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

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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.

Sick Day

First comes the fevers,
the tips of my body
bathed in fire
and a dripping sweat
that soaks my sheet.

There is a claw
gripping at my chest,
and I try not to see
things in black and white.
My legs scream when I stand.

I have dreams
of loose earth and still air.
Each small sip of water
is a struggle
as if my throat

has become a war zone
and my vision dims
like the last minutes
before the sunrise.
This illness has become me.

Holding My Breath

You are holding
my breath.
Each intake of life
and exhale of waste
passes through your fingers
like water
from a faucet.
Your hands fumble
to make a cup
for each drink.

You are watching
my eyes.
The afternoon sunlight
mutes their color
like a child’s blanket
hides the night’s monsters.
You must focus
to see the fear
I am fighting.

I am wrapped
in your arms.
I can feel your strength
protect me
like a morning fog
that blurs all the sharp edges
of the coming day.
You must believe me
when I say
I love you.