Dear Legal Department,

Thank you for correcting me

with your unabashed wisdom

ever present vigilance 

and attention to detail

for outlining the priorities

and methodology

if in the event

I ever again find

one of my coworkers

lying unconscious

wedged 

between two filing cabinets

legs askew

half slouched/half supine

on the floor

and bleeding from the head,

If, God forbid

there is a future occurrence

of such dimension

and proportion

I know now

the protocol

to NOT first

call the ambulance

or attempt to revive

but instead to

FIRST 

call upon a member 

of the management team

to ascertain with a certainty

greater than mine

when and if I find

one of my coworkers

unconscious and bleeding

if it is a good thing

or a bad thing.

For it seems 

that I am a bear 

of very little brain

and big words

confuzzle me

therefore 

it is to be surmised 

by the braintrust

in the upper eschalon

of management and legalities

that it is extremely unwise

to assist 

an unconscious coworker 

especially one

who is bleeding profusely

from the fucking head.

Certainly I

a mere minion

amongst the cogs

of this grand enterprise

will heretofore consider

myself counciled, 

enlightened

and forewarned

not to tread lightly

if at all

within the parameters

pertaining to the vicious

whirlpooling sewer

inhabited and frequented

by doctors, lawyers

insurance companies

and upper management

whose elitist realm

we hourly wage hobos

can only wish 

to penetrate

with our greasy fingers

and unwashed mentalities

ipso facto rendering us 

woefully unable

to calculate 

the complexities

of systematic response

that should be enacted

when we find

one of our fellow

work a day apes

unconscious on the floor

sporting a pale complexion

shallow of breath

wedged between 

two filing cabinets

half slouched/half supine

and from a gash

upon their forehead

requiring seven 

eventual stitches

acquired during sudden

tumultuous descent

from consciousness

to oblivion

and did I mention?

the blood

being emitted

profusely

from the 

fucking 

head.

Thank you, dear legal department for your clarification. If I by chance,in the regrettable future find another fellow employee in peril I will:

1. Go find a member of the management team.

2. Inform them that a fellow hourly wage ape is in a state of the aforementioned 'peril' (i.e. unconscious on the floor, legs askew, wedged between two filing cabinets and bleeding like holy shit, oh my God! oh my God! oh my God! from the fucking head come quick! come quick! come quick!) and then...

3. Hand the member of the management team my cel phone because I'm sure I will have forgotten how to dial 9-1-1 and then...

4. Let those of higher position of the managerial strata decide when unconsciousness and blood loss is a reportable circumstance or when it is a distraction from industrial productivity. 

This sequence of protocol is now clearly embroidered upon my neural canals and thought wave frequencies. 

However....

Being that I am a bear of very little brain and big words and ominous circumstances confuzzle me, please be aware, that if in the unseen future, should I ever again encounter another fellow ape, coworker or otherwise, within the walls of this fine corporation or without, who is apparently stricken with an inappropriate lack of consciousness and even a small but suspicious smattering amount of head bleeding, I maybe could....I don't know....just possibly....like maybe....get a little.....you know, kinda sorta brain farty and forgetful about the approved corporate procedures concerning calling 9-1-1 for unconscious individuals bleeding from the fucking head during work hours. 

If I heinously fuck up by calling the ambulance first and management second, please forgive my transgression because I am  as aforementioned a bear of very little brain.

But...

Dear Legal Department,

Why do I tend to think, that once the day is over and the corporate charade has been sluffed off, the masks of legality obscuring humanity discarded, the vicious whirlpools risen above, that it were ever, God forbid, you dear legal department, that I were to find

legs askew

wedged 

between two filing cabinets, 

half slouched half supine

weeping crimson 

from a seven stitch 

worthy gash

upon your brow

eyes obscured

by pallourous lids

acquired from a plunge

into an unexpected loss

of consciousness

that you

in the following days

would be grateful

for my choice

of temporary amnesia

humanitarian propriety

overshadowing

corporate protocol

I will similarly 

hold no grudge

or think any less

of you

or behold you

as any less

of the astute 

dear legal department

that you are

if you were to get

get a little

like, I don't know....

...kinda sorta...

brain farty

and confuzzled

should you ever find me 

in need

of your compassion

rather than

your protocols

because we are

after all 

bears 

of very little brain

equally 

and alternately capable

of saving each others lives

and bleeding profusely

from the fucking head. 

With no disrespect to anyone and as always with all my love,

Max

Recounting the Events of the Morning of October 25, 2008

The first time I told myself to shut the fuck on that day came when I saw the young woman running with two artificial legs. Quit bitching, complaining, belly aching, pissing and whining and run, just shut the fuck up and run I said aloud in my head. 

I was beginning my 8th mile, she was starting upon her 4th. The sun had yet to break between the omnipresent lingering black clouds, the obstinate fog still unburned. Storms of the previous evening had strewn mud across the race course and cast a shroud over this morning that was unable to rouse itself from the hangover of its tempestuous midnight. 

This, my first half marathon, was the only time I had run this particular course, either alone or with 1500 other runners. We were to go 6 1/2 miles out, turn around and run 6 1/2 miles back. My strategy had been to take mental notes of the trees and structures, formations and landmarks on the first half of the journey so that I would recognize them upon returning thus creating an idea of my progress and position on latter half this expedition.

The weather conditions pretty much kibashed that plan right down the toilet. It was highly disorienting to be in a pack of runners where the visibility fades into dank fog after 30 feet. Compounding my befuddlement was the fact that in the predawn preparation for the race, my wallet, cash, credit card, drivers license and cel phone had fallen out of my preset running attire and were sitting safely on the floor by the sofa in the living room. 

This fact remained unbeknownst to me until after I had made the hour drive from home and arriving at the little town in west Georgia where the race to be run. Whereupon I also realized that the needle on the gas gauge was nearing E. I resisted the temptation to being chanting the mantra 'Oh Fuck Me' repeatedly and ad nauseam.  

With all things considered, at somewhere around the 4th mile of the race, I saw a young man, limping, clenching his ribs, spitting into the dirt and wearing one of the biggest eat shit and die scowls I have ever seen. At that moment I made a resolution and said to myself: 

'I don't know what is going to happen today, but there is no way in hell I'm going to become that guy.'

It was unfolding to be truth of what the old man in the grocery store wearing running shoes and a Peachtree Road Race T-shirt (a huge running event here in Atlanta) had said to me many months earlier; 'You have to go out and run a half marathon kid. It will change your life. Once you cross that finish line for the first time, you'll never be the same again.'

I have always loved running, but the problem becomes when you have trod the same paths over and over and over again, familiarity breeds the shit out of a whole bunch of contempt and you yearn to traverse new vistas. When they don't immediately appear is when we starting hanging up our shoes, saying my race has been run, plopping down on the sofa to watch TV, drink beer and slowly proceed to die. We become entranced and spiral into a fading desire to reveal the next adventures that would take us beyond ourselves exposing the infinity of the potential of our human spirit when fueled by acceptance of the divine spark that put us here to discover how awesome of a species we are and can potentially become.

It was somewhere around the 10th mile that the sun began to emerge from behind the pallourous canvas of clouds, the mists lifting, the forests and hills materializing while the cramps in my legs and fire in my lungs became no longer ignorable. I was beginning to hit 'The Wall.' 

"The Wall' can be the most foreboding monsterous son of a bitch ever. It is a state of pain and self doubt. A maschochist that will deconstruct limb from limb every false self confidence you ever held. A tyrant that doesn't care how much poached salmon, whole wheat pasta and steamed broccoli you've eaten for the past several months, how many miles you've run or how much spirulina and Co-enzyme Q-10 you've sucked down each morning with pathetic ass soy milk and cucumber juice in preparation for this event. It proclaimed to me quite loudly on that morning; you buddy are just like the rest of us burger snorting, fried potato huffing heathen that may someday fall victim to your heart imploding to shreds, lungs seizing up gasping your last and disintegrating brain capillaries spurting an endless domino effect that spells your untimely demise well before any well laid plans and profound realizations before the great end-it-all. You may be Superman but your just as fragile as the rest of us. 

That is, in so many words, what the wall said to me for three excruciating quarters of a mile before I found a way to climb over it. I hate the son of a bitch 'Wall.' In retrospect, it was my best friend.

I began to gather myself to turn my limping back into a run. I have no clue in those moments about the state of my blood pressure, glucose levels, lactic acid saturation or rate of respiration but I can tell you that I began to hallucinate. As I resumed my running pace, I saw the ghost of my mother appear levitating in the air before. She said, 'Don't you do anything to hurt my little boy.' I said, 'Yes ma'am, I'll be careful.' and I began to cry.

For the next mile and half I ran and cried and ran and cried. Then I began to look down at my legs in motion upon the earth. I started laughing and said aloud 'How the hell are you doing that?'

Two women running together passed me. They said,

Oh God it hurts

Oh God

Do you want

to stop?

No God No.

Moments later I ran past them. One was limping, the other was carrying her.

Do you need

to stop?

Yes.

Sit here.

No God No

We have to 

keep on.

This scene repeated itself until the finish line was finally at merciful last within eyeshot. 

Something took hold of me and I exploded in a flash of speed and excelleration for the last quarter mile. Limbs astride the air and earth, blood and oxygen in perfect coordination, a dance of mercurial transcendence until I crossed the finish line at 2 hours and 41 minutes. I raised my eyes heavenward, placed my hands in a prayer and mouthed a silent 'thank you.' A chorus of church ladies saw me and shouted, 'That's Right Brother! Praise The Lord For He Is Great! Amen Brother Amen!'

As everyone slowly made their back to their cars, I saw the two ladies. We greeted each other as if we were long lost siblings. They said to me that when it looked as if never see the end of the race, they would see me.

no matter

what happened

you 

kept going

no matter

how bad

you

kept going

you

inspired us

to finish

without 

you

I

would

have sat 

down

and died

During the drive home, I was pleading to not arrive to a gasless farting stumble by the side of the road, ending in a collapse and pray for some good Samaritan to find me, scrape my sorry ass off the pavement and deliver me to the nearest homeless shelter. By some miracle parallel to the homily of the menorah I made it home by the fumes of my gas tank to my thoroughly distraught wife who greeted me with tears, a hug, my wallet and cel phone. 

She took me upstairs where I sat on the edge of the tub and she drew me the best hot bath I've ever had in my whole wretched blessed life. I was tired beyond logic and cried once again. I had been lost as a nameless blind man in a foreign desert, spent out of prayers and fortitude, devoid of identity, absent of power or means to communicate my inability to find my way back home. 

My heart had not exploded nor were my shins and femurs shattered. By perseverance, extension of good will to others along the path and faith in the unseen magnetism that bonds the weaving of this tapestry of our lives, I had returned here once again, to the family I prayed for in the place that I belong. For where there is life there is always hope and beyond life there is a place for us all called home. 

All my love always,

Max

away from this dark street lamp night feeling weak and ashamed

1. Hobe Sound, FL. 

My mom often said how sorry she was for what happened to little B****. She was my first baby sitter, our neighbor's daughter and my big friend. She could talk to me when no one else dared approach the petulant child. 

The last time I saw her I was perhaps 10 years old. We met on the street of the little town where I was born and spent my very early childhood where we would play, swim and go to church together. She would tell me always be good and listen to my mom and dad. 

I could scarcely look my old friend in the eye when she said how nice it was to see me again and how big I had grown. I was trying to survive my childhood and she was finding her way back into the world after several chapters of prostitution brought on by drug addiction. I didn't really comprehend where she had been or what had happened to her but I knew it was bad. Damn bad. A really fucking damn 'Why did this have to happen? Because God doesn't give a shit is why!' kind of bad.

That day, I just could not look at her or hardly speak. Not because I was ashamed or though any less of her. I just could not wrap my 10 year old brain around it. I was a kid and I been hearing bad news about her for years. Suddenly there she was, playing kickball with a few of the neighborhood kids like nothing had changed except for the pallorous mist and tear streaked valleys that adorned her once shining blonde face.

Of the few profound regrets I have in my life this one is that I wish could have thrown my arms around her and said how nice it was to see her too. Maybe even gotten in a few rounds of kickball. But I just stared at the ground mumbling and walked away. I have never seen her since. I wish to God I could take that day back and do it again. But that is not going to happen and it breaks the hell out of my heart. 

This memory is probably why these subsequent paragraphs and verses have turned into one of the hardest damn things I've ever written about. I haven't made it through one writing session without being overcome with emotion. I don't know if this is the best thing I've ever written but it sure as shit comes from a place deep in my heart. 

Personally, I have never been a sex worker but it has recently occurred to me that I have known several people who have, for a variety of reasons, found themselves having sex for money. Some found their way out, some didn't. For reasons I don't understand, I have felt extremely compelled to tell their stories as best as I am able.  

2. Biscayne Boulevard and 58th Street

She was not even so much as a small smattering of years older than me yet she was aging quickly. Every night, all the girls would come out of the darkness and rain, heat, cold, fog and/or humidity and into the relatively safer confines of the greasy ass diner where I washed dishes. Unlike the others, she was still unravaged by repeated beating from her pimp, long nights of desperate customers, periodic jail stints and multiple bouts of syphilis. 

Her eyes still flashed turquoise and she smiled through a south Georgia twang. She asked me

Where 

do you go  

to school? 

What

do you 

want to do 

once you 

graduate?

Does

it hurt 

when you 

get tattoos?

Many times, late at night, I contemplated spending a weeks pay for a half hour of her naked companionship. Instead I kept the clutching caresses of her undulating corpse pristine in my fantasies and untarnished by one less set of hands. 

3. Birch Street. Fort Lauderdale,FL.

Renee practiced black magic, pledged her allegiance to Satan, packed her bags and at 19 went to working the street. I suppose it was because the old Hell had gotten tiresome. The suburbs held no promise, her family had become obsolete. Out here it was an adventure and they were all friends.

Protecting 

each other

from the cops

and the killers

because 

snuffing out 

hookers

is a game

of numbers

no matter

what side of the law

you stand on

or fucked up reason

you carry

that gun

Damien and Adam were handsome, personable and charmingly dumb as two bags of hammers. To know them was to adore them. They were in love with each other and easily made friends at all ends of Fort Lauderdale beach. Regular customers looked for them in the wee hours, cruising up and down Birch Street, asking all the other working boys and girls if they had seen the bright blonde haired boy and his dashing slate blue eyed companion.

One stormy night, a night torrentially forbidding even the most resolute entrepreneurial courtesan from plying their trade, we sat in their apartment, smoking copious amounts of weed and rejoicing in some much deserved respite and laughter. 

Then 

a young boy

appeared 

at the window

drenched

to the bone

and crying

lightning silhouetting

his meager frame

calling repeatedly

Damien!

Come out!

Damien!

I love you!

Who the fuck 

is that?

we said

'Just a customer.'

He drew the blind.

4. Police Report

Damien 

would dress 

as Daphne 

and get into 

strange cars 

leaving Adam 

to wonder 

if 

he 

would ever 

see 

his love 

again 

until 

the hotel

found Renee 

that night

in her bed

strangled

then

the fear

became real

and the escape

disappear.

5. Atlanta, GA. 

  

The conversation skidded abruptly into oblivion when I asked;

What's ever happened

to V****?

'Haven't you heard?'

No.

(long pause)

'I'm sorry

you have to hear this

from me.....'

In the end...

She survived meth addiction and the man who pimped her as a 'professional submissive.' She survived the hospital stays and beatings for money that landed her there. She survived even though many had stopped praying for her.

Instead asking

she's still alive?

and not dead yet?

how is that possible?

shouldn't she be?

wouldn't she be?

better off somehow?

I never stopped crying for my friend until I heard her voice on the phone. She had found her way out of hell to find the man who treats her like gold. She had moved far away. Now there is a baby girl. Now she speaks once again to her mother. Now she realizes how deep the dark night of the soul can be and where she must never again go. I hope she realizes how much she is loved and what a part of us died when we thought we would never see our friend alive again. 

For myself, I hope I never again feel as powerless as I did when all I wanted to do is save my friend's life and realized that it was not my place or battle. I try to be the man I wish I had been on that day when I was a boy and all my old friend wanted was a smile. 

For these people, they are the ones who I am either in awe of their strengths, pray for their triumphs or weep at their tragedies. I am the one who walks away from this dark street lamp night feeling weak and ashamed. 

With my deepest love, always and forever,

Max

Always For the Children (A Play For Voices)

Pitch Darkness.

Light slowly rises. 

Morning mists swirl around a swing set on the playground in the park. 

He and She. 

She sits motionless.

He swings.

A passage of time follows. Then...

She: 

I used to come here all the time to cry. Lot of good that did. But that was then and this is now. 

What do we do now? Not 'what if?' but it's what do we do now? I know what we used to do but like I said, that was then and this is now. 

And here we are getting no younger and no less wiser. And here we are again.

It seems almost useless sometimes. Like a bird who has forgotten how to fly.

There used to be a church over there. And there used to be bells. Somehow it seemed like the children were happier then. 

The passage of time has been unkind.....no actually, I take that back. It has not always been so. Sometimes they were good. 

Remember the time she crossed over the time at the bowling alley and fell down and you tried to help her up and you fell down too and there you both lay in a heap laughing. 

A big laughing heap. God, that was precious. 

Or the time we got drunk. You remember that? I do. 

What days! 

What days we had! 

Fade out

Time passes

Light slowly returns

He and She both motionless

He:

We used to jump off the roof like a couple of fucking fools! Egging each other on like maniacs! What a pair we were. Drove our mothers both crazy. 

She:

I remember you told me.

He:

You would have liked him. I wonder what ever happened to him.

She:

I have no idea. 

He:

No, I know you wouldn't.

She:

I never knew him.

He:

That's a shame.  

She:

Indeed. (long silence) Yes it is.

Fading out again.

Time passes. Sun rising towards noon.

Fading slowly back. Mists have burned off.

He and She both swinging.

She:

There were these people, I don't know if I ever told you this...

He:

..You probably have...

She:

........about these people who showed up one night...

He:

....tell me again......

She:

..........I never knew them from before and they came to the door and when Mom and Dad saw them...........

He:

....they started hugging each other......

She:

......yes and they were all so happy because they hadn't seen each other in so many years.......

He:

.....old friends from back home........

She:

......and they stayed until late that night drinking wine and reminiscing about the old days.....

He:

....Mary and Cecil.

She:

Yes! 

That was them! 

Have I told you this before?

He:

Yes.

She:

Sorry.

He:

Tell me again.

Fade Out.

Afternoon comes.

Lights return.

He sit motionless. She swings.

She:

I used to get so damn mad at them because they acted like children and I love children but I used to get so damn mad because I loved them. 

And I'll tell you what else is that it was unreasonable of them to expect anything better out of me because of the way I saw them act. 

I mean, Jesus Christ, I was just a little kid, you know. I didn't mean anything about anything and it was just unfair.

Shit.

Jesus Christ.

I was a little kid and a human being and I didn't mean anything or was trying to hurt anybody.

I just loved them and they made me mad.

Fade Out.

Sunset comes.

Both motionless.

He:

What do you want to do?

She:

Change nothing.

He:

Do you know what you are going to say next?

She:

Perhaps I'll just keep silent.

........moments pass, then......

He:

If something happened and I never saw you again I wouldn't want to go on living.

She:

You'd have to.

Man:

Why?

...............Time for a moment stops........

She:

For the children.

He:

Yes. Always for the children.

Fade To White.

The End.

All my love always,

Max

The End of Armageddon

I have a 10th degree black belt, a PhD, won numerous highly prestigious awards and been recognized in the Guinness Book of World records for my unparalleled abilities in the fine art of 'Grudge Holding.'

There have been some unfortunate (but deserving) individuals who are on my permanent shit list. These bastards might as well have their names tattooed on the wrong side of my heart because I have serious shortcomings in the ancient sage-like practice of 'Forgive and Forget.'

Perhaps my difficulty stems from the simple fact that some acts of injustice and cruelty should never be forgotten. After all, he that does not know history is destined to repeat it. There are certain types of people that wake up in the morning, look in the mirror and say 'I'm going to be an asshole today.' 

I'm not making that statement figuratively. Some people make the conscious choice to be schmucks, tools and sons of bitches for the sport of it or they are too weak and immature to try to do better. Then there are those who believe screwing and terrorizing everyone in sight is their right for the injustices and cruelties perpetrated upon them. Furthermore some of these sad human casualties see no other way for them to persevere their way through an unfulfilled life. 

I really should feel sorry for them but I just....can't....wrap....my brain....around......that kind of fucked up mentality and the pus filled cancerous tapestry it attempts to cast upon the world. Granted, we ALL screw up sometimes, saying and doing things to our fellow human beings that is less than civil and I am by no means chaste and blameless by any stretch of the imagination. We, after all, are works in progress and learning from and fessing up to our transgressions is part of how we learn and grow. 

For me, I suppose what I find hard to do is separating and reconciling the forgiving from the forgetting. It is these geocached gems squirreled away on the path towards the Boddisattva I aspire that to be continue to elude me. Probably it would be more correct to say that these gems are sitting right in front of me, I just haven't learned how to see them yet.  

To be total in my confession; there are a few select individuals and associated occurrences that will not be named here of whom and for which I hold a righteously indignant swollen craw full of bile and vitriol that I wish to God and to hell I could let go of because, quite frankly, it is exhausting and detrimental to dwell upon. Once immersed in seething to find myself unable to extricate and climb down from the mountain top whereupon I am precariously but invincibly perched, Wagnarian overtures swelling, lightning flashes, sword drawn aloft to serve as lightning rod for the impending tempest foretelling of the doom and carnage soon to issue forth from the heavens with swarms of pestilence carrying locust upon the shriveled heads of my adversaries while I wail an aria, in the key of fuck you sharp, that goes something like this...

....if thou shalt tweakest me upon the nose, verily I shall smite thee, with long lengths of steel pipework upon thy brow and I shall cast thy teeth ruthlessly upon the earth with a swift blow of my penis upon thy blasphemous lips. 

A pox upon your house! A Curse upon your descendants! 

A call for abominations shall utter forth from mine orisons to the right ear of the All-Mighty! 

He shall strike thee down in all thy wicked ways from this day forth!

So sayeth I who am created in his image! 

Whereas I will someday hopefully evolve to peacefully erupt with soliloquies that sing more like...

One day

I will

reconcile

the demise

of my trust

and purge

my wrath.

Although deserved

I will spare

myself

and the world

another trial

and punishment

framing misdeeds

for the mantle

of heaven.

Once

I have eaten

your Armageddon

I will shit

lotus blossoms

at your funereal

and kiss you

with best wishes

goodbye.

All my love,

Max