THE DARK

there are things in the dark...
beautiful things,
horrific things,
all kinds of things.
i work best in the dark.
i like the flicker of a candle...
a large orange moon.
don't be afraid,
the dark can be your friend.
you may receive phantom kisses,
from dark-clad vixens.
killer babes.
feel their heat,
ah, yeah man.
it warms you in the damp, night air.
sit alone in parks after midnight.
take a pull off a whiskey bottle.
dream your night dreams.
be a street warrior...
an urban god...
a street player.
listen to the crunch of the snow,
under your feet.
it glimmers like diamonds,
under the humming street lights.
own the dark.
feel its' danger.
control it.
never yield to it.
there are things in the dark.
beautiful things.
horrific things.
embrace them,
look for them.
make the dark, your own.

WORKING MAN

I don't have time,
to worry about politics.
I have dirt underneath my fingernails.
I have to replace my sump pump.
I need to clean the slop,
that seeped into my basement,
from the last rain storm.
There are tires to be rotated.
Old flooring to be replaced.
My old house owns me.
So do my cars.
I don't hire out,
when I can fix it myself.
I'm getting too old for this crap.
But, old habits die hard.
"Suck it up old man",
I say to myself.
Work 'til you die...
just like my dad,
just like my brother.
All we have is our blue collar pride.
No whining allowed.
We carry on through...
cancer,
arthritis,
bad tickers,
bad legs, and knees.
We work through the pain.
A man has to keep his self respect.
I won't go on the government dole.
Press on, you old fool!
Hold your head high.
There just ain't enough time,
to get it all done.
Retirement, my ass.
From birth to the grave,
I'll be a working man.
That's all I am.
It's all I'll ever be.
You know what?
It's enough for me.

THE STRIPPER

she is a memory of some importance.
i saw her a few times,
and didn't think too much about her.
a guy has to be a schmuck,
to think about dating a stripper.
she like me...
i suppose.
i always gave her a nice tip.
pretty soon...
she started taking a bar stool,
next to mine,on her breaks.
we got to know each other.
she appeared to be a brunette,
but actually, after a while,
i discovered she was a strawberry blonde.
she told me other intimate things.
we started to develop a relationship.
i took her out to breakfast,
after her shift.
then i stopped seeing her.
it wasn't going to work.
a couple of years later,
i saw her in a nice club.
seems she was doing alright.
i took her out a few times,
then i "bailed" on her again.
i've known her for over ten years.
i see her sometimes.
we share a strange closeness.
a couple of years, ago...
she sent me an expensive watch.
it means a lot to me.
she is genuine.
she didn't want to change herself.
she didn't want to change me.
we endure.

DIRTY FACTORIES

I kissed my first girl,
by the dirty, factory wall.
Then I wept,
and went to Confession,
on a Saturday.
So I could be clean,
before God's eyes,
on Holy Sunday.
Then I sinned again,
and wore out my knees,
in prayerful submission...
to statues,
and black-frocked hypocricy.
Did God listen?
I kissed my next girl,
in an American car...
A "Holy Beauty", made of steel,
and soft bench seats.
I lay her down,
and enjoyed my first Epiphany.
The priesthood, disintegrated...
before my very eyes.
And so did my Sainthood...
because of heat,
and passion,
and steamed windows,
in front of dirty factories,
where urban dwellers worked,
and prayed,
for better lives...
prayers which fell,
on God's deaf ears,
as Tuxedoed men,
and Society women,
drank cocktails,
on State Street,
that Great Street.
They laughed, and loved,
and felt no guilt...
having not a care in the world.
But, I continued to pray,
in tattered jeans,
and holes in my shoes,
in decrepit churches,
near dirty factories,
where I discovered joy,
and the carnal gifts,
of working class girls.
I built more guilt,
and more submission,
to the filthy rich,
who bore no guilt,
as they broke my back,
and my spirit,
in their dirty factories...
as I finally queried...
Where are you, God?
But no answer came back to me.
Only misery.

RESPECT

i was walking down milwaukee avenue.
north side of chicago.
three punks were walking my way.
snow was on the ground.
they were drunk...
laughing, playing, being obnoxious.
i didn't like this scene.
it was late.
little traffic and no-one around.
i moved to the side,
to give them quick passage.
i gave them the right of way.
so this ball cap wearin',
pants hangin' offa his ass, kinda guy,
bumps into me...hard.
i grab him by his windpipe,
and ask him if he knows anything about:
RESPECT.
simultaneously, i pulled my hand gun,
out of my leather jacket, and pointed it...
at the other two assholes.
one of them wet his pants.
it was freezing cold outside.
my mind flashed a thought.
i wondered if his pee-pee pants,
would freeze, before he got to where he was going.
i started laughing.
these "bad boys" must have thought i was insane.
they didn't know, RESPECT.
i eased my hand off the windpipe.
i gave him a quick jab.
i broke his nose.
i told them to get on their merry way.
i shot a round, over their heads.
they ran away, crying like little girls.
RESPECT.
it's a good word.
think twice before...
you fool with an old man.

I DROVE THE BOSTON MARATHON

i never qualified.
i still had the dream.
i finished five marathons,
in my life.
but i never made it to boston...
the runners' mecca.
i owed it to myself.
i drove the boston marathon route.
my friend paul was at the wheel.
me with camcorder in hand.
i cried real tears,
at the john kelly statue...
stationed right before heartbreak hill,
and wellesly college.
this is the 20 mile mark...
where your legs turn to jello,
and the hill looms large.
i remember the fatigue...
the gut-wrenching glories,
of days past.
i saw the citgo sign,
and fenway park.
the famous elliot hotel,
on the way to the pru-center...
and the finish line.
in grand "olde" boston.
city of charm,
city of dreams,
for old marathoners,
like me.

LITTLE TREASURES

i lie in bed at night
and write;
moved by transient spirits,
i see a jumble of words.
they are pre-existing.
all ideas have been written before.
i never have had, an original thought.
i just recapitulate.
regurgitate,
other ideas...
in (hopefully), novel ways.
i am a fraud,
a magician,
a flim-flam man.
don't trust me,
or any of my words.
don't trust my thoughts,
or your own, for that matter.
be wary.
measure words carefully.
but enjoy them.
learn from them.
they are our little treasures.
i won't sell out.
i won't write for pharmaceutical companies,
ladies underwear catalogue companies,
or ad agencies.
i won't tell you what beer to drink,
or what car to drive.
words are too valuable for that twaddle.
my little treasures are transitory.
they are shape-shifters.
they are ghosts.
they travel light-years,
if my mind is in sync with my heart.
so now i finish this little verse.
my eyes are heavy with sleep...
it's only moments away.
my hopes are to dream more little treasures...
and share them with you.

LIFE IS BACKWARDS

i was mentally ill.
they yelled at me.
laughed at me.
made fun of my clothes.
they chased me home.
i was mentally ill.
why were they so mean?
i wouldn't hurt them...
if they were mentally ill.
life isn't fair.
life wasn't fair.
it probably won't be fair...
in the future.
i'm not mentally ill, now.
i'm told that:
"people look up to you."
somehow, i still feel...
like a strange one.
people tell me that...
i am "creative".
once you are older,
mentally ill, evolves into "creative".
i think they should have called me...
"creative", when i was younger.
then i wouldn't have gone through,
so much of life's shit.
if they call me mentally ill,
NOW...
i can tell them to:
"go fuck yourself!"
sometimes life is backwards,
like me.

LONELINESS

sometimes i felt so lonely...
i found some solace there,
on the breasts of a...
fuck machine.
her void looks and displays of...
theatrical love,
were paper mache'
but...
first the exchange of money,
for sex, no love.
then i felt nothingness.
alone
orgasm, or not.
it's over,
always over.
then silence,
washing up,
lighting smokes,
drinking more cheap whiskey.
yes, alone,
with my thoughts.
always those damned thoughts.
which led nowhere.
mad thoughts,
angry,
hopeless,
driven to a maze, familiar...
unescapable,
fetid,
my prison is.
that's what desolation was...
yeah.
did you ever feel it?
fuck it.
it's over now.
for now.

SITTING IN CAFE' FIXE

it was a brainstorming session...
generating ideas.
we were putting a new spin on a character,
invented by my friend Paul.
screenwriter,
shaman,
racontuer,
philosospher,
Daoist,
Alpha Male,
but above beyond all else...
a loving man.
He asks me questions.
How do I develop this character?
Sitting next to me is
Nathan.
going for his Masters Degree
in Scotland.
He is literate,
but young.
Experience will teach him.
I'm in Boston.
Beantown.
drinking strong coffee,
generating ideas,
laughing,
enjoying,
all the intellectuals,
at Cafe Fixe'.
Back for lunch,
with two mystical cats.
the humans and cats eat together.
Salmon.
Now i see the Boston Marathon route.
tears in my eyes.
dreaming of the race.
i film Hearbreak Hill...
the statue of the great,
John Kelly.
I see a homeless man.
Boston...
I love you.

ENLIGHTENMENT

Forgetting to love, leads to a perpetual life of torment.
Feel things...touch things...see the colors, hear the sounds.
Celebrate your senses.
Experience the joy, and give it away.
Have a taste orgasm when you eat.
Chew slowly...discover your taste buds!
Develop a love for looking at children, cats, birds,
dogs, all wild creatures.
Their behavior will lead your mind to peaceful places.
Wave back to the trees on windy days.
Interpret the shapes of the clouds, as you lie in green pastures,
peering upwards into the majestic universe.
Make your life, your favorite movie.
Slow it down, and lose your anxious sense,
of ego-driven self.
Things always will get better...
Things always will get worse...
This is the endless loop of being.
This is reality.
Have gratitude through all the ups and downs.
It is better to live a life of thankfulness...
than anger.
On the deathbed, it is better to reflect on...
a past of love.
Offer praise to everyone on your path.
Indulge in good, meaningful sex,
which nurtures the goodness in your partner.
Never use sex to hurt someone,
or for personal gain.
Eat good food, and exercise your body and mind.
Enjoy your journey.
You might only have one.
You could have a thousand of them.
I wonder?
Be "wonderful", fellow space travelers.
Enjoy the ride.

TIA'S STORY

Tia was only 12-years old, when she saw the North Vietnamese, communist soldiers blow off her father's legs, and murder her pregnant mother. The year was 1967. Her heart was broken that day, but she made a vow...She would come to the United States of America. She worked for 13 years to save $4,000 so that she and her little brother could leave the brutal country that killed the joy within her heart. She worked in the rice paddy's and had the tanned, weathered, look of a peasant. She told me it was easier to avert the eyes of the soldiers who would be watching her, when she made her escape. The soldiers watched city people very closely, especially those who were sypathetic to the Americans. She got on a boat which was 20 feet long, along with 50 other South Vietnamese expatriates. They started their journey on faith, and little bread and water.

Tia cried as she frantically searched the vessel for her brother, but alas, he was gone. She never found out what happened to him. She was adrift for 6 days without food or water, and kept dreaming strange dreams about ghosts from the spirit world. She was 25-years old, and knew that she was dying. She told her girlfriend to eat her remains, when her soul left her body, so that she, at least, could stay alive.
Tia then started praying to the Buddha to release her soul.

Amazingly, an American ship...a non-military contractor's commercial vessel, happened by, to give them milk, water, and food. All the Vietnamese boat people were begging the Americans, to be rescued. This was not allowed by governments. It was against International Law. Tia saw the shoreline of Indonesia...She dived in and took a chance. All the dirt on her body, and blood from her menstruation, were washed off, after her heroic swim to shore. She told me she did whatever she had to do, once in Indonesia, to save the money to make it to America. She was somehow re-united with her brother. When she arrived in America, she only had the clothes on her back and a few pennies in her pocket. She begged the Marriot hotel chain for a job, through a referrel from the Catholic Charities Organization. At first, the interveiwer did'nt want to hire her, because she was so skinny, she couldn't push the maids cart.

Tia promised the interviewer, that she would push the cart, and clean more rooms than any other maid of her shift...and she did. Tia also went to night school, to learn to speak fluent English, and get a college degree. She saved her money, and with the resolve of a saint, ended up with an executive position in the hotel chain. This was not her vision. It was a means to an end...She knew the Buddha, wanted her to open a restuarant.

She went to the bank with little more, than a great business plan. She was asked what she was going to put up for collateral..."Nothing", she said. She pitched her business plan, and the bankers were impressed. It was a well-thought-out, idea. However, not willing to take a gamble, the bankers did not give her a loan. Tia did not give up. She received a business loan from the government. She designed her restuarant from the ground floor, on up...did all the leg work...advertising, menu, flower arrangements, hiring, and promotions.

On opening night, Boston's elite lined the streets to enjoy her magnificent restuarant. She was an immediate success. She opened another restuarant in Orlando, Florida. She put 4 nieces through college, 2 of them through medical school, and sent money to her father and his new wife in South Vietnam.

Tia eventually brought her father, and his new wife to America. She pays for all his medical bills. Tia works 7 days a week, as she has all her life. She is 55 years old, but looks half her age. She offers fresh fruit, and burns incense to a little statue of the Buddha, in the front vestibule of her restuarant, every morning...She prays and meditates twice a day. She told me that she never had the time to marry. I was amazed by her. She is one of the most lovely women, I have ever seen in my life, both physically and spiritually. She took more than an hour from her busy schedule, to speak with this humble writer.

As she told me her story, tears ran down both our cheeks. We held hands through the whole meeting. I gave her my business card, and she promised to write me. As I left, I asked her what her plans were for the future. She told me she would someday return to South Viet-Nam, to set up a charitable foundation for young girls. Tia changed my life on this fine day last week. I hope this story, changes your life. Sometimes, it's worth a thousand mile journey, to hear one story. I will never be the same, because of a skinny little girl, from South Viet Nam.

SUICIDE

Don't tell me you never, ever, thought about it.
"Oh no, that's sick!", you might say?
Oh yeah?...I don't think so.
Why don't we ponder a reality,
that so many people have chosen for themselves.
I don't dwell on suicide.
I think I am somewhat healthy, mentally.
Of course, this is MY subjective point of view.
Somehow, the act of suicide intrigues me.
How would I do it?
I definitely would not put the gun in my mouth.
This is way too messy, and too many things might go wrong.
I don't want to leave myself as a...
living, breathing, bloody, vegetable.
I don't want to be a burden on my family.
Jumping off a skyscraper is just as bad.
I nix it.
I woudn't want to squash some innocent pedestrian,
or ruin some businessman's new, Mercedes SL-500 Sedan.
I wouldn't use pills...They are too unreliable.
I might get sick instead of dead.
I probably would throw them up...
and wake up with a ghastly hangover.
No sense in being depressed and suicidal!
I don't want to face a long term, de-humanizing disease,
which makes me a burden to my family...
They and I don't need to experience a great suffering over a number of years.
I have a plan!
I think I would travel to Amsterdam.
I could buy a good supply of Heroin...
a couple of syringes...
a case of 35 year-old, single-malt Scotch...
a brick of great Hashish...
rent 2-or-3 beautiful and intelligent call girls...
to be my angels of mercy...
and givers of physical and spiritual enjoyment...
check into a gloriously beautiful Hotel...
surround myself with my closest friends and family...
and have a "DEATHDAY" party!
(I would only do this if I outlived my wife.
I would be brave for her.
I owe her that much...and would die in a conventional way.)
Anyway, back to my dream...
I would party for a week,
and on the last eve of the celebration...
I would say my "goodbyes"...
and inject myself with enough heroin,
to kill a horse.
I would say my prayers,
and bid all a gleefull farewell.
Then I would make my journey into the beyond.
My arrangements would have been made.
My close friends, would have me cremated...
and ship me back to the good old U.S.A.
I would be in my Harley Davidson Urn.
The ashes would be scattered in various favorite pubs,
and places that I loved.
Suicide, isn't totally painless.
It is sometimes the cowards way out.
But not all the time!
It's a helluva lot better than,
soiling one's diapers and suffering in silence,
in some pricey, urine stenched, old people's home.
You know these places.
They have institutional gray-green walls.
Old people stare at them, as they mutter mindlessly,
to themselves.
Some are hoping for death to come quickly.
Day after day...
week after week...
month after month...
year after year...
Now, This is painful!
It also is inhumane.
It makes no sense!
I am a Kevorkian kind of guy!
Our stupid society put him in jail,
for assisting people with their suicides.
I think the good Doctor performed a great public service!
People who commit rational suicide have guts.
They know society has mixed things up.
These geriatric care centers suck up money.
They are an arm of the medical, hospital, AMA,
government,and pharmaceutical establishments.
They are in it for the MONEY!
Life savings are lost in these shit holes!
There will be no "stiff upper lip" for this cowboy.
I want to die on my own terms.
I want to go out with my guns a blazin'!
I want to be riding a beauty!
I want to sit tall in the saddle, one more time!
I want to die on a groovy high!
I want to die with some dignity.
Even if it's hedonistic, bohemian, and non-conventional!
So be it!

FACE IT

You've become your parents.
You live a bourgeois life.
You live in a square box village...
built for idiots,
living Stepford lives,
automaton!
You don't sleep with your wife, anymore.
You fantasize about:
dark liasons with other women.
Of course, they are more than...
half your age.
You dream of Amsterdam...
shucking it all,
but you won't.
coward
conventional
non-risk taking
sumnabitch.
I am the devil.
I am your soul.
I am your hedonistic side.
I am the side you deny.
for security
normalcy
safety
drollness
death
yes, death
you will go to your grave,
sober
respected
well-read
affluent
and bored.
You worked your whole life.
for a nice obituary.
Too bad you won't get to read it.
All the others,
will forget you...
in a day or two.
this is your fate.
accept it.
face it.
sleep tight...
tonight.
Dispell these thoughts.
they just upset you.
remember:
there's golf at the country club tomorrow.
and cocktails with the homeowner's assosciation.

THE POLE DANCER

She was a pretty baby...
with golden locks of hair.
A perfect child.
She could have gone anywhere...
done anything.
Her intelligence was rare...
as was her beauty.
She loved the "dance".
studied ballet...
day and night, she gave it her life...
though it caused her great strife.
She toured with the professional companies.
Then her body gave out.
Her mind followed with shouts of madness.
Sciatica
Anorexia
no fame
pills helped
to ease the pain.
It never went away.
She physically healed.
She was broke.
Hopes were concealed...
in her broken heart.
She took a job dancing the pole...
in gentlemen's clubs.
You know the role.
money was good, when she got paid.
She gave the men, "wood"...
in a dangerous hood.
It was not ballet,
but "what the hay?"
It paid the bills...giving cheap thrills.
She was a pretty baby...
golden locks of hair,
a perfect child.
She could have gone anywhere...
but she didn't care.
She was a pole dancer.
She ended up here...
smelling cheap beer...
and perspiration from men,
who degraded her...
time-and-time again.
Her past was her dream...
the future it seems,
was nowhere to be seen...
for the fair-haired, girl...
who could have gone anywhere.
Here at the club,
where men touched, and rubbed...
with dirty hands, and soiled money,
they all called her, "honey".
She was a pole dancer.

ROTATION

I sit and wait...
while my tires rotate.
The wheels in my mind, turn.
My belly churns, for lack of breakfast,
and too much coffee.
I think, "Don't forget to rotate the food items,
in the refrigerator.
I don't like curdled half-and-half,
in my morning coffee.
I won't rotate wives.
That is a young mans game.
The wife I have is just fine.
We have spent 30 years together...
without rotation.
I think I got the best part of the deal.
I rotated jobs, many times.
I worked for all kinds of construction companies.
I also had many garden variety, shitty jobs.
I told most of my bosses to "sit on it, and rotate!"...
or other nasty things, when they mistreated me.
Thank God, I was a union man.

I won't rotate my clothes for current styles.
I'm too practical, and too old.
My money is only spent on necessities.
I fear health care facilities that rotate...
underpaid nurses.
I'm glad the earth still rotates on its' axis.
It's better than spinning out of control.
How long will this last, I wonder?
No one knows.
Maybe God knows, if He, She, It, exists.
My mind rotates on varieties...
of these philisophical questions.
It's better that I rotate my thoughts,
to happy scenes in my head.
Like:
verdant green forests,
buxom beauties,
happy children,
baseball fields,
and hotdogs.
I always smile when my mind...
rotates toward blissful things.

Suddenly, I am startled by the mechanic!
He wakes me from my strange thoughts.
He says, "Your tires are rotated, sir."
I get up from my chair.
I look at the whopping bill.
I hand him my credit card.
I make a mental note.
"I need to rotate my choice...
of auto-care facilities."
I decide to use the restroom,
before I drive off.
Thankfully, it is a clean one.
I notice how the toilet paper roll...
rotates, as I pull off the sheets.
I get in my car, and my wheels rotate...
to my next destination.
I notice a school bus, filled with children.
Someday, they will be educated and rotated...
into new jobs, which are vacated by old farts.
I think of an old children's song.
"The wheels on the bus, go 'round and 'round,
all through the town."
All of life is rotation.

DON'T LOOK BACK

bob dylan, sang about it.
so did satchell paige.
black man
great baseball player...
said:
"don't look back...
there may be somethin'
gainin' on yah."
let the past go.
forgive your past mistakes...
but don't forget them.
learn from them.
then you will live better days...
learn better ways...
to look ahead
it's all in your head
the life you choose
If you give up you lose.
shed the blues
don't look back.
look ahead
to things not said.
measure your words,
with knowledge unheard,
by people you love.
be in their lives now...
and don't look back.

RAPID CITY

I met the old indian...
in Rapid City, South Dakota.
It was one of those perfect days,
with sunshine, and billowy clouds.
Crystal-blue skies were abundant.
It was a cool day, for August.
The Indian sat on a dilapidated park bench,
smiling widely at me.
A brown, wrinkled face, looked me up and down.
I was beat from the road...
dusty...tired.
I just pulled in from Sturgis,
the town that has the bike rally.
It was my first, sober vacation,
since I was a little boy.
Sturgis was an unlikely spot,
for a "first, sober vacation".
The Indian tapped the bench,
signaling me to sit down.
I had a sack of greasy hamburgers.
I gave him a couple of them.
He nodded his thanks to me.
We barely talked.
Instead, we ate in peace.
I offered him a smoke.
We both lit up, and felt good.
We watched the sunset.
It was beautiful.
The horizon held oranges, reds, violets.
Me and an old Indian saw these amazing colors,
framed majestic beauties.
He was from the Lakota tribe...
a very old man.
He fascinated me.
We shared some more small talk.
He shook my hand.
He didn't let go.
I thought that was strange.
He said he was a Holy man.
An elder.
He looked into my eyes.
His eyes sparkled with love.
He told me that, "my new life would be good".
He said that, "I was on the right path".
The hair stood up, on the back of my neck.
He told me not to be afraid.
Then he said, "The Great Spirit is with you now."
I believed him.
He said, "My evil past is gone."
We hugged and parted.
I never asked for his name.
He gave me a great gift that day...
the gift of hope, for the future.
I got on my bike.
I felt cold wind on my face.
Yet, I experienced a strange warmth inside me.
Transformative experience...yes.
I never thought I would be the same.
The greatest joy was in my heart.
That was six years in the past.
The tiny ember of love, he gave me, still flickers,
in my heart...A gift from an old man.
Sometimes I try to ignore it.
Then I see his face.
The vision of him, makes me nurture it...
once again.
I tend it until it is a flame...
then a bonfire...
where wise old chiefs sit...
and smile at me.

THE SHAWNEE NATIONAL FOREST

southern illinois...
mystical, awe inspiring, humid,
sometimes dangerous, but always inviting,
your dark forest...
beckons to me still.
rugged trails,
pre-civil war carvings in rock,
stone markers strewn alongside paths,
dates...messages of those long dead,
grave sites,
wild life,
vivid colors of flowers,
breathtaking rock formations,
the dried up missouri river bed,
of little grand canyon...
its mineral deposits, in the winter,
in psychedelic, eye-shocking color,
make me lose myself...
ego gone forever, it seems...
always i can lose myself.
in your splendor,
for all four seasons,
walking for miles,
in early morning,
so quiet,
always,
rains welcomed...
to cool me
on hot-summer days.
gorgeous leaves for me to trample,
seems a sin,
in the fall.
stark whites,
and icicles,
of great length,
and the greatest silence,
in the winter.
i see you great forest,
as i saw you,
in my youth.
you remain the same...
beautiful in your majesty.
you are timeless.
you are always.
i forget the world,
when you hold me to your breast,
sweet mother, forest.
take me back,
to my youthful idealism,
my southern illinois...
land of dreams and aspirations...
forger of my ideals...
you guarantee my hopes,
for you remain pristine,
my shawnee, national forest.

SLASHER MOVIES

Slasher movies put me to sleep.
Blood and gore is all I need.
I notice that the full moon,
is always over-employed by: "Hollyweird".
Yeah, I love them Slashers.
They are soooooo, juvenile.
Horror-and-comedy, are the dynamic duo!
Put me to sleep, baby!
Throw in a dash of little sex, for good measure.
A nice Elvira or a little Vampira, is oh!, so fine!
Now you have it going on!
Scream!!!!!!
Mr. Hyde kills some innocent trollop.
No more Catholic guilt for me.
It's only tv.
My mind remains intact, really Sister Carmella!
It's only fantasy, that's a fact.
I must go now and sharpen my knife.
Upstairs, sleeps me lovely wife.
Don't worry, she ain't scared of me!
(this is all unreality...remember?)
Besides, next to her bed...
Is a recently severed head.
I won't mess with her,
'cause she won't purr.
"Here, kitty, kitty!
She's a mean cat,
with an AK-47, attack automatic!
I hope this is only a dream.
I start to scream!
This is not reality!
Somethings about to happen to me!
Gulp.
(gushy sounds in background).
Fade to black.

DIGNITY

Life is so valuable...
in a minute it is lost.
Good and bad, go up in smoke.
Battles are fought in hospital beds.
There are so many tales of valor...
so many tales of pain.
courage against all odds.
We have our heroes.
My heroes include the elderly...
Those little gray-haired ladies...
with day-glo green, tennis balls...
on the legs of their walkers.
They smile through pain,
and bake cookies for families.
I love those tough old men...
who hold babies...
in the place of wrenches and jackhammers.
They always endured.
Now they suffer, ultimately...
in hospital beds.
inert...
ignored...
yet, they humbly thank anyone who helps them.
They of stoic heart,
suffer in silent dignity.
They are champions.
They know it.
They maintain this final vestige of dignity.
They choose to go out as winners, not whiners.
They face the unknown,
the same way they faced life...
with heart and determination.