A man and his dog

It was a look of compassion from his eyes towards me.  The harshness of the moment was handled delicately.  I like to believe if he could speak, he would have forgave me. 

A lick to my hand as he lifted his paw.  It was a handshake of sorts from an old friend  This is the moment every man dreads, of course, I thought.

It was the end of a man and his dog.

Fell in love with this girl long ago.   She had eyes of blue.  Little do you know, she would have loved you. 
Found a little acceptance in the oddest of places.  Those blank faces; if only they knew, all the reasons I always come home to you.  That girl with those eyes of blue; she knew. 

Those little conversations came to a halt.  And they're only understood by a man with a dog.

I was looking for quiet.  And I found it.  There's no way around it; now, I can't shut up.   It's easier to talk when everyone wants to interrupt.  I was speaking at them.  Over them.  Around them.  Never to them.  And they were doing the same.  Are we even friends, I thought?

It's the question asked by every man with a dog.

Because dogs listen.  Even if its not by their own volition.

They never knew of the girl with eyes of blue.  And her demise.  Or mine.  I'll talk about her another time.
Maybe, when the storm cloud passes.  If it ever does.  I'm over it, well I was.  And that's the thing, we never are.  Or will be.  Over anything.

Nothing is ever meant to be forgot.  There's no shame for those things that make us distraught.
Ask any man with a dog.

I was looking for comfort.  So I grabbed a drink and drowned in it.  For years.  Those tears; they weren't even mine.  That comfort; it appears I had already found it.  It was right here this whole time.  And it can never be understood unless you're a man with a dog.

It's hard to feel alone with a face staring out the window as you pull up to your driveway.  And when it's time to go, that same face, with a pleading glow, reminds you there is always a reason to come home.  I swear, he was always there.  Through the joy and through the despair.

I guess, I should confess, I did not realize the magnitude of what we shared. 

That handshake of sorts from an old friend wasn't goodbye.  It was thank you.  And I have to believe, if he could speak, he would have said you're welcome.

I turned around back to where we came from.  Empty leash in hand. 
He really loved me, I thought.

No one can really understand. 

It's between a man and his dog.

The Fallout

There are so many things I cannot bear the thought of.  Like her being touched by another man.  Like how he felt those last few years.  Like how she copes being unloved.  Or like how he was feeling all those years before he met her.  Or like how my dreams feel so real and then I wake up; only to be disappointed they weren't.

Guys have this strange way of showing each other affection.  It's usually with a punch to the arm or something not associated with affection.  When he walked away that last time, visions of some heroic cowboy fading into the sunset never crossed my mind.  I just wanted him to turn around and punch me.  Or kick me.  Anything but what happened would have made every day since that night more bearable.  I wish I would have screamed DON'T DO IT or DON'T GO. 

Years before in the pouring rain with sobriety hours away and an unknown irony flowing through my alcohol flooded blood stream, she told me of a girl's suicide.  Not just any girl.  A relative of the one I loved.  That phone call might as well have been made in the future warning me that a new suicide was just around the corner.  A longer one.  A decades long one in the making. 

I thought about that now gone girl and the one I loved who was left to cope and question why.  I spent a lot of time in her skin and in her corpse; trying to piece together everything.  I contemplated destiny.  Was she destined to leave at fifteen?  Was the one I love predetermined or chosen to be strong enough to handle this?  And I came to some conclusion that only made sense years later.

All these years later, I still don't know who I am or my place in this world.  I can't even really honestly say that I am loved by anyone.  I'm not ashamed to admit that.  Maybe, it's because all those years between that phone call on a pay phone on a drunken rainy Friday night until now has taught me one thing:  And that's just be true to yourself.  Sure, it's a cliche.  I think we have become so self-absorbed where we simply worry how we are perceived, we end up losing sight on who we really are.

We are all the same.  We all want the same things.  We are all motivated by the same wants and same needs.   

He was too proud to hug me or anyone but never too proud to punch us all.  And he was too preoccupied with misery and self-hatred to just demand that he be loved.  And he was loved.  So much.  I don't even think any of us realized it until it was far too late. 

I laid in my own bed for what seemed weeks.  My trusty old dog, with his head on my chest and an occasional lick to my hand as if he was just checking my pulse, was my confidant.  It was never about losing the will to live or some ill placed self pity.  It wasn't even about him.  It was this whole question of why am I here.  That's it. 

I went back in time, like we always do, and thought about her.  I wondered how the years have treated her since that phone call.  And then I remembered, she left me, too.  So, I went back even further in time, like we always do, and I remembered being a child.  I was so full of love, of hope and unbridled joy.  I kissed and hugged everyone, strangers, because everyone was good and could never do me any harm.  I started wondering when did that joy become replaced with cynicism.

Maybe, it was that phone call from that pay phone on a rainy drunken Friday night.  When I hung up, innocence was left holding on the other line.  And I never went back to say goodbye.  So, when all these unexpected twists and turns that life inevitably throws us all, I was unprepared. 

Maybe, that's what destiny is.  It's not about the outcome or our demise or our blessings or unfortunate circumstances.  It's just about those twists and turns and how we handle them.  People always claim that the proverbial fork in the road is some obstacle to our destination.  Maybe, that fork in the road is the destination; our destiny.  And whatever happens after that is just a bonus.  Good or bad. 

He left us all. Were we shocked?  Not really.  It was a slow death.  Subconsciously, we probably had written him off years before.  And I hate to admit that.  I suppose he encountered so many forks in the road and chose poorly so many times, he was bound to leave us all too soon. 

I can't help but think that right now, there is a woman out there, he was destined to be with.  And she is with someone else.  And she's almost happy.  Just a little bit short.  I blame him for that.  The fallout of all of our decisions are immeasurable and all scenarios become hypothetical. 

I spent what seemed like weeks; laying in my bed, with my trusty old dog by my side with his head on my chest licking my hand as if he was checking for my pulse, contemplating all of this.  The fallout.  The hypothetical.  Destiny.

And because we are all so self-absorbed, I can't help but think of my place in all of this; this world, his life, her life, our lives.  I would endure years of writers block to have him back and her, as well.  And I suppose, these words wouldn't even need to be written or my heart exposed to anyone who might casually care if things were different. 

And I suppose, everything always turns out exactly how they are supposed to.  And we always almost feel better in the end.

Almost.

dear God

well hello there, dear God
got my head in the clouds, an angel for a dream
she hates my pretty words.  she thinks they're quite absurd.  she knows not what they mean.
she knows not what these mean
time is winding down.  soon to not be found.
thank God

man to man, can i bear my soul? 
she loves my pretty songs.  she even sings along.  she knows not what they mean. 
she knows not what these mean.
man to God, feel free to sing along with the angel in my dream.
she's too proud to wear my crown
i'd like to beat this dead high horse, if it's allowed down here of course.  |
dear God

she says she loves me like no other. well, she used to.
dear God, i tried to introduce you.   she knows not who you are
she knows not who you are
the dealer goes absolved as the loser blames the cards
thank God

so be it, if this is your plan
the erosion of a novelty.  dear God, is it me or is it you
the anomaly
what once was ineffable has become expressible
i can finally admit i am skeptical
thank God

she hates manipulation.  she knows not my true intentions.
she knows not my true intentions.
like you, dear God

im nothing without you.  its true, dear God

amen

how dare you

I tied my shoes like rabbits ears.  It was the best a mother could do. 
I learned to swim by learning not to drown.  With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I found myself in thought of you.  Where did you go?  What did I do wrong?  I kicked and scratched the messenger.  How dare you, mom. 

Fast forward because you were forgotten as I had been by you.  Page 43, February, your name resurfaces in an obituary, whats your son to do?  Dead, a heartless man.  The empathetic son says, how dare you.


And mom, puts on this gentle face; one I've never seen her wear.  With clenched fists, the tears stream down, fighters aren't supposed to care.  Slam my door, tune out the noise, so this misplaced sorrow is never heard.  Back I go into my own thoughts, so I'm not disturbed.  Did you hate me while I loved you?  All these questions pouring through.  I forgive you this one time as God knows, that bitterness is never an alibi.  Never mind, I cannot lie.  how dare you.


All grown up, nowhere to go; a new family moves me in.  Cocaine dreams up in smoke, laughing with my friends.  This won't end well, it never does.  What am I to do?  Brother takes one drink; it all begins.  This complicated comradeship ends with you.  With lifeless limbs and a bleeding tongue, the end of an era sets in.  Gone is my family; the only one I knew.  As the choir sings, I sing how dare you.

All is well I tell myself before these lights go out.  Grab a pen, pen my thoughts, and think of what went wrong.  Father is now just a shell as he mumbles how dare you, son. 

With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I'm learning to swim again. 


Fast forward because it's easy to, I'll make the time to rewind at a later date.  Slam my door, tune out the noise.  Into my own thoughts, escape.  Did I not do enough?  Was my silence the final nail?  With sturdy arms and a steady pulse, I flail.  And wait for this dead horse to exhale.


How dare you leave us like this.  No words. No reason exists. 


Fast forward to the day we finally meet again.  Something tells me, you'll explain yourself but I'll no longer care.  The other side is so much brighter, I will understand why in haste you left for there.  You'll look at me like you used to always do and say how dare you.


Now, I'm left to wonder other things.  Like who is left to love me.  With vulnerability fully exposed, how dare you to stop thinking of me.  I doubt she will ever know that I am trudging slowly towards her. 

I learned to swim by learning not to drown.  With fledgling arms and an abnormal sense of self, I find myself searching for her.  What am I to do?  Every story has a perfect ending....

how dare you.

The Death of Wonder

We used to look up and wonder.  Now, we know all the answers.  

We would dream of the moon and beyond.  Now, we argue over dinosaurs.  And these old bones would marvel in the miracle we call life.  I suppose somewhere between the dinosaurs and the heavens, arrogance sits on some throne as we look to crown ourselves rulers of each others lives.  Because the self absorbed cannot govern.  They exist to merely be anointed.   Once upon a time, no one wanted to be king.

We used to pray before our meals and before sleep would settle in.  Now, we talk to ourselves as if strangers are in our clothes.  And the emperor remains naked yet no one dares to tell him so.  I suppose somewhere between the vanity lies a creature cloaked in self loathing. 

Once upon a time, we would lend the shirt off our back to the man standing in the cold.  Now, that shirt has a price tag and in red ink it's marked our soul.

We used to look straight ahead and wonder.  Now, we are frozen in our fear.
We would dream about tomorrow.  Now, we argue how we got here. 

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought I missed the train.  And that woman who once loved me bought a ticket away from here.  I suppose the blind are leading the myopic while all the phony superlatives have become hypnotic.  And I wait in the pouring rain for another train to deliver her back to me.  But I know, tomorrow will leave me wondering where exactly could she be.

We used to talk about the weather as a form of courtesy.  Now, we awkwardly stare in silence as we drown in our own thoughts.  Ideas have been replaced by theories from the lost.  And these old bones are wandering in a desert of self doubt.  Because famine to the unloved is merely writers block.  I suppose this world is all a stage for the actors to meander about.  Somewhere behind the applause is an audience thirsty from this drought.  Because all original thought has been cannibalized in a mutiny so to speak.  Gone is all our wonder.  Gone is all the mystique.

And these old bones are tired; these old bones are weak.

We used to wonder about those stars and our place in the universe.   Now, we're staring down at dirt; dwelling on all that hurts.  I suppose we don't know all the answers and dinosaurs aren't extinct.  Not until, someone tells us exactly what to think.

And these old bones are shaking... at the thought she missed the train.  I will keep on waiting for her to return back to me. 

The end of all that's good is always preceded by the death of curiosity.

Happy Birthday to a Ghost

Have you ever said happy birthday to a ghost?

Memory Lane has a hit a road block.  Let's call it time.  Today was your day, now it's mine.  I used to talk to you.  Now, I talk at you.  Conversations with a mime.

Wake up, guilt sets in.  It's not because of what happened.  Or didn't happen.  I'm merely sorry for all those things I am forgetting.  Like those road trips.  Our little talks.  Sobriety.  Conversations during future walks.  I suppose, you're still an uncle.  And still my friend.  I suppose, one year from now, I'll be back here again.  Without a cake.  Without your stories.  Of all your hopes drowning in your past glories.  Despite the irony, here's a toast.  Happy Birthday to a ghost.

I can forgive cancer.  I can forgive God.  I can't forgive you.

Let it go, they said.  Try walking with this supposition.  Oh, I know.  I'm the one talking at an apparition.  I'm alright.  All is good.  Nothing could be better nor more misunderstood.  A dose of venom in my blasphemy, never mind.  Sooner or later, we're all out of time.  Speaking metaphorically, here's a toast.  Happy Birthday to a ghost. 

Do you really believe in the other side?  Is it possible it's something we created as a coping mechanism?  Like some self serving dose of optimism. 

Conversations with a ghost always lead to skepticism. 

But yes, I do believe.

I can forgive unintended consequences and all our failed interventions.  But I can't forgive you.

Not today. 

Despite my righteous indignation, here's a toast.
Happy Birthday to a ghost.

The Problem

The problem with logic is that it's limited. 

Those words you speak, I deflect with clarity as I reflect on the ones you once spoke with regularity.  Maybe, I became more unlovable or just maybe, I was your charity.

The problem with love is that it should be uninhibited.


Such a shame, the road we chose.  It was bound to happen, I suppose.  Wrap your arms around my chest and dig your nails into my back.  Leave your mark before you go.  We'll take turns shooting the elephant. 

The problem with truth is it never seems to be relevant.

I'm in love with a shark, said the swimmer at sea as he found himself out of his element.  Drop your anchor and drown this elephant, said the shark cautiously.  Such a shame, this predicament.  Both of them wishing it was all different.

The problem with pride is it becomes belligerent. 


Say it, I told you so.  Disappointment cloaked in benevolence.  Sweet sweet you, choking on your perseverance.  Wrap your hands around my neck.  Shake loose the screws of my intellect.  Say it, you're skeptical.

The problem with hope is it's hypothetical.

Such a shame, this spectacle. 

Round and round, we go.  You love me, you told me so.  Should I cling to those words from long ago? 

I'm in love with a woman, said the man on a cross.  Her indifference is his albatross.  Wrap you arms around that man.  Dig your nails into his back.  Leave your mark before you go and crucify that elephant. 

The problem with indifference is it becomes self-evident.

Such a shame, that all is good; eventually becomes corrupt as all those riches leave us bankrupt.

The problem with love is it is never convenient.