Spring Semester starts this week.

This week I begin my first semester at Empire State College, towards fufilling my Bachelors in Cultural Studies, then perhaps a Master's in Fine Arts in Literature down the line. As long as I can get student loans and don't have to begin to pay anything back until after graduation, perhaps I should get a Ph.d as well. You only have to go to school part time to keep putting off the student loan, so why not? This semester I am taking Introduction to Religious Studies, Literary Interpretation, Mythology and Modern Life, and Educational Planning. The last course is just meeting with my "mentor" or advisor to plan out how I want my degree to go, and I get four credits for essentially designing my own SUNY degree. Instead of taking courses I don't want to take but have to just to satisfy the requirements of the degree like other SUNY colleges, I get the opportunity to take only those courses that are relevant to me in my desire to be an author. I'm extremely excited at this, perhaps it was always my destiny to be somebody of worth rather than the cheap lackey laborer I was satisfied with being, up until recently. Dreams can come true, you just have to take the incremental steps towards them.

My final and revised "Story Poem", for Poetry Class.

Story Poem

“There is a lot of anger in here which animates the poem. It definitely tells a story and identifies characters, placing them in action. What I like most are the quoted lines (which you should put within quotes). They sound like real conversation, making the story move efficiently even as they characterize the speakers.
When you revise for Module 6, focus on getting rid of excess words and uninteresting phrases. As a poet, edit the actual events--there is no need to recount things exactly as they happened but rather the way they work best in the poem. Also, you have too many line breaks which interfere with the continuity of the story--many of these could be combined for longer lines and shorter stanzas. You actuallly have a fairly long time frame and a long development as you provide a sense of what goes on, then the firing, then the period after being fired while you are still there. Think about compressing each segment so that the language becomes tighter. Finally, work on the ending which seems rather anticlimactic. A sense of the self also should be included, not just the decision to go  back to school. It's also a rather flat line. Still, you did an excellent job at this stage of the poem!”

I cut out what I could but tried to leave enough to make it a still understandable story poem. What I try to say in the second “stanza (?)” is that we are led to believe that if you work there long enough, you can become a salesman, and ascend from your lowly status as a warehouse worker, but then suddenly someone new appears, someone with sales experience appears, to take an available position over the warehouse workers who have been there for a decade or more. I don’t think it was effective yet I imagery of the “dirty warehouse worker”. I think it also projects what I believed other people were thinking or saying, showing my insecurity, eventually showing someone who got fired from a place they hated anyway. I tried to combine lines that had similar ideas or seemed to go together, yet keep some things by themselves for emphasis. For instance third stanza, “desperately” by itself, forth stanza “their hostile advice” by itself.  I tried to create a more climatic and visual ending to the poem.

Ode to City Electric (revised)

“This is a great place to work”, they say with a straight face.

“Someday you can become a salesman too”

Making the owner millions, sitting at a comfortable desk

a leisurely working pace.

Then someone appears one day, “to learn the computer system”

To take the comfortable place of one of those

Calm and contented office workers

Sitting at a desk in a room upstairs,

Who shrink in fear of you on the stairwell,

“Dirty warehouse worker, unfit to breathe the same air”,

these words ring in my ear.

“Why are you taking so long?”

I search high and low

desperately

for something not there.

“Are you blind?”

 “Is the prescription on those glasses up to date?”

We by the virtue of being employees

Of the great City Electric

Can get a 15 percent discount at Lens crafters

stupid, sightless fool.

If you can’t find what you’re looking for,

“Search the area nearby where the computer says it should be”,

their hostile advice.

“Develop powers of clairvoyance, remote viewing,

Telepathy, telekinesis”, my mind says there’s no other way

To succeed in this place.

Tell Farnham the boss

when you’re on your lunch break,

All the things you’ve confessed.

In what you foolishly thought

Was their confidence,

From having psychotic fantasies

To hating having to work here.

My coworkers agree

“Joe’s a fucking asshole”

Doesn’t want to listen to the blaring sports report

Doesn’t want to talk shit

Doesn’t want to hear me quote Spaceballs all day

“Let the Swartz be with you”.

Doesn’t want to take Travis’s spot

Putting away shit all day in the warehouse.

One of my coworkers who had been here

for some miserable years.

Dying to escape

From the monotony of the warehouse,

of days, months, years,

running up and down

three flights of stairs,

of the moods

of fat, moody Farnham.

“Send me please to another branch

Put me on the road

Free from this prison

I’ll do anything.

PLEASE!!!”

Hired as a backup driver,

a guy they call “Glue-stick”,

the dispatcher of this place,

some unpronounceable Balkan last name

approaches you in their midst.

“Do you know where such and such place is?”

Before you can form a thought

The others desperately and agitatedly yell,

“Oh, Oh, Oh,

I know where that is”.

When you get in the truck

And disappear

They tell the boss

“he’s a fucking punk”,

Said “you are an asshole

As well”.

Wednesday my favorite day,

the only day they let me drive.

So I make it last

the whole of the day.

Day trip to the Rochester store,

stop at the rest area,

then after the delivery

picking up half of what

you delivered last week

as a return,

tearing off as fast as I can

to stop at the diner

down the street for brunch,

coming back to jealous co-workers

who spent the whole day

running up and down

three flights of stairs.

talking shit about you

behind your back

Terminated after the holidays

for “poor performance”.

But we’re so nice

“We’ll let you work out

your last two weeks”.

Their mistake.

Big mistake.

Now I get paid to lolly gag

more aggressively than before.

Smashing bulbs,

graffiti the place.

Harvesting batteries.

Do you want to buy some back?

I have so many

They’ll go bad before I can ever use them.

What was I thinking?

Stuffing boxes of them

down my pants, behind my belt,

inside my pants,

front and sometimes back.

One on each side of my jacket,

in pockets that welcomed them.

On and off for months

as the weather got cold,

then two or three times a day

after I was “laid off”

How about some flashlights?

So many dumps

I have worked in.

Sweated,

bled,

And cried when I got home.

This lesson before me

for so many years,

unwilling to learn.

The one that finally sunk in.

The only way to escape?

“Get yourself

a Bachelor’s Degree,”

I write all over the warehouse

on my last day,

with my stolen Sharpie.

Ode to City Electric (original)

This is a great place to work,

They say with a straight face.

Someday you can become a salesman too

Making the owner Sandy millions,

sitting at a comfortable desk

working at a leisurely pace.

Then someone appears one day, you’re told

To learn the computer system

To take the comfortable place of one of those

calm, content people

Sitting at a desk in one of those rooms upstairs,

Who shrink in fear of you on the stairwell,

Dirty warehouse worker,

Unfit to breathe the same air.

Why are you taking so long

Filling orders?

Searching high and low

for something not there.

But according to the computer it is,

Are you blind?

Is the prescription on those glasses you wear

Up to date?

We by the virtue of being employees

Of the great City Electric

Can get a 15 percent discount at Lens crafters

You sightless, stupid fool.

If you can’t find what you’re looking for,

Search the area nearby

Where the computer says it should be.

Develop the powers of clairvoyance, remote viewing,

Telepathy, telekinesis.

My coworkers agree

He’s a fucking asshole

Doesn’t want to listen to the blaring sports report

Doesn’t want to talk shit

Doesn’t want to hear me quote

Spaceballs all day

“Let the Swartz be with you”.

Doesn’t want to take Travis’s spot

Putting away shit

all day in the warehouse.

One of my coworkers who had been here

for some miserable years.

Dying to escape

From the monotony of the warehouse,

of days, months, years,

running up and down three flights of stairs,

of the moods of fat, moody Farnham.

Send me please to another branch

Put me on the road

Free from the prison of the warehouse

I’ll do anything. PLEASE!!!

Tell Farnham the boss

when you’re on your lunch break,

All the things you’ve confessed.

In what you foolishly thought

Was their confidence,

From having psychotic fantasies

To hating having to work here.

Hired as a backup driver,

a guy they call “Glue-stick”,

the dispatcher of this place,

his name some unpronounceable

Balkan last name

comes up to you in their midst.

“Do you know where such and such place is?”

Before you can form a thought

The others desperately and agitatedly

yell, “Oh, Oh, Oh, I know where that is”.

Wednesday my favorite day,

the only day they let me drive.

So I make it last the whole of the day.

Day trip to the Rochester store,

stop at the rest area,

then after your delivery

picking up half of what

you delivered last week as a return,

then tearing off as fast as I can

to stop at the diner down the street for brunch,

coming back to jealous co-workers

who spent the whole day

talking shit about you behind your back

as they spent the day

running up and down three flights of stairs.

Terminated after the holidays

for “poor performance”.

But we’re so nice

“We’ll let you work out your last two weeks”.

Their mistake.

Big mistake.

Now I get paid to lolly gag

more aggressively than before.

Smashing bulbs,

graffiti the place.

"Harvesting" batteries.

Do you want to buy some back?

I have so many

They’ll go bad before I can ever use them.

What was I thinking?

Stuffing boxes of them

down my pants, behind my belt,

inside my pants,

front and sometimes back.

One on each side of my jacket,

in pockets that seemed to welcome them.

On and off for months as the weather got cold,

then two or three times a day

after I was told I was “laid off”

How about some flashlights?

So many dumps like this

I have worked in.

Sweated,

Sometimes bled,

And cried when I got home.

This lesson existed before me,

for so many years,

unwilling to learn.

The only way to escape?

The one that finally sunk in.

Go back to school.

Get yourself

a Bachelor’s Degree.

A Short Story for journalism class. "Swimming Merit Badge"

I was in the Boy Scouts for a few years. Or rather they permitted me to hang out with them for a few years, as worthless as I was. I never bothered to earn merit badges, in fact I used to spend the day hiding and wandering during the two weeks we used to be able spend up at a place in the Adirondacks they used to call the Sabattis Scout Reservation, or what we referred to as “Sabittis”. I miraculously attained the rank of “Tenderfoot” and then remained there for the rest of my time in Boy Scouts, another four years. This was the same as some one enlisting in the army and remaining a “private” for twenty years.

I would wander and hide in the woods by myself, for some reason, rather than do what other boy scouts did like learning archery, hiking, fire building, etc. These were all things that a normal boy would be interested in, what a man should know about, things that would give a person some confidence, and self reliance. For some reason I would rather hide in the woods like a fugitive from the law, alone and bored to death until four P.M., when the lake on the other side of the camp was open for swimming. Perhaps I was evolving in my own direction, hearing the call of the ocean in my DNA.

Every day of the two weeks I did this, both years I went up to “Sabattis”. I would join my friends who had been off somewhere earning merit badges and advancing up in rank in the Boy Scouts, learning useful skills, and bonding with other boys.

Once Dick Johnson (real name), and epitomized by his first name, asked me in front of my family who came up to visit me the first year, “how many merit badges did you earn this year Joe?”

I shamefully answered “none” under my breath as my family laughed, mistaking his beratement of me as some kind of joke. 

The only merit badge I earned was for swimming. I was a fish outside of water. Every day rain or shine I was there at the docks that we could go to, my crew commandeering one every afternoon. We flabby boys from the suburbs would talk shit to one another for a few minutes, jump or dive in the water, then climb up the ladder to missocialize again. We would talk between swatting horseflies and smacking them dead on our bodies. I would have earned a merit badge in that too if it was available. I had the record of most kills among the members of my gang.

My technique that I developed was this. Wait until the horse fly sank its teeth firmly into your skin, what felt like being pinch hard like from someone who wanted to cause you pain and let you know it. I knew then that the horse fly had his teeth deep in the flesh, his mouth suckling it for all the sustenance he could get. Then I would grab it between my thumb and forefinger, and squish it dead in my grasp. I killed several dozen in one day. My associates thought I was insane, a common belief among many people to this day. At least I know I’m an artist in search of my art.  

I even went out despite thunderstorms which sent everyone else scrambling to the shelter of the two man cloth tents that stood year round, atop foot high wooden pallets. I would be the only one at the lake jumping and diving in the water, as rain pelted me and the forest, thunder boomed over our heads, and lighting stabbed the ground in the distance.

One merit badge you could earn was for swimming out in increments of two hundred yards, four hundred, and a around trip of eight hundred yards. If you did all three then you earned one merit badge. For safety reasons you had to swim out with an observer in a rowboat. You could stop and rest in the water, to catch your breath from time to time, by holding onto a rope that was tied to the back of the row boat. When you were ready you started swimming again, you swam and the guy in the rowboat followed alongside you. The guy that was my observer reluctantly asked me if I wanted to do all of the three right here, right now, this afternoon. I took advantage of the opportunity and agreed. I completed the two hundred yard swim with no problem.

I began to get tired during the four hundred yard swim and began to rest, necessitating the guy in the boat to rest with me. I think he even started to get bored with the whole process. Instead of rowing along side me he would pull ahead and row in front of me. When I was completing the return swim for my eight hundred yard swim, I took advantage of the rope that was dangling from the back of the boat, and knowingly or unknowingly, the boy pulled me along for several dozen yards before I had the good sense to let go and not be caught, thus negating my swim and necessitating my having to go through this ordeal again. That was how I earned a merit badge for swimming, the only merit badge I earned in two years of going to Sabattis for two weeks each time.

Second of Two Poems: "The Great Winged Beast" (final and revised)

The final assignment revised as hurriedly as I could under the deadline. Quotes and difference of font articulate my professors words. The rest are mine for YOU to read. Enjoy! I was also told by the professor that he would like to use some of my poetry in an upcoming lesson for the next semester. You know I am the shit. Admit it.

“Your poem is attached. The first stanza, severely edited, is a great beginning. The last, again edited, works. Your issues are all in between, especially the lines in red which are not poetic and abstract. The metaphor of depression or any other emotional state as a beast on the shoulder is fine, but the physical details of that beast have to be applicable to the emotional state you wish to particularize. You can't give it talons and other  parts without making those aspects part of the particular emotional state--in other words, extending the metaphor in all the different ways this beast corresponds to the emotion that is your burden. (how does "robbed" fit the metaphor?)Instead you use your poem to refer vaguely to different periods in your life when the beast makes its appearance. Vaguely, because there are only generalizations, not specifics. You don't say "when my mother left" or "when I had my bike stolen" or "when the Twin Towers fell." Is the depression about personal or public events? But actually, I want to know that less than to see the beast you invent have physical characteristics that enanable the reader to understand the equation of beast=depression. You need to look at Tyger Tyger by Blake and the story of Sinbad the Sailor and the Old Man he is forced to carry on his back. And if you have not purchased the Workbook and the Drake text, you have done yourself a disservice”.

I changed “the great winged beast” to “a great winged beast” to make it seem, to me anyway, more intimidating by being generalized. It becomes a more invisible monster. I kept your “made me a crooked old man”, instead of my “it made me seem like a crooked old man” because your arrangement of words just seemed better. I kept some of your other changes which I didn’t think I could do better, while others like “robbing me of my energy and virility” I changed to “feeding itself my energy and virility”. I wanted this beast to be just another beast of prey, another thing that needs to feed itself, that does so by nature, and not with malice or hostility. I wanted to make the bird just another part of natural life that one just has to learn to adapt to. I tried to hone my imagery of a large bird of prey, powerful yet invisible and indescribable. I like the image of its shadow, terrifying and unstoppable, and another allusion to “darkness”. I made it a carrion bird, as if I was the dead thing it was searching for. I rearranged some words to make the poem “flow” more in the mind as one is reading it.  I added “its capricious whims my inevitable destiny” to the ending to make it seem more “sorrowful”. I would like to add that the experience of depression, for me anyway, did not necessarily have to be “triggered” by any event. It did seem like I would just slide into it for no reason at all sometimes, even when I should be least depressed. That is why I did not use any specific events for the comings and goings of “the great winged beast”. It came and fed when it was hungry it seemed. I think also for the benefit of the poem, this works out. The beast can and does come without warning, without reason, without any invitation by some external event, as does the circumstances of our lives.

The Great Winged Beast (original submission)

As far back in time as I can

Remember

This great winged beast

has been a part

of my existence

From time to time

it has visited me.

Suddenly appearing

To land

Upon my shoulders

Weighing me down

Perhaps that’s why

when people told me

throughout out my youth

“Don’t slouch”

I couldn’t obey them

Making me seem to others

A crooked, burdened old man

It would return

to sit upon my back

Holding me down,

Robbing me

of my energy and virility

When I needed to rise and be an

Active participant

in the goings on of life

The years pass, and it comes

to rest again

Beside me

Its talons ripping at my legs,

Tripping me

Causing me to stumble

On the already

Murky and obscure path

Of my life

The great winged beast

Used to come when

I was the most vulnerable

Snatching me away

To carry me

far away

From my chance

at bliss

To drop me into

An abysmal hole

Where I would spend

What seemed

Eternities

Crawling and scrabbling

My way back

up and out

The great winged beast

Would appear

At the worst of times

Ripping me out of

My blissful ignorance

To deposit me atop some

Desolate mountain

Where I would sacrifice

Epochs,

carefully and deliberately

Finding my way

down and home.

The next time

the great winged beast

Comes

I will finally

succumb

to its

Power

Over

Me.

I will not fight,

I will not struggle

To whatever hell

It places me

I will unresistingly remain

Alone and inconsolable

The Great Winged Beast (Your Corrections)

As far back in time as I can remember

This great winged beast

Would suddenly appear

To land upon my shoulders

 “Don’t slouch”

I couldn’t obey, his weight made me crooked

A burdened old man

It would return

to sit upon my back

Holding me down,

Robbing me

of my energy and virility

When I needed to rise and be an

Active participant

in the goings on of life

The years pass, and it comes

to rest again

Beside me

Its talons ripping at my legs,

Tripping me

Causing me to stumble

On the already

Murky and obscure path

Of my life

The great winged beast

Used to come when

I was the most vulnerable

Snatching me away

To carry me

far away

From my chance

at bliss

To drop me into

An abysmal hole

Where I would spend

What seemed

Eternities

Crawling and scrabbling

My way back

up and out

The great winged beast

Would appear

At the worst of times

Ripping me out of

My blissful ignorance

To deposit me atop some

Desolate mountain

Where I would sacrifice

Epochs,

carefully and deliberately

Finding my way

down and home.

The next time

the great winged beast

Comes

I will

 finally

succumb

The Great Winged Beast (revised final submission)

As far back in time as I can remember

A great winged beast

Would suddenly appear

To land upon my shoulders

 “Don’t slouch”

I couldn’t obey, his weight made me a crooked

and burdened old man

It would seek me out

Circling overhead

Its shadow shatters my

Sedate

Obliviousness

returning

to sit upon my back

Holding me down,

Pecking like the carrion bird

Feeding itself

 my energy and virility

When I needed to them for myself

To rise and be an

Active participant

in the goings on of life

The years pass, and it comes

to rest again

Beside me

Its talons ripping at my legs,

Tripping me

Causing me to stumble

In the murk and obscurity

Of this life of confusion

The great winged beast

Used to come when

I was the most vulnerable

And debilitated

Snatching me away

To carry me

far away

From any chance

at bliss

To drop me into

An abysmal hole

Where I would spend

What seemed

Eternities

Scrabbling and grasping

My way back

up and out

The great winged beast

Would appear

At the worst of times

Ripping me from

My blissful ignorance

To deposit me atop some

Desolate mountain

Where I would sacrifice

My epochs,

Deliberately and in desperation

to

Find my way

down and home.

The next time

the great winged beast

Comes

I will

 finally

succumb,

its

capricious

whims

my

inevitable

destiny

One of Two last poems for Poetry Class, "Box of Ashes".

 This is one of two last poems I submitted for my poetry class. This is my final submission for a poem that I don't really know how to finish. The red text is the professors criticism.

 “This is animated by your passion. The language is strong and plain, and the portrait of the mother emerges clearly. You have definitely made great use of the direct address approach. When revising for Module 7, you should focus on cutting, more of sections than line by line. Also, be specific in indicated places (though that might add to words), and try to work at creating more dramatic story line. The “box of ashes” is overused and forced. Try it just once where it would be most effective (not necessarily in title). This is a strong piece that is sapped of its full power by some excesses”.

I remove the other uses of “box of ashes” in the poem. I agreed it was overused and forced. At the time it felt like the right thing to do. I changed the beginning of the poem to what you suggested, moving the fifth “stanza” to the beginning. I think the listing of particular foods demeans the poem somehow so I didn’t follow that suggestion. I added “one last person” as an allusion to myself and also a reminder of my mother’s death. I tried to underscore and focus the feeling of impotent rage/anger throughout the poem. I use the word “caretaker” as a word to imply I was just a thing to be fed and cared for like a pet. I cut out what you recommended to see the poem from another perspective. I tried to follow your suggestion of clarifying my relationships in my family, by sharpening the fact that it was my grandmother who raised me.

This is the most difficult poem to revise due to my emerging feelings for my mother, how to say everything I want to say but in as few words as possible as required by the art of poetry. I still do not have a feeling of closure or anywhere near a feeling of approaching one. I think only time will be able to give me the proper perspective to take with this poem.

Box of Ashes (original submission)

Perhaps if you had raised me

rather than leaving me

with your mean and spiteful mother,

who became my vacant headed

and befuddled grandmother,

who offered no comfort

but a roof over my head,

all the food I could gorge myself on

rather than teach me

what to do with my emotions,

who created a monster

by giving him a lavish lifestyle,

gilded his cage,

filled his cell with

all the treasures a boy desired

sent him into the world

with no self-control

my youth became as worthless

as a box of ashes

A mother to me,

Is just an irritating, annoying stranger

who tried to discipline me

on the random, rare occasions

you came to see me

Why are you here?

You knew more about the goings on

of all the bars in Syracuse

Than what was going on

inside your lonely son’s mind

only a few miles away

as he tried to make sense of

his life as he grew

Perhaps if I had a real mother

I wouldn’t be a convicted felon,

drug abuser,

thief,

money waster,

whore monger,

liar,

calculating predator,

accomplished actor,

so accomplished

he doesn’t even know who he is,

who’s been trying

to figure it out

by thrashing around

and flagellating in his environment

all these years

until he becomes

just another box of ashes

Out with some friends

Downtown one night

I came upon you loaded

As you sat with your friends

At a table in front of Quigley’s

and you did not know

I was standing

in front of you

mere feet away

Where were your “friends”

that you spent so much time with,

all these years

who you abandoned me for

so you could have companions

to drown yourself in alcohol

and talk about petty, mundane events

Where were they

when you asphyxiated from your asthma

by yourself in your apartment

these people just as worthless

as a box of ashes

Left behind a nine year old crippled dog,

that I used to watch you baby more

than you ever did to me,

another abandoned thing

for someone else to take care of

did you get him

to fill some emptiness inside

The same emptiness

that became my entire life?

Left me with

your belongings that you

compulsively accumulated

over the years

that I had to sell for pennies,

donate to the rescue mission,

take to your mother’s apartment

so she could live amongst this debris

so we wouldn’t get stuck with paying for

another month’s rent for yours

because I already had

the credit card debt to cremate you

and now a box of ashes to dispose of.

It is so easy for me to tell a woman

I love her with straight face

This word means nothing to me,

it is merely a tool

that has it’s proper uses

for certain occasions

When I was a boy

Someone used to speak

this foreign word to me

then turn around and leave

When you were barely out the door

your mother would tell me

what a horrible person you were

because I didn’t know you

I didn’t know

what to believe.

When your mother passes away

Some years from now

Leaving me the last

Surviving member

of the family

That box of ashes

Will finally get scattered

By seagulls and rodents

Searching for sustenance

In some landfill somewhere.

Box of Ashes (your revisions)

Perhaps if you had raised me

rather than leaving me

with your mean and spiteful mother,

who became my vacant headed

and befuddled grandmother,

who offered no comfort

but a roof over my head,

all the food I could gorge myself on        specifics?

rather than teach me

what to do with my emotions,

who created a monster

by giving him a lavish lifestyle,

gilded his cage,

filled his cell with

all the treasures a boy desired            specifics?

sent him into the world

with no self-control                      specifics?

my youth became as worthless

as a box of ashes

A mother to me,

Is just an irritating, annoying stranger

who tried to discipline me

on the random, rare occasions

you came to see me

Why are you here?

You knew more about the goings on

of all the bars in Syracuse

Than what was going on

inside your lonely son’s mind

only a few miles away

as he tried to make sense of

his life as he grew

Perhaps if I had a real mother

I wouldn’t be a convicted felon,

drug abuser,                   (different line breaks?)

thief,

money waster,

whore monger,

liar,

calculating predator,

accomplished actor,

so accomplished

he doesn’t even know who he is,

who’s been trying

to figure it out

by thrashing around

and flagellating in his environment

all these years

until he becomes

just another box of ashes

Out with some friends             Start your poem here?

Downtown one night

I came upon you loaded

As you sat with your friends

At a table in front of Quigley’s

and you did not know

I was standing

in front of you

mere feet away

Where were your “friends”

that you spent so much time with,

all these years

who you abandoned me for

so you could have companions

to drown yourself in alcohol

and talk about petty, mundane events

Where were they

when you asphyxiated from your asthma

by yourself in your apartment

these people just as worthless

as a box of ashes

Left behind a nine year old crippled dog,

that I used to watch you baby more

than you ever did to me,

another abandoned thing

for someone else to take care of

did you get him

to fill some emptiness inside

The same emptiness

that became my entire life?

Left me with

your belongings that you        specifics?

compulsively accumulated                       good!

over the years

that I had to sell for pennies,

donate to the rescue mission,

take to your mother’s apartment

so she could live amongst this debris

so we wouldn’t get stuck with paying for

another month’s rent for yours

because I already had

the credit card debt to cremate you

and now a box of ashes to dispose of.

It is so easy for me to tell a woman

I love her with straight face

This word means nothing to me,

it is merely a tool

that has it’s proper uses                        its

for certain occasions

When I was a boy

Someone used to speak

this foreign word to me

then turn around and leave

When you were barely out the door     interesting connection needs to
                                                            your mother would tell me                        be worked out

what a horrible person you were

because I didn’t know you

I didn’t know

what to believe.

When your mother passes away

Some years from now

Leaving me the last

Surviving member

of the family

That box of ashes

Will finally get scattered

By seagulls and rodents

Searching for sustenance

In some landfill somewhere.

Box of Ashes (revised and final submission)

Out with some friends

Downtown one night

I came upon you loaded

As you sat with your friends

At a table in front of Quigley’s

and you did not know

I was standing

in front of you

mere feet away

You knew more about the goings on

of all the bars in Syracuse

Than what was going on

inside your lonely son’s

mind for all of his

lost and

wasted years

Perhaps if I had a

real

mother

I wouldn’t be

a convicted felon,

a drug abuser,

a thief,

a money waster,

a whore monger,

a liar,

calculating predator,

accomplished actor,

enmeshed in a living death

one

less person

to guide him in this life

Perhaps if you had raised me

rather than leaving me

with your mean and spiteful mother,

who became my vacant headed

and befuddled grandmother,

who offered no comfort

other than a roof over my head,

all the food I craved,

all the food

I could gorge myself on

And crush out my feelings

rather than teach me

what to do with my emotions,

who created a monster

by giving him a lavish lifestyle,

gilded his cage,

filled his cell with

all the plastic treasures

that a boy desired

and sent him

into the world

who could make no sense of his emotions

my youth became a worthless

passing of days

Where were your “friends”

From the bar

when you asphyxiated from your asthma

alone in your apartment

the ones whose company

you so obsessively pursued

these people offering now

only

their worthless

sympathy and condolences

You left behind a nine year old crippled dog,

that I used to watch you baby more

than you ever did to me,

another abandoned thing

for someone else to take care of

did you get him

to fill some emptiness inside

The same emptiness

that became my entire life?

Left me with

your belongings,

and bills

and debts,

that you

compulsively accumulated

over the years

your precious treasures

that I had to sell for pennies,

donate to charity,

deliver to your mother’s apartment

so she could live amongst your

debris

so we wouldn’t have to forsake more money

paying for

another month’s rent for yours

because I already had

the debt to cremate you

and now a box of ashes to dispose of.

It is so easy for me

to tell a woman

I love her

with straight face

This word

means nothing to me,

a mere tool

for its proper uses

in certain occasions

When I was a boy

Someone used to speak

this foreign word to me

then turn around and leave

When you were barely out the door    
                   your mother,

my caretaker

would tell me

what a horrible person you were

and because I didn’t know you

I didn’t know

what to believe.

When your mother passes away

Some years from now

Leaving me the last

Surviving member

of the family

That box of ashes

Will finally get scattered

By seagulls and rodents

Searching for sustenance

In some landfill somewhere.