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. 

Mister G

They call him Mr. G. 

He's got one of those name spelled one way but pronounced another.

Mr. G fought in World War II.  He's from the generation that understands sacrifice, hard work, integrity, loyalty, and goodness.  Unlike mine.



I went to a funeral many years ago of a former co-worker.  I knew very little about this man but his kind eyes and gentle disposition were enough to cause a few of us to fit his farewell into our busy schedule.  I don't cry at funerals.  I cry at TV shows.   I cried at his; more or less, a stranger to me.

I learned more about him during the thirty minutes of his burial than I had the two years I worked with him.  Maybe, my generation has a problem with paying attention to people.

Like Mr. G, this man was a World War II veteran.  The 21 gun salute and the playing of Taps was an honor befitting of an obvious once great man.  His best friend stood at the podium and spoke of his sobriety.   He stated with a trembling voice, "Mr. B was a recovering alcoholic.  When he chose sobriety 30 years ago, he became my sponsor.  Regardless the time of day or in the middle of the night, I could count on him to talk me down from the ledge.  I owe my life, my family, my kids.... I owe everything to Mr. B".

And then he sat down.  Silence filled the air.  Well, excluding, this gasp of air I lunged for in between trying not to sob. 




Mr. G has lived alone for the last two decades.  His wife, a distant memory as her urn sits on a mantle in a makeshift den.  He refers to her as Precious.  Mrs. P, I suppose.  His one and only daughter with her children visit him often.  Mr. G loves those days.

He's a simple man.  He loves jello and noodles.  He still drinks tap water and scoffs at the notion people buy water in bottles.  He has a landline telephone and thinks smart phones are stupid.  He has 5 channels to choose from on his television and thinks 4 of them are unnecessary.  Mr. G has a VCR.  It was a gift from an old friend.  He loves watching Singing in the Rain.  He has a laptop.  His screen saver is a picture of Mrs. P.  Her giant face engulfs the whole 14 inch screen.  It's the only reason he bothers turning it on.  He can stare at her for hours and reminisce. 

"Mrs. P used to love taking walks.  The Arizona sunset is a glimpse into heaven", he says as his voice cracks.  Mr. G doesn't talk about the old war or how things used to be.  He doesn't mention what is wrong with my generation or the world today.  Mr. G only likes to talk baseball and Mrs. P.




As I was exiting the funeral for Mr. B, I felt compelled to walk up to his best friend and simply shake his hand.  Thank you, I said.  I wish I knew Mr. B.  This generous stranger with the firm handshake, looked me dead in the eyes and said, "If you're lucky enough to meet one great man in life, make it your mission to breathe him in.  Listen, observe and follow his example.  If you never meet greatness, become it."

Easier said than done.




A few days ago, Mr G fell down.  Those legs, his joints, his bones; these body parts that held him together during the world's greatest war, finally succumbed to age.   Upon his fall, his daughter was called and he was rushed to the emergency room.  Surgery is usually the last resort for men in their nineties.   But it had to be done.  And he pulled through.

Mr. G has now been admitted to a nursing home.  His final days or months or years are now in the hands of others.  A man that once fought for our freedom has now lost his. 

A visitor inquired about his new home as she paid him a visit.  Next to his bed is a bottle of Aqua Fina water.  Mr G says, "it tastes like shit".  And she laughed. 

He's not going to make it, the doctor says. 

He doesn't want to is more like it.

Mr. G wants to see Precious again. 

Everyone is going to miss him.  Well, those of us lucky enough to have spent any time with him.  For now, we will just breathe him in.

And hope we can exhale some of that air of greatness onto others when he's gone.

For him. 

Mister G. 

Busy People

I can't watch television without being on the computer.  I can't eat without being online.  I can't write without music in the background.  I can't drive without the radio.  I can't sleep without noise.  I can't focus without distraction.  I can't think without preconceived notions to challenge my critical thinking skills. 

And I can't love without hope.

And I can't believe without love.

I used to wonder how people fall out of love.  Everything from they became too busy and simply grew apart to they weren't busy enough and some idiomatic indictment about idle hands being the devil's workshop would follow.  I'd hear these claims of one smothering the other; one of the two being too needy.  Then, I would hear some metaphorical mantra of that which is not nurtured cannot grow. 


I can say with such clarity that every woman I have ever loved, I still love them today.  From when 15 year old me loved that big bangs and denim skirt wearing 15 year old girl to the woman I love today.  All of them are still loved by me.  And I can't imagine a day when I'll stop.


I used to come home from work only to be greeted by the best dog a man could own.  That excitement, maybe, it was passion... whatever, it was; nothing was better than being wanted to be seen by him.  On occasions, during the day as I worked, he would chew up furniture, get into the trash and make a mess out of my house.  I just figured it was a typical case of canine separation anxiety or simply, boredom.

One day, it all stopped.  I came home from work and he was nowhere to be seen.  No greeting.  No mess.  I searched for him and eventually, found him in my bathtub; all stretched out asleep.

His comfort suddenly outweighed his enthusiasm for me.  It became a reversal of roles immediately.  It was me jumping on him and trying to lick his face.  It was me showing my excitement to be home to greet him.

I began to miss his neediness.  He certainly didn't love me less but he found something that was keeping him busy. And that was... sleeping in a bathtub.


As Buddy got older, less agile and his cancer was draining all his strength; his enthusiasm for me never waned.  I would come home from work and there he was; laying right by the door for me.  His bathtub phase was a thing of the past.  Sure, he couldn't jump like his younger self but those loud thuds of his tail were all I needed to hear to know how he still felt about me.

I would unlock my front door and carefully open it.  If he was laying too close to the door, I would squeeze through the tiny crack so not to hurt him.  I would put my keys into my pocket, bend down and spend a few minutes with him.  He would look up at me with these kind eyes; listening intently as his tail kept hitting the floor.    And then before I could move on through the rest of the house, he would lick my hand.

This was our routine the last couple months of his life.

It's an amazing feeling to know unconditional love be it from a significant other, a family member or simply, a pet. 

I don't think we are really ever prepared for all this constant change throughout life.  One minute, we are madly in love with someone.  The next minute, that once fiery flame is a flickering low lit candle.  And some people give up despite a flame still existing.

I suppose where a light still flickers, hope still exists. 

I prefer the simpler days before technology took us over.  Those days we had to earn affection.  Maybe, at the time, I didn't appreciate the effort involved in finding a pay phone to call that person whose voice I wanted to hear.  I certainly, as a young kid, hated having to fight with my mom for use of our one and only rotary phone.  This was long before call waiting and cordless phones, pacing back and forth waiting for her to finish her call and leave our living room so I could have a few minutes to hear that someone's voice.

I prefer the days where text messaging seemed impossible.  I don't like that my attention span is shot and that multi-tasking has become an euphemism for time management. 

I hate the excuse of being busy.  And it is an excuse.  If we are too busy to spend time with our loved ones or making an effort for real communication, it's merely a choice of priorities.


My fondest memories of my dog, Buddy, were his final days.  To watch a dying best friend find the strength and deep seeded love for me to make an effort to greet me each evening is something I will never forget. 

I suppose dogs recognize time better than we do.  Maybe, they know they have a decade or so to live and then its all over.  They certainly do not know the word regret.

And they are definitely not familiar with the term busy.

Say Yes

remember what i put you through
and remember that i remember, too

say yes

like romeo and juliet
staring up at the moon's silhouette
they both knew it wasn't over yet

say yes

i'm selling the dream
to bankrupt eyes
painting a picture of things unseen
may seem unwise

say yes for those
who never walked in our shoes
say yes for those
who always lose

like the omnipotent cannibal and His only son
don't think too much
enjoy this communion

this is my body, this is my bread
the living flesh will never taste better dead

say yes

for the sun and the moon
who were once in love
now, they're billions of miles apart

you and i
we deserve a better fate
say yes from the heart

like romeo and juliet
caught between a spider's web
and a butterfly net
they both knew it wasn't over yet

say yes
love me more never love me less

remember what i put you through
and remember that i remember, too
then remember that i did confess

how i won't put myself through that again

say yes