Between Here and Ever After

Everyone speculated that the theatre was the only place the dear lady ever knew happiness. She could portray heroines and damsels whose lives were far removed from her tortured own, speaking verses crafted by poets and wearing fine garments from charmed wardrobes. On the boards of the stage, illumined by footlights, she would bow to the applause thundering from silhouetted masses who congregated night after night to see her and the company of actors weaving stories and playing make believe with graceful abandon. 

Those many years later, we could hear her deceased footsteps and muffled dialogue in the backstage hallways and dressing room in the late evenings after the show had ended and the audience dribbled out of the theatre and into the indigo washed nightscape. On rare occasions, she could be glimpsed from the corner of an eye sitting the the audience or in the wings during blocking rehearsals or a final tech run through. 

One night she appeared to two of us as we were exiting the darkened theatre. She stood within arms distance looking towards the front row seats just before center stage. She appeared to be in her mid 30s, chestnut hair spilling over her drooping shoulders, pale skin and dark clothes. She was as real were we except she emanated a blue green mist and was half transparent. Her beauty was classic but her sadness made her appear eternal and ageless.     

'We mean you no harm' I said, 'We just want to go home'. 

She let us pass by the stage, the darkened hallways, the chilled dressing room, out the back door and into the alley.

When the door slammed shut, rather than fright, I felt sorrow for the ghost. Remaining here on earth, in the theatre of her youth. An eternity of watching us rehearsing and performing while conjoining with the backstage shadows and dimmed spotlights etched the eulogy of her untimely death. Unable to find her way to the gates where her company of actors are within waiting for their missing ingenue. 

I have always hoped someday this broken spirit, like us on that night, someday finds the path through shadows leading her back home. Amen. 

light plays curiously

upon the architecture

in heaven

bending beams

into symphonies

like strands

of molten glass

weaving tapestries

carressing monoliths

prisms exploding

refraction shards

within quartz cathedrals

illumining reverent faces

of angels and ancients 

and the unspoken others

gathered together

in fellowship

liquid crystal mosaics

entwine with sun light

reversing darkness

from within

here

prostitutes 

become sacred

the forsaken

now are

another finger

in the mudra

of Buddha

dawn rises swiftly

from below cloud vapors

dissolving orgasms

of moonplay

upon ocean tides

impregnating

the dome of sky

bringing new life

to the eternal

facades of destruction

crumble and yield

to light

and its sister

shadow

slowly realizing gazes 

eventually eclipse

heaven over matter

ceasing deceased beliefs

dark void moons

abyss 

vortex

conundrums

from vacant altars

of all

these are the words

born in silence

visioned

from light

traipsing across

mirrored chapels

lining the crossroads

between here

and ever after

All my love,

Max

I. Am. Not. Suicidal.

Let us please understand one thing very clearly before any further words transpire.

I. Am. Not. Suicidal.

It is very important to state this from the start because every time I write about this subject in a public forum, the response is swift and voluminous. Usually it's about 50 phone calls and emails from concerned friends, family, former lovers and those I barely know coming flooding in the next day. Begging me to please 'don't do it'. Sobbing implorings to go seek therapy, forcefully asserting that life is worth living, threatening to call 911 to save me from myself. Therefore, it is imperative to understand from this moment forward that...

I. Am. Not. Suicidal.

However, to be truthful, there was a point in my life that I was. I know the depths of depression and void of self worth, the illusion of irretreviable mistakes, scourges of unjustifiably magnified regrets that make large amounts of sleeping pills and alcohol, a noose in the closet or a bath tub full of razors seem attractive options to my ultimate exit as opposed to the gracious acceptance of old age and passing away in my sleep. 

Yes, I know how it feels to be that desperate and hopeless. I also know that I'm not the only one who has suffered alone and has somehow been drawn back from the rim of that dark and bottomless crater. I love my life and feel a great responsibility. 

When I was in college, I was given the oppurtunity to write a weekly column for the school paper. I did so for two years. One week my column dealt with the subject of teenage suicide. Immediately upon publication, a deluge of friends, teachers, near strangers and others I never even knew read my articles came to me with urgency and great concern. They inquired of the state of my mental health, begging me not to off myself, while a few were near tears. I sincerely appreciated the outpouring and assured everyone that I was fine, which I was.

Then a young woman I barely knew sheepishly approached me and said 'Thank you for writing that column.' She told that she never knew anyone else had ever felt like she did. She went on to say that now she didn't feel alone anymore. The thoughts of dire worthlessness, personal responsibility for everything wrong in the world and ineptitude to fix anything, the implicit knowledge that if I weren't here anymore, no one would notice and everyone would just plain be happier without me; thoughts I knew all too well, were for her beginning to abate and she was starting to remember what it feels like to be happy.

It was late afternoon, the sun was setting on distant end of the sidewalk where we stood, away from a congregation of the cool kids, both of us trying like hell not to cry. To this day, that was one of the most important dialogs I've ever had with a fellow human being. She taught me the importance of not mincing words or pulling punches when I write. To know that for every one who doesn't get me, there are many that do. To never speak with any less than my total heart and soul because there is someone out there who needs me to be brave more than I need me to be brave. That no matter how bleak, no one is ever alone, no pain is insurmountable and no grace unattainable. 

If you have read any amount of my writing, you know I don't put on kid gloves and dilute the vocabulary. Since that conversation, I am aware that it is my responsibility as a writer and fellow human being to lay it out, guts and all, upon the altar. Especially since being blessed and cursed with a heart bag, tear ducts, wound scars, angelic visions and belief in our creation as large as mine. I have to write like this, there is no other choice. I know perfectly damn good and well that I'm not alone in any of this and nobody should ever feel they are anyone less. I may not know who you are or what you're going through but as long as I have anything to say about it, please know, you are not alone and it will get better, I swear to God. 

I don't recall

the first time

I cried

in front of you

I was probably

not drunk

or fishing for attention

just honest saying

fuck it all

this is me

accept this part

or let's each

go back home

It was probably

about my father's illness

or my mother's hatred

and my own deception

of myself and how suicide

was more delicious

than hanging around

this shit hole

I trusted you

though not completely

half expecting you

to lash out

with a witless knife

like so many before

smelling an easy target

and so much fun

to bring down 

in a storm

of feathers and helium

an explosion

so deafening

the satisfaction

exquisitely momentary

as a back alley

orgasm

I cried

on some forgetful night

giving a shit

as I expected

most to do likewise

passing between

feigned compassion

and flittering recognition

of one's own heart

splattered 

across the couch

nude

I begged

go the fuck

back to bed

there is nothing 

you can do

pardon me

while I plead

for an oasis

of sleeping pills 

and alcohol

in the middle 

of this desert

and all the serial killers

who erased 

my voice mails

I am rendered

invisible

amongst your prayers

I have descended

unmemorable

into your history

even your hatred

has forgotten me.

Please never lose sight that no matter how hopeless it seems, none of us is ever really alone. I hope no one ever leaves this place until we each realize how much we matter to each other and are loved by those we have chosen to forget.

All my love always,

Max

My Invisible Friends

Not a damn thing in this life has ever been easy. It wasn't ever supposed to be is the best conclusion I can surmise. Why? is a question I don't bother to ask anymore. I'll be greeted with silence. 

I grew up with a very pronounced speech impediment that finally abated through therapy when I was about 16 years old. I still have the faded ghosts, decayed remnants and decrepit artifacts of my stutter. Hold me in conversation long enough and I'll start t-t-t-t-t-ticking the f-f-f-f-first letters of my wwww-wwww-wwwww....words at the beginning of sentences. Well, you may or may not notice, but I will. 

My stuttering has been reduced to an infinitesimal fraction of its former self.

I've since spent many years as a stage actor and more recently beginning to feel my oats as a spoken word artist. I am at home and happy to be onstage in front of several hundred people. My voice is clear and strong. It doesn't take any shit or prisoners. I can whisper a fussy baby to sleep, cuss like a drunken fucking sailor in a whore house and provoke mountains to movement with prayer.

I've scared the fresh hell out of the wicked and calmed souls of the wretched with my words. Sometimes committing vice versa much to my error and subsequent self imposed brow beatings. But this is how I am learning to use this blessing and curse of this voice of mine. It is my glory and my wound. 

I stuttered and stammered as soon as I could speak. Some of my elders thought I was mentally retarded and immediately wrote me off as pathetic and damaged. Others thought I wwwwas sssstuttering on purpose to get attention. 

My parents yelled at me 'Stop stuttering! It sounds like hell!'

I got bullied and beaten up a lot. Somewhere around age 13, I had had  e-double-ee-triple-eee-fucking-enough. I started to punch the shit out of any potential bully I saw. I was a damn good little scrapper, beating the crapola out of two and three punks simultaneously. I kicked balls, gouged eyes, threw shit at people's heads and choked the snot out of any motherfucker who made fun of my sad little retarded ass sssssstuttering voice.

Also realizing at a very young age about my bisexuality on top of the speech impediment that thus presented a great immediate need to learn the manly art of fisticuffs to defend myself from the small minded and overzealous. I studied and practiced Tae Kwon Do and Judo like a ravenous vulture/scared mouse/viper engorged with bile.

It came along one day, while in the post lunch recreation area of my junior high school (where most of the fights happened) I was confronted by an assemblage of about 14 frustrated fellow youths united for the sole purpose of kicking the shit out of my retarded, sputtering, half way queer, indignant and incomprehensible ass.

For the next 20 or so minutes, I was beaten, punched, kicked, slammed, slapped, shoved, knocked to the ground and spat upon. At a couple of points, a kid or two I had never had any contact with joined into the fray. It was, after all, what the cool kids were doing at the moment. All the while a vice principal observed the entire scene from beginning to end. I kept calling for him to help me. The prick just stood there and stared. 

The school bell rang and the gang dispersed. Somehow, I got up and walked away. I have been told that I have many guardian angels and protecting spirits that surround me. I count this instance as one of many situations peppered throughout my life that I believe confirms this. 

In the days that followed, I tried to tell my parents what had happened. Their responses were words to the effect of 'Oh well, I guess you did something to make them mad' and 'why didn't you punch them in the goddamn mouth?' At that point, the solution seemed obvious.

Just stop talking.

For the next couple of years, unless I was in the company of trusted friends or it was absolutely necessary, that is exactly what I did. Any time I detoured off the foot path of silence, I was immediately sssssssorry.

Silenced mouth

clenched tongue

I forgot how to laugh

how to cry

That summer

I tried to hang myself

a thousand times

My lover

came to disdain me

Our taboo

had become 

rancid to him 

That summer

I sweltered

no chance 

of innocence

regained

I tried

pills

rope and knives

not sharp 

or swift enough

to tear this life

free 

to the abyss

where I could 

in silence

drown

I wrote

suicide notes

knowing

they would 

never

be found

Then came

the drugs

and momentary peace

masturbation ending 

in failed assassination

cries for release

The attic seemed

a good cemetery

to hide my anxious corpse

where I could die

safe and astounded

at the glorious failure

of my wasted life

Praying never 

to return

to this 

cruel 

earth 

again

Fuck you

eat shit 

and die

all of you 

my 

invisible 

friends.

I pray that no one else ever feels like I did while I was growing up, but I know a lot of kids, for their own reasons do. They need to know that they are not alone. I swear to God, the human spirit is more resilient than any of us can ever believe until we've been through hell and back. There will come a day of choice between enlightenment and bitterness. In the name of all that is holy, I pray that ye choose thee well. Too many tender souls are too young to realize this. In the name of all that is love, please share this before it is too late.

Please. 

With all my love as always and forever,

Max

Angel Unborn

1. Amber

When I turned on the light, the bedroom floor looked like a murder scene. I was convinced for an instant that God was going to take from me my wife and unborn daughter. Kelley stood quivering amidst the crimson horror and said 'I think I need to go to the hospital'.

After an exponential breaking of speed limits and traffic laws, we were met by a group nurses. Several ultrasound tests later, it was determined that an old biopsy procedure site had opened when she had her first contraction, instead of the tragedy it was first thought to be. I looked into the mirror in the maternity room and saw two long tendrils of gray hair coming from my temples that had not previously existed.

About 10 hours later, she was born. I knew in that second I would never be the same. I had just become something I always wanted to be. I was now somebody's dad and it's all of a sudden not all about me anymore. 

2. Daniel

After three false labors, he came into the world on a bitterly cold morning with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. He was not breathing and unresponsive to the midwife's slapping and pronounced chantings of ' Baby! Baby! Baby!' She said to her assistant to get the team of 'special' nurses. 

Two smiley faced women wearing smiley faced nurse smocks entered, scooped up his limp purple body and said they were 'going to take baby out of the room for a minute'.  I knew if those two bitches took him, they would quickly give up and I would never see my son alive.  

I grabbed him away, laid him on a table, held his hands, looked toward the sky, closed my eyes and I bullshit you not, I saw a light. What happened then or for how long, I have no recollection. The next memory I have is being shaken by the nurses. They were saying 'Mr Grimm, he's OK, you can let go now.' 

I looked down to see a little pink baby boy screaming his fucking head off. I held him for a minute then handed him to the nurses who checked his vital signs. He promptly urinated all over the bunch of them. My sentiments exactly. They took him over to Kelley and she held our son for the first time. I sat down next to the bed. She asked, 'What just happened?'  Later, the midwife asked 'What did you do?' To this day, I still have no answer. 

This poem is called 'Asaliah'

To my little boy

never born 

unto us 

I feel 

your angel 

tonight

Though you 

never

became

our child 

in this life

still I feel 

your light presence
and longings

to be 

my son

to be
our children’s brother

and of my true love 

she would bear

bring you forth

and love 

with a fortitude 

possessed 

only by mothers

Your first 

cry would dispel

my dark imaginings

I would become 

filled 

with a strength 

known only 

to fathers

We would raise you 

with a love

known only

to parents 

and  

name 

you 

Asaliah

an angel 

whose guidance

I cherish 

and name
I have 

always had 

a reverence.

I feel you 

close tonight 

my son
not 

holding my hand
but in a dream

I conjured 

from chaos

and distilled 

into liquid starlight

dancing on oceans

of nectar 

behind

drawn 

curtains

of my 

haunted 

eyes

and sing you 

to sleep

with hymns

from our joys

unrealized

until our souls

can do 

aught

else

but 

collide.

All my love always,

Max