The Great Conundrum

the problem with the past

is yesterday and tomorrow;

you can’t undo yesterday,

and you can’t

guarantee tomorrow;

the problem with the present

is yesterday and tomorrow;

you can’t undo yesterday,

and you can’t

guarantee tomorrow;

the problem with the future

is yesterday and tomorrow;

you can’t undo yesterday,

and you can’t

guarantee tomorrow;

feelings fade,

sliding out the door

like unwanted

house guests,

fleeing into the

surrounding wilderness

never to return,

never to be seen again,

the pain comes,

the pain goes,

here today,

gone tomorrow,

passing moments,

piling upon a mountain

of yesterday’s moments,

cascading into fresh moments

of today,

patiently waiting for

new moments of tomorrow,

which in the end

mean very little, because;

you can’t undo yesterday,

and you can’t

guarantee tomorrow.

.

.

this too shall pass

Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,

Morrison said it better than all the rest,

Bukowski was the king;

this too shall pass;

like a river it flows,

on and on,

from here to there,

over before it ever

had a chance

to begin;

in the morning

you were gone,

never to return,

your taste still fresh,

your touch

lingering

on the wind,

your smell like

lilacs on a warm

spring day;

the last breath is breathed,

memories slowly die,

laughter gives way to silence,

the final journey awaits,

the empty darkness looms

ahead;

Gibbons is the greatest there ever was,

Morrison said it better than all the rest,

Bukowski was the king;

this too shall pass.

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Nothing Can Ever Be The Same

the rain comes at last,

this storm has been brewing

for days;

for weeks,

for months,

for years;

for a lifetime;

changes come like lightning,

new creatures, emerging

from under the spotlight of

iniquity and anonymity,

the metamorphosis complete,

the way back

closed forever,

the way ahead;

lost in the melodrama;

down in these sewer pits,

drunken monkeys rant and rave,

rampaging through the

dark, eternal night,

precious time lost

valuable energy spent;

gone forever;

words?

Rimbaud had words,

Morrison had words,

Bukowski had words,

I have words;

I have no need for theirs;

I observe them like a disease,

just a glance here,

a taste there,

carefully preventing infection,

swallowing the antidote,

puking up the symptoms;

now,

nothing can ever be the same.

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A Day At Barnes & Noble

started reading The ‘Best American Poetry for 2014’,

I never knew that ‘lifestyle’ was an art form, but

apparently it is, or at least a requirement,

to be one of the ‘best’;

they play ‘Hark The Herald’ over the loudspeaker,

as we sit reading our books, drinking our drinks,

green tea for me, mocha frappuccino for her;

“they’re using Jesus to put people in the

shopping mood” I tell her,

“selling Christmas before Thanksgiving;”

they play flamenco music;

“what does that have to do with Christmas?” she asks,

“it’s all part of setting the mood” I tell her;

“part of the artistic, cynical, sarcastic, bourgeois,

intellectual, bullshit mood;”

she laughs;

“I’m giving you rare insight” I say, “I’m letting

you see how my mind really works, I don’t

let many people see that;”

“why am I the lucky one?” she dryly replies;

now it’s my turn to laugh;

I begin writing thoughts down in the

back of the book,

“better take good care of this” I say,

“someday, after I am gone, this will be worth

big bucks;”

she remains quiet, browsing her book;

“imagine finding a hand-written Bukowski

in the back of a book, besides,

they’re not coming like they used too,

this could be the last one

I ever write;”

“you can call it ‘A Day at Barnes & Noble’,” she says;

“good idea,” as I quickly scribble it down, “thanks;”

“Merry Christmas,” she replies.

.

.

Forever Nameless

I try to hold you forever,

I attempt to breathe you like air,

your image burns in my mind,

never forgetting, never letting go,

but it does no good,

like all things you fade,

like all things you disappear,

nothing lasts, nothing remains,

soon, it will never be,

tomorrow all that matters,

yesterday dead and gone;

I am tired of being on the outside,

never here, never there,

just somewhere else,

seeing what others do not,

knowing what no one should,

shadows best left untouched,

trapped within,

lost upon this endless sea,

the horizon looming up ahead,

with no land in sight.

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No Other

I am the LORD, and there is no other; apart from me there is no God. I will strengthen you, though you have not acknowledged me, so that from the rising of the sun to the place of its setting people may know there is none besides me. I am the LORD, and there is no other. I form the light and create darkness, I bring prosperity and create disaster; I, the LORD, do all these things.   Isaiah 45:5-7

For the kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power.   I Corinthians 4:20

the empty highway looms ahead,

stretching on forever, no end in sight,

destinations unknown, distant and unexplored,

staring mindlessly ahead, missing the thrill of the open road,

missing the isolation of the high mountain trails,

missing the taste of a young girl’s lips,

the breathless excitement in her eyes,

the feel of her quivering anticipation;

understanding things that no longer are;

it does not matter, the past is gone,

the only truth left, shining brightly ahead,

the small, still voice, speaking deeply within,

opening your eyes, revealing things

you could never have imagined,

incomprehensible things, things of beauty, things of truth,

knowledge for which words have no expression,

leaving you humbled and in awe;

God is power,

forming the light, creating darkness,

bringing prosperity, allowing disaster,

not bold, foolish talk, not man-made traditions,

not a better way of living, not a philosophy,

far beyond anything our limited minds can comprehend,

healing the sick, giving sight to the blind,

raising the dead to life;

God is power.

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300 Miles Away

up in Knoxville the Vols are taking the field,

down in Tuscaloosa the Tide begins to roll,

out in Gatlinburg they’re packin em in

for a big Dollywood weekend;

300 miles away people die;

all across the nation plans get underway,

backyard barbecues and trips to the beach,

the supermarket shelves stacked in anticipation,

with more than anybody could possibly eat or drink;

300 miles away people die;

stunned by what they are seeing,

people watch the news and shake their heads,

calling in 50 dollar pledges,

vowing to make a difference;

300 miles away people die;

in Washington, in Jackson, in Baton Rouge,

fingers being pointed as the blame game begins,

all across the nation the great debate rages,

filling the blogs and chat rooms with wisdom and advice

from every self-made expert the internet has to offer;

300 miles away people die;

please wake up America,

we are all to blame, we are all guilty,

we all watched and waited from afar,

while 300 miles away people died,

more than homes and people have disappeared,

more than dreams are shattered,

more than a way of life is gone,

part of a nation has died with them;

now is the time to stop the finger pointing and blame,

now is the time to stop worrying about the pursuit of perpetual pleasure,

now is the time to reach out and love one another as never before,

now is the time to trust in the One who can heal all things,

now is the time for repentance;

please wake up America,

before it is too late.

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an uneasy interruption

in the end

I will fade away,

like the early morning dawn,

quietly changing from darkness

into light,

without a sound,

without a fight,

a passing whisper

in the middle of the

dark, crisp night;

we all do,

we all will,

we simply have

little choice;

words will mean very little,

relationships even less,

memories but a brief moment,

an uneasy interruption,

a passing vapor

in a world of swirling mist;

I have been to the mountaintop,

I have peered into the oblivion below,

I have heard the small still voice,

I have known the touch

of His calm, cool hand;

words will never be enough.

.

.

these words

I sometimes wonder why I continue

writing these words down on paper,

I’ve never earned a dime from them,

never had any notoriety or fame

as a result of them,

never had a clue where they come from

or when they will come,

what they will say or why they say it,

it’s as if they have a life of their own,

an ancient mystery, complete with their

own laws and consequences;

there is a price to be paid for these words,

a burning sadness that never quits,

a deep, lonely emptiness,

quietly devouring everything in its path,

bringing you to the edge of a dark bottomless chasm

where untold millions of words

flow like liquid truth into the oblivion below

without return;

they have almost destroyed me

more than once;

you have to be ready,

they come and go like ghosts,

rising from unimaginable depths,

crystal clear like glass,

bobbing and floating,

creating or destroying,

slowly sinking back into

the night without any advance

warning or consideration;

you have to be ready;

these words wait for no one,

they survive beyond this lump

of flesh called home,

they breathe long after

we take our last breath;

these words are forever.

.

.

an end to the end

chasing down dreams
on one-way, dead-end streets,
moments come and go,
cool autumn nights wait forever,
distant winter storms stand poised,
pouring liquid electricity
into endless teenage skies,
back seat, pre-game rituals,
followed by post-game letdowns,
fade into the oblivion of lost moments,
as life-changing,
earth shattering decisions,
mean very little inside vast
kingdoms of empty space,
where nothing comes
and nothing goes;

I have sunk to the depths,

I have been to the heights;

flow is the key,

you can lose your momentum,
but never lose your flow;

invisible chains fall like leaves

before the gathering storm,
somber days lie ahead,
for every beginning there is an end,
for every ending there is an end,
there is a death of which
no one knows;

for everything there is an end;

there are only so many;

so many days,

so many years,
so many thoughts,
so many words;

they slip through our fingers

like water running to the sea,
we forget more
than we can ever know;

for everything there is an end.

.

.

desperation

now the end may begin,

lost in this swirling

world of never,

eyes dressed incognito,

egos disguised by humility,

enemies in the shape of friends

make for the worst

of them all,

you never see them coming

until they have passed you by;

by then

it’s always too late;

the movement continues

like liquid wildfire,

consuming all there is,

right or wrong hanging within

a delicate balance,

fools following forsaken

roads of folly,

on their way to this or that,

something for nothing,

one for all,

everything for anybody,

some things for nobody,

innocence never the issue;

this garden no longer grows,

fruit lies dying on the vine,

fertility fails,

hope has no future here,

fixations no longer provide a thrill,

sinking deeper into the

oblivion below,

sink or swim;

desperation makes its strong argument

for justification,

survival separates the living

from the dead;

words once spoken

can never be returned.

.

.

only the wind remains

your beauty fades,

the darkness of night

does approach,

there is no truth left,

no more hope before

the dawn,

this moment of ordinary

clarity disappears,

chance encounters inside

realms of creative laughter,

another answer,

another possibility;

only the wind remains;

words flow like delicate swans,

wrapping themselves in

royal robes of comfort,

deep within the sound of

your breath,

soft and secure,

speaking unknown mysteries and

telling tales of untold valor,

staggering like drunken sailors on

maiden voyages,

weaving inside blurred lines

of forgotten innocence,

lost upon midnight dreams,

unable to grasp even the

fundamentals;

the window is closing;

the time almost here,

the silence roars without a sound,

the hour upon which it

stands grows near;

only the wind remains.

.

.

out here

out here,

it never ends;

this longing,

this desire,

this hunger;

this all consuming

consumption;

it defines who you are,

it determines

what you become,

it takes you places

you never knew existed;

most never come this far,

the journey too long,

one more trip

never made;

out here the ribbons

fly out the door,

the parades pass on by,

time remains right

where you left it,

safe and secure,

in shelters of unmarked

horizons;

out here no one

knows your name,

leaving you cold

and numb,

alone and afraid,

empty and drained,

friends come and go,

night time shadows

fade away into nooks

and crannies of far-away

dreams;

out here only the dust

remains.

.

.

for the best

perhaps it is for the best

that I never knew you,

you never knew me;

I would like to think your

life has been better as a result;

I can only hope that

you are happy,

that your life has been full,

that you’ve grown up

to be a good man,

a good father;

this is the only gift

I can give to you;

for now it is simple,

everything sharp and clear,

soon enough, these words

will be twisted into

something more,

something else,

lost forever,

in this never ending charade,

that we all take part in;

we shall meet one day,

in another time,

another place,

I will know your face,

you will know mine;

I will be waiting.

.

.

still

who sees these shadows,

who knows this hunger,

every word, every thought,

every feeling;

inadequate;

the day is gone, the night moves on,

the bags all packed, waiting for the

final call,

like a cancer it grows,

this monster, this disease, this curse,

toxic, poisonous, deadly, infecting

everyone it touches, destroying

everything in its path,

if I could, I would end it today,

no going back, no return,

no tomorrow;

no more;

I’ve given in to food, to television,

to non-movement, to weight,

to health, to age, to time,

there is much I haven’t seen,

even more I will never know,

I understand this, I accept this,

there is nothing I can do about this,

it doesn’t matter, I continue to rise,

I continue to breathe, I continue to carry on;

I have no choice;

every day I rise, every day I wait,

every day I wonder if today is the day,

but it never is, I am tired,

tired of the fight, tired of the struggle,

tired of temporary victories, tired of losing,

tired of the darkness;

I twist, I turn, I run, I hide;

I love her still.

.

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The Ballad of Rico and Annabelle

Rico is dying,

but he doesn’t know it,

every day he tells his friends

he was getting better,

every day he grows worse;

he has been to places,

no one should be,

he has seen things,

no one should see;

Annabelle lives alone,

sitting in her box like Greta Garbo,

isolated and alone,

dusted and sheik,

no reason for living,

no reason for dying,

traveling into the hidden night,

without a thought or care;

Rico is in love with Annabelle,

he has loved her for as long as he can remember,

everyday he sees her pass by,

everyday he remains quiet,

staring passively into the sky,

unconcerned,

uninterested,

that is the way of love;

it is best left unsaid;

Annabelle has waited all her life,

she holds Rico in her arms,

she sees him in her dreams,

she kisses his lips,

she caresses his face,

they make love in her mind;

life begins,

life ends,

this is the way of things,

there’s never enough time.

.

.

time to begin

time moves on,

energy fades,

the end approaches;

no turning back;

life begins,

life ends,

this is the way of things,

there’s never enough,

broken pieces

left scattered on the forgotten trail,

leading nowhere,

no more waiting;

I want it all;

every rising sun,

every disappearing sunset,

every dark mysterious moment

in between;

I want it all;

the bombs rain down,

the screams cry out,

noise,

silence,

death,

weeping;

I want it all;

the fighting all done,

no more suffering and pain,

no more darkness and doubt,

the race has been run,

the war is over;

home just a sunrise away;

memories all that are left,

everyone and everything slowly fades,

your face lingers on,

but in the end,

even it silently disappears,

never again,

no more;

time to begin.

.

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Power

For the kingdom of God is not a matter of talk but of power. I Corinthians 4:20

Your power is beyond anything

this world can comprehend,

like a philosophy or psychology

they try to minimize who You really are,

sweeping You under man-made rugs,

placing You inside man-made boxes,

trying to restrain You with man-made

laws and traditions,

never understanding,

never knowing,

never able to fully acknowledge

that everything we are,

everything we know,

exists only by Your

unfathomable mercy and grace,

through the unlimited power

of Your Word alone,

that every breath taken is a gift,

which can never be repaid;

through Your power

I am given a taste of a world

free from sin,

a world of love and hope,

stripped of suffering and fear;

without hate,

without lust,

without greed;

through Your power

I begin to understand

a world which my mind

cannot fully grasp,

an indescribable place,

prepared from the beginning

for those who love You,

a world that leaves me humbled,

perfect and pure,

beyond words,

without compare,

a world where I can only

fall down before You

and whisper;

my Lord,

my Master,

my King;

my Everything.

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Mystery

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.   Ephesians 6:10-12

there is a mystery here,

whispering through the swaying trees,

singing over the silent rocks,

flowing with the mountain stream,

gathering in the darkening clouds;

all around the battle rages,

quietly waiting,

unseen, unknown,

beyond sight,

beyond touch;

beyond understanding;

cool, gray December skies,

dull, hazy, sun,

Friday afternoon school bus,

delivering mediocrity and weekend misery,

never quite sure,

fading within the moving shadows,

rising from the wavering depths;

I remember it well;

slaves to what we see,

what we hear, what we feel,

all the time seeing nothing,

hearing nothing,

feeling nothing,

mirrors and smoking guns,

illusions and disappearing truths,

cheap parlor tricks played out

on slick talking talk shows,

here today,

gone tomorrow,

the war never ends;

the enemy never sleeps;

there is a mystery here,

it remains long after the screams

have all died and slipped away.

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Siege

outside this worn and battered fortress

the enemy patiently waits,

laying siege to these crumbling walls,

setting hidden snares and traps,

offering enticing lures and baits,

silently probing and testing,

continuously searching for weakness;

preparing for the final assault;

within the darkness

I seek Your face,

through the long lost night

I wait for Your presence;

rise up O mighty Lord,

defend me from unknown enemies,

free me from unseen prison bars,

fill me with Your holy fire,

bathe me in Your glorious light,

overwhelm me with Your spirit;

You are all that I desire,

You are all that I need;

You are the center of my hope,

You are the answer to every question;

You are all there is;

in You shall I find relief,

through You shall I overcome,

in You shall I have victory,

through You shall I be delivered;

stay with me forever,

strengthen my weakening defenses,

prepare my heart for the coming battle,

let me be triumphant in the face of defeat,

bring me home to You.

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All My Life

they stand there dancing,

like ghosts upon the midnight mist,

word after endless word,

line upon fathomless line,

some much clearer than others,

some begging and crying,

screaming “take me, take me;”

others hiding among the shadows,

waiting for the proper moment

in which to lash out with their spotless sabers,

ripping open huge, growing gashes,

from which poisonous venom gushes forth;

“loyalty is dead” she tells me,

“no” I tell her,

“it is only dead for those

who allow it to die,”

but that is only a guess on my part,

for the right price

anything can be bought;

even that;

I see the paintings on the sidewalk,

it makes me wonder who could create such magic,

how fantastic it must be

to be able to perform such things,

pouring your soul into physical images,

sharing a vision with fellow travelers,

touching things much deeper than

meets the eye;

she makes me aware,

she makes me see,

she holds up a mirror to my face,

reflecting all that there is,

good and bad,

she has become my greatest teacher,

my greatest friend,

my perfect soul mate;

she fills the space

that has been waiting for her

all my life.

.

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Death by Starvation

I have gotten to the point

where I despise eating,

not just overeating

but eating of any kind,

still I give in,

eating twice as much as I should,

eating everything in sight,

then hating myself afterwards;

I think I know how I want to die,

as if we are allowed to choose such things,

but if we were,

I want to go by starvation;

it’s slow,

it’s mind altering,

I’m sure it would provide many

interesting internal changes along the way,

resulting in all kinds of fantastic visions

about humanity and what this life is really all about,

or at least what it is not about,

as your body slowly feeds on itself

until there is nothing left to eat,

then allowing your soul to drift away

when there are no more bars holding it

within these prison walls,

so quiet and natural,

so complete and final,

without a lot of noise

or pain;

yes I think that is the way to go,

it would also make it easy on those

who have to handle the cleanup afterwards,

medical people,

pallbearers,

etc.;

yep definitely the way to go;

hmmm I wonder what’s for lunch?

all this talk about starvation

has made me hungry.

.

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One Perfect Thing

I have spent an entire lifetime

trying to write

just one perfect thing;

sometimes I wonder

if it is ever going to happen;

here I am no closer to perfection

than I was back then,

but still I continue the search,

occasionally saying ENOUGH!!!!!!

ENOUGH OF THIS STUPID SHIT!!!!

it’s time to come down from the clouds and

start living a real life,

where people wake up in the morning and

go to sleep at night, while managing to

eat, work, shit, piss and procreate in-between,

and it is ok, it really is,

……… enough;

but eventually

it always comes back to this,

and before I know it, there I am,

bounding though forgotten forests,

howling at the top of my lungs

in hot pursuit of impossible visions

which always manage to stay

just one step out of reach;

it is enough to make you cry;

listening to some lyrics on the radio,

the thought occurs to me,

that under the right circumstances and

with enough booze and drugs mixed in,

any jerk off can write deep,

thought provoking things;

so where does that leave me?

.

.

Fortress

forgotten defenders of nameless faiths,

hear me now,

I stand before you defeated and without home,

seeking only safe passage

through this dark and broken world

ruled by your silent sullen hand;

it always comes down to this,

hidden deep inside solitary fortresses,

far from piercing eyes,

peering deep into the hidden mist

beyond the many mirrors which twist the truth,

making it appear as something it never was

nor ever will be,

down here it is seen for what it is;

even if only for a moment;

truth so dark and fierce,

it would rip the world to pieces,

revealing the lurking evil

for what it truly is,

a vision so pure and simple,

few can stand before its glimmering beauty.

.

.

Maybe Next Time

silently,

you let it take hold,

slowly spreading

until it consumes all there is;

it is then

you understand;

so much left unattended,

so much wasted,

words never uttered,

dreams and ambitions

never mentioned,

focusing for one last shot,

you let it build within,

a giant apocalyptic fire,

waiting for just the right moment

to release this blazing energy

which destroys all that it touches;

old wounds heal slowly,

lines between past and future

become blurred,

by the smoke of empty visions

which never stood a chance;

oh yes,

it is here we lay our tired heads down,

calling out for old debts

paid many times over

by those who never understood

just what it was

they were paying;

maybe next time.

.

.

A Prayer

Note: This was written years before I allowed the Lord to come into my life. I have many writings such as this showing I was searching for Him long before I knew I was searching. If you are searching, Jesus is the answer.

I want to live,

if You will let me,

I want to change,

if You will help me,

I want to see so much more,

if You will show me,

I want to be

whatever You want me to be,

I want to walk without sorrow or fear,

I want to breathe

air so fresh and sweet

it brings laughter with every breath,

I want to hear Your voice

in the still of the cold black night,

leaving this physical world

so far behind;

some miracles are so great,

they lie beyond all comprehension,

so miraculous they can never be seen

with simple eyes,

only with the vision existing inside;

the miracle of a life

within a life.

.

.

Extinguished

I have ran a marathon,

but what is that now?

once,

the old dog down the street

humped for two days straight,

does that make him

any less decrepit or wasted?

life does not stand still,

that is not the way of things,

vision is tomorrows memories,

as reality is lost

on the cutting room floor;

we spend our lives waiting

for yesterday’s dreams;

standing here today,

poised on the verge of immortal madness,

such strange new beasts these are,

ready to devour the earth,

the moon,

the stars;

the light of the world has gone out,

leaving it cold and dark.

.

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Double-Edged Curse

oh vision,

double-edged curse,

take away this bitter cup,

let me drink

no more;

I feel it rise,

I watch it build,

an ancient storm,

waiting to lash out,

screaming to destroy

all that lies

within its murderous path;

it is then the pain

becomes its worst,

realizing the truth,

what it is

you’re missing,

just what could have been,

how truly helpless you are

to make a difference;

so

yet another poet warrior

falls victim

to a system designed to kill,

trapping all

within its deadly coils,

imprisoned forever;

surely

the cut is deep.

.

.

Thanks Hank

the squirrels become playful in September,

running to and fro,

chasing each other up and down trees

and telephone poles,

it makes me wonder what they know

that I don’t,

they drive Petey,

my Jack Russell terrier bonkers,

he whines and pulls at his leash,

dying to sink his sharp little teeth

into fresh killed squirrel hide;

life is easy in September;

I have been recovering from spinal surgery

for almost two months now,

I’ve learned if I sit very still,

the pain running down my leg isn’t so bad,

I thought the pain would be gone by now

but I guess it is not to be,

sometimes I think it is for the best,

we need a little pain in life

to keep it all in perspective,

a gentle reminder,

a little thorn in the flesh

as the apostle Paul would say;

I picked up another Bukowski book the other day,

it was the first time in years,

I read one called ’35 seconds’ in the store

and it made me laugh out loud,

so I bought it;

“and that’s how

I hurt my

arm” – 35 Seconds, Charles Bukowski

I guess you had to be there

to really get it,

he truly was a literary genius,

despite what the main stream

poetry world might think,

you have to read him very closely

to understand the depth of his pain,

and you have to read him even closer

to grasp the inner humor

that carried him through it;

most never get that close;

for most it is more

than they can bear,

they want their poetry

just like they want their life,

clean and sterile,

full of fantasy and fluff,

fresh from the minds

of those who never venture

outside their keyboards,

with freshly printed MFA degrees

hanging on the ‘studio’ wall,

minimizing and dismissing

anything that is uncomfortable

or real, calling it sloppy,

searching for technical and grammatical

correctness within words that are

empty and dead,

of course they don’t see it this way,

they would tell you just the opposite,

but their words give them away;

thank goodness he lived it for us

so we wouldn’t have to;

as I read him,

I wondered if he ever got the chance

to know the Lord,

not the one pushed by religion

or other man-made institutions,

but the real One,

the One who heals,

the One who saves,

the One who forgives,

the One who softly whispers

in the middle of the night:

“Don’t be afraid, just believe.”

the friend who sticks closer

than a brother,

my King,

my Everything;

I feel I know him well enough,

Bukowski that is,

that if he ever had the opportunity

like I did,

he would have seen the truth,

he would have understood the message,

his eyes would have been blind no more;

but I guess I’ll never know;

I think about how nice it would be

when I finally do enter the world

prepared for those who belong to the Lord

if I saw him there,

his dead pan, unassuming face,

quietly watching,

silently observing,

finally at peace;

completely healed;

how great it would be

if I could thank him

for exploring the parts

of the darkness I never could,

the parts that I never would

have survived,

the parts that would have destroyed me

forever,

then for writing it all down

so I didn’t have to;

for helping me along this journey

when no one else would;

“thanks Hank.”

.

.

More Than I Deserve

she’s more than I deserve,

better than I could ever hope for,

a companion through times both

good and bad,

a friend until the end,

standing by my side

when no else would,

a sounding board

for the madness,

a shelter from the wind,

a warm summer’s dream;

riding out the storm

in Calera, Alabama,

surviving the threats

of a dark future,

always there,

overcoming fears and barriers

to be by my side;

more than I deserve.

.

.