Regrets and Lesser Evils

This year will see many things. Not the least of which will be my 50th birthday. For the record, I'm really OK about it. But an anniversary such as this does bring with it a great deal of reflection and self assessment. All in all, I have to I've had a good life thus far. Even when factoring in the bad times, addictions, adversarial relationships, crises of faith and assorted injustices, somehow I find myself hovering around the half century mark adorned in a certain amount of valor and satiety as I ponder the next 70 years of my life on earth. 

I have accomplished a lot, most of which I'm either proud of or have learned valuable lessons from. I've met a lot of people, the large majority of which I love, admire and respect, the rest of whom have taught me tolerance and compassion. 

I married the love of my life and we have two astoundingly lovely children. This year will see our 20th anniversary and my little girl's sweet 16 and my baby boy's 12th. We may not have a large bank account but we have always have what we need. In January of 2011 a snowstorm of biblical proportion (at least by Atlanta, GA standards) shut down the city and we were unable to leave the house for several days. I could never have asked to be snowed in with a more lovely group of people. 

I have trod upon the boards of many stages, created lots of art and written volumes of poetry, prose, scripts and essays. I am a published writer, have run a half marathon, overcome drug addiction, had a solo art show, saved a couple of lives and walked away from more than a few battles with my head held high and hold very few regrets. 

Of these, my regrets are based in things I have done rather than things I haven't done. This, in my opinion, is by far the lesser of two evils. It is better, I think, to commit, regret, accept responsibility and ownership, atone, learn and move forward rather than sink into apathy and fear, never touching or venturing, regret and die unfulfilled and devoid of the knowledge of the experience life provides. 

The poem that follows is not based on any one person. It is a composite of many people I have known across this mosaic in progress of my life thus far.

She walked through

Times Square crying 

to me via cel phone

What 

would have happened

if we had 

dated

in school?

I always 

thought

I

wasn't pretty enough

and that you

were out

of my league

and

if I asked

you

for a date

you

would laugh

behind my back

after

declining

gracefully

but here I am

after 14 years

still

reading your poetry

in bed crying

while he sleeps

and you

touch my heart

with your words

I regret

never finding

my courage

for never 

seeing myself

as you see me

for never

so much as attempting

and for this

I have failed

before even beginning

Now

you have

talked me

off of the ledge

I 

know not what

to do with the life

I abandoned

as it sits

before me

rocking and humming

glancing and wondering

when I will see

with it's light

and dance

with it's gift

All my love always, 

Max

For Daniel and George (and me, somewhere in between).

He looks more like his grandfather with each falling away day. Generating will and confidence, his feet dance over coals and betwixt shards, arabesquing and transcending above his tentative crawling of dissolving yesterdays. 

His voice becomes clear and profound, redolent of sweet lyric alternating with rapier sarcasm as his ever widening irises drink in the world before him, brimming with flights of constant decay and eternal blessings of conception of the next potential miracle. It, like he, attempting to understand their unfolding self's.

He holds my hand less and less these days. Preferring instead the adventure of his untold story as opposed to the tales and lullabies we once shared at his bedside. I am an echo of his grandfather as he is a repercussion of me. 

We would play in the tides, galavanting upon the carpet laid before incoming white caps of great mother ocean, crashing and ebbing amid seashells, deconstructed sun beams and flashings of porpoise fins across the far away surface concealing the depths beneath of great father time.

When 

I was little

I sat 

at his

draughtsman's 

table 

He taught me

the proper use 

of the compass

and protractor

correct applications

of the slide rule

finer points

of the ruling pen

elegance inherent

in the eclipse templates

permanence

of india ink

culminating

in the alchemy

of cartography

Because

if you can map it

on paper son

you can walk

that bastard through life

and no son of a bitch

can prove you wrong

Because

I have my map

and what do you have? 

you'll say

and 

when the gap toothed 

cocksucker

stands there

stammering

and answerless

you can kick

his ass

in the goddamn ball sack

and be 

on your merry way

he said

when I sat 

on his lap

learning

to properly position

a T square

gliding a 30 degree angle

astride its horizon

ink flowing seamlessly

from the tip

of my speedball

with a grace

I would not feel again

until 

I danced ballet

on a big stage

and 

when we conceived

our children

in sweltering midnights

when I knew

my love and I

had greater plans

A map

of our biology

that pierced the veil

into

the next world

and our children

would sit

upon our laps

we

guiding their hands

stroking their hair

out

of newborn eyes

finding

blindly together

lines and patterns

from this world

to the next

No 

son of a bitch

can provide

blockade

to their transcendence

No 

time

stand

in their way. 

All my love to you and yours,

Max

3 Valentines

I wish a very happy Valentines Day to you all. These are three valentines for three amazing women. 

1. Sweet Angel,

I wish I could have hugged you when you were a child, I would whisper from the future to you what you now know and of the peaceful warrior you would become. 

Your compassion is insurmountable, armor untarnished and free of affectation, your eyes inherited from the wizened and war torn heros who are since relieved of duty and in graceful repose, your palms are a stereo-print of mine. 

Dear lady, your footpaths will lead you to Valhalla, your hair dancing in the breeze untangling the sadistic arrogance that attempted unsuccessfully to beat the magic out of you. I have cried an aeon of oceans for you and what you have conquered since before we knew each other in this life. It was not until we finally met that I came to the see the eternity of how much I missed you and how much I love you.

2. Sweet Bear, 

We unfold our future to manifest my promise. To be the best prince I can be despite my chinks, to love you beyond our humanity. If I could find you on a dark night of the soul predating our history, I would tell you that I will always be here, no matter the fleeting moments and dark imaginings of anger or regret. Because for all the disasters that may befall, you and I have been blessed with what so many have forgotten they possess or ever learn to acquire.  As it has been tattooed on my skin 'The greatest of these is Love' and wear it because of what your presence in my life has taught me. 

I love you and wish for your company in Heaven. 

3. Little Girlie, 

You granted me my greatest wish; the chance to be a father. For all of the diapers and sleepless nights, it is nothing compared to what you have endured from me as I learn each day, sometimes clumsily finding my next foot steps, of how to be the dad I want to be. 

You are becoming someone who I am humbled to have fathered. You amaze me each day with your art, humor and kindness. Yours is an undeterred spirit you have yet to discover and I am in awe as I watch you find your wings and venture every day a bit higher and beyond these walls of trees and ceiling of sky than you dared to go the day before.

I thank God for not to have to wish in futility for a time before our lives together when I could have told you the beautiful soul you are and the gift of your breath upon my shoulder as I hug you and say 'I love you sweetheart. Sweet dreams.'

All my love, always and forever, your brother, your husband and your dad.

Max     

The Furnace Wherein I Became a Diamond

Heroin was the most deliciously evil vagina I ever kissed. Sweet throes and rushings of fog and mist. Corpulent tides of bliss washing over my bedraggled corpse. We danced only once during the halcyon days of my misspent youth. I snorted her thinking she was cocaine, animal tranquilizer or something equally innocuous. I felt a rush of fear as if someone demon had injected acid into my psyche. Wrapped in the depths of her blankets, I was terrified I had fallen into a pit of whose depths I would never extricate myself from.  

I was a prisoner in her bed. She convulsed and squirmed, grinding her hips on my face, suffocating me with her multiple orgasms. For hours it seemed I was unable to move from the hypnotic poppy induced rape. A helpless victim waiting for the business end of her concealed dagger to lodge between my ribs and bullet from her twisted leperus boyfriend hiding in the closet to make double damn sure this latest fool was spent and deceased. 

When I emerged from paralysis and fitful dreamtime, she had already put on her clothes, sprayed perfume on her cunt and left a calling card at the foot of my bed. I was astounded not to be dead, terrified of how much I loved her torture and how I would in a heartbeat give my life to have her kill me again. 

I never invited that bitch back into my bedroom again.

Shine

The furnace wherein

I became a diamond

became littered with 

shedded skins

of the torturous me

inverse sadist

who found consolation

in the smell of burnt flesh

thirst quenched by bloodlettings

from invited rape

provoking nocturnal emissions

I possessed the grace and shame

to extract these delights

only from myself

the self-medicating patient

I gave freely to my darkened self

circumambulating windershins and deosil

poison around my heart, life and brainstem

preparing the fuse lighting 

for a grand alchemic display

of suicidal fireworks

concocting a cauldron of bile

duct taped with nails 

shot from my eyes

splinters of my mind

with a kiss of bone shards

I’d show those bastards

how bright I can fucking shine

igniting the sky

with a cascade of damnation

raining iron and fools gold

down upon their shriveled heads

no one to save them 

or me

from this wrath

except me

When the day came

to take an axe to the furnace

the bomb finally exploded

in silence 

as I gazed into a mirror

while in the throes of LSD

the infant was birthed

releasing the corpse

I had been carrying

Peter Pan died that night

and Tinkerbell

could not have been happier

because I finally killed the fiend

who threated to smash the mirror

that I crawled out of

to prevent the infection

of the sky 

above the world

that so richly deserved 

to be unpoisoned

when the boy 

would lie upon the grass

that first springtime

gazing above asking

why

God 

why?

To this day I still don't know how I made my way out of that terrible patch of shit. Miracles happen.

All my love always,

Max

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

A Door in the Sky

He was already halfway into the Christmas vodka by the time I walked through the door. 'Go get yourself a glass and sit down' he barked. 'I always told myself that one day you and I were going have a drink of vadker and I was going to tell you some things'.

I had heard the stories from my Mom, grandparents, aunts and uncles. I had seen the old yellow newspaper from his hometown with his picture on the front page. A 24 year old steel eyed soldier posed behind a machine gun and a waist high stack of Nazi soldier helmets. The family always spoke with glowing reverence of his single handed obliteration of a platoon of German soldiers that had planned a surprise midnight attack on the American troops.

'We're so proud of him. Your Dad is a hero. He saved the lives of all his men.'

Sergeant First Class George B. Grimm received the highest honor that can be awarded for heroism in battle without dying. I still have his silver star medal in my top dresser drawer along with the swastika and iron cross he took off a dead soldier. When we were in depositions and negotiations for his medical malpractice and wrongful death law suit, I secretly carried his silver star in my pocket. 

'First of all' he said, 'your daddy was a damn good soldier. I did what I was told. I did what I had to do.' 

He stood at his position while on solitary night watch while the rest of the troops slept. Somehow he became aware of an immediately impending attack by a German platoon. He sequestered himself beneath a bridge with as many machine guns and armaments as he could quickly gather. When the enemy forces stormed over the bridge, he let fly with a flurry and hail of gunfire unleashing a storm of blood rain upon himself from the fresh corpses of soldiers above. 

He killed every last single Nazi son of a bitch in sight all by his lonesome damn self.

Part of him never emerged from beneath that bridge, never stopped hearing echos of gunfire, never came clean from the bloodshed, never awoke from the night terror. 

Nearly four decades after that night, as we pounded down shot upon shot of vodka, he finished telling me his story. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. I tried to put my arm around him but he told me to sit back down. We sat across the table for what seemed forever while he repeated 'your daddy was a good soldier, your daddy was a good soldier, your daddy was a good soldier......'

A Door in the Sky

The fragility of children 

transcends space and time

trickles through pores

on the surface

of the grid work of his skin

surrounding his face. 

Immemorial legions of bastards 

drawn to his bedside

to bask in the sun

as his father

calls him back home. 

The light of his day

was preceded with glory. 

His family sat round

trading stories over coffee

cakes and regressions

led to tears

soaking the bread of communion

shared at his dining room table. 

The lamp overhead

was the only light artificial

in this room full of angels

ancestors and souls

of those he had loved

and loved him in return. 

The lives he took

on the battlefield returned

and offered forgiveness

for his unchosen tasks. 

The light overhead came closer. 

We witnessed stillness and haste

in its approach. 

Then God as a man

rose up and proclaimed

his innocence had returned 

and he shared it with those

present and otherwise. 

He kissed us goodbye

one final time

as he ascended and climbed

through a door in the sky. 

All my love always,

Max

PS. If I have one prayer right now, it is that Dad is looking over my shoulder as I write this and saying 'You told it right, kid. You told it right.'