Here Comes the Ouch

Here comes the ouch.

Here comes the pain.

Here comes the fear.

Here it comes again.

Here we go.

Another minor, regular,

surgery, on my mouth tomorrow.

Cyst removal, abscess correction,

maybe lose a tooth or two.

Yup, just another day of getting

older, being human and pervious

to the ravages of time, genetics,

and general crap that comes with

the human body.

I’m not so much afraid of the

surgery. Even if it is an hour and

a half long ordeal. I’m not scared

about that at all. It’s the after that

I hate. The subservience I must accept.

The subservience to the whims of

my body, keeping me alive but

simultaneously trying to murder me.

It makes me irritated and out of

patience.

Just work body.

Do your damn thing without being

a complete and utter inconvenience

for me and others.  No. It’s time for

pain, irritation and annoyance.

It’s no wonder I’d be an old man

200 years ago, ancient even.

To live this long seems to be a struggle

even for modernity. The ailments of aging,

a reminder of mortality.

And how irritating dying must be.

I’m not dying though. I don’t think

my body will let that happen. It’ll keep

me alive longer to continue

the torments it has planned

for the future.

And yet,

Here comes the ouch.

Here comes the pain.

Here comes the fear.

Here it comes again.

My Cup

The watercolor dreams I had

told me that if I drink of the

cup, I’d find a sense of euphoria.

And yet, in the swirling color of

a sleeping mind, I still was skeptical

of any elixir making me happy.

It didn’t seem right at all, it was

too easy to slough off the trappings

of anxiety and pent up frustrations,

jumbled and juggling on a unicycle

made of butter across the hot frying

pan of my brain.

There was no dream way that a dream

drink was going to cure me of my pains,

my insecurities, my fears, or unrequited

desires. The dream version of myself, awash

in intensity and vim, was a doubter and

pushed the drink away.

The hands so forcefully encouraging me

to sip of the cup were aggressive in response

to my denial of their offering. They were

incensed to a degree and seemed to float

above me to avenge this slight from on

high.

I wasn’t scared though. I seemed to grasp

onto the threads of reality and pull myself

up from the churning violence of my own mind.

I didn’t look back at the shifting scenes of my

dreams. I could feel the pull towards the

real world.

I woke up on my left side. Head buried so

hard into my pillow that my left ear hurt.

I turned and looked at the digital clock on

the dresser and the red numbers on the clock face,

1:00 AM. The evil 1:00 AM assaulting me with

some surprise, “Oh, you’re up”, it seemed to mock.

I turned to my right side and closed my eyes again.

I don’t seem to have such crazy dreams when I sleep

on my right side. It’s far less exciting.

As I returned to sleep, I remembered,

the phrase, “My cup run-eth over.”  

I drifted to calmer dreamy shores.

The Day I Caught a Leprechaun

This is the story of how,  

a long time past from now,

I caught myself a Leprechaun

which I happened to chance on.

The Leprechaun was named Pete,

and he was fast on his feet,

fleet and light and sly,

it took all my effort to be just as spry.

I was in a dank pub, eight drinks in,

when Pete entered, hoisted a pint to his chin,

He challenged us all to his hidden prize,

“My gold is yours if you catch me, ya drunken guys!”

I stood from my barstool,

having always been a fool,

“I’ll get you, ya wee bastard,” said I.

Clearing the dullness from my eye.

Pete said, “Oh, ya tink so, ya drunken sot.”

I replied, “I do, indeed, you don’t know what I got.”

“Then have at me, you blathering, stumble bum.”

“That’s mean, Mr. Leprechaun. I won’t succumb.”

Pete drank another giant pint and looked me in the face.

He said, “I’ll wipe the floor with ye, all over this place.”

I said, “Now there’s no need for that sort of talk.”

Pete rolled up his green sleeves, to end my squawk.

I said, “It’s just my poor mother, bless her heart,

didn’t go for me fighting or to arguing start.”

Pete replied, “Your mother, oh my, I’ve no wish to offend.”

I replied, “It’s alright my friend, how could you comprehend.”

I said, “It’s just that on this day is when she died.”

Pete dropped his arms to his side.

A serene look came upon Pete’s eyes,

It was then that I had him, who can resist an Irishman’s lies.

I made a toast and raised my glass,

“To a fine Irish woman, a fine Irish Lass.”

Pete closed his eyes and raised the pint to his lips.

I had him then, no more lucky slips.

Pete with his eyes closed, drinking deep.

I lunged at him with a mighty leap.

Before he knew it I was upon him, holding tight,

“Ah, ya idjit,” said Pete, “you made me spill my pint.”

It was then that I knew I had done two wrongs,

I didn’t listen to all the poems and warning songs,

Lied about my mother, and spilled a man’s drink.

I’d broken the rules and it made me think.

I let the Leprechaun out of my hand,

I said, “I’m sorry. I’m ashamed. Please understand.”

Pete replied, “It’s alright lad. At least you tried.”

But I felt bad because I lied.

I said, “Because of the spill let me get you a beer.”

Pete said, “Sure and we’ll get back to being men of cheer.”

The others joined in, we toasted and sang.

Up on the bar, Pete sprang.

He jigged and danced and did his thing,

into the wee morning hours, two AM did ring.

Pete said, “It’s late boy-ohs, and I’ve got to flee,

the wife expects me home at a quarter to three.”

The night had worn on in joy and comradery,

Pete tipped his hat and said, “To tink how bad ya wanted me!”

We shook hands and he grabbed his shillelagh,

out the door he went and so ends story of Leprechaun Pete and me.  

     

A Growling

There’s a growling from my

insides, no mere grumbling

of hunger, but an audible growl;

it has seeped up and out from

my throat more and more.

An irritation; a pebble in

my shoe, a ringing in the ear,

listening to an idiot telling a joke,

it’s all making this growl louder,

and I’m not sure what to do.

Is it appropriate to growl?

Do we growl?

Did we growl in human history?

What made us growlers?

Is it akin to howling?

This growl, a frustrated noise,

more than a grunt, or a bellow,

more than a chortle or annoyed

sigh. A growl, a roar, rumbling in

something I think is like my soul.

Is a growl just a swallowed scream?

A back up of frustration over love,

life, sex, humor, anger, disappointments,

time, expressed in bared teeth and

a rumble of noise in the throat.

This growl noise is also annoying since

I am a human being and not some feral

creature trying to scare away some

approaching predator. I’m rational,

logical, pragmatic, and resist flights of rage.

It is still there though, beckoning to be

released in some comical human groan,

a noise that would be unidentifiable in the

animal kingdom as a “growl”. The other mammals

would laugh at me. Point their opposable thumb less

paws at me and snicker.

A frustrated human noise, ringing like

church bells through my guts,

clanging and tolling for relief,

for quiet and peace, some time

when the growl is quiet.

A drink, a smoke, a laugh or

two, a kiss, a sensual touch,

a loving wink, a quiet between

two minds; I think that

might quiet this growl.

Until the next time I wonder

what that god-awful noise I

am making is.   

International Women's Day

International Women’s Day,

I love International women.

So cultured and beyond the

hang-ups of Provincial and

Victorian social morality so

present in domestic women.

Hm? I’ve just been handed a note

and received a quick slap to the back

of the head. Ah! I see my blunder,

it’s not International Women’s Day,

but International Women’s Day.

My apologies.

All humor aside, the list of

inspiring women in my life is

literally too long. I cannot begin

to express my admiration and respect

for those women that have taught me,

instructed me and rescued me from

the depths of male-centric depravity.

I was raised fairly typically regarding

the pre-woman’s liberation social

standards. Sure, my mother is a strong

independent woman, but it did take her a

while to get there through her own empowering

journey. I was lucky enough to reap the benefits

of that discovery.

I was raised on the Hollywood stereotype

of “typical” female behavior and behaved

like a pretty chauvinistic jerk for a lot of my

very young adult life. My views were antiquated

and patently unfair for no other reason than

my own ignorance.

I was graced with women around me who

would not put up with that sort of crap.

Who led me down the path to awareness and

equality that I should have been taught all along.  

It is to those wonderful women that I owe a debt.

A debt I’m happy to pay.

Without those women.

Those International Women.

I would not be the man I am today.

I would not be emotionally open,

as open minded, as aware, or as

understanding of the feelings of others.

So, International Women,

I salute you.

I hug you (only if you’re comfortable with it

and I have your consent to do so).

And genuinely appreciate your struggles

and continued fight against adversity.

Empire of Ash

Ashes.

Piles of soot spread about

the floors of my heart.

Burned so many times

it’s no longer capable of

holding a flame.

A beating vessel of ash.

Pushing slag through my

veins, flooding into my brain,

clouding the works, the logic,

the rational and steady computations

of the mind.

Cold to the touch,

frostbitten with ash,

fingertips numb to the softness

of skin, the teasing touches of

eager passion,

all ashes.

A once leaping warm heart,

burning with vitality and vigor,

dulled to the numb beat of

extinguished flames, the

lub-dub pumper just an old

blackened chimney.

A cough, pitch and thick,

heavy with the millions of

words spent on fiery embraces,

drifting on clouds of coal dust

and ash. A putrid cloud of

empty promises.

The ashes of youth, the ashes

of thinking I knew what I was doing,

about love, about passion, about life,

the ashes, spread about the timbers

and joints of my life, crisped from

the old fires, now weak and dangerous.

Ashes, spread about the place,

making me wonder, who will

clean this mess up.

Who would even

want to?   

Is there a she, willing to get

so dirty, so covered in soot.

Grab a shovel, dig in, sweep and

bless the ashes from my heart,

and dismiss them in the fires

of her passions.

Reignite, rekindle, restart the

incandescent heat.

She is the middle word

in ashes. So perhaps she

has always been there, stoking

the fires, burning it all down

for her own empire of Ash.

Our Empire of Ashes.