More Poetry

Always afraid
Never confident
Woefully insecure
Solitary
Stoic
Walled in
Hopeless
Numb.
Because of them.
Until you.

Outer Planet Haiku
I want it all back,
What is now not acknowledged
To have ever been.

I've been here before
And I'll be here again.
Temporary anesthetic.
Temporary mood.
Everything is temporary.

Everything is temporary.

Love isn't a choice.
You don't get the option to feel it or not.
You don't get to decide when it happens.
Love comes when it does, with no regard to your plans or situation.
Love is never convenient.

You can try to ignore it, but it won't work for long.
You can try to hold it back, but it will make itself known.
You can do your best to lock it away, far behind a wall of your own construct, but it will eventually find the cracks and make a drunken Jenga round of it.
There's no point fearing it.
There's no point challenging it.
It will bring unbelievable happiness, and it will bring unbelievable pain.
To interfere will only result in one of those.

Love is a vehicle. You're a passenger, willing or not. The destination is unknown, and you have no control.
The steering wheel rarely works, and when it does it's only to avoid a fork in the road leading to a cliff.
And even then, your efforts may result in a minimal disruption in course.

Love is a gift.
It's not to be squandered.
It's not to be pushed away.
It's to be embraced, and lived.
Damn the consequences.
Damn the logic.
Damn the pain.

Damn.

Unwanted, murderous insecurity
Lurking just beyond the light,
Salivating for the opportunity to
Mercilessly tear to shreds...
Kept at bay only by once stoic,
Unwavering confidence,
Now trembling under the strain,
Impatiently awaiting unseen, unknown
Reinforcements.

I've seen the needle and the damage done...

In the past week, two people I knew slipped the surly bonds of earth, and life.

Heroin.

I'm not going to pretend that it's a huge loss for me. I wasn't close to them. I knew them well enough to say hi and catch up for a few over a beer, if I was to run into one of them at the bar.

They were close to other people that I care about deeply, however. And it's for them that I am heartbroken.

These two had demons. Everybody does, to a certain extent, but for some they're so strong it takes self-harm to escape them, if only for a moment.

Food.
Alcohol.
Sex.
Drugs.

People cope the way they know best.
Sometimes that way will create so many more demons, and cause so much more damage than what they're trying to escape... but they don't understand.

They want the pain to go away.

They believe they're a burden to everyone and that the world will be better off without them, should their methods make it so.

But it's not true.

Those left behind to deal with the loss are in pain. They wonder if they could have helped. They would have given anything to try. A demon is born for them, now, too.

Help is out there. It's in the most obvious places, and it's where you'd least expect it.
It's there for the taking.
It comes at no cost.
All it takes is to reach out your hand.
Never forget that.

Dave and Joey, I hope you've found peace. I just wish you could have found it here with the people who cared about you.

All the Stars in the Night Shine in Your Name

I am stressed the fuck out.

On a number of fronts, I've just got a lot of shit going on.

Today, on top of everything else, I got to try to follow the manhunt for a cop killer in my hometown from the safety of my new job 25 miles away.

And I fought back tears all day long.

Maybe it was because of the stress that was already there, making things worse.

Maybe it was because for the first time in my life, and the only, I was glad that my kids don't live with me and attend the schools that were on lockdown.

Maybe it was because my mother felt the need to lock herself in the house until my dad got home.

Maybe it was because the little burg that I grew up in, tried so hard to get away from, and ultimately ended up in was no longer just a little resort town known for its number of taverns per square mile.

It was now a national spectacle.

Even “People” magazine was reporting about it on their website.

Three men, still at large as I write this, killed a police officer, stole his gun and radio, and disappeared.

Every police department in the surrounding area is assisting, state police are assisting, federal departments and S.W.A.T. teams are assisting, and helicopters circle overhead.

For most of my life, the main tasks of the Fox Lake Police Department were breaking up bar fights and busting high school parties in the area for alcohol or music that's too loud. Maybe an accident here and there, shoplifting, neighbor complaints... there are only 7 officers on the force.

Well, 6.

This isn't the town I grew up in; not this murderous, ugly face that's on every news show in the country today.

My grandfather was a police officer.

He was respected. He was proud to serve the community. He was honored to do right and help keep the peace. But that was a different time.

There are still officers like him out there. Sometimes it seems like they are getting fewer and farther between, but they are there. There are also officers out there that don't deserve to be in blue in the least. Unfortunately, these are the ones who give the police the publicity they seem to have today as thugs and crooked, tazing or killing for no good reason.

Because of them, incidents like today are becoming more and more frequent. More and more people disrespect law enforcement and don't trust those sworn to uphold law and order.

The thing is, though... they're still police officers.

They're still in a position that deserves, and demands respect.

You don't talk back to a cop.

You don't run from a cop.

You don't fucking shoot a cop.

Maybe it was because I drove home through my little burg today, and saw streets and bridges lined with officers and tactical units with assault rifles drawn and at the ready, like something out of Red Dawn.

This needs to change.

RIP LT. Joe.

Hear them calling, you and me, every son of liberty.

My grandfather was a WWII veteran. He was a machine gunner in the United States Army. He was a prisoner of war, captured by the Germans. I remember him telling stories of the war, when I was growing up, and being fascinated by his adventures. "Every man should experience fighting in a war," he would often say. It wasn't until I had grown up that I realized what he actually meant. It wasn't because it was fun. It wasn't because of the chance to visit far-far-off lands that you would probably never get to see otherwise. It wasn't because it was an honor to do your duty for God and country. Those were things that were partly true in his mind, and for others in his generation, but they weren't the main truth. The real reason everyone should have to experience fighting in a war is so that nobody ever has to experience it in the future. If everyone knew the horrors of war, the losses experienced by any soldier gone through it, the complete devastation of humanity that continues long after the treaties are signed, surely another means to the end would be implemented. 

 

Obviously, as I am able to sit and write today, my grandfather made it home. The stories he told, that I sort of glamorized in my youth, are treasured memories now. But their true meaning didn't become clear until he was long gone. For a long time, the movies made about WWII were watchable by the family. They weren't true-to-life depictions. They didn't give you any sense of the reality of it all. Movies about Vietnam, those were vivid and made you realize what the boys over there went through; why they had such a hard time adjusting upon returning home. But WWII? That was still all "follow me boys," and "last one to Hitler is a rotten egg." Then came "Saving Private Ryan."

I wept during the opening scenes of that film. I finally understood that war was war. WWII wasn't any less horrible than Vietnam. It didn't have a different effect on the boys who fought in one or the other. It made sense, finally, why my grandfather was rarely without a drink in his hand. It made sense why he went into law enforcement and chose a life dealing with crime and accident scenes instead of going back to work at a printing press. It was what he knew. It was what he had become. It was because of what the experience of war did to him. 

 

The men of WWII came home changed forever. They came home broken and damaged for good. It was a different time, though, there was a different mindset. They pushed it away and tried to move forward with life, holding the damage hostage behind alcohol or a sense of duty that hasn't been seen since, or both. Those who were lucky enough to return home, like my grandfather, may not have lost their lives for our country, but they did lose some part of them. They left their innocence on the battlefields. They left friends. They left the possibility of a remaining lifetime free from reoccurring nightmares of their experiences. 

 

They did their best, though. They raised families and locked things away as they thought they should, giving only hints of what actually went on behind those loving eyes. 

 

On this Memorial Day, I remember my grandfather as I do every day. I remember everything he taught me, even the lessons I didn't understand until after he was gone. I take to heart what he went through so that I might exist and enjoy the life I have today; so that all of us can. I remember all those who did the same, those who lost their lives doing it, or just pieces of their lives. They gave so that we may gain. Every one of us must always remember this.

Fly Away, Fly Away To Your New Home Across the Bay

I don’t know if it’s everything going on in my own life right now, or if it really is just the fact that he’s gone… maybe a little of both… but it’s been all I can do to keep myself from breaking down in tears since finding out about the passing of Robin Williams. It’s a little embarrassing to feel this distraught over the loss of someone I’ve never met and probably never would have met.

Someone who wasn’t a friend or member of my family, or even remotely connected to anyone that falls into one of those categories.

A celebrity.

I’ve had moments in the past, reading tributes or heartfelt thoughts on other celebrities upon their passing, where the sentiment and the empathy would choke me up a little, but nothing like this. This is affecting me like I lost someone close to me.

And maybe there’s good reason for that.

When I was a kid, our family time was generally gathering in the living room to watch an evening of television. We only had the handful of channels, and I was not only the remote control but the antenna rotor operator. I could find just the right spot to turn a blizzard on the screen to a few flakes of snow going relatively unnoticed. My brother, later plural, and I lying on the living room floor while Dad reclined in his Lazy Boy knockoff and Mom curled up at her end of the couch (sometimes with a book, depending on what was on that night) was a nightly event. Saturdays gave us the Love Boat and Fantasy Island, Saturday Night Live after the news. Sunday night was M*A*S*H* before bed. Tuesdays brought Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley…

I remember the episode of Happy Days that introduced us to Robin Williams. I remember thinking what a goofy, funny, weird dude he was. He was different than anyone I’d seen before. I was five. And I wanted to see more of him.

Thursday nights provided Mork & Mindy.

From that point on, Robin Williams was my comedy hero. He was never not funny. At least not that I can recall. I tuned in whenever he was on. As I was coming of age, still too young to see his stand-up, the first comedy album I ever owned was “Reality… What a Concept.” I listened to it over and over. I had to use headphones, however, as my parents couldn’t know that I owned this recording full of foul language. At one point I had the whole act memorized. I had to look things up that I didn’t understand. Not only did it make me laugh, it made me learn. I tried to be as funny as him. I tried to be as quick witted as him. He was molding me somehow.

When nothing was going right, he was there to make me laugh. I had music, I had Robin Williams… life wasn’t that bad. And then he started making movies.

Holy crap! The man can act, too!

The World According to Garp.

Dead Poets Society.

Awakenings.

What Dreams May Come.

Good Will Hunting.

The motherfucking Fisher King.

These are some of my favorite movies of all time. Movies that weren’t even necessarily funny. He was amazing in them. They made me think. They made me feel. They made my own problems and worries disappear for two hours here and there.

He was brilliant, he was amazing, and he was incapable of not entertaining. He opened my eyes to a world of comedians and comedy. He had me watching dramatic films when everyone else was watching the latest “Coreys” flick. Through him I discovered Carlin. DeNiro. Kinison. Lithgow. A host of mind expanding personalities that shaped my thoughts and changed the way I viewed the world, and no matter who or how many I discovered and took into my stable of entertainment and escape he was always there. Always my favorite. Always the standard bearer.

He was a part of my life.

And it hurts that he’s gone.

Oh Captain, my Captain!