A Prayer I Hope They Would Say For Me If I Were Them

I often lose patience with the impending apocalypse and tell it to shit or get off the pot.  There has always been a door swinging ajar in the breeze, between this world and the next, through which many dear souls have fallen. Much to my seeming demise, I sometimes find myself as alone as when I entered this existence, to battle the demons of my own concoction. 

There is no one as eternal as everyone. The destruction of my life will seek refuge in the next, mending the wounds inflicted upon the soft armor of my soul in interim heaven, until I am ready to forego my wings and tread once again amongst mankind. 

One night while waiting for Kelley to come home, I was sitting in the back yard and writing. I heard a terrible car accident on the main road leading into our neighborhood. This is the poem I wrote later that evening.

Many sirens howling

in one moment

then suddenly stop

more follow in the next

I hear her voice.

Thank God she is home.

For if it were her

who met with the tragedy

befallen upon by some other

my heart would spiral and fall

destined to rupture.

I pray for whoever

loved the person for whom

the sirens responded

the same prayer

I hope you 

would say for me.

By God

It will be all right

there is no wound 

you cannot heal

there is no death

that separates lovers

not time, space or confusion.

You will grow old together

if not in this life

then in another

when their eyes 

will turn the corner

lifting the veil

igniting memory

in the smallest of ways

your heart will sing 

beyond choirs you can comprehend

the cycle will start

as if it never had quelled

A light in the blackness

will assure you of this.

The kiss that consumed

will resume.

At least in your eyes

at least in your thoughts

at least in the time

given on this orb

I wish you 

the illusion of solace

until the dance of eternals 

finds you swept

by the arms

of the love

too soon removed.

I thank you, as always, for reading.

All my love,

Max

The Vanishing Man

There was an arsonist running amok in my small rural hometown of Hobe Sound FL during the first half of 1969. Many acres of woodlands and modest homes were consumed in his wrath. Lawn sprinklers were placed atop flat, tar papered rooftops to protect against floating embers from spreading the devastation. My grandparents 50th wedding celebration was interrupted when a large brush fire was started a scant hundred yards behind my uncle's house. 

One afternoon, a fire was started in the woods across the street from my elementary school. The fire chief locked down the school with all of us in it. I will never forget my 3rd grade teacher, Mrs Kinser, hugging me as I sat at my desk in the middle of class as I cried in terror. When we were finally allowed to make our ways home, we had to walk on the ditch side of the street, past a wall of fire trucks and the men battling a massive blaze consuming acres of pine trees and deep old forest. 

As I write this, I can't ever recall being as scared as I was that day. 

My father was 90 miles south in Miami at his new job. It would be several months before my mother and I would join him to live beneath the same roof, reforming our family of sorts once again. Until then, I would dread the fires during my waking hours and suffer night terrors in my sleep. I would watch my mother and my grandparents, who lived next door, grieve the impending separation  of us moving away from our very small town and close family to the bustling, corrupted metropolis of Miami FL, USA. Those were some of the most painful days of my small life.

We finally moved to the rental house to join my father. He would frequently take business trips for days on end. One weekend, as we often did, we went back to spend a day of so in the old house that still hadn't sold and visit with the family members that still hadn't healed from our separation. After dinner, my father announced that he would be leaving on another business trip and would be gone very early the next morning. 

I took my 8 year old self to bed and began to quietly (or so I thought) cry. My Mom opened the door and asked me 'What's wrong?' I replied, 'I need my daddy'. She walked out and I heard her say 'He needs to talk to you'.  He came in and asked why I was crying. I said, 'I need my daddy'. He said 'But I have to go away sometimes, it's my job. I have to make money to support you and Mom'. 'I don't care how much money you make' I said, 'I need my dad'. 

'But Max, it's my job'.

'Then go ahead and leave'

The next morning, he was gone and I never forgave him. 

Nine years later, I came home from my job to find him face down on the floor in his bedroom in the throes of a massive stroke centered in his brain stem from which he would never recover. He was to be blind and mostly paralyzed for the rest of his days. 

The doctors in the ER said that I saved his life. Late that same night, April 25, 1980, his brother, my uncle David told me how proud he was of me for behaving as I did under such circumstances and saving his brother's life. At that moment, I was in too much shock to even speak. I just dropped the phone on the kitchen counter and went back to sit on the sofa and stare at the carpet. 

When Dad eventually regained a fraction of his speech and a very few coarse motor skills, he cursed me from his bed for keeping him conscious by slapping his face and yelling for him to wake up while waiting for the paramedics to arrive. 

But he first woke from his coma and a nurse asked him 'Mr Grimm, do you know where you are?'

'In a hospital.'

'Do you know how you got here?'

'My son hit me. We don't get along.'

Many months later, he eventually came home. After an especially bad night, while sitting precariously on the edge of his bed he lashed out at me and said 'You should have let me die goddamnit.  I Hate You.'

I responded, 'I'm sorry you feel that way because I Love You.'

There was a very long silence. I think the old brass balled son of a bitch almost cried. 

Then.........'Jesus Christ, Max..... I'm glad you say things like that..... Good night'.

'Me too..... Good night, Dad'

I have no eloquent transition from the narrative to the poetic, except to say that, if you love them, there is no greater gift to give them but you. 

Every night 

I would wait 

for the vanishing man 

to appear at my door 

to chase the vampires away 

clenching a sword 

ravenous for battle 

A vicarious shutter 

rattled through my tiny frame 

as I projected my warrior 

aloft upon air 

gleaming steel blinding the adversaries 

blood of the vilest sort 

spilled in a victorious rainbow 

an artwork of proportion 

beyond scope and measure 

crystalizing the essence 

of glory and true self 

a reflection of the promise 

from which we were rendered. 

The older I grew 

the less did he vanish 

because he gradually ceased to materialize. 

Within my small skeleton 

a rupture appeared 

a crack turning to a fissure 

destined to become a valley 

a canyon 

an atom 

split deep in my heart 

bitter constructions 

were implanted hermetically 

forever to endure 

no matter the kindness 

bestowed upon me 

Never more at home

do I feel 

than in the cemetery at midnight 

cold winds and dampness 

enveloping my coat 

I leave offerings 

upon the tombs 

of the liberated 

wanting with excess desire 

the day I will come ready 

to leave this place 

of endless night 

Until then 

I wait for the vanishing man 

to appear in my dreams 

save me from myself 

cleansing from my head 

the virus implanted 

by his disappearance 

I pleaded and cried 

to his deafness 

he thus was struck blind 

set adrift 

on a pillow of ignorance 

I shall wait for his return 

in lieu of suicide 

my avenger, my savior 

has vanished from this existence 

I am suspended 

in waiting 

Much to my vexation 

time too slowly 

ticks by 

delaying our reunion. 

I curse the blank heavens 

and wonder their worth 

of praise or recognition 

and question their dwelling 

in anything based on wisdom 

in leaving a small boy 

lost in darkest oblivion. 

As always,

Thank you for reading this labor of love.

May many blessings be cast upon you and yours.

With all my love,

Max

The Shit I Hate...

Ignorance loves Evil for his unabashed public displays of romanticism over her adorable foibles and blind trust in his precarious cognitions of what is right and what is love and what is wrong and what must be destroyed. 

Evil courts Ignorance, stringing her along, bending her over in the parking lot, bare assed and quivering at his penetration. Aware only of his whispering lies of permanence while oblivious to hordes of slack jawed gazers who sadly only aspire to replicate this rape. She cooing as he casts himself upon descending twisted knees, presenting her with a ring of lapis, azure and topaz while proclaiming eternity as the draperies draw closed and the music swells.   

The audience screams while crumpling playbills and hurling their disgusted spheres at obsidian stage curtains as the orchestra pipes exit music on the heels of masses hastily making their way back to the heartless rain swept streets awash with tarnished neon prism puddles.

And the audience/chorus sings while limping...

'Always the same story no matter in what theatre I find myself. All sonnets and arias end on the same crashing triad of regret, redemption and a slim hope of recompense. Why is comedy at it's heart so tragic and broken? Why is tragedy so goddamn funny? Especially when it happens to somebody else? But why when she deconstructed so painfully alone in mid song at the end of act five did I see myself in that waning spotlight?' 'Greasepaint smeared and breathless?' 'Eyes cast down and ashamed before her audience with only tomorrow to fuck it up all over again?' 'When will it end?' they fume, 'When will the stupid bitch ever learn?' they grumble. 'Fuck her and that stupid mask, when will I ever learn?' 'When does the playwright release us from circular narrative?' 

Probably not until some enflamed and inspired fallen angel like us, seeking redemption creeps onstage into their naked bedroom in the middle of act two with a gallon of acetone and a pissed off match and says 'Yea and Verily, Time Has Eclipsed To Rewrite This Fuck'd Opera!' then scraping a spark off the bed post thus fueling holy ignition. After that, the condoms come off and it's going to be hell all thrown to the wind. Be forewarned to pack an cast iron umbrella and a seat belt woven by Archangel Michael, but, until then, the forecast remains unchanged, circular and predictable with a 100% chance of forced anal sex in the parking lot.

If you're in need of a huge heap of righteous indignation and a grand smattering of profanity, the poem that follows has got your name written all over it sweetheart. You're welcome. 

The shit I hate

starts with a whisper

promising never 

to raise its pitch, volume or tone

to fade 

into the commonplace, 

everyday drone

never to disturb the fly

caught in the strands

it has woven

by flinging through space

silk trailing from behind

in a cascade of faith

across the darkness

pledging to

‘contain its venom’

preferring to

‘implode’

it lies to my face

silently serenading and siliquoizing

its concealed agenda.

Gathering a flock

of morons

opening a soup kitchen

charitably ladling ignorance

into their nonexistent cups

cracked with age

upon the edge

of their teeth

scraping a living

from the forgotten remains

of a cremated altar.

The shit I hate

has no shame

and a bottomless appetite

for the antique filigree

of outdated philosophies

clamored onto 

by the insane

the destitute

and the lame

who scramble to substitute

rumors in place of life

illusions for travels

and coma for dreams.

Hitler and his bitch

feasted on it nightly

reveled in its glory

tangoed, fornicated

and romanced it 

delightedly.

The shit that presents itself

in a plain brown wrapper

on a silver platter

a book of revelations

providing fodder

for masturbation

that pointlessly orgasms

into a void blue sky

preserving none

destroying all

not giving a shit 

or asking why

The shit that I hate

has its mission

and I have my gun

bomb parts

acupuncture charts

and a damn straight on dead aim

on the shit

that passes itself off

as cologne

frankincense, myrrh

the genuine article

the phrase complete 

without dangling participle

No flies, no salt

no addendum needed

The shit I hate

petulance of all

I hate you unto the ages

You’ve lingered too long

I know where your grave is

I’ve got a crucifix of almond

and a bullet of silver

I’m chomping at the bit

to disburse and deliver

your death on this earth eternally

I’ll gladly follow and fight you

to the next planet

you decide to disfigure

How calm I will stand

when I have

the blood of this shit

drip from my hand

Thank you as always, so much for reading this glad labor of my heart and spirit.

Don't take any shit from anyone. You're too good for that.

All my love always,

Max

A Perfect Portrait of a Beast

I would be the biggest lying sack of bullshit on planet earth if I said marriage was easy. If wedded bliss and holy matrimony is to endure until death plus eternity, it's damn hard work. Even the most well paired, star kissed and harmoniously synchronized unions will eventually and repeatedly cross into the roiling storm laden latitudes wrought with financial hardships, jealousies, illnesses, miscommunications, sleepless nights, pain in the ass relatives, philosophical and geopolitical inconsistencies of unmutual opinion. 

It is further deluded bullshit to think that the sex is always great. 

Actually let me retract that last sentence. I don't know about any other long married couples, but for us sex is always great. Toe curling, sheet twisting, head board slamming, reverse cowgirl positioning, drowning moans of pleasure in pillows so as not to wake and mortify the children great. I wish the same for you and your beloved. 

But I digress.

Stay together long enough and you will see each other on the glorious best and unvarnished worst days of your shared lives. The former is a cake walk. The latter is when you find out how much you really love that person with whom you stood up in front of God and everyone including the pain in the ass relatives and said 'I do'. 

For me, on those days that inevitably erupt, threatening to shake the veracity of those sacred vows, I have but one conclusion as to how we survive all that has and shall transpire.  It is because I love her beyond explanation and comprehension. Because without her I would have died long ago or at least the part of me she occupies that completes my life would have long since atrophied and decayed. It is with this awareness do I with great joy accept to carry this bundle all the days of my life. No matter how steep and unpaved the road, no matter how unkind the elements. 

I know she does the same for me. 

One time, a very smart old man told me 'whatever you do, it's not work if you do what you love'. With the passing of years and fading of miles, I walk with her into a sunrise that slowing and certainly illumines one simple revelation. 

I love her, I love her, I love her......

I wish the same for you and your beloved. This poem is called 'Twin Flame'.

My ghost

will wait for her

no matter 

how many lifetimes

she must see

I will wait

ensconced in mist

dripping in misery

for her ethereal form

to join mine

so that when we ascend

it will be

hand in hand

I could not suffer

alone in heaven

without her

without her

I would seek release

back to the earth

along side her

In my wildest imagination

I cannot see

my eternal life

without her

without her

I am stained

vapid

inconsequential

without my love

I cannot die

in peace

Therefore a ghost

destined to rattle 

and thump

throwing relics

around the room

like a petulant child

until my twin flame

joins me

in silent embrace

on our bed

her head on my chest

my arm circling her shoulder

our breath sighing

longing for endless sleep

in this asana

limbs entwined

hair askew

a perfect portrait

of a beast 

primed to returned

to the right hand

of the throne

Thank you so much for reading these words.

Many blessings and all my love,

Max

We Let Play God

Were it all to end tomorrow, if I were to step in front of a train or off a cliff, splattered on the end of an assassins' bullet or quietly in my sleep from the grace old age and depth of sweet dreams, upon my ascension, looking back before turning away to face the oncoming hereafter, I strive now to have one observation, to look at this life and say; I did the best I could with this collection of blessings and demons. 

I hope to have been a worthy friend, husband and father, to have written some good words and painted some good pictures. I've danced with the shaman, endured and survived tragedy, been the conduit for miracles, blessed by lamas and consecrated by bishops, stood center stage before standing ovations, been drawn back by my guardian angels from the hand of my own undoing and somehow found the courage to defend and persevere when all around was injustice. 

If this life, abruptly, right this moment, ended. I would leave happy. I've known true love. We created beautiful children. Realizing that I am supremely imperfect and learning to love myself nonetheless is among my greatest victories and fount of constant nurturing and attention. Striving day by day to apply the same acceptance of myself to all of mankind and history. It is a life's work that will never be complete but I'm doing the best I can. 

The first images of the poem that follows were inspired by the David Bowie song 'Always Crashing in the Same Car' and subsequently egged on by memories of encounters with various people over the years that I came in time to realize, much as I loved them, I could do naught else for them but to step back, leave them to their miseries, trials and ordeals and pray for them to arrive at what would be, for each,  their wisest and just conclusions. For as much as I wanted to help each of them, theirs was not my fight and this was the best I could do. I mean, fuck it, at the end of the day, it's all God or anyone can ask of us and not be disappointed at the results. 

I tend to my wound
as best I can
trying to find its source.

Cutting and salting the flesh
deeper each time 

crying out for those who ride 

in the car
that crashes
again and repeatedly again.

Glass that flew
innocent steel
turned into swords
against its will
coerced into destruction
then running away
from its unintended malice
quickened decay
and chivalrous relinquishment
to the former angel
who sat by God’s hand.

I feel for them
as I do for myself
except that I am not
soiled by time.

But perhaps I am
I ponder while bleeding
and clutching to keep
my soul for pouring out
and my ear to be turned
away into deafness
cast into trash
lining the alleys
streets and the doorways
encumbered and doting
homeless at home
lost inside
with the maniac
pounding the door.

Light extinguished
blue tarp draping
windows and walls
hushed from within
while the needle
stitches the flesh
back to itself
closing and simmering
this unlighted world
while I cut
just to see
the world within
the light
shrouded in darkness
the ridgid dissolve
and the power
of what lies beyond
when we leave all this
and return
back to his side
to his hand
away from the evil
we let play God.

As always, thank you so much for reading.

All my love always. Bless your life.

Max