WHAT CAN A MAN SAY?

They told him that he had six months.
Stage IV Cancer.
He was a strong man.
Yet, he held me and cried.
I didn't know what to say.
What can a man say?
I loved him, so I cried with him.
He lasted six years.
He decided to fight his decrepitude.
He did all the research.
Called all the hospitals.
I did things for him, that he couldn't do for himself.
I took a share of his business affairs, to lighten his load.
I called him every day.
He often laughed.
He never gave up.
At the end, he suffered many humilitations.
His body finally denied him.
In fact, it insulted him.
He wouldn't talk to me, the last 2 weeks of his life.
I understood his message to me.
It was twofold.
He wanted me to remember his strengths, not his weaknesses.
He wanted to say goodbye.
He was my best friend.
He was my big brother.
Enter into that unknown realm, dear Jim.
I know you'll do your best.
When I meet you, I'll know what to say.

POOR JESUS

I stare at the crucifix.
Poor Jesus.
He died for my sins, you know.
I thought He could hear me.
I prayed to Him.
My prayers were answered.
Sometimes.
"Why not all the time?", I thought.
My mother told me, "God has His reasons."
In God's time, not mine.
His way or the highway.
Then I learned that, "god is dead".
I quit praying.
Life had no sense.
Neither did I.
Maybe I needed an exorcism.
Drive the evil spirit out of me!
Frighten me with prayer.
Fear me with the flames of hell.
Poor Jesus.
I stare at His sad face.
I look at a statue, my mother had owned.
It was made out of plastic.
It had plastic tears.
A plastice crown of thorns, adorned its' head.
All her life, she believed.
She stared at the crucifix.
Poor Jesus.
I find Him, when I need Him.
I find Him, when I doubt.
I always can go back.
I stare at icons.
The crucicix.
Plastic statues.
Poor me.

CHOICES DEFINE REALITIES

The days bleed one into the next,
or rather they fly by me, at warp speed.
It all depends on my point of view.
Everything is in flux.
I change, as everything else changes.
It's confusing to me.
Sometimes I see my situation with clarity.
At other times I am in a fog.
My mind flutters from one extreme to another.
I'm like a butterfly, going from flower to flower.
One moment I'm happy; the next moment I'm sad.
Is this the way older men are supposed to be?
Sometimes I feel secure and knowledgable.
Other times, I feel as if an ogre has me by the ankles.
He is dangling me over a frightening precipice.
I suppose, I have too much time on my hands.
I think, therefore I write.
A man is happiest, when he is working.
Most men complain about their working days.
They quickly forget about the pain of it all.
Yes, they forget when faced with endless, retirement hours.
What am I to do next? Do I count the hairs coming out of my ears?
Time went by, too damned fast.
My dad used to tell me that, "Life is just a wait at a bus stop."
I thought he was crazy.
Now, I think he was wise.
Sometimes, I long for the challenges of my youth.
At other times, I'd just rather take a nap.
It's good to have that choice.
For me today, reality is taking a nap after a hot meal.
The Bears play Green Bay tonight, on Monday Night Football.
I wouldn't want to miss the game, by falling asleep at half-time.
Choices define my realities.
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
***

SUNDAYS

I still fondly remember Sundays at my mom and dad's house, in Chicago.
I'm thinking of the old days, in the late 50's through early 60's.
My family started out early in the morning.
We put on our Sunday best. Coats and ties for men and boys.
Pretty dresses, hats, and gloves, for girls.
We then drove to Mass, in my dad's big 1958, Pontiac.
Mom already had the roasts seasoned, and ready to pop in the oven.
After we got back home with the Sunday Chicago Tribune;
we all changed from our Sunday finery, into more comfortable clothes.
My sister, brother, and I set the table.
We washed the breakfast dishes, and joked around with each other.
Often, our aunts, uncles, and cousins showed up for a festive meal.
Our food was good, German-Polish, fare.
I remember delicious, huge amounts of Spare Ribs, and Sauerkraut, beef-and-pork roasts, homemade polish sausage, pierogi's, mashed potatoes-and-gravy, oxtail soup, wonderful salads, and cooked vegetables. Oh yes! The deserts! My mom always baked on Saturday nights, and we always had wonderful cakes, pies, and cookies.
Sunday was a day for the family. We shared the newspaper, watched sports, or old movies on tv, and drank Hamm's beer or pop. My mom and dad always let me have a little beer in a highball glass after our Sunday meal. I hated the bitterness of it, and everyone would laugh at the face I made, after I took a few sips. I guess since I was a pudgy little kid, I'd always opt for the second desert helping! Our whole extended family usually told stories of the Great Depression, or Europe, as told by my great grandparents. We were told how lucky we were, to live in such comfort. My family would laugh, sing, play cards and hug each other a lot. My aunties, uncles and the cousins usually left before the great, Sunday night, tv programs. My family always watched Walt Disney, The Ed Sullivan show, and Bonanza. We had a black-and-white tv set, with only three channels. In those days, children and parents watched tv together, as a family. The programs we watched were heartwarming, and spoke of love and family values. We were a simple, and hard-working family that shared much love. I miss my mom and dad. I miss my brother and sister. They all have died. I still have my memories of them and these wonderful Sundays. I feel blessed.

WHAT'S MY NAME?

I live in the weak and the wounded.
I have no mercy on them.
I am an all-consuming entity.
I invade anyone, at anytime, anywhere.
I have taken the strongest of men down.
I turn them into sniveling cowards.
I take the rich, the poor, male or female.
I am called by many names.
I've existed since the dawn of mankind.
I've afflicted paupers, and kings, sages, and fools.
They all were powerless against me.
I have invaded those of great intellect.
I also torture those, who lack sufficient knowledge.
I will exist until the last of humankind, draws breath.
I will pick and choose who I want.
Open your mind to me.
Invite me in.
Accept my perversion.
Allow yourself to be ruled by my ways.
Refuse all help.
Accept me as your God.
I will show you strange, wonderful things.
You will laugh, and you will cry.
You might shriek with terror.
My influence has no bounds.
My name is: Madness.

BLINDNESS

What would I do, if I were blind?
Blindness frightens me.
I've been blind drunk, but that never scared me.
I did have an optic migraine once.
Lights were flashing in my peripheral vision.
That really scared me.
I thought I was having a stroke.
I was around 50 years old.
I was at work, loading trucks with a CAT endloader.
I thought it was the sun in my eyes.
It might have been the reflection on the tracks.
It didn't go away.
I had the foreman take me to the hospital.
Once there, they medical people put me in a tube, for an MRI.
Thankfully, everything checked out alright.
The flashes went away.
The hospital told me to make sure and see an Opthamologist.
I did. She checked me out.
She said, "Sometimes the optic nerve creates these migraines."
"Have you been under any undue stress, lately?"
"Well yes", I said. "My whole life has been stressful."
I imagined she might be referring me to a psychiatrist, next.
I left her office feeling relieved.
She found nothing physically wrong with my eyes.
I only had a few more episodes of flashing lights.
I suppose I calmed down, and my condition went away.
I think if I went blind, I would become a jazz pianist.
At least this activity would keep me busy, and give me hope.
It would be quite ironic, if I were to go deaf at the same time.
I have significant hearing loss, from running heavy equipment.
I also listened to too much loud, rock and roll.
There's always something to fear.
Life's a bitch, but there's always hope.
I'd still be able to pet a purring cat.
I'd be able to feel rain or sunshine on my face.
I'd be able to learn morse code, and braille, so I could read.
I'd still be able to smell good food in the oven.
Be grateful.
We are all blind at times.

YOUNG LOVE

I looked at her, and she looked at me.
It was one of those magical moments.
We both gazed into each others eyes.
Everything was right.
There was electricity.
We danced, and felt each others heat.
She smelled like fresh flowers.
My older brother told me I experienced "the click".
I received immediate knowledge, that she and I were meant to be.
Circumstances made it fail.
I made it fail, really.
I must own up.
She begged me for an answer, but I was cruel.
I left her flat.
It was one of the biggest mistakes of my life.
I try not to dwell on it.
It keeps coming back, like a ghost.
I don't need more flames, in my private hell.
My youth is a million miles away.
I suppose love came to easy for me, then.
I let it get away.
I suppose if I met her now, she would say, "get over it".
I have to live with my mistakes.
I have to pray for forgiveness.
In order to claim a semblance of what once was good in me;
I have to admit to, and understand my evil.
I want to be alone now, to grieve and think.
I really did love her.