A little gift

Holding my Breath
Originally uploaded by Poetboyomaha.

A dear artist friend and big fan took his favorite poem from my book, FIRST CHILL, and my picture so he could create this beautiful wallpaper for his computer. I wonder how long it took before he got bored of lookingb at my mug. . . .

Morning Face!

Oh no!
Originally uploaded by Poetboyomaha.

Most of my mornings, I have been waking up like this, looking like I have been making a living drinking at weddings, and emptying kegs for wimps at high school parties!

I have four poems that are in a holding pattern, and as soon as I get my ass in gear, I promise to put them on here. . .

A little explanation, or "Where the hell have I been?"

I sit here, trying to crawl out of the hole of sickness and side effects that has been keeping me trapped in my home and bed for the better part of a month and a half. In the thirteen and a half years I have been positive, I have had so many "episodes" like this. . . And when I really stand back and look at all of this, like some disappointed parent discovering that the kids had yet another kegger (do kids have "keggers" anymore? If not, then they really are missing out on a great rite of passage), when I take the time and though to seriously relapsed on my life the past few months, I know it could have been a lot worse in so many ways, but now I have to start forgiving myself for the days when I did not see that. . . .

It all started with having to move at the end of June (and all the crap that goes along with moving, even within the city you currently reside), and the even before I could find where I had packed the extra hair pomade, I went on a five day vacation to Dallas, Texas to meet another internet "pen-pal" (and attend a gay and lesbian Country Western dancing convention and competition, which was another strange story unto itself). Three days after getting back from that, I had my very first book reading and signing. I was so surprised by the excellent turn-out, and I sold thirteen books!. . .

Anyways, even as I was enjoying all the new changes and the hopes for further opportunity, I had this strange feeling that something was "not right" inside me, and a few weeks later, I was right.

I need to backtrack a bit if I may: I am one of those persons who will get almost every side effect from any drug ingested or taken, even the "over the counter" crap at Walgreens. When I first tested HIV positive, I was given pamphlet after pamphlet, small bound books, and even a couple three-ring binders filled with facts, terms, and jargon that I could not possibly absorb as I was trying to deal with my diagnosis. One of the big ones they all mentioned was neuropathy, which is basically nerve degradation/damage caused by either taking such drastic medication (and remember, back then all that was available was DDI, 3TC, and the ever-nasty AZT) for a long period of time, or the HIV virus itself, or possibly both (depending on which pamphlet you read). . .

I was also asked many times in my first 3-4 years if I would participate in some of the drug studies that were going on at UNMC (University of Nebraska Medical Center) at the time. I was considered drug "naive" (basically, I had not taken anything that would compromise any results), and people like me were in short supply back then (up until the arrival of protease inhibitors and viral loads, people with HIV were encouraged to start taking meds as soon as their T-Cell counts went below the 500 mark, and most people had a reading near that level when they first are diagnosed). I decided I would sign up for any study that I was offered for two big reasons. I wanted to be involved in the creating better drugs and treatments for HIV/AIDS because it was a way to help; far more personal than wearing a ribbon or giving some money.

I was also dealing with a lot of guilt because I had to go on Social Security disability because I desperately needed a way to pay for my healthcare and prescription drugs (via Medicare and Medicaid). When I was diagnosed, I was not yet eligible for insurance at my job (I had missed the yearly sign-up date by one day so I had to wait until the next one arrived), and the bills were starting to quickly pile up in only a few months.

One of the drug studies required that I be on AZT for at least two months before the trial started. I had the hardest time getting used this drug (I am not going to get into all the gory details about the digestion horrors and bodily noises, but thankfully if AZT is given to people as a method of treatment, either by itself or mixed with other drugs, it is at a much lower dosage now) and had to miss a lot of work due to being too wiped out and kicked in the ass with nausea. I knew that I would eventually get used to all these medications, but I also knew that these bills would never get under control. I also was worried about not being able to get any insurance, because it was till very legal back in 1992 to refuse someone just because they were positive.

I did find out that the insurance company at my job would actually carry me, but I would have to pay for everything (and the premium) for at least a year, and I could only start sending in things to be paid for after that year if I had a zero balance with whatever medical center or doctor I was using. . .

So I went on disability, and since the drug companies themselves paid for everything (visits, tests, drugs, and certain procedures that might occur due to side effect from whatever med is being tested), I would not be costing the taxpayers anything for at least the first few years of my disease (we were also told that we should expect to live 5-7 years after our diagnosis before anything serious would occur and things would end). Basically, I tried my best not to "ride the system." I still don't. I only ask for things that I really need help with, and still scrounge up extra cash here and there cleaning houses and such. . .

What I did not know back then was that in most of these studies, I would be put into the "control" group, where I took mainly AZT and placeboes. I didn't know (or really think about the fact) that no one did any long term studies on what drugs like AZT would do to a human body years later. I didn't know that I would develop problems like osteopenia, osteoporosis, arthritis, joint pain, neuropathy, myelopathy, slight twitching, muscle loss and atrophy that would prevent me from getting a job later on in life when my T-Cell and viral load counts were much better.

Anyways back to the here and now. . . About three months ago, I noticed that my right foot was tingling like mad, as if it was falling asleep all the time. I dismissed it as neuropathy (nerve damage), and went on my merry way. Then, about a week later, I was having trouble going up and down stairs because that foot was always catching, as if I could not tell where that foot was compared to the rest of my body.

Within a few days my right foot was almost useless and I falling down all over the place; sometimes actually doing some damage to myself (I still have marks/scars on my leg from the time I caught my foot in some stairs as I was leaving my apartment and I took a 90 degree fall into some concrete). I knew that this was way more than "normal" neuropathy, so I finally got in touch with my doctor, and started a massive (well, it felt that way at the time) series of tests to see what was wrong with me. . .

So after seeing my doctor, who recommended me to a neurologist, who recommended that I see another specialist (who I had been seeing already due to the twitching) I have learned this: I now have what is called a "drop foot," basically a pinched nerve that is causing numbness and etc. My neurologist feels that this is due to the sudden weight loss I experienced these past few months (I usually lose some weight during the summer, but this time I lost almost 20 pounds), and he had read/heard that this is happening to other people with HIV as well. . . . Right now, I am wearing a brace on my right foot and calf that keeps everything "in place" as I walk, and

During all of this, I have gone through the literal gamut of emotions, fears, worries, and "dead-end" scenarios that one would expect when you are faced with the possibility of losing the ability to walk. I could not picture myself using a walker or even a cane to get around. I guess in some way I thought it would be as if I surrendered to the virus and given up, and yes, there was some vanity floating around in my head (and wondering if anyone would find me at all attractive if I had to hobble around with the help of some walking aid, or worse use a wheelchair) as I was trying my best to "keep a good face" in front of everyone else. I will admit that I had my share of "breaking down," but thankfully they occurred in the privacy of my own home and around those who truly cared for me and understood what I was going through.

And as many of you might expect, I could not really get in the "mind-set" to write any poetry, as if words and I were not getting along. I had a hard time thinking beyond the sudden changes (and the threats of even more changes), and could not find or feel the metaphors in the world around me. I do not really know what I could say was the definite reason for my creative "well" to "run dry" (if I must use these analogies, and right now I cannot think of anything better), and the irony of struggling to walk as I struggle with meter and stanza is not lost on me.

So that is what has been happening, and I am working on new poetry even as we "speak." I want to thank you all for your support and faith in me and my work all of these months. It has meant so much to me, and I am very very grateful.

Thanks again.

Here is one that I found that really fits!

SUMMER NAPS

I wish I could bring
one of my good summers
out for you;

then the prickly-sour
sweats waking me
each July morning

might not keep you
awake in the humid nights
watching me sleep.

I wish I could cough up
my will to live
on the days I catch

looks of fear and loss
when I close my eyes
in the afternoon heat.

A quick note of apology. . .

I am so sorry that I have not added anything in such a long time. I have been in the process of moving from one apartment to another (and much smaller) one, and after all of that nonsense, I went to Dallas for a much-needed five day recess from things. As soon as I get my bearings (hopefully by next week), I will start posting again.

Thanks to all of you who have read, emailed, and supported my own little corner of the world of Poetry. I really do appreciate it.

In Praise of the Other men

I see you
from the corner of my eye,
bloodshot and hazy.
You bring the call-drink dowry
and make the wedding-for-a-night vows
that you always open with.

We dance,
and I watch your perspiration give me
an outline of what I will see
if our negotiations work.
I look into your eyes
for effect,
and to prove my point.

Take me home.
Rape me to the dance floor beat
before I even make the coffee.
Make our time here forbidden,
make each touch count.
Don't even bother telling me your name.

Look at me lying prone
like it actually might mean something.
Hold me with the force
given to that pull down below.
Let our quick and final gasps
say the things best left in the bottom of the shot glass.

We wake up
as the afternoon begins,
and find our costumes scattered
around the unmade bed.
You bring me apologetic instant tea,
and I call the cab home.





-Brian E. Bengtson

Oh my dear Lord, another new poem!

A friend recently asked me why I had not "posted anything new" in a while, and I felt very guilty. Here is a poem about the weird Spring we have had here in Omaha.

Yes, it is short, but still, it is new

Enjoy!

APRIL, 2005

Spring is crawling,
staggering,
and stumbling
towards the city
this morning;

sleep comes easy
when windchills
playfully slap
around the edges
of your skin

and the day
is almost done
before you see
the new life
standing firm
in the still earth.





Brian E. Bengtson

One of my first. . .

This poem was one of the first I had ever written after my diagnosis, and only recently found when I was "digging around" in some old files. Even though so much of my life has changed, much of the feeling remains true.

RAINCOATS


People tell me
of the anger they would have
if they were sick.

They must think anger
is a brand-new raincoat
you button up tight

on a cloudy morning.
I don't need one;
sometimes I like the cold.

I cannot wear my anger now.
I need to practice standing
out in better weather.

A New Poem!!!

This is a new poem I wrote (and rewrote) over the past couple of weeks. I do hope you will all enjoy this:

BUM

My dog and I
saw him lying there
in what could only
have been the bodily remains
of one more wasted afternoon;
in the early evening light
we almost thought
he could be a misplaced coat
left in the park.

I could see his cane,
let go from his shaking hand
and resting on the concrete
like some twisted act of healing;
as if the hand of God,
and not a cheap wine
told him he was free.

In that mixed bag of thought
which never starts
with the best foot,
this could have been me
had I had turned left,
or leaned back
into the self-made void
of pity, wallow, and too much sleep,
or had fallen deep
and let the cracks caress me
like an old wool blanket
left out in the cold.

This could have been me
simply forgotten,
letting the time, smell and soot
of the world wash over
like the first chilling breeze
of an early spring night.

Another old poem. . .

This is an old piece I wrote during my first few years of my HIV diagnosis:




A Piece of the Plague


During these bad days,
I wish I could show you
my piece of the plague;
maybe you would understand
my nervous steps as I march
on this crumbling road
of hovering death and blood.

When the fevers come
in the thick of the evening,
I wish I could just touch you
and scream out this gnawing fear
that is slapping me awake;
maybe you might understand.

As I sit in my usual place
in the waiting room
I watch others walk their own roads
and hear stories of decay,
I wish I could share my pain;
some days I don't have the words.

smirk

smirk
Originally uploaded by Poetboyomaha.

This is my most recent picture. . .

An Old Chestnut

This is an old poem about the noon luncheon at our local ASO (AIDS Service Organization), The Nebraska AIDS Project:

Luncheon

She's there every week;
an infamous Grande dame
of every ten-minute
"before last call" diorama
of missing-cocktail
stage and screen;
if it's a good day,
and the old girl feels up
to a personal appearance.
Or she doesn't have an appointment
at the clinic.

Every once in a while
you can see him,
that leatherman
with the twilight-piercing eyes,
the solid new-concrete body.
He scared the hell out of you
three years ago,
but now he has a cane,
and his stories tend to trail
off. . .

The talk is quite polite,
as all share a proper lunch;
you can hear the snickering
of past-accused conquests,
of moments best left
between the pictorial
and the phone-sex ad.
("She's got her own stall
at the tea room near the
coffeepot on I-80.")
The gasping recriminations
filter and fall
to blend in with the laughter.

People are asked about,
half in memory,
half in a question
like a child worried about the monsters,
scared of the thunder.
News is passed back and forth
with the entree, and some men
move outside to smoke.

If you look really hard,
you'll see someone new,
watch his body tense
as he takes it all in;
the nameless recognition,
the caustic wondering,
the tabloid-layout
predictions of horror
that flash across his face
when he sits in the corner.

A weekly last supper;
the slight boost of basic
human recognition
brought to you
by the army of buddies,
and contestants of the new game
on the circuit.
The roulette-ridden warriors
of all the best tall tales,
given a break from the shuffle.

One of those days. . .

I have been feeling so run down lately, and I wonder if I am doing this to myself. I know that I have not been eating as "good" as I could (and I guess that could be because I have not been using weed that much), and I know that my little "under the table" jobs have been taking their toll, but I sincerely thought I had more energy than this. . .

Today, I really hate being HIV positive.

I wish I knew. . .

if anyone was reading this. . . I find myself struggling to find time to write, and still make a semblence of a life. I have to clean the homes of others "under the table" in order to supplememt the little bit of income I get from Social Security disability, and lately, my neuropathy and myelopathy (basically nerve damage in the extremities and spinal cord, repectively, from either the medications, HIV, or a combination of the two, depending on who you read) has been getting so bad that I am in tears after two days of working. . .

Arms Like Stone Walls

I wish you would hold me
with your arms like stone walls
holding back the rising waters
when the rain does not end.

I wish your fingers would brush
through my hair like a breeze
cooling my brow in the summer
when the sun is slow to set.

I wish your strength could save me
and keep me whole like a fire
holding off the winter chill
when the snow starts to fall.

I wish you could protect me
when the pain will not end,
like a blanket covering a child
when the night seems too long.

Card Games

When you see me,
please do not look
for any inspiration;
I have screamed
at God too many times
and stood on the rock
listening to echoes
of “Why?
Why now?”

I am a simple man
who shares his regrets
like passing the gravy
at a big family dinner.
Do not think
that I am brave,
dreams of coffin lids
slamming shut
still keep me from sleeping.

Don’t try to tell me
that I am strong.
Every afternoon I push back
quivers and shakes
while my eyes burn
as I hold off the tears.
I think of endings,
wonder how it will happen
and if the story

of being bathed with peace
when those last few minutes
come to bite us in the ass
is just something we tell the dying
to lessen the screams
and hold off the fear.
I am just a normal guy
looking at his cards
and counting his chips.
Sometimes, all you can do
is take a breath
until they call your bluff.