I cannot think of any real sort of half-way normal title.

I swear to God 

that I did not 

see the leaves

change 

to that festival of colors 

my imagination 

would wait for

until I watched the 

Peanuts show this Halloween.

Is that bad?

Does that mean 

that Fall is tripping up

and fading away

or are the drugs 

just making me lazy?

This Is A Test

Too many months now. .

I have felt like I am scratching my way out of some cage. . Whether that is a cell made out of the newest pharmaceuticals, or a cage of disease, maybe even that pit of fear the cliche-makers always skitter about. . .

My sleep is so scattered, and now it is the end of August. Another season has passed by without any poetry; without an account on how Nature has touched the things and people and creatures I see, know, and love.

I am so sorry. I regret taking the "easy" choice in deciding to have no pain through medication. . . .

The Time Has Come. . .

During the past couple of months, I have been getting some answers from all these medical tests (MRI, X-RAYS, you know the drill) I have sat through. It seems that my early years of HIV are again coming back to haunt me. . .

During my first three to four years of being positive, I volunteered for a few drug studies as my way of helping "make a difference" (and since the various drug companies were paying for everything, I felt that I was saving taxpayer dollars too).

I was considered drug-study "naive," because I was not on any medications yet, and I think that is why I was in the "control" groups for a couple of them (I would find out what group I as slated in at the end of the study), so I only took placebos and AZT most times.

I am sure AZT has its uses, such as preventing the spread of HIV from a mother to her unborn child (last I heard, it cuts the rate to less than five percent, but I may be a little off), but as with many drugs for the treatment of HIV, AIDS, and many, many other illnesses and conditions, no one has done any sort of long-term study or whatnot on the effects of these new "wonder drugs."

All I know is that at the age of 35, I was diagnosed with Osteoperosis, and later had others conditions (like neuropathy) morew akin to nerve degradation. . .

Anyways, I have a degenerative disc in the lowest part of my spine, and along with that (and possibly in relation to) a small bit of bon is jutting out from the spin and may also be pinching on a main nerve.

If I stand longer than 5-15 minutes, my right leg begins to go painfully numb, as if it is decaying while still attached. Sometimes it is my left leg, and one it was both, but mainly it is my right,

So now I have a cane. Even though it looks very very cool. It haunts me. Thes are the changes that I feared. The ones that kept me withdrawn into myself.

Thers are so many times that I wish I did not see my best friend, Mikel die. Even though I know each person/patient is different and all that, but you cant hekp but use him a a gauge sometimes. . .

UGH!!!

I am getting so damn frustrated trying to figure out how to either send Rosie the damn poem, or find out if she got it and just does not have the time to write back to everyone she gets something from. I know things are tough all over, and she has a plateful of things too, but geez. . . . And here I am acting like she has a duty or something.

But really, I just want to know if she liked it.

By the way. . . .

I really hope she reads the preceeding poem. . . Not that I am some dorky fan wannabe or any such nonsense, I like knowing that a poem I wrote is seen by the person I created it for. . . . . It is weird seeing the look in their eyes as they realize it is for and about them. And should I be so lucky, if I get it published, I feel like I have given them the poem all over again. I do not know how I do it. It is not like I can turn it on and off, or even say "today, I am going to write a poem about clouds."

I just let it come to me, like the mother of modern poetry Amy Lowell taught. It is very Buddhist when you think about it. . . .

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. . .