An old Poem, but I still like it.

This is probably somewhere in here, but I got a request:

Also, my NEW book, LEAVENWORTH STEET, will be out in the next two months!!!!!! Will have more info as it comes. . . .

Back to the poem!

A Letter to Neil

Dear Mr. Gaiman: Thank you for your gift

of the Sandman. Your stories have changed me;

now I see us all as anthologies, collections

of tales threaded together. I am sure I have my

own wing in the Dream Lord's library, the resting

place of all fables, even the ones that live and die

in one short daydream. I have my own collection

of trinkets, mementos, and souvenirs. Sometimes

I tell my mysteries like Cain, spearing them down

as a warning to the captured listener; sometimes

I share my secrets like Abel, breathing them out

to scatter and grow in the reader's fields.

I am a shopping-mall poet looking to make

my own boutique in the world. I have a teacher

who tells me of other woodcutters (because that's

all poetry is; the filing off of prose until only

the poem remains. I will admit that some cut

too deeply while others just knock on the wood.)

and the tales of the few words they left behind.

I want to thank you for your image of Death,

a beautiful elfin-girl who gives you a nudge

in the end and says, "excuse me, but you need

to go over here now. By the way, how has your

trip been?"

I remember the first day I saw her on your pages,

when she met her dream-king brother at a fountain.

I remember the walk they took as she went on her rounds,

and old song Morpheaus thought of as she moved

through the day "..... death is before me today,

like water to quench a thirst.....," or something like that.

I remember her warming-smile. It was one of the things

I thought about three years ago when the AIDS-volunteer

gave me a positive reading. It still is something that comes

to mind in the mornings as I count my pills.

I share your stories with my friends, some have

bodies and fluids that betray them bit by bit

because they are swimming in this plague too.

They learned about the day Morningstar gave up Hell,

locked all the doors and shushed sinners and demons

away. He registered his complaint of still paying for

his fall three billion years ago, and gave the keys

to Dream. We laugh at the little ironies as we take

study drugs. (There's enough of it right here on earth,

thank you very much.)

Your stories open deep wounds, bring new facets

into the light, and poke fun when we get too serious.

No wonder you have such wonderful artists to draw

these tales. I never knew my childhood love-affair of

comic books and muscle-clad heroes with flowing capes

and far-fetched powers would bring me to your corner

of the medium. You have given me faith in my own tale;

I can appreciate each chapter that made me what I am.

Thank you again, Brian.

Guess What?

Keep watching this space, fear fans, cuz soon there will be some new and exciting news floatng your way!!!!!!

Slowly, and I hope "but surely," the fog is lifting, and I think I can keep my attention apan going to attempt some poetry.

Maybe t is due to the fact that my third book is coming out. If you have read this blog before, you may recognize some of the poems in it, but now you can have a hardcover copy (with some really cool artwork too!).

More later.

Hope all is well with you and yours, and thanks for reading.

Well, I guess this is going to be my way of trying something new. I do not know if I am ready to go "all video" yet, but I might go half and half.

my foot is getting worse, and I am putting off calling off anyone, because I still do not think anyone cares.

March 10Th, Jesus Christ. If I was a bowel movement, there would already be some kind of procedure to remove an obstructruction!!!

This blog, like so much of other parts of my life, could have been so much more.

I really hate these three-thirty a-m pity nights that keep you awake when you know you did everything right. . .

Fighting Through

I am still locked in this battle

of scraping

out a life while 

trying to fold in

almost 20-different medications;

some to keep back a 17 year old

dance with the disease

a few still call a cleansing act from God

to weed out the Forsaken,

capsules to help stop the shakes,

nerve damage, muscle atrophy 

and traffic pile-up stabbings

of pain

left over as I moved 

from pill to pill

(some say),

or the virus has become

an out of control

whirling dervish,

crashing inside me

and not bothering to pick up

any table, ligament

or lamp

off the floor.

And even this setting

has become old,

and all the plot-points

now stale

and borderline cliche

when people ask

how I am,

and I forget 

I do not need to be honest,

just happy that they

remembered my name.

My legs tripped up on me

(or simply took a break

from working)

so now I have 

one more gash on my forehead

that will probably

turn into yet another scar

(and maybe a couple 

cracked/broken ribs

to hammer any questions

or denials into 

tiny, precious pieces 

scattered into dust

scattered into an objective wind)

that I will have to explain away

when the concerned ask.

Anyways. . . . . .

{I spent most of this night watching old video blogs on Rosie.com, wondering if the poem really ever got to her. If she read and enjoyed it simply, without thinking that any

attempts/thoughts of "big breaks" were attached, or if I should have told her that

it was the first real poem that I had created in a year, and how much hope that gave me.}

{But we all have more important things in our lives, ya know. Right now, I am just on a slow upward climb over medications and infections to get to mine. And today, I want to climb. Today I want to feel my body and mind stretch and strain as I show anyone who might look that today, today I choose to accept and fight against these so-called "strikes." Today I cannot think of things like Surrender. I have seen all those who surrendered, and I think some got their panels added to the NAMES quilt this year."}

{There is still so much of me that I do not like: choices, actions, things I have done or said and the shame of it all makes the tears burst out of me and Gravity send me to my knees. I have had mornings when I cannot face the world with a body full of aches and pain and night sweats, so I do my damnedest to separate from reality by retreating into my apartment and staying away from things like hygiene or getting dressed.}

{And I still cannot look into a mirror and see the "handsome and sexy (other's words, not mine)" others compliment me about. . . But I am trying.}

{God help me, I am going get a life back before any "crumbling of dirt," or "folding of cloth."}

Another Damn Season!

Another damn season haas gone past me, and instead of pining all melancholy-like, and scribble about aborted poetic images lying strung around me like some DC supervillan right before a miracle save knocks him on his ass.

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. . . .