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

For my daughter

It was eventually bound to happen as do all inevitable things. She was not so much as ten seconds old, right after her first cries and just before they handed me a pair of shears to snip the umbilical cord that I knew this would happen and when it did, my heart turn to dust and fall into a deep abyss, wherein merciless flames would carbonize and solidify with an influx of oxygen infusing thus and raising this hapless conglomeration towards the sun, in a burnt offering to the eight million God/desses of man in an enflamed plea to gain one scintilla of wisdom, a scosche clearer perception as to how to proceed with this inevitable juncture of passage so that I may not fade or withdraw but instead act with courage in this hour of trial. 

But here I stand before God and all, one man alone, trying like bloody hell to be the best father one imperfect human can be, fingers upon my sword, gaze unblinking upon the boy who asked my daughter to go with him to the homecoming dance.  

If you don't understand the profundity of this moment, then you are obviously not the father of a daughter in this modern world or you're not paying the least bit of attention or your alcohol poisoning induced coma hasn't worn off yet or you're a childless idiot who died sixty bazillion years ago and doesn't understand the priorities of the particular humanoids in possession of something called a 'dick' (which almost always gets them into trouble) and who tango around and through the psychological booby traps of a  'Carmen Electra will fuck you silly if you buy this after shave lotion' kind of world and yes I know I'm writing in hideously long run on sentences but this is my kid we're talking about!

It's such a battle and I'm only at the fringes. She is one of the best people I've ever known and I'm her dad. I wrote the following poem for her years ago when she was a wee little blondie toe headed princess who would take my hand and lead me to wherever she thought I needed to go. Be it to push her on the swings or play with her dolls, she was the best playmate I ever had and now, thankfully, in spite of my worst wishes, she is growing up and becoming a lovely young woman. I only hope I can do as much for her on the father side of the equation.

For my daughter, in the future

In this forever

nothing lasted

Perhaps in the next

we will find 

some permanence

Emancipation from change

that prevented your stay

in my life

but not in my heart

The hair of your head

shines radiant gold

shimmering halos

reveal your mischief

as the trials and dreams

of a young girl

Looking back

from this now

at a future unpassed

do I relish your dance

and your voice

Angel wings

create breeze

and kiss my cheek

as you pass

like the days

too soon gone

Thank you for reading.

Hug those little ones for as long as they'll let you.

All my love always,

Max

'swimming nekkid' (never never never)

There can be dredged up in me such levels of anger and compassionless rage. But there are some crimes that we as humans cannot adequately punish. Therefore that task is best left to God, whatever you perceive that to be. 

That said, there are some acts and perpetrations, to my perception, especially when inflicted upon children that when I hear about it, I have to fight like hell the urge to cast a seriously venomous hoodoo upon those who use children as chess pawns in their poisoned and diseased sexual conquests.

Being a Libra, the idea of injustices heaped upon those unable to defend themselves raises up in my cauldron a response to the audacity of the perverse and the cruelty of the ignorant to pull the lynchpin from the precarious bridge they tread while I laugh like Satan when their wickedness falls upon the sharp rocks and slathers upon the copal, abbreviating their corrupted and demonic song. 

When the innocent are victimized, the oppressors, in me, have gained an enemy. 

We were both seven years old. He would come to my house after school to play. One day we went into the forest behind my childhood home. Here he forced me to take off my clothes, lay face down in the red wagon we had pulled together and then to say quiet and never tell anyone while he sodomized me with a broken tree branch. I cried softly while he raged. When we got back home, I exploded and told him to go home and never come back. My mother told me to 'be nice to him, he is your friend'. She never knew what had happened that day. I never told her.

Later that week, in school, during show and tell, after the rest of us had finished showing and telling about our model airplanes, sewing projects and pinch pots, he stood up and said he and his father would 'go camping together' and sometimes they would 'go swimming nekkid' and then go back to the tent where his father would 'fuck' him 'up the ass'.

The entire universe came to a screeching halt.

Not a sound was made until our teacher said to him, '*****, that's a family secret. We don't tell our family secrets in show and tell. Now children, let's not tell anyone about *****'s family secret that he told us today. That's not what show and tell is for. 

As long as I live, I will never forget that.

This poem was initially sparked by the 2008 case of Josef Fritzl. A monster in human form, who kept his daughter Elisabeth prisoner for 24 years in a makeshift dungeon beneath his home in Austria. During this time, she was continually raped while children were born, miscarried, lived and died all while wrapped in his evil. When I heard of the case, I turned off the news, sat at the kitchen table and titled a page with the words 'An Open Letter to Joseph Fritzl from the Soul of Your Daughter'. The piece that follows in a profusely edited and mercifully abridged version of the 20 plus pages of rage, tears, curses and prayers and that purged out of me that night while pounding my fist on the table, screaming and sobbing for his daughter as well as any and all that bear the scars from the scourges of this realm of hell. 

never never never

Claws prepared

for bloodletting

lying in wait 

for my rapist to arrive

in whatever guise

the bastard may assume

You who cannot succumb

to the altar of equilibrium

I will suck you in

with my subservience

that has you lost

among the weeds

of your thoughts

I place further voodoo

upon you

my sweet nemesis

hear my voice

as you rape me

your life is mine

I drain you 

like the vampire

you have made of me

If I spit in your mouth

I know you will return

to bow unto me

as you beat me

in the dungeon 

of your own creation

of which you cannot escape

I leave you to sleep

in your own feces

until our next bout

when I die

you come

I convulse

you forsake

I beget

you retract

I lay silent

on this pillow

dreaming of God

you lie shivering

upon granite

fretting about the hell

where I will haunt you

Your greatest conquest

and defeat

a child 

such as me

the sex of your rage

the violence of your semen

leaving me impregnated

in  a sweat and bloody acceptance

of who I must be

and how I must live

beyond and above

your thoughts

wrath, charm, venom and scandal

You will behold me

as an apparition

a scolding spirit

a long and sustained scream

you will wish

you had never invoked

but was, is and will be

beyond the creation

of your perverse reality

where you found  me

to slash and choke

until now

I will haunt you

and you shall

never

never

never

exorcise me.

Thank you for reading,

Many blessings and all my love always,

Max

Poetry, my love...

"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

Charles Bukowski

I don't know why I care so much about poetry as I do. It's not like I'll ever make any money writing avant garde verses and deconstructed stanzas, thumbing my nose at conventional pentameter, attempting to make relevant a form of writing usually predisposed as masturbatory fodder for dickless academics, pissed upon romantics, cerebrally engorged ganja huffing losers, weepy eyed bisexually curious terminally angry art school dropouts and your seriously uncool grandma.

Still, I can't turn away or leave the damn stuff alone. It's like swiss chocolate dipped in cocaine and surreptitiously drizzled over Angelina Jolie's breasts. I just can't help myself but to seek out, uncover, become immersed, feast and devour with reckless abandon.

I suppose it's because I have no choice. Like Son House wailing the blues across the Mississippi Delta between beatings, like Anais Nin screaming while miscarrying before her heartless midwife or like the time I felt my small family on the verge of fracture and I heard 'The Desiderata' for the first time and it saved my 8 year old life. Or when I read the writings of Harry Crews and Arthur Rimbaud and I learned how to properly stand up and say 'Fuck You' with the eloquence of Shakespeare and the resolve of iron. Or when I first gazed upon the Mona Lisa and Guernica and my eyes beheld poetry distilled into visual ambrosia. Or the first time I smoked a huge spliff on a long road trip and heard Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony. I slowly came to realize that it's all poetry that surrounds us. From the laughter of children to the sighs and moans following orgasm. 

We sing because we suffer, because we revel, because we are alive and we can, because we must, because without this...

"the whole shithouse goes up in flames."

Jim Morrison

When Leonardo sat on the hill

dreaming of flight

filling his sketch books

with wing movements

aerodynamic assumptions

probability theories

devoid of disaster

is when Picasso

crash landed his pigments

into my retina

blinding me to stoic grid works

filling with deconstructed kaleidoscopes

thrown hell all to the wind

is when Mozart exploded

into my aorta

seizing from me breath

absconding with wings

I had earmarked

to traverse mediocrity

They poised me on a precarious ledge

and sneezed

orchestrating my disintegration

abstracting my skull

on the sidewalk below

preventing all else

that dared encroach

upon the unpoisioned realm

of my infant perception

I became Galarina

and made love

to Salvador Dali

upon a soft timeless canvas

I kissed Michelangelo good night

After caressing his tortured spine

blessing him with olive oil

and the 91^st psalm

easing his painful writhing

derived from exhausting sessions

depicting ascensions of cherubim

leaving him spent

to dream of his next revelation

to be rendered

across fresco skies

of the Sistine chapel

Painting our fingertips

so close to the divine

across the divide

the mural disintegrating

into dust of the stars

perfuming the heavens

with song

A labyrinth of freedom unfolded

as Jackson Pollack danced

spilling his whiskey

in the most exquisite splattering

ever commissioned by God

Let’s all drink blessed wine

until sunrise

painting refractions

of purple, gold and pink

across the ink washed indigo horizon

staring wide eyed

into the rising orb

as our Nirvanas collide 

we satyrs and angels

applauding the coming of new dawn

and celebrating death

of the old decrepit  sciences

meditating with reverence

in anticipation

of the impending 

explosion

I take great joy in writing.

Thank you for reading.

All my love always,

Max

I had popped some amphetamines with my morning coffee, smoked a joint to take the edge off and snorted several lines of cocaine so that I wouldn’t get stupid. After all, this was going to be a busy morning and I needed all my wits about me. There was meat to be portioned, dough to be kneaded, veg to be chopped, mushrooms to be simmered, tomato sauce to concoct and garlic bread, Jesus fucking Christ, garlic bread to be sliced, buttered, stuffed with cheese, wrapped in foil and placed in bins of 36 and the fucking garlic wasn’t even chopped yet when the back doorbell rang. I didn’t have time for whatever the fuck this shit was commanding my attention at the ass end of the restaurant. There was prep to be done, lunch customers to be fed, irresponsible pot headed waitresses to contend with, a jagoff night manager who was desperately begging to be chewed a new asshole and don’t get me started on that son of a bitch head line cook on the night shift. That useless bastard can still to this day kiss the hell out of my fucking ass. Not that I was bitter or anything…..

But I digress….

I opened the delivery door and see standing silhouetted in early morning rays, this….. dude, this big, taller than me, goofy, smiling and happy as shit, skinny as a pipe cleaner (weren’t we all back then?) dude and he opens his way too cheerful pie hole in my general direction and says ‘Hi, I’m Jeff. I’m supposed to come in and help you today. Tomorrow too.’ Come the fuck on in and grab your damn self an apron, I thought. It’s not like I’m overwhelmed or anything.

At this moment, my illicit drug intake was at an all-time high. My father lay in the hospital, suffering from a series of massive strokes, vacillated in and out of ICU for what was now going on four months. My mother, every day upon my return home, was an emotional wreck. Her former mindless unintentional cruelties had since turned to tearful pleas for me to not move out and leave her alone. I was 17. I remember those days like it was last week and I still sometimes fall to pieces recalling it all in spite of the fact that it was over thirty years ago, I sit at the keyboard misting up as I type.

Much metaphorical water has passed beneath the proverbial bridge since then. Births of the innocents, passings of the ancestors, weddings of much promise, unjustified damnable illnesses, much regretted divorce, decreasing of hairlines, increasing of waistlines and other unavoidable fluctuations of fortune. Amidst the pereniality of change that befalls us all, some things remain constant. The increasing gratitude I nurture for his priceless friendship and the invincibility of his sense of humor seem to be at the forefront.

The poem that follows is self-explanatory. What does however seem to continue to befuddle, at least for me, is what I have done to deserve such a blessing as to continue to receive his friendship and presence in my life.

I was in the process

of answering emails

when he called

the doctor said

it’s cancer again

radical treatments

he would undergo

in order to prevail

and my heart broke

silently

tones of reassurance

passed my lips

until I hung

the thousand pound phone

the hell up

then I collapsed

at the injustice

poor timing

of the powers that be

the unreality

of his next battle

warrior of him

that set forth

a spirit

of invincible humor

when I thought

I would drown

in my depression, anxiety

and self loathing

he threw me a rope

a laugh

at a charmed moment

and saved me from suicide

that I will never forget

or be able to repay

I have found such solace

in his friendship

this son of a bitch

who saved me

from my own hand

more times

than he will know

I said my prayers

worked my voodoo

and filled my wineglass

with tears

of joy, sorrow and gratitude

for my friend

that the old me

would say

I don’t deserve

Thank you for reading,

It means more than you know.

I wish for you all a friend as great as he has been for me and continues to be.

All my love always,

Max