A Poem for Rosie

A LETTER TO ROSIE, TRYING TO SAY THANKS

Dear Rosie: Please don't go.
Please do not let your voice
of simple clear reson
and pure humanity
fade off
like a stagelit sunset
or a Nebraska Winter
that stays past
even a poet's welcome.

Do you know how many lives
you have changed?
Not just these 600,000
(that number constantly juggled
about by both anchormen and pundits,
as if some homeschool equation
will explain away the magic you brought)
extra viewers, but the ones who
were there already?

A few less people think "FREAK"
when they see two women holding hands,
or a couple of men
showing off their two year old son;
and a few more
ask better questions the next time
the powers-that-be say "BOO."

But I do why you are going, Rosie.
Any poet worth his or her merit
in sonnets and metaphor
knows the tug of a four year old
golden-haired girl
can stand up to
any of the who's, where's, problems,
causes, and villians the world over
if she needs to. Four year old
girls have mighty strong magic, you know
and all they really want is their Mamma
(so do 4 year old boys, but sometimes
Daddies tell them, not to say it out loud).

Of all the numbers dancing in bank accounts,
homes in more than one place, people
you have met, and things you have done, THIS
is what I admire most. In the 16 years
I have danced with three capital letters
and a warehouse
of pills, the number of children helping
me make better decisions and reminding me
to laugh has dwindled down to
two elfish boys who may leave a letter or three
out of my name that I see
one holiday a calender year.
But this is your poem, Rosie, enough about me.

Please do not go.
The longer you stay on, the more days
I have left to figure out how
I could see both the legendary lights
of New York and the five
of you wonderful women
the first and only time
for this farmland wordsmith.
But you and I know this is a selfish wish,
which only come true
after a big price is paid,
or you survive some slapstick adventure
complete with laughtrack
and product placement.

Thank you Rosie
Thank you for speaking out
and thanks for all the feathers
you have ruffled.
Thank you for all the laughter
and helping Joy set up the jokes.
I hope that things are well,
and that this storybite fades off
with the dignity it deserves.
Thanks Rosie. Love, Brian

Working Boy

A beat-up Dodge creeps up the corner,
and you think of that guy who just wanted to talk,
and you can't believe he still paid.

You remember the guy who brought you home,
and showed you his Jeff Stryker
after he threw you in the harness.

You think you see the one that just handed you the money,
and pulled your head down in one fell swoop.
You watch the fist-fight two doors down,
and are too tired to guess who did what.

You count the pretty older boys
as they stumble out to the lot.

You slide to the bus depot vending machine,
buy a Baby Ruth with your emergency bus change,
and laugh about a man who gave you an oil massage
wearing rubber gloves and two condoms.

You list the ones that you wish hadn't seen you.
You have your 3 a.m. breakfast with your eyes half-closed.

T.S.

It's been nearly a decade since
I saw you sniff glue
in your downtown apt.

Nine years to the day
you gave me a bottle of poppers
and told me to
"cum like a madwoman."

Seven years have past,
we all got drunk on New Year's
and you shared me with your lover.

Five years ago,
I was doing you on the stairs
while he was at work.

Sometime last year
they tore down your house.

Yesterday I realized I couldn't remember your face.

Get Ready, Gang!

Sometime this coming Monday, I am going to post some of what I consider my "top ten" poems, as I am submitting said poetry for an upcoming book of works by Nebraska authors!

I am also (finally!!!) putting the finishing touches on my second book/manuscript! I am either going to call it POETRY ON THE HALF-SHELL, or EASTERN NEBRASKA SIMILES. . . .

Sorry that it has been so long. . .

"Now where the hell has he been?"

Wow! I have not been on here in a while! Things have been strange, and words and I have not been on the best of terms lately.

In an effort to find a pain management combo that would give me some relief and still allow me to speak full sentences; I have wound up with a killer case of fatigue, hearing and memory loss, and so much did not seem that important, or even that reachable in my muddled state. . .

So I will try to be better. I have already set up Monday nights as my "work nights,' and I still have a book to put together, so things are not THAT bleak.

Thanks for caring, and a big hug for reading,


Brian

NEW POEM!! (Yes, I am still around and moving!)

Peeling off the Sheets

When summers in Omaha
can still slap on the heat
to start the day,
I peel off the sheets
and cannot help but think
of new skin and rebirth;

like a struggling poet
scratching at the world
for some symbol wrapped up
in a brand new metaphor,
with that desperate hope
to finally create
one poem
that will keep his name
on every student's lips.

On quiet nights
I think of the stranger
still hiding in my veins,
left on the tips
of all those needles,
and coursing
through the body
of the man
who tainted me.

I catch myself walking
through the streets
with closed eyes,
as if I am still waiting
for him to say something
say anything
from a muttered apology
to just his first name.

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.