I need the sharpest of knives to slice this
epidermal anomaly from the trappings of my weak and aging body
Deep slices to the elbows, slow and tender slices to the knees
please scratch my legs until they bleed, thank you please
this betrayal of skin, the most hideous part of me
is a possession of the worst kind,
an internal itch I will never be physically able to touch
the P takes over my body, the quintessential tired host
it will never be free . . . as the crimson spreads far above the blood that boils deep within me
People will continue to stare,
invisibly pointing to my sprawling scarlet letter ‘P’
just another ugly ducking,
just another ugly waiting stranger hiding deep inside of me . . .
I hate this

I have no clue as to where the year went but it went and here we are.
As you embark on many new journeys and adventures,
I wish all of you peace and much love in the coming year.
2010 holds many things, some expected and some not so much.
What the year holds for me is anyone's guess.
I see good and I see some bad.
That's life I guess.
For all that have visited and commented here over the past year,
I thank you from the bottom of my sock.
Somehow 'my heart' doesn't seem quite deep enough.  :wink:
Happy New Year!

 

ps.
and yes, this post is up at 9AM E.S.T  
Why, you ask?
It's New Years Day in Australia right now!
Goodonya!

Poverty. In two words, it sucks. I was quite moved by this picture.

Deep inside this garden of souls lies the bones of a lifetime drowning in half-truths, Of long and slowly forgotten days that were sadly beyond repair, Of nights not unlike the darkest side of the moon A few insignificant touches of the brush would be all that it took, to make life go on as she thought that it should; Unbroken and bright, the simple and small while echoes of unwanted things filled the silent grey halls . . . Of her Gothic cathedral, sadly visited by few, where three skeleton keys were kept hidden from view because life wasn’t meant to be that easy, and she kept it that way, anyway maybe all the way The tall stained-glass windows soaked with rays of the sun kept the white light of truth from touching the soul of anyone, near or far, it never really mattered distance was never a fragile thing Deep in this garden of souls lies the bones of my life, my blacks and my blues, and yes, my oh-so-not-insignificant life But you will know I was here by two things left behind originally unwanted but in the sweet by and by they would find . . . You. Somewhere deep in Gethsemane with two deep sunset roses nearby . . .

This poor little robot is so very much like me. {sigh . . . } Almost there, almost there, almost there . . . Turn up the volume and grab a warm and soothing cup of something and click 'play'.

Maybe my heart is too much in the way of things these days; never really knowing what’s right . . . definitely knowing what’s wrong; helpless is a desperate place sometimes games people play can be an infinitesimal but necessary hell, and one wrong turn towards Resolution Blvd pushes up moments of raw truth, rendered into meaningless years of false faces, ending with broken pieces and piercing shards that cut away the trivial chaff Senseless contests that yield eternal results looking for the End . . .

Sarah and I went to visit my father yesterday to feed him lunch and sit with him for a while. Lately, he’s been overly emotional for reasons I may never be privy to. The minute he saw us, he broke down completely. I feel terrible saying it but I’ve almost gotten used to it now. I had to. My empathy for him that once seemed to be an impossibility to avoid feeling has now turned into an acceptance of sorts that boggles my mind. He was in the rec room that overlooks the city waiting to be fed. I wheeled him to his room where I know it’s quiet and had Sarah get his lunch. He’s a finicky eater these days around everyone except my sister and me which makes total sense. His diet is now 100% pureed making his meals look more like and artist’s palette than a meal. I learned yesterday that spinach makes my father cry. On his plate were potatoes, spinach and something that would resemble pasta and meatballs in the ‘baby food’ format. 20 years ago, the thought of drinking an Italian meal through a straw had never occurred to me. My father’s daily nutritional needs are now thrown into a blender ala ‘Bass-O-Matic’. And I wonder why he cries? I can’t get away from the feeling that a small part of him is frightened. Not of me or Sarah or Maureen or Pam and the kids but he seems almost Fear Factor scared. My sister says he’s a tortured soul and I would have to agree. There are so many things that run rampant through my mind as I feed him, spoonful by blessed spoonful . . . (I’m looking at a rainbow hovering over Boston as I write this. Truth) there was the day we brought my mother to assisted living and took my father back to our house for a BBQ. That may have been one of the last times that I actually ‘had’ him. He was making sense and I could talk to him and he could understand me. He was profoundly sad about bidding farewell to his wife for two weeks but at least he still liked the taste of beer (something he’s since lost long ago) Spoonful by blessed spoonful . . . the soft, cool grass beneath my feet in the backyard as we played catch after he got home from work. We never talked when we played catch but there was conversation that he and I understood. Especially when he threw a ball with some mustard on it, smiling as I caught it. That was my own personal field of dreams. Spoonful by blessed spoonful . . . the Christmas night I went to the facility he was staying in and found him in a self-induced sugar coma after polishing off an entire bag of Dove’s chocolates that someone had given him. There were candy wrappers everywhere, discarded like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. He seemed ready to do jumping jacks, for Christ's sake I keep praying for a rainbow in his future but he’s having one hell of a time seeing through the gauzy reality he’s currently living in. I finish giving him lunch and to my surprise he’s eaten everything save for the Popeye spinach soup. I’m happy because he has a belly full of food but he’s the farthest thing from a happy ending because he knows it’s time for me to go. I kiss his forehead and say, “I love you, Dad,” to which he replies, “Yeah.” Sarah and I walk to the door and she says, “Bye, Grampa.” More Wally tears. We walk down the corridor to the elevators in silence as I allow myself to cry a bit on the inside wanting badly for the seemingly inconsequential goodbyes to finally end. It’s then that I have an small epiphany; as I feed him lunch, he’s actually feeding me. It’s a Communion of sorts between my father and I. I change my mind then and there. And all of a sudden I don’t want the goodbyes to end.

He was walking in the morning, Sunshine a green and red pizza-sliced umbrella hung over his head like a clown’s frown He was neither here nor there but anywhere was better than his here and now With a grey rag wool cap on his head and a scratched up pair of $3.99 Aviator sunglasses covering his tired and muddy eyes, he looked like some godforsaken Howard Hughes, waiting for Godot But you wouldn’t know how he carried his world full of blue in a wrinkled leather satchel, his personal box of rain that seemed almost attached to his hip It was far from cool, this game, maybe this joke kept his rarer than rare smiles in his bag, next to his smokes because nothing made sense anymore, and it hadn’t for sometime his box filled with rain, this life without rhyme So one day He was walking in the evening sunshine at least the sun don’t ever lie and sometimes that just has to be enough for a guy called Sunshine . . .

There are days when my eyes open on the world and I see things as they are. I notice the difference immediately because most days my vision is subconsciously selective; I see the things the way I want to see them. Today, I saw sadness. I know, big surprise, huh? On my way to lunch I saw a woman sitting in the rain by a water fountain and she was crying as she talked softly on her cell phone. I heard her say, "Please just don't . . . " It seemed like I was the only person in the screaming city of Boston that noticed. I felt bad as I walked by but there was nothing I could do. Truth be told I'm no saint or archangel but when I notice a situation like this it tends to rattle me. As a writer maybe I tend to notice a tad more than the general populace does. I got to South Station tonight and witnessed a homeless woman counting, folding and re-folding what I assumed were her only earthly possessions. She placed them in a rucksack that looked like it had been dragged through a muddy puddle. And again, people walked by her without so much as a passing glance. She was far from invisible and the look on her face told the world at large that she was the farthest thing from a happy ending. It was profoundly sad. If it were another day, I may have just walked by as well, too caught up in my own life. I sat down on the train and scratched my head wondering what highway to nada leads someone to a hell like this? Many years ago I waited on a woman that bought her daily ciggies from me. She always tried to look her best in terms of her hair and the clothes she wore but she could never quite pull it off. I always felt there would be no hot fudge sundaes in her near future. One day she stopped coming in and I would wonder for years what ever became of her. My heart sank the day I saw her pushing a rusty old shopping cart on the sidewalks of South Main Street in a bad section of downtown Worcester. Her cart was filled with dirty cans and empty bottles that she would undoubtedly redeem to get cash for God only knows what. She was a broken woman and a sad commentary on a reality I pray I never have to experience. So, is it selective vision? Lord knows we all use it from time to time because it's easier just to look the other way sometimes. Maybe that's why we also have days that we 'see' the world as it is. And perhaps that's what keeps us all just a bit more humble and human in the end. Say a prayer the next time you see a fallen angel walking the walk. It can only help.

I follow many people on Twitter and one of them is the writer Jonathan Carroll. Although most of his tweets are of quotes and interesting life observations he occasionally will post a link to a website he's found that interests him. Being a big JC fan I inevitably follow his links. I consider Carroll to be an incredibly creative man and am usually glad I clicked on one of his recommended links. Today was no exception and this site has stayed with me all day. Click on the picture above to visit a site called 'Dear God'. As Carroll says in his Twitter, he doesn't know if the site is interesting or creepy. I found it to be much more than that, personally. Follow Carroll on Twitter. He is an amazing man. Maybe he uses Stumbleupon to find these sites but I am forever entertained and enlightened. This site is a bit intense. Forearmed is forwarned.