Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Messy dishes piling up...all over the counter. Making a cake for a funeral and the kitchen is covered with flour and sugar. Its caramel, and that was his favorite. The only way I know how to say goodbye is with food. Words fail me now.

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trying to post from my phone....but I keep messing it up. Maybe this just is not the kind of blog that is easy to post from a mobile....

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Monday, June 28, 2010

My grandfather passed away today at almost 9 o'clock this morning. My good friend had a baby at 9 o'clock this morning. The circle of life.
My Pop passed away in a room full of morphine and haloperidol. Those were two of my favorites. I was his favorite grandchild.
I was asked to witness the Hospice nurse throwing all his medications down the toilet. I did not tackle him for them. I did not even joke about it. I did not want to take them from him. I guess I am over it, I thought watching him dump 900mg of morphine down the toilet. Although, I thought...I used to know a lot of people who would have loved that shit. I did think, what a waste...


A granddaughter
Reaches up
For the hand
Of her Pop

When she was three
She gave up
Her friends
When he gets to town
She only wants
To be with
Her Pop.

A great grandson
With the same eyes
As that granddaughter

His first word
Was Pop
And every time
He comes here
He runs in
To see his great grandpa.

A daughter
Cares for him
In those
Twilight years
All three
Bringing him
Medicine in bed.
Four generations
Full of love.

A whole family
Children, grandchildren,
Great grandchildren
Sister, and nieces
Visit him in the last days
To say how much
They love
And respect him.

The great grandson
Points at an airplane
In the sky
And says, “Pop.”

Where is Pop?
He asks.
He has gone to heaven
And we all
Miss him more than words can say.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010


I don't know why I am still so afraid of cops. I am on my way to school and a cop is behind me.  I am scared to death. I have nothing on me...I am sober....I am not speeding and the car is legal.  I have my kid with me for God's sake! The worst he could do is give me a ticket I could get out of...and I am still shaking with fear.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

It is father's day today, and my grandfather is still in the bed in the back bedroom. Well, he is here in body, but his mind seems to be slipping farther to the other side. He hardly recognizes anyone. It is like he is looking into the face of a stranger. Except for when my son comes into the room, and then Pop lights up like he did before he got so sick. For that I am glad. Lucien hugged him for almost five minutes tonight, which is a long time for a little man who is only 15 months old. I fear the end is very, very close. I say good bye to my grandfather on a day that honors all fathers. It is fitting he has made it through today. Although, I am not sure what tomorrow will bring.
I wish I had kept my ass home on mother's day when I was so sick. I wasn't getting any help at home with Lucien...even on mothers day when I was throwing up my guts. But, I was selfish, and I couldn't handle I ran home to mama. And with me, I carried a 24 hour virus that every member of my family eventually contracted. My 92 year old grandfather did not recover. I keep thinking that if I had just kept my selfish, sorry ass home that day. If I had just sucked it up...maybe Pop would still be well.
I know it is not my fault. But, I just do not want him to go. He has been a constant in my life since the day I was born. He never judged me. And he always forgave me. He believed in me when no one else did. I am thankful to have spent these last few years with him so close...and with me sober. I just do not want to see him go. What will I do when the constant becomes inconstant?

Captain John Grant..Part 1

Captain John can be intimidating to men and those who do not know him. He towers above most people, and I would estimate him to be over six feet tall. He is a very large and round man that must weigh over 250 pounds. He often reminds me of the Gorton’s fisherman with his white hair and full white beard. Captain John’s eyes glow with happiness and the effects of the drink. His large round face and bulbous nose are rough and red from years of exposure to the sun. That redness comes alive with a certain flushed appearance as he begins to get more intoxicated.
When I first met Captain John, he was the magical age of 63 like so many other daytime patrons of The Abbey Bar. Captain John stood apart from the others his age because of his more spry and youthful appearance. His thick Maine accent made it difficult to understand his slurring words when he had been at The Abbey most of the day. He had been a tugboat captain for many, many years. His bellowing voice often echoed through the bar as if he were hollering into the fierce winds of the ocean.
He had spent enough hard time on the water to earn a place in the world of tugboat captains. First of all, everyone called him “Captain John Grant”, or some variation of that such as “Captain John”. Sometimes we would refer to him as “The Captain”, but he was never called just “John.” He would go to work for three weeks at a time, and then he would have at least two weeks off. Three weeks or more he would be tugging boats between Louisiana and the Caribbean, and two weeks or more he would be in the French Quarter spending a lot of the money he made. And he made really good money. Every few weeks Captain John went back to work broke and quite hung over.
He was known for living it up when he was not working. He was at The Abbey every day, buying beers for people, drinking as much liquor as he could hold, and trying to get in the pants of some pretty, young girl. He enjoyed dinners out at some of the best restaurants in the Quarter, taking up company from all walks of life. He once took Liam and me to dinner at Lola on Esplanade with a writer friend of his named Colleen. He wanted me to meet her, in hopes of getting me some connections in the journalism world.
Lola did not have a liquor license, but you could bring your own. We stopped at Whole Foods across the street where the Captain purchased four bottles of wine. We all met up for preliminary shots at The Abbey, yet no one questioned Captain John’s excesses. We all knew this man was often drenched in excess; it was just his way. We had to wait outside for a table, and the Captain obliged asking for four wine glasses. In his thirst and impatience, he jammed the cork down into one of the bottles where it floated on the top of the warm, red liquid stopping a good pour from making that glug, glug sound. He just tipped up the bottle and chugged. As he brought the twenty dollar bottle down from his lips, he wiped them with the back of his hand spreading the remnants of the crushed alcoholic fruit all over. Wine clung to the thick and burly white hairs of his hands and face. He handed the bottle to me, and I took his lead tipping it up and passing it on after I took several huge chugging sips. The four of us finished that bottle in about fifteen minutes.
The dinner experience was excellent that night from what I remember. The wine flowed freely, and the Captain even darted across the street for another bottle. I could not tell you what kind of wine it was except that it was not cheap and we were all swamped with its effects by the time we took a cab back to The Abbey to finish off a perfect evening with more shots of Jameson.
I will never forget the meal that I ate that night…and it is the exact same meal I get every time I return to Lola. For my appetizer, I had this excellent piece of grilled calamari. It looked more like a “steak” because they had taken a whole tube spitting it down the middle and opened it up onto the grill. Crosshatched grill marks covered the delectable squid, and it was spotted with a chili powder aioli. For my main course, I had the most delicious lamb stew that I have ever tasted. It was a huge bowl of succulent, dark stew with big pieces of lamb so tender they fell apart in my mouth, completed with soft, flavorful carrots, speckled with stewed tomatoes, and inundated with potatoes that had absorbed all the juices from that poor little lamb. It was fucking exquisite. Robust, full, and homey yet somehow it was also elegant and refined. I still dream about Lola’s lamb stew. It was a wonderful evening and a wonderful meal I will not ever forget.
Captain John Grant is surrounded by myth and mystery. I have heard that he killed a man in Maine, possibly with his bare hands. The word on the street is that he can never go back to Maine because of whatever happened. This mythical man somehow avoided a jail sentence in favor of being kicked out of the state of Maine. He must have been as well loved in Maine as he was in New Orleans.
Captain John was often the life of The Abbey Bar with his crazy antics. One evening he had been there most of the day when Genevieve came into work the bar. A random preppy type guy entered The Abbey, which is strange because a preppy guy is often uncomfortable and out of place here. Captain John, of course, begins talking shit and challenging him in every way short of asking him outright to step outside and fight. The young man in his collared shirt is looking up at this enormity of a man with trepidation. The Captain keeps getting closer and closer to this kid, puffing out his massively round chest. His voice loudly echoes his life’s exploits throughout the dark interior of the seedy bar. Apparently, the Captain is not quite large enough and he steps onto the first rung of the barstool. Staring down at Collared Shirt with disgust and bravado, Captain John says…

“I am seven feet tall and bullet proof.”

The young man does not respond, but looks up at this giant man with a leery look in his eyes. The Captain was searching for some kind of response, so he pushes a little harder. He steps up onto the second rung of the bar stool and bellows…

“I am eight feet tall and bullet proof.”

Still no response, as preppy attempts to ignore him casually taking another sip of his drink. I can see from my barstool that his eyes are wide. Captain John is partly blinded by alcohol and masculinity at this point. He is just begging for a response.
The Captain puts one hand on the bar to steady his whole self and he carefully lifts his giant legs onto the seat of the barstool. Now, imagine this enormous, round, grey man as he attempts in his drunkenness to climb unsteadily onto a tiny barstool. Genevieve is yelling at him to sit his ass down. But, the Captain does not listen to anyone when his mind is made up.
With his hand still on the bar, he has both feet on the tiny seat of the barstool. The barstool is way too small to accommodate his feet, much less his entire structure. But yet he stands up, surprisingly steady at first. We are all staring in disbelief.

“I am ten feet tall…”

He hollers as his arms begin to flail rhythmically back and forth in attempts to maintain his balance. Mouths are open in horror as we all watch speechless as he tumbles backwards falling off the barstool and onto the dirty concrete floor on his butt. Before anyone can even gasp, he leaps onto his feet making the old cowboy shooting a gun motion with his hands directed at the preppy stranger as he yells…


The guy in the collared shirt just walked right out of the bar without looking back. The next day, Captain John did admit he was a little sore. Maybe, just maybe he is not as young as he thinks sometimes.
Captain John would sometimes insist upon dancing with the women of The Abbey in the early hours of the evening. By this time, Gracie was often no longer behind the bar and most of the daytime regulars were rather drunk. They Captain would player older and slower music like Nancy Sinatra or Louie Primo, holding his hand out to a giggly young girl as he asked her to dance with him. Often, he would twirl her around and around the bar until they nearly collapsed with dizziness and alcohol. Although, they never did. The Captain with all his brute strength would twirl the girls around like a ragdoll in his playful arms.
One day he asked Misty to dance. She was sitting at the end of the bar by the door when he held out his hand like Rhett Butler asking Scarlet O’Hara to dance.


Story Ideas

Images, flashing up...striking my mind with mass confusion. Images of the past flash in front of my face. It is dark in there because there is no power. It is dark in there because this is not a home that people live in. This place is abandoned...and this man is a squatter.
He is a sleazy crackhead, I have realized as I am just trying to get high. He led me all around the close knit streets of Algiers...kind of near the clubs and bars near the ferry. There are a lot of really cute houses out there in Algiers Point. There are a lot of little corner stores. And there is a lot of shit to get into if you hang around here, it seems.
The sun is fading because clouds are taking over a little. I have to get across the river. I have to get to Frenchman Street. I did not want to show up as the sickness sets in. I hate having to pretend I feel really great and happy while I chug back a couple of shots of Jameson. Jameson can help me to hang on...but I wanted to get there all happy and high. I work better this way. I have more fun this way.
The sun is reflecting through the slats in the shutters of this old shotgun. All wooden inside, with its smooth and knotty interiors...this old place was not in ruins but it did need some work. Speaking of work, did I say I had a job waiting across the river? Oh yeah, speaking of work, i have my works in my bag. You have a candle? Oh what the hell...I just want to shoot my dope. And then...


I am in a fucked up situation. This crackhead does not have any dope, and I am still gonna be fucking sick. I am going to take a fucking hit of crack because god damn...I have gone through all this fucking trouble. It only makes me feel worse. I am puking a little from the smell of urine in the back room of this naked shotgun house. I have got to get to Frenchman Street...someone is waiting for me...
I leave a little before it gets dark, and wander back past the tent city where I had been taking to score some stupid crack...that was a fucked up situation. Shake it off. I can still see that dark and demonic face as the shit took over his was was fucking wild to see the smoke rise and his eyes go completely hazy inside but all bright, shiny and scattered too.
His face shone with sweat. Not a beaded sweat, but one that sat more like a sheen, an oil slick running across his cheeks. Dirty and stinking of infestation, and rank deprivation...this man is obviously fucking nuts. The whites of his eyes are now shining. Begging and pleading in their madness for what it is they must have...insanity twitchlets dancing up his cheeks as his was panting deep and heavy breathes.


The next thing I know, I am on Frenchman Street, slugging back the Jameson and making some fucking phone calls. I do not know why I did not just rush on over here. Pretty soon everything will be just fine.
He reaches down to hold my trembling hand. He really is a handsome man, with his dark squirrely eyes that squint from all the sun he has seen. In the dark, his eyes sometimes dart and dance back and forth. His hands dart back and forth on my body....He slips something into my shaky hand. Smooth, and crisp...I am sure this hundred is folded perfectly. He also hands me a pack of some exotic flavored Caribbean cigarette that I really like. I finger the edges of the bill...I actually do not know for sure it is a hundred, but I am almost positive. He never hands me any bill that is less than a hundred. And he is not stupid...he is a fucking cool ass guy...he knows whats up.
I dart out, just for a couple of minutes as my boy swings by. He brings a couple of grams of really good pot. You know the nice, green shit they call the purp around here. At twenty bucks a gram, he could get sixty for the three but he always charges me fifty. I mean, the weed is kind of just a cover. We are both in this car, driving around the block on Frenchman and Chartes, for something much more powerful that some fucking weed. I get three bags of dope for the other fifty bucks. Everyone is happy.

For some reason the image of that abandoned house rained back down upon me tonight. I have been racking my brain for story ideas. I am trying to come up with the perfect story for my class. All these different ideas are knocking around in my head. I get this fucking image that sends chills up my spine. I sometimes have those kind of flashbacks. Gasping, at that horrible little spot in my memory. I try to avoid those pitfalls, but it happens to most of us that I know.
I am brought back top Algiers Point at that very point in time. I was not brought back to the Bitterman's house. I was not brought back to the ferry,but instead I was brought right back to that abandoned house. That moment in time flashed through my head, causing my heart to quicken it pace. Causing my breath to quicken, and my stomach twitching.
And the idea for a story blossomed in my head....

A dready girl who is staying in the tent city...a night in tent city with a guy maybe......

Friday, June 18, 2010


Breathing hard
And shaking
With anger
And hatred.

Do not back me
Into a corner
Not having the option.
I know
You say
I have a choice
But really...
I don't.

By guilt
But instinct
And by fear.
My silence
Is my enemy.
My words
Are my relief.

The power
Of addiction
Away choice
At times
Just like
An oppressive
It is
The law of the land
That I live in.

Of long ago
This fire
To succeed.
This fire
To protect
My self.

And strong willed.
An entrepreneur
Of sorts.
I have
To get
What I want.
Just as...
It has

And what
I don't want
Is already
Long past

Tuesday, June 15, 2010


An old man
Lies dying
In the guest bedroom
At his daughter's house.

His own house
Years earlier

His granddaughter
Now a mother
Waits patiently
Holding his hand
Wishing he would
Just get better.
She thought
He might
Live forever.

His granddaughter
A tiny child
Her friends
To play with
Her Pop.
The tiny child
Admires him
All her life
As she grows
And older
She only
Respects him more.

Still life
Is what it is.
Her heart
As he lies
All she can do
Is hold his hand
Hope he is
Which he is not.
She can only
He will get better.
She thought
He would live
To watch
Him die.

Monday, June 14, 2010

Sadness is all just too sad. And sometimes the sadness is tempered with joy. Other times the joy is speckled with sadness. Right now, it is all just too sad. I hope I can deal.

Friday, June 11, 2010

I am not trying to fuck anyone over...I am just trying to survive.


With loathe
From all
The pressure...

Building up
Over time
It feels
I am gonna explode.

By inability
To say no
With gulit
Piled high
Like the burden
On a camel's

Pushing down
And pushing in
And constant.
I am afraid
To let
My guard down
The viper
Will strike.

Like the steam
A kettle
My brain



What do I believe in? We are all faced with these questions at times in our lives. As my dearest grandfather lies dying, all these questions of belief have risen up in me once again. I ask myself, where will he go? And also, where will I go? Is there anything else out there, or is it just darkness? And if there is an afterlife, what is it like? And how do I get there? Which leads me directly into the thought of…what is it that I believe in?
Religion serves a function in human society. One of those functions is to teach us right from wrong. Most religions have some sort of tenet to lay out our morals for us…or at least they hint at it. Some are seeped in tradition or rituals, while others are constantly changing, melding. Another of the functions of religion is to help us deal with death. Religion serves to put our minds at ease. The belief in something greater than just this life soothes us when we think about death.
Death is something we can never really know about. It is the great mystery, in a sense. Although, I prefer to think of life as the great mystery…that is often times the beauty in it. I am not one to discount the sightings of ghosts, and I do believe in a lot of that folk lore. I have seen things that I believe are spirits communicating with us. I do believe we are spoken to from beyond the grave, if only in our dreams. My grandmother spoke to me in a dream after her death. I wonder if my grandfather will do the same. We may be able to commune with spirits and speak with ghosts, but we can never be sure of what is on the other side.
I like to think that I have researched the ideas of religion and spirituality. I do know a lot about the evolution of monotheism, and also the more ancient Earth based religions. I have been to several different types of churches, and I have an open mind. I also have my own set of ideas. Maybe it is because I am “terminally unique” that I am always bucking the system, and organized religion is definitely part of that system. But, I think my ideas, like most ideas about religion, spring up out of a need. A need to make sense of it all. A need to be at peace with the way our existence is.
I do have a lot of debate about many Christian ideas, and at times I find certain things about Christianity to go against my core beliefs. I guess it sounds pretty crazy, but I just have my own ideas about the way things work…but it is the only way I can come to terms with this thing we call life.
I think it is much more natural than all monotheism makes it out to be. I think the natural world around us plays a very important role in our spiritual being. Mother Nature and this Earth have a life force all of its own. And her life force is also our life force. Her life force is every creature’s life force. There is a thread of the natural element in all of us. I fear that it is the fact we have steered away from nature, our world is falling apart.
Look at the inner city, anywhere I suppose. I know this certainly applies to the inner city of New Orleans, and that is the only inner city that I know first hand. In the inner city, the poorest people often live in what one would call “ghetto.” The inner city is where the projects are, where public housing generally is, where the dwellings are run down…and no one is trying to fix them. This is a place that care has truly forgotten. The people who live there do not take care of it, or do not know how to care of it. And the city does not take care of it either. Inner city crumbles with the ruins of concrete and hopelessness.
In the inner city, there is very little exposure to the Earth. All the ground is covered in concrete, even if much of it is cracked and broken. There are rarely many trees in the inner city, and the skyline is far away and somewhat polluted. The stars are not visible from the inner city in New Orleans because the city lights are just too bright. And look at the crime in the inner city. There is so much disharmony and disconnection that violence is the natural reaction. Like an animal kept from the forest, the inner city erupts in madness.
As we get farther and farther away from the natural world with our modern technology, we are losing something. It is that sense of connection to the rest of the planet. Looking at a beautiful sunset, one realizes that there is something out there that is much greater than us. When you look of a mountain lookout and the valley below spreads wide and teetering, we become aware that we are a much smaller part of this world. Our modern day lifestyle keeps us indoors keeps us focusing only on self. We need to be in awe of nature to get that sense of connectedness. We are just a small part of something greater, and something natural and organic.
Where do we go when we die? The Christians believe you go to heaven if, and only if you have accepted Jesus Christ as your lord and savior. Anyone else…burns in hell. And that just does not sit well with me. What about millions of Hindus, who are good people whose beliefs are more about right and wrong…do they burn in hell just because they were never introduced to Christ? And what about babies and small children who have not accepted Christ into their lives? What about the small, isolated tribe in the middle of the Amazon who has had no contact with the outside world?
When I was in jail, I asked a priest about this. He assured me without doubts that yes…all these unsuspecting people will burn in hell for all eternity. I asked what reasons he had for this belief, and his response was simple…because the bible tells me so. Well, that just does not settle well with me. This just cannot be true, and it does not make sense to me.
Well, what does happen? That I do not know. I do have a theory, though. I think the key is that you have to believe in something. I think that when you really, truly believe in something…that when something spiritual really speaks to you, and really moves you, you have all the proof you need. I think that if you really, truly believe in something then that belief is right for you. And hence your destiny after death will follow the path that your belief leads you. I think all religions share many of the same ideas…unfortunately we get caught up in all the little shit that we forget what the point behind it all really is.
I do not believe in a heaven or hell. I do believe the spirit lives on. I do believe that in the years following death, our spirits are still near our loved ones. We are still very connected to the last life and those people, and our spirits hang around to guide our loved ones.
I also believe in reincarnation. I do not believe that in each life you move up some kind of social or spiritual ladder until you reach enlightenment. I think enlightenment comes with knowing all…experiencing all. I believe we are reborn until we experience everything. Then, we are enlightened and we move on to a higher plane of existence. Have you ever met someone that was often called an old soul?
I also believe in soul mates. I do not really mean soul mates in the sense that two people are made for each other and they will meet and fall in love…although that is one of the roles of soul mates. I believe that soul mate’s travel together through these journeys we call life. You may be lovers in one life, siblings in another, or maybe mother and daughter in even another life. Throughout each journey, your soul mate (or soul mates…) is an important part of your existence. You are woven together from the same thread.
I think the spirituality of the Earth is much more ancient than so many institutions that are called religion. I think there is something to be said for these ways of life that have remained over the years. They are enduring. We are part of nature…and each of our lives, no matter how insignificant or not, are a part of something much bigger.

Thursday, June 10, 2010


From long ago
Before my eyes...

Still agile
And able.
Playing golf
On the weekend.
A little girl
So full
Of admiration
She knows
She is his favorite.
He makes
No bones about that.

So happy
And complete
Full of life
And full of love
The substance
Took it all
I still see
His face
In everything
I do.

The world
Is infinite
And death
Is now eminent
Just waiting...
It all waste away
To skin
And bones
A gaunt ghost
Of the glory
That once was.

Fill my eyes
Once more
I am
From the inside
Once more
All the broken
Shards of glass
Come shattering
On the streets.

The Recluse

I am now.
All alone
I have my thoughts
To review.

I like
To sit
With the lights

And other times
I want
To bask
In the light
Of the sun.
A siren
In the mountain lake.

I seek out
The cover
Of shade
Hide my eyes
I look down
Or is it
That I
Know too much.

My butterfly wings
In the strip club
With everyone
In the room
The whole bar.
Head tilted back
And I was

I refrain
From so much
And now
I prefer
To get
Shit done...
Of lounging
A bar,
A club,
A dark alleyway.
All our clocks
Are ticking...

And I am much older than you think.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010


My grandfather lies in his bed at my mother's house, dying we all know. We do not know how long it will be, and we do not know exactly how it will happen. But, we do know that is on the way. Much, much more than before.
The nurse from Hospice says it could still be a while. Then, he admits he has no idea, and it could even be tomorrow. That is how it is with these patients, he says. That is how it is with life, I think.
He looks so old and frail, my Pop. After all, I tell myself...he is 92 years old. That is a long fucking time. The world was a very different place when he was a boy. I used to think I would die young, such is the life of an addict. I did not want to live to be old, I used to say. But, that was a long, long time ago when I felt I would live forever.
I watch the expression on his face, as tears well up in his eyes. This has been happening off and on for the last ten years. Pop just gets teary very easily. But, this time it is different. It is no longer purely sentimental. I think that now I can see fear behind his eyes.
And I wonder what he is thinking. I wonder what it feels like to know that the end is near. I wonder if it is better to not even see it coming. I wonder if he thinks about what may be next. The inevitable question that skates around in our minds all of our lives must be amplified in the dying. Is something else really out there after this life, or is all just dark? Do we have a soul, and is there a God? And if there is, do I believe in the right one? Have I done enough good in my life, and does regret lay heavy on me?
I wonder what it will take for me to be at peace with dying? Will I go out with a fight, or will I go out with resolve? I think that even for the most pious man with firm belief there must be some doubt about the afterlife. It seems only natural to me, but then maybe I need more faith. Maybe I am just not that religious.
I hate to see him so withered and dying. He has always been so strong to me. Even a couple of weeks ago, he was doing pretty good for 92...and now, the obvious has come true. It is the end. He is uncomfortable, and we are all breaking with his pain too. The time is fast approaching, and I am not ready. He must be ready as he lies uncomfortable in his bed. He must be ready as he cannot do much of anything these days. Selfishly, I do not want to see him go.
And until recently, he has not wanted to go either. I still think he does not want to go. He must be afraid about what is to inevitably come. But, he is miserable here. Compared to what he used to be, he is whithered and crippled. His voice is sometimes barely audible. His breathing is labored at times, and he cannot keep food down. I think it is a difficult you keep fighting for something that has become more painful than good? Or do you come to terms with it, and just let go? I just want him to be without suffering, but not as much as I want him to still be here sitting in his chair listening to Fox News.

Regret and Lies

I think it is more normal for me to have the desire to get high sometimes, than to pretend that desire is never pretend that we never, ever think about it. As a former addict, it IS something I will always think about from time to time. And to act like I never even think about it, is not healthy. Lies are never healthy. To pretend it is not there, we are leaving the demon to lurk in the darkness. Instead, we must accept these thoughts and cravings...we must learn to embrace this very normal part of our existence, without ever going there again. We must learn not to hide from it all, but to wear it like a badge of honor, wearing our sobriety like a medal of accomplishment. We must learn to embrace the good along with the bad, and we must realize that such is life. We must be honest with ourselves, first and foremost.

Lies are never healthy.

I have to remind myself of this when I look back on the past. There are times when I look back with a heart filled with regret. There are too many things I wish I had done differently. And there are things that are dearly missed now. But, I have to remember not to look at relationships of the past through those rose colored lenses of memory. I have to remind myself...lies are unhealthy...any way you slice it. You always lied to me, and that is unhealthy. Granted, a lot became much more unhealthy than lies. And I am not saying the downfall began because of lies, because it did not. I am not blaming you, although I wish I could...but I cannot. But, I am saying that you always lied to me...and most of the time those lies had nothing to do with me. And that was unhealthy. You are not as perfect as I would like to remember.

Friday, June 4, 2010


Morphine, Morphine, thoughts of you have flooded my brain ever since I knew you were there. I find myself looking at you sideways from the corner of my eye, and I wonder if anyone else notices.
Morphine, Morphine, I am craving to be with you. To have you envelop me within your padded and cushioning hug. Break my fall with your softness. Wishing you would wrap me up in your wonderful, welcoming warmth. Distill my mind with your narcoleptic numbing of pure nothingness. Insulate me from all the horrors of my harrowing life in haunted houses where demons still hide in the holes of my mind.
Morphine, Morphine, I want to mingle in your madness. I desire your daring dance with death. Once I knew you were within my grasp, I began to obsess all over again. My every thought tainted with your tantalizing taste on my tongue. Bittersweet and earthy…I remember it like yesterday. Sweet and inviting, yet I know you always have a bitter finish. This game I know all too well can only end in disaster. Yet, I lift the dropper up to my mouth. It is like I just cannot help it.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

I have a lot of regrets, but I do not regret the person I am today...and without all my fuck ups and transgressions, I would not be the person who stands here today.

June 1st

Was supposed to be
Celebrated for years
Instead I mourn.

So many years ago
We stood
On that beach
And promised forever
Even death will not part.
But life will.

My heart is heavy
With regret
And sadness today.
It wasn't supposed
To be like this.

Anger rises
From the pit
Of my stomach
Hatred cultivated
From need.
I am still angry
At you.
And I still
Hate you both.
Especially her...
She was supposed
To be my friend.

So much for friends
Like that.

I have put it down
I have laid
It all to rest
What is past
Is gone...
But looking
At the date,
June 1st,
I am still
Overtaken by sadness.
Just for today.