhetoric turned to whining

the insipid started lying

and the failed kept on trying

‘Squelch this nonsense’ cried the snake

‘This crap is more than I can take

this snowballing virus was never my intention

when I perpetrated the insurrection’

‘Please have mercy on my ears’

displace, I plead, my darkest fears

before the storm sirens begin to wail

before I swallow my own tail’

‘Stop please stop!’ he squealed

in beseeching tone

‘Have mercy on this earth

and leave my mother alone!’

Until next time,

All my love,

Max

My name is Max Grimm. It's a pleasure to meet you. If we've already met, it's great to see you again. 

This first blog is somewhat of an experiment. But then again, so is life.

It occured to me that quite a few people (and some I've known for a very long time) have no idea that I am a poet and writer. It is with this blog, I would like to share the words I love to weave. 

I hate like all bloody screaming hell to write about who I am and what I do in a third person self aggrandizing way. However, when my arm is being sufficently twisted to provide a writers bio, it goes something like this....

Max Grimm is a work in progress. Like his family, his art, yoga, the mountains, the ocean and he who created them, Max loves poetry as much as than the life which he has been graciously granted. Max has been a teacher, an actor, a video producer, a chef, juvenile delinquent, a printer, a scenic artist and lighting technician, drug addict, construction worker, unemployed, self employed, a husband, son, father, friend, artist, shaman, yogi and poet. Max received the gift of writing from his grandfather, a simple and gentle soul, blessed with a practical philosophy, kind heart and the grace to turn an every day phrase into a magical invocation. Aught else could come from Max's upbringing, but the ability to craft life's joys and sorrows (of which, there have been many) into lyrics, poems and tirades all intended to weave us closer together. To realize the mutual heart and soul we all share. Max has a great love of metaphors, run on sentences, impassioned improvisational performances and of the good fortune to share them with you.

What I do is write from the heart and soul. Sometimes the floodgates open. I can't promise in this blog I won't swear, talk about sex or say something this is going piss someone somewhere the hell off. I will however be honest. Be forewarned.  

If I may....

The initial spark for this poem came on morning of the first day of school 2010. I walked my son Daniel to the front doors of the building. After I commented about how big he was growing and kissing him on top of his blonde head, he walked away from me and into his first day of fourth grade. As I turned to walk through the current of humanity, it hit me like a vajra lightning bolt punching me squarely in the heart. I could always intellectually grasp the reality of parents dying, me growing older, my kids growing up and during the whole process we never really become the perfect individuals we envisioned in our youths. At the end of the day, we are who we are, and there is not a damn thing wrong with that. If we each do the best we can with what we have, fess up when we fuck up, give credit where credit is due, then that's about as perfect as us humans can be. Life's purpose will have been fulfilled.

It goes like this...

Someday

he will outgrow

his new pants

backpack

and the caress

of my hand

while crossing the street

She will grow

and find another man

to restructure her heart

diminishing

my place

in her life

but I will remain

the man

who loved her first

Someday

I will grow

to be the person

I should have been

and come to love

the soul I was

when my father died

Throwing his pictures

all around the room

screaming

disintegrating

setting a fire

in the trash bin

that night

hoping to exorcise

my hell

and liberate his soul

Wounded soldiers

both of us

Though he

would spit on

my tour of duty

and rightly so

since he was the one

committing murder

I

only contemplating suicide

My mother, his wife

running rampant with bandages

spilling gauze tape

empty of promising words

our cheerleader vacant

due to her ills

the picture of portraits

stained

somewhere in her youth

I am clueless and damaged

unable to decipher

these histories

and destinies

I know naught else

but to cry

and pray

for these ones

I claim not

to understand

but love

and sometimes wonder

if it is

to my detriment

Do they

or will they

ever remember

the spectre

who prayed for

and loved them?

My wife unaware

of who inhabits

her bedroom

of who kisses her neck

just before we make love

I incinerate

from within sometimes

like the fallen angel

I aspire to be

Someday my children

will outgrow their lives

and we will meet in heaven

What will they tell me

I did or said

to make them more compassionate

in their world

and what helped them

ease the grip

on their children’s hands

and ascend

towards the clouds?

Thank you for reading.

All my love,

Max