Pools of us.

If I would put green in my grey, I would have green in grey days again.
Happiness would steep curiously, a roam of far away would have seen that.
Absolute pools of us have coloured a lovely seam in rims of you and I and them have stayed.
Round round the salts have come and eschewed a past traced over, all that was of the song, all that I said was
"you could have prevented this, you could have prevented this...

Unhidden Dragon

He must be big... he has been swipping at him, pressed him here, and propped him up!

I have heard the winter's end in a song, with birds lifting past me and on to search out spring's wait.

From a Christmas wake.

Here it comes again, the wait through Christmas in this year's fill of sustenance offered me. What will come the same day a year later besides palms and tears, except slow draws on still life. Let in soft wakes, not the ones you have followed, but the ones I had avoided for fist, for nights. I can not love them, I am sorry. If I can not go then I will look and if I can not look then I will listen and if I can not listen then I will feel and if I can not feel then we will be together.

The cold brace and it's clamps

That will teach you!

I'm staying still, listen to me and I will hear you. I know it's you because I am weak, why else would you draw on my thoughts while I search for you. Where have you looked at me by what struggle had I been a matter of? Nothing moves, I am here with the earth pressed against me as should I move with it, but asides this, asides this, I've become weak.

From the shadows I sought a reason to stay in its dark side and there find and reason a stay, quiet, should we be near.

Reach for me.

Everything waits, nothing turns, everything waits.

I don't want to.... write it!!! I want to climb, just extend my arms and pull life towards me, reach into space and pull myself to you.

baseball is the only game not around, so i like it.

the catcher becomes the run who starts the first baseman to pitch into the catchers designated runner who is running for his first home-run, if the linesman doesn't intercept the throw and the batter who is the miffed umpire hits the ball or the runner, then he's out, but if second baseman gets there first he can take the runner to third base and then, well, its time for the three of them to go home plate.

he was alone...

how is it that it all came together, this choosing not to believe, this i don't understand, this i wasn't protected from all i didn't ask, because it had come apart, all that has lost its way from my being used to, to not for now? well! he was alone...

say something!

"say something!"... because I can hear you... I'm here... I found them thinking of you... these thoughts... I want to see you, but it's hard cause your everywhere... why did I have to of loved this much?
all I remember is being pulled from me in chunks, and I can't find rest from this loss.
with all that was, what I remember and forget, I lost.

I miss you.

I'm here, I've made it this far and I do live longer than you. I miss you. I'm sorry, but I must breath.

Thank you

I am looking into the eyes before my thoughts and plead, utter, thank you'se for the comments.
Thank you.

Last night was hard to hang onto.

What have you done?

Have you been toying with my perceptions of sleep and dreams or have I set my chin in want upon your be dragged cloak's fray? Don't I know when you've summoned your urge to kneel upon my dust, upon my suet, bruised, marked and spilt by our tracks you sit and contemplate me. What have you done to born that rasp of breath as I question this rave of swipes curbed to support my rest.

Who out there noticed here?

Who out there notices that I have reached in here with my cursive fortunes and laid all I am among it's glare, no one dares mind. Manacled lace of sneers, he too often hopes a show of me, ragged over it's palm and nails, pinch gripped and synched, useless to a fangs-tyne, but all the same, note his molar's shuffle. The dragon cares for every bone broken, now does he not?

I have both hands on it's wrist and still its fingers brace for leverage upon any flesh that has not tore or bothered it's cinching grip. It's closing my wits, upon opening my will to let, let it have what has no fight.

I think this makes sense?

Where do I start, I have been fueling a walk through unusual corners, though exhausted, this flu taxed my reserves. Motion starved, empty stomach my expectations force a calm. I convince myself that I am strong - I took the flu shot, intimately aware of losing, not peacefully though, since most of the symptoms have me still. My bedroom is a cool draft, its window is opened wide and the living room window is opened wide - this pull of air constantly changes, mostly fresh, right from the shadowed streets, from the river shallows. Those night sweats when your immovable, pressed, caught in languished prayers for an abrupt chill, but all you get is your own wisdom - a room filled with heated thoughts. Soon the sun rises in our bedroom windows and warms what sleep was left, warms our prayers and draws our thoughts awake. That pink, yellow glow breaks center and shrills beams into our faces. As usual, the city brought its familiar noise, home will soon join forces to eventually draw against the light. The coffee and I headed to the quiet, the darkened living-room window.

Slight of quest.

I am trying to answer a darkening soul who without questioning my own image, patiently whiles a layering of my presence upon past memories that have not failed him. Dad, I am here.

Dad's eyes are a softer grey

I am closer to my short comings and further from my promises, yet I am able to take your fears of passing and take them away from our time. I am guarding myself as well as your grandson, our weakened light needs not reach old memories. I believe the paths we once shared will be around even before we get there.

All that I have become exits somewhere, in someones thoughts, without my shadow cast upon it, and without their reflection I indulge, selfish thoughts - a life as they remember me and not by the way they see me. I have a past that I long for and it will greet me one day, one time and from then my days will be counted.

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas to you who stays at a distance and drew me into wonder about you.

Today, there is a heat within me that won't engage my well honed skills at falling into sleep, but this cursive, molten, heat traces the simple, familiar route I know only too well. Liquid fire runs about my arms and pools at my shoulders before flushing into my chest only to ring my hips. Black cores, white, orange dust, slow and dripping away from its run, yet follows without venting, this useless brine, this aggressive tide burns its way back around again.

Heavy his rake struck the back of my shoulders, against the grain, baring deep it laid my flesh curled over, rare, a twinning field of open ground, he spits his slag for late embers. I have greater pain now then the last fifteen floods and it will never cool, not without the dragons laughter nor his fogs of salt.

The Love They Take.

I could never understand dreams, but at times awoke close enough to them, so close that almost believing was apart of the last moment. I felt my dreams at times showed strength, flight and escape. As far as love goes, I believe there is real love in the world, not prideful love of the young, but needful, wanting love. I have not been closer than a meteor to a partner in too many years to honestly remember, and, even though I am certain I will be alone for the rest of my life, I will forever raise my wonderful son, and miss the days hurtfully, painfully that I spent raising my other sons and daughters because I was close enough to show them how I feel about them taking my love. If it could be understood by all who lose the feel of giving love, not just expected love, but the love you see them take. To not ever have love again, nor share the strength, happiness and reassurance I had drawn from it, then I am without.

Help me

I am all but trying to release these words that have written themselves away, yet all the while, long forgotten battles remain lost and stood only to fall. Bloodless and bent at the hips, stooped and folded in at the shoulders with my fists softened, crested into the dust my last marks on my heart lest a care shall those embers ever glow.

When is time?

When is time going to be?

If I could...

If I could, I 'd scrape the inflammation from my bones and chip away at the embers alight in my joints with a hammer and long nail, pack under my skin so much ice a heart couldn't melt. This would hurt me less, less than asking for time put back into my life, much less than asking for - love. I haven't forgotten, nor could I.

Beyond reaching for...

I have only to break that which is whole, to warm my finger tips upon this differance from which I am. Beyond reaching for...

Who are you?

Who are you that takes me off course? To cause wonder, now? Images beneath old shadows, unseen. In this canvas, hear. I am other than form and memories. What is there of me? From time, I take longing and find waiting for want.

Who are you that lasts from the past?

Remember me as I have forgotten you.

I have prepared.

Make those stupid little pills do what the doctor said it would do.

I am sorely missing in great tides all of my yesterdays, and in too many ways, that pause only harms what is left - nor will it ever be within again. Ever! I only need to smell the triggers, feel the triggers or see what was, and with a heavy sigh and a small thought, give in. I want with such unsteady, greedy hunger, all I have lost, but such heartache is replaced with heartache. It is not a "midlife crisis" or the "longing for youth", but is the unattainable spirit from what is locked in the past. I have spent too many years looking out too many windows, searching for too many new colors, only to find all the a fading, unfamiliar distances vanish. I feel fragile, brittle, and alone, (being a broken, single father). I know for him - I am severely disabled, unable to set a mouthful of stupid little pills to do what the doctor said it would do. I bite them, smash and scrape them, grind a thrush of grit flushed spit of common swallows, willingly eat of this morphine-insanity plea. I stand before and dragon's fog and been taken from me a place where without is worse, and the slide, is the dragon's will bringing you home. I am tired, I am safe and giving-in, without ever pushing away, reached it alone.

I do like storms.

Felt the rain, sand and dust today which had cursed its way across our path, hitting us hard as we ran headlong into it. I was enjoying our longer than usual walk, and because of the wind, which, thankfully, served up that "rains near us smell" the good cold smell. We found ourselves hiding under a patio roof, so as to just to be in a different way from the rest of our boring day and we knew the evening forcast was of wind, rain and thunder. Yes, like many do, I like "storms" the storms of every season, but you have to admit the summer's thunder and lightning almost makes those in pain happy enough to argue with it. I mean, I can remember one very early spring morning with the sun just about to lose itself above the cloud, and of course, because that morning it was no match for the insistant black rolls of angry, grey, swollen scream covered belly pushing thunder and lighting shards all over the place. I'd been falling onto myself that night, and although I found myself staring through wind pushed tears. I lent upon the screen and answered several lightning strikes with what kept me at home for awhile so the neighbours would forget to ask "what was that all about?". My bedroom is white, besides the hardwood floors, everything is white, everything is cold, dark and quiet, besides the wind sweeps that I so long for and reason with by keeping the window open, almost all of the time. The bed sits along side, wall to wall - floor to ceiling windows with long white drapes which I keep drawn. I lay on a large, fat, feather quilt because its light and always feels cool and seems to escape my touch, easly pushed out of the way. The view, as I lay in bed, a downtown, a cityscape with its sparkle and glow, its mirroring off the river. I see this from the 11th floor, and take it as a gift. Its enduring, I mean to sleep is beautiful, but to sleep in this room is a working, an effort, a seeking.

Anonymous.

Your words have lent moments in my time, with curious thoughts and quiet smiles. I am soulfully unaware, belonging so long to the darkest colors and the narrowest of shadows. I have forgotten to see while looking, and, forgotten who I am. Who I am is what you see, but all I see is how I feel and all I give is that. I know not what else: comfortless within rage, strain upon pain, needfully still and effortlessly unawake. Off what again to some cry, warm, hunted and of inflamed spirit. So, things to think on, that have me recently well, are words that have caused me to wonder and noted a watch on my will. Thank you.

but, I am here.

I am here, for some of you who care and I know some of you do. I am here, just here and its most likely why I havent been here. I am true to being tired, exhausted and fighting hard to keep my son happy, clean and fed. Its the hardest thing to do, mothers and fathers, but those who mother and father alone, especially those of us who are disabled, severely disabled. The ones of us who are twisted and bent, of us who are struggling to see, who are not blind, but who are of impaired site lines. Those of us who are of little strength and are without the reserves in ourselves to take from, nor will ever add to and must continue with a little more than less. But, I am here. I miss you, who cares and hope this is what brings me near again.

What hurts more?

I am weak, tired of my own excuses. The baseboards are full of fine white chalk from sanding patches, I know I should have taped them-up first. The artwork leans upon the dusty, empty walls as footpaths are showing gently past. I am tired of the sun-shapes, those brightly scripted, garishly twisted, distortions of my windows and blinds on the livingroom walls that I have never seen before taking the pictures down. I alone, of course, anticipated my finishing the painting of these walls long ago, but have managed to almost fall in love with the mottled differences of the white primed patches, the dust smears or of the existing white paint. Why do I do this to myself? Was it really that bad, what with the holes and the marks and the just ugly, old, dirty white walls? Would it make that much of a difference to display all the art work over new Slake white walls? Give me strength, give me want, please, give me more than I deserve. I am not sure what hurts more, pain or procrastination?

Between the dust and sand.

Who reads Blogs? I mean, it is all the rage and I admit, I read them, but who reads them? Are the bloggers reading them or are they just writing theirs? I am a writer by heart and only by heart, to tired to transfer my old writings, ramblings from paper onto the big screen, er 17" monitor, besides who could be interested in my garbage? I would write more, well here on this site if I could take my desktop to my bed, but that would be impossible. If I had a laptop, then maybe I could write from many thrones about the apartment, since I am physically deformed, like in a sitting position, hunched over severely even when I am standing, it would seem that I am what a writer looks like,(since writers sit to write) even while I am standing. If I could afford it(laptop), I would install software to type as I talk, then I could just do what comes natural, talk and talk and talk, but now all I do is think and think and think. I am hoping it is only a phase that I am in and also, I am hoping it will be over come, by me of course and I would get up and do and do and do. Maybe its just the morphine, the dragon that threatens to sit me done if I dare move, the fog is his first defense, not his size or the tooth in his words, but just the fact that I never know from where his claw is swinging up from, from the left under my breath or from the right to which I am unable to reach against. But most likely from above since it is his fire that melts me closer to the ground as each day passes, his breath upon my shoulders and the back of my neck as he presses me closer together, my face coming against my chest, his paw resting on the back of my head, that is the look of me. What I would give to stand, stretch and straighten, to reach for the sky and break every fused bone in my spine,in my neck and to straighten out with a long reach behind myself, to look to the right and to look to the left and to look up to see... you. Who would be... you? Who is the girl at the cafe' I have never seen...you, but I say hello to you and ask for my iced coffee? Who would be you? Who have I passed every other day at the bookstore, who's voice have I come to know so wantingly well, but have no idea what " you " look like? I am so familiar with the ground before me that I could tell you stories of the grains of salt between the dust and sand.

" Good night dad I love you too ".

I have been away for quite some time, staring at my thoughts far too long this time. Searching for reasons to get up. But comes along Sal and the reasons are, the sandwich, the mail, the little bit of paper that hit me on the head and is expected to be shot back, the scooter needs to be plugged in, the ball needs to be carefully bounced back without breaking the vase of black tulips. The deals I've made and the promises I can't remember, but the reasons he comes up with are meant, I guess to distract me from the motionless, mindless, image I have become of late. He figures I was sitting still a little too long. My son takes me by the hand and leads me to bed, leaning back on my tall stack of soft, white, feather pillows and following my routine, he turns on the heating pad and gentle is his hand on my shoulder with his firm, cool touch, he coaxes me forward and slips the warm pad behind me saying " its ready Dad ", with his reassurances I have what is needed, he sets my extra pillow on my lap and hands me my current book from aside the bed table, opens it to the bookmark that which he sets anew in latter pages. Gathering the nightly tools he sets out about the apartment to play the rituals before bed, like laying a snake of beans under the door to bust the draft, shut out the lights, cover the Guinea pig and before he puts his phone on the bed table beside my water bottle, he tells me he will be back, again. Shuffling into the room with his arms full from his bed trunk pillows, old quilt, one arm he throws them to the floor and asks me " are you OK dad?" I hmmm and mumble " yes Son " he whispers " good, good " patting me on my hand, he rubs my shoulder, turns around and shuts the light... now, I am sitting here, propped up in my bed, with my extra pillow on my lap with which nestles in it my favorite book, a chilled water bottle and the phone at arms reach, my son camping out on the floor beside me and its PITCH BLACK! I guess you just had to have it happen to you. " Good night son I love you ". " Good night dad I love you too ".

"Can I step on those dad?"

The fall weather has been good to us so far, the crisp, clear days of sun and only a slight, breeze messing a laugh of leaves about. The nights have wasted their coupons of clouds long ago. Our moon has sat by the window the last few nights and softened the shadows about the front room. For some reason the lights of the boroughs far around the city seem so proud of their sleepy little neighborhoods. Last night, without a cloud in the sky - or so high I could not see them - the crackling stripes of lightening and the spatterings of hail in between the thunder and rain left the morning washed and ready for deserving folks. The last few days, my son has been so harassed by the flu, his poor little nose was forever running and chapped raw. He labored all night with the vapourizer whirring and turning our atmosphere into a heavy Vick's-Vaper fog. I haven't slept in days, listening and counting his horsed draws for comfort. I watched him at my feet, looking for signs of trouble, every half hour he would get up on one arm and say " dad, its stuck " then pound the heel of his wrist against his chest. Small, hot cloths left piled, started to fill a hamper, I wiped his face and kissed his forehead, keeping an eye on his temperature. I never thought for a moment that I would get his flu. Paper bag, after paper bag, filled with Kleenex and prayers. When I sneezed, there would be no flex to my ribs because of the fusion, my rib cage is like a solid shield of bone and my spine, now completly fused would have no gentle flex to it. The pain terrifies me, it does just when I cough or sneeze. I do with all my power try to stop a sneeze, holding my nose, rubbing my eyes or even trying to quickly blow my nose, but some had to make it through, with a sudden cry of "Oh! Jesus, please!" then defeated, a low groan was my forgiving as I lay back in my chair and and fight the next, the tears. My son would lift himself and grab for my knees, with both eyes half closed he would mumble "I feel so sorry for you" a line he is famous for - if he had some knowledge of someone who was sad or ill - kindly, he let you know it made him sad too. But today, we are finally getting over that horrible flu, and thank God it didn't hurt us too badly. We found ourselves this afternoon outside - my son, crunching threw the leaves, running from me as I zig-zagged behind his shrieks with my poppy red scooter, we heading to Safeway, actually we did not need to go anywhere, except to get out. It was a wonderful day, with my scooter full of Eggnog and raisins, and black and orange ju-jubes and jelly beans, a favorite of ours, properly colored for the season. We stopped at the volley ball dunes and remembered the net-less poles was a favorite stop of ours, the sand all groomed, but full of leaves strewn over the court and along the grass edge. "Can I step on those dad?" both our arms hanging over the chain-link fence. I thought for awhile, laughed "no!" then he looks at my grin and holds his hand across his mouth, eyes squinting and cheeks busting, chocking a laugh. He points a finger at me, accussing me of anything other than catching him, aware of his sillieness, then a break in our giddy moment, he says, with a sharp "don't!". I think in that moment he saw the joke was on him. "Can I step on those dad?" has played out all the rest of our day.

Maybe I should get out more.

When you enter my home, you will see a large oil painting in a heavy, antique, white and gold encrusted Victorian frame of a Winters, slushy street of simple homes. With large, grey black, nobby crusted trees that compete with ugly, garish brown power poles, pocked up by the utility men who climb up the old belt and heel spike way. Tattered, horrific, long, swaying, power lines that drip all day from the melting slices of snow that taper from one end to the other. Along side that painting, is a number of different size frames of various types - what ever I find at garage sales and flea markets - with pictures of ink line art, watercolors and pencil drawings that I have worked on over past years. There is a small worn, gothic cement bracket in centre of these pieces of art, that holds a spiny, vibrant spider plant with shoots of healthy crawlers, spinning out from a crack in the pot that "wears its roots on its shoulder" you could say that "it has found its home," it seems. In front of the pictures is a large, antique, one armed brown leather chair, it has this magnificent, low creak when you sit on it. The chairs leather seat is so old, it has varnished its skin over the years and cracks now show its soft, light, inner-flesh of suede. Beneath your feet is a long, skinny carpet runner that has lost its frilled edge at its end and has a well worn path leading you into my living- room. From the furthest you are, to the farthest you can see are windows, wall to wall and knee to ceiling, windows. You can not see around the first bookcase, so your eyes are taken by a wonderful Christmas cactus, hanging just from the ceiling off an iron hook and spilling dark, green blades to the floor. I call it a "she," I do not know why, but she is so heavy, she scares me. She (Cactus) demands water from me, demands light, demands food and continues to groan, laughing at the iron hook that holds her in place. I do not know what to do with her, because the clay pot that mothers her, that claims her like a child, holds her young growth, is always of dry soil. Should I put her in a bigger pot or just continue to feed her and water her and let her grow bigger, wider? She is so fat and grown wide around, that she leans from the wall instead of just draping down. she sits one side higher than the other, pushing off the wall showing her basket and straining to loose herself from the end of the iron hook. One day as she pushes herself from the wall, her ring might finally pass the end of the iron hook's lip. Coming Christmas she will have out dark red, young white mouthed flowers, spitting white stems, in time they will shrivel and fall to the floor, scattering themselves as though she is bleeding to death. On the wall, between two tall bookcases is 5 frames that surround a portrait of my daughter, her long brunette hair and green eyes watch us(my son and I), always. Her brothers are to her right and left who like their sister, have silenced me with their beauty. Grandma and Grampa on the top right and left corners watch them and in the top middle, a frame sits empty. I do not want to put their mother(ex) there, I do not want to put myself there and I am unable to decide what should fill that picture. A fat, black leather couch is beneath and on this is my son, who favors a corner, closest my big red recliner. A large, square glass coffee table sits in the middle with our metal jacks and balls seen shelved under the glass top with my magazines, coffee-table books and our place mats on top. We eat here on the coffee-table, us 2 bachelors, since the dining room is where our loom is, yes, a loom, an old loom, but still a beautiful 6 foot tall wooden loom. I have worked this loom for years as my mother did and just can not stay away from it. The dust from the worsted strings on the loom are bad for me, since sneezing can be dangerous and could cause my stress fractures to break, again, but I love the feel of linen, the trappings of things made by the hand. Beside the loom is a large fish tank on an old, silvered cedar cabinet my son and I found by a dumpster, but now looks gorgeous holding this behemoth of a tank. The aquarium holds three goldfish, who are over 15 years old and as big as my swollen fists. They surface when I open the top lid and can swish out a cup of water at me when its time for feeding. At night the glimmering reflections about the living-room and dining-room are moody and calming, as are they(fish). If you stare at them, without moving, they will stare back, trusting that you are no more than the computer desk or the office chair in front of it. All night, if I am caught asleep in my recliner, I can hear them picking threw the gravel, rustling a pebble in their mouths and spitting them out against the side of the glass, tink, tink, tink. Through-out my home is hardwood floors and carpets, strewn about where we gather to sit or path threw the home. The kitchen is tiled in earth like stone as is the washroom, which may seem wonderful, but I have found it is harder to keep clean than the usual carpeted homes. The smallest grit, the lightest dust or the bits of this crumb and that, do stand out more than you may notice if you only came to visit, though for me, its all that. It makes me feel lazy, if I do not remove it, I do not know why these things bother me, when I do not have the strength to deal with such little, stupid things, like dust and bits of whatever. It is these kinds of thoughts, that make you think of what you used to have, as far as help and health. The things my kids used to help and do as far as chores go, my ex wife used to do and maybe I took for granted or maybe I just did not see these little things before. Maybe I should get out more?

I believe I am.

I just put my son to bed and with his bottom sheet twisted around his knees, I said, " you didn't pull up your sheet" he insisted beforehand that he tucked himself in, he proclaimed, sheepishly and tired, " I tried ". After pulling up his sheet I covered him with his big, orange, puffy-fat quilt and touched his forehead as I usually do, then shut of his bedroom lamp, then leaned against the back of his chair and prayed. Out loud I asked the Lord for thanks for taking care of Grampa and Gramma, for taking care of his sister and his brother and his mother(ex), I asked that he take care of everyone we loved, then asked for strength. Now, I am sitting here in the dark, at my computer, thinking about my son's voice and what he said "I tried" and hearing it over and over. How insignificant a struggle is, I thought, if it is not your own. Its late and in my own search tonight, I try to answer a post from friends in a newsgroup. Why ? I guess I am looking for some kind of connection, some sort of link to another form, some sort of validation, that I am. Although, I am deep within the dragons breath, having felt the first rush of meds like a sickly vapor of heat running over my flesh, on my face causing pangs of nauseous sweat. I am reaching with question, greedy needs, maybe, I am greedy, maybe for company, maybe, or I am trying to remain, where we are, and trying not to end up, alone, so alone, I will not be, as, where "WE" are. Are we all sane here? Am I the only one who seems to be parting fast from the " hang in there request " ? I could not fathom not having my son around, who mixes my day with 10,000 questions, a 100 requests of, I am hungry, do you want to play ball, can I open that, what is this, can I have it, all of it, what are we going to do today, tonight, tomorrow? Dad, dad, dad. I am, and, only, you all here know this, but I am, I exist. The pain knows I am here. I live on the top, corner floors of my building, with windows facing south-east and north-west, so the whole City is at my viewing bequest. The streets below with its massive Elm trees towering four stories tall if not more. The lanes and park benches are strewn with curled, brittle gold leaf leaves and the Cafe's below fill with them, blowing about, those Cafe's still fill everyday with University students, nurses and doctors, who exist. The old antique avenues of shoppers, who exist, even as they pass strangers who seem to exist. From my bedroom windows I see clearly the very near great river in its valley and just on its other side atop is our downtown skyline and for miles and miles the lights of tall buildings show off an existence, each light a window like mine, each like mine an existence, yet, I struggle to be as one person noticed, noted, notable. I wrote in this blog sometime ago, that some people believe that, it is not nice to stare at someone who struggles or at someone who is disabled, but I think if you don't stare long enough, you may have missed their smile. I notice when we take our walks on the old shopping, hip, hippy, most sought after afternoon walks of the first avenues, almost no one looks at us, or me. It is like, " I AM NOT "! But I am, I must be, if this morphine is really cursing and I mean cursing threw my veins, then I must be. I believe I am.

Dream #1, first night.

Two nights now, I have had confusing dreams, ever since my father went in to the hospital. On the night he entered the hospitals emergency ward, I endured hours with him in pain, but left for my home to rest. I immediately went to my chair and fell asleep and dreamt; I was home in Ontario, Canada. Down the street from the house I grew up in at Robinson Lake, actually on the lake, in a small boat drifting. I began a searching of memories that seemed to play-out like a video. I looked for old trees I've climbed as a kid across the lake, for the sand dunes I hid between, shivering, naked and covered in course sand glinting, stuck on my toes. Memories of my secret places. Suddenly, while I sorted through these memories, sences of recall, it became very cold and such a fog of calm storms fought me. Without rain and without wind the waters rose and pushed me further out, until I could not see the side I was headed to, nor the side I started from. I saw the long weeds that swept form the bottom of the lake then laid on top of the angry, grey waters. The weeds that I feared, those weeds when I was young and with friends who and I were always trying to avoid, swimming just before the lands of the weeds. In as they(weeds) tried to wrap and slide around my legs and body. Those weeds grew each year growing closer, reaching me at times and sending shivers about in imaginary thoughts of water snakes and unknown, those spined, curly-edge, writhing, slimmy weeds. As the storm circled around my bout I had no paddles, no motor, no way of getting myself back to the shore where I started from. I reached forward and pulled the heavy water along the sides of the boat, I felt with every pull of water those long weeds, the burn of fright on my finger tips, the thought of cuts from the weeds. Every time I reached into the water the weeds held my arms and tightened with every new reach forward, the closer I pulled the water to me, the more I tangled in the weeds from my past, but the clearer the rocks of shore became. I began to feel bigger and stronger, as though every stroke of fear cleared by fight. I ripped up the grey, green ribbed water and seemed to become larger and larger, so large that when I reached the rocks on shore, I reached down and lifted the boat out of the water like a toy in one shaking, wet, tired hand. I stood on the shore and looked back at that past and thought to myself, maybe I really do not miss this place at all.

Dream #2, second night.

This morning I expected rain, the weather station told us "after such a hot weekend we will get rain from day time heating, but its wonderful this morning, sunny, and, gentle winds. My father who is in the hospital recovering from a double hip surgeries, is doing better than expected. I feel such peace from my worries, a little tired and some what confused about my dreams the last two nights. In my second dream, I am answering questions on a computer for a license renewal. As I guided the mouse pointer over the questions, that were laid out on the dirty concrete floor(the floor was the computer monitor), as the mouse pointer moved over the answers, laid out before me, large and spread out over a considerable amount of floor space. The answers seemed life sized. I continued on clicking, rightly on the ones I understood and stared prematurely from my scooter at others I deemed unresolved. As I turned around to answer the questions behind me, I saw rows and rows of mountain bikes, suddenly the room filled with laughter and some of the participants closest to me, jostled for position to exclaim "surprise!" I figured out that the test was for, bike riders, and, that I had unknowingly taken part in some sort of trick. It was hard for me to comprehend, because I can not ride a mountain bike again, I know I can still drive a car, but nothing like a bicycle. At that moment this wonderful Lady moved up, in her wheelchair beside me and started talking to me about...? I could not hear her, I kept looking at her face, her bright happy eyes and thought how pretty she was, but I could not hear her. All the laughter and the movement of the people were all I could understand, and, only understand, without clearly listening. Both dreams have given me nothing, I expected, hoped, to get what I set out to gain, but ended up empty and confused.

I love them both the same.

Its been a tough few days this past weekend, my father fell and broke both his hips. Today, because of his age they operated with local anesthesia, instead of putting him completely under for the steel plate and bolts. My father has always had this way of taking pain, not chronic pain, but acute pain and deal with it. At 80 yrs of age, he is showing emotions he never had shown before and cries easily. He does not just start crying, per say, but now, when he remembers stories and recounts past, young memories, he tears up quite proudly, like a man should, in my humble opinion. He was out of surgery in a couple of hours worth of it this morning and seems remarkably well for it. Though he was quite, anxious and shaking a lot, he said he was in so much pain. I think on the weekend he may of stood up too quickly, not letting his oxygen time to make it to his brain and for a split second passed out, only to find himself on the floor. He phoned my sister, crying, seemingly in shock and maybe apprehensive if he would get a hold of her or not. I got the call from my mother, 35 yrs divorced, but a caring, scarred, forgiving gift to us all, explaining what happened and telling me she is on her way to take me to the hospital an hour after he arrived in emergency. I cry alone, during movies, during the site of tears or emotions, but am usually very strong in the faces of my gathering family. I found myself reassuring everyone that he will be ok, and, he will pull through, nicely. To-day, I felt such relief, because he has done well, and, clearly spoke to me of the long road back to walking again. My father lives with my sister, granddaughter and little Doda, his miniature, paper-white poodle. My sister has taped Doda's picture to his handle grip above him and he noticed it immediately. Although my mom and dad are divorced, for ever it seems, they are very civil infront of us kids, all 7 of us and 9 grandchildren, my mom is the one who has held us gently together, no one else can take credit for that. My mom is the Christian strength and direction, my father is the resolve and spirit. I am closer to my mom than my dad, but love them both the same.

nothing is still nothing,

a slap and broken glass, seperate emotions, trace my shadow, but leave my centre blank, sure as every heart beat would fill me, I'd prefer to cast my shadow in shared light, hold me apart, but hold me, stop amidst my fall, capture my thoughts, place in the hours, singled out tears, wasteful desires, longing out of want, more than nothing is still nothing at all,

Old and young.

What would the old man do with a guitar? What would the young boy do with the sun? Would the old man go very far? Would the young boy have much fun? What has the old man done with a lie? Why did the young boy get so high? The old man got the meal of a deal. The young boy got the feel of steel. As they run. The old man, cold and hungry again. The young boy soothed his burns. The guitar has come and went. The sun begins its descent, but leaves a warmth, remembered intense as they slept.

Along me.

When I fall backwards into sleep, it is because I am exhausted. It is the moment, I am at peace, the beast within me, below me. When I rise above, I exalt myself above you. I am above him, a monicker, a head-piece, his stone gargoyle. Your valley, like my valley is receding. The embryonic fluids stern movement though our river endures. Tortuously taking a corner, then giving a curve. Gracefully flowing, shiftless fall. Succession is bearing on my soul, immersion be-totaling me. I will become, thy will, be done with me. Before creation, certainty, masterful certainty. Along me, then without me, as has been done before us. I can raise my vanity to dignities score, but am unable to post it. In seeing the ground again, in-stemmed, intimate confidence. My yoke would be too heavy for you and I can not help us with yours. The strength is control, the odds, the reality. Ultimately the past will have greeted you. Solemnly, existing from once forth in grandeur. From abreast to concede the ascent but, not with arms folded, but by the graceful scant effort of the lark.

Too much thinking.

If there was just one picture left in me, one story I could finish. I have tried to start my last but, can't find the want. If I would just start, the beginning, would end easy, forget about not having more. Just one more would convince me, of a past filled with captured thoughts. How many worlds have I spilled out of myself on canvas? How many thoughts have been laid bare on paper? How many times have I taken from life, absorbed and held deep? What haven't I said that I haven't written, over and over again, unselfishly, weakening of purpose? I find the Dragon these nights angry, most of the time bitter, motionless and shaken, but with few words spoiled and without expression, exhausted, gasping for sleep. Only my thoughts record the stroke of my pen and brush. I'm sorry.

Blueberry Mountain.

How it all came back, in like a twisting, a reverberating note, dancing around into higher vapors, free to soften away until heard no more. In watching, Never Cry Wolft, I remembered a small wish I had, when I was a young boy I wanted to wander the wild, uninhabited, inhospitable landscape of the Canadian Wilderness. I grew up spending every summer in an indigenous peoples, wilderness camp for youths, along side of Native Elders this Christian camp, though close to home was still, Northern Ontario. Every summer during the school holidays, my mother, would pack up my brothers and I and send us to spend time with other boys and girls our age. We would study in earnst, survival habits, earning badges and making crafts. We would set out in canoes to the Twin Sister Islands with nothing but our paddles and find our food, make our shelter and have fun. The girls would be on one island, the boys on the other. Though the islands were only 100 yards apart we still could compete and see each others failures. A small group of us, would go each year during this test to the big shadow. A mountain so flat faced and tall that the shadow could be seen from the mainland. That shadow, stretched almost to the boys island and hid us as we entered its reach. So cold was the shadow to turned the water black. We would slowly skid to the shadows maker, a mountain they called, Blueberry Mountain, who the Elders told the tale of blueberries at the top, never picked by humans, only the wildlife and a single warrior, who named it so. That summer, I spelt out in my minds climb that I would make it to the top this time of Blueberry Mountain and jump off with my summer friends as my witness. My simmer friends, who in the shadow shivered its cold and dared of us who would try to scale it again. I remember the black water and the silver rock face we edged, foot by grab, to get to the bravest heights yet, this year, to jump, some daring the others to go higher. My brother went as high as any of us have but, became too scared to jump and couldn't get down. With trying, he held the mountain close and but, fell, still holding to Blueberry Mountain, he slid against the face of such shear rock and could not stop falling. Not until he hit the black water and in the lucid, amber foam of his splash, he disappeared, deep. As fast and as loud as he screamed falling, his reaching out of the water, was without shame, a scream that should have stayed deep in the black water. First, he broke the surface, pitching himself up and backwards and down he went again and in that moment all eyes pleaded with me for help. I was almost near the top but, could not have climbed down fast enough to help, naked, I turned to face the mountain and with one hand out, the other hand pushed myself away enough to suffice not the same fate as my brothers. I, with both feet first, struck, breaking the water murderously hard, sent in like an arrow. Both arms out, breaking the black water, and taken in deep, the darkness focused on me, with both eyes open the deep closed and further now I felt from my brother. I saw nothing, I heard nothing and I felt nothing. Pushing the mass of black that beheld me, I shoved and clawed and kicked the stillness, cold and angry, I pulled the surface to me. I tried to seek my brother, the others, no one was to be heard but, over my brothers cries, I selfishly felt the relief in hearing his pain, felt joy in his heed of their attempts to quiet and pull him out of the water for the screams from the shadow that day had early signals from the mainland, return, now! That night, with my arms weakened from the slap of the water but, no where near as broken and bloodied as the front, right side of my brother. We joked later, that he left a lot of skin on the rock face of Blueberry Mountain and a bit more on the side of the canoe as we desperately spent the better part of the ordeal trying to hoist him into. We, the boys, the next afternoon were lectured, on safety and stupidity, lectured on the evils of skinny dipping but, we were not that stupid, as if a bathing suit would have protected my brother from hurting himself. If my brother never fell that day, I may have made it to the top of Blueberry Mountain.

How could I ever be a man again?

Its important, I write what I can here, if I write it on paper and leave it in my home, who will find it? Who will understand, why I say the things I write? It is only here that I can see who I really am. Will my children, although grown, understand the mindless ramblings I've written? I don't want anyone to understand what I write but, witness what I was in what I write. I can't sit with you my son, my daughter, my mother or my father and tell them the things I write, nor could anyone else, try to sit with your closest and say the things you write. I am being looked at so closely now because, I am not like them and am suffering, am on massive legal doses of narcotics. So they must be searching my eyes, my speech, my comments, searching me for weakness, for a stumble, for that moment when I break under the pressure of being ill. I think, since I am alive, I must be stronger than them. My family in the midst of me, are not grasping the ideals of how lucky they are to be healthy, to have blood that is clear and not toxic of medicines and pain killers. To have healthy chances of direction, to have missed the bullet that hit and still spins inside me, taking out brittle bone, after brittle bone. To not feel gravity drawing the centre of the earth towards them, to dance without leaving a footprint, to reach dreams I can not, to draw air without guilt, to give, to be needed, to be of use, to carry on a reality for the betterment of together/another. I talked with a neighbor the other day, who said, " I push the chance of a companion away because, I am like a weight he felt upon the ankles of another" he is my age and suffering from a different disorder, MS (Multiple Sclerosis). I guess, I agree but, how do I fathom the reality of companionship? How could I ever be a man again?

Suffering river.

Dreams bait ye, winter chills settle ye, first tender children snow. Ye hearts soul languishes, tears stoke o'er my cheeks. What though, I sang, I remember, what though, I sing. Ye bring when thy take full, now give bring begun. A mountain, a valley, swing o'er below. Blessed waters, blessed edge, wide and far. Again char, again hollowed sky, nay give. Drought and dried, urgent peace, be still, stay. Ye gloom is scarce, o'er semble, sorrowful treasure. Thy air, thou'est dew, blent not to earth, parched draw. Anchored safe, bodied brew, forlorn begging root. Ye tremble dew, be-it mine, swallow, anxious storm. Deny, ye rue shade, drink, ye freedom grow, ye dew beg, dwell. Together deep, lest fermented reap, for sky, for sky, for sky.

You are hurting me!

My Dragon, talk of another side, of a fog of enemies, untold, the counting remains, falling. Am I so strong that you can't kill me" frustrated"? Why can't you finish twisting me? Claw and fold the earth over me. Press and close my ribs, still my breathing and shake my capacity. Pounce upon my exhale and deny me the room to draw in life. Cast my frame before I am consumed by dust- by what I can not see, by what I can not touch, by what I feel, by what I hate, by what I fear and by what I seek. You are hurting me!

New Life in Song.

Bring everything to Me and lay upon My Faith great yokes . Sing of Promised Glory with open arms to Receive My Abundant Word. Spill upon the Fruits of Life a New Birth and demand My Promise. For My Glory never began, nor will it end. Have Fulfillment and Will the New Eden. Become of Purpose and Give Rejoicing in Song. Share in Dance and Laughter with My Name. Sow and Reap again for Wine and Want for Me. Everything I Promise and with everything New. All stars and all Universe, all Heaven and all Earth. Beginnings for all that has ended and endings for all that has Begun. Cherished Gold will be walked upon as sins are Foretold. Angles witnessed Water and Angles witnesses Rebirth and Angles witnessed Fire and Angles witnessed Pure. Angles witnessed Bread and Angles witnessed Body and Angles witnessed Wine and Angles witnessed Blood.

I am here!

I am here. The air leans upon my neck as I fall over the earth, claimed by time, harsh echoes, memory. Without voice, without compares, awareness fluttering growth, faltering, faltering, faltering. Searching for the inevitable brace, the gripping, consciously I, before me. Should I become weak - bless my life, should I cease to give pleasure - desire me. Peril is war, and immature rest sought upon your cleft - "I am a child nearest the Universe" fears dyeing with me, alone, begging, smaller words spoken for peace, yet. Bring forward the past "I may reach out against the future narrowing" shelter my memories, in them - I should return, new, whole, and enthralled, naked, spent and taken reborn. I am here. The sound of voices fill wishes and dreams, stir regrets and envious visions, greed, a black and white, a less of such color. A resemblance of beginning thoughts, sharpening what will not last, and stalling, finding sight in blank thoughts.

Like a Lion, far too far from the Gate.

I am not sure how to say what happened the other day at the Mall, while shopping with my Son and my Mom. I was alone, while my Son was looking to buy a Father's Day gift for me with his Grama's help, I was looking for some clothes for myself and had noticed some little girls staring at me and walking by and as I passed, they would stare at me with heads turned hard. I was using my crutches to walk amongst the racks of white shirts and such, while carrying my pick of a pin striped white shirt and trying to sort threw some black slacks. I noticed these two little red haired girls of about 8 or 9 years of age watching me, staring, witnessing my life. I am used to people looking at me, since I am a 200 lb man who would seem very tall at over 6'0", but hunched over, as though I were carrying the world on my back. Instead, I am only carrying, a camera, that is always with me (just a habit) and my coat, gently across my arm, a crutch and a walking cane hold me up quiet well. I guess all this would seem an impressionable sight. I really don't mind. Well, next moment, I could see the bottom half of a women approach directly in front of me, she said " excuse me sir" I apologized and stepped out of the way thinking, she would walk past, I was in her way, but I couldn't see her face, (if I am standing or walking, I just can't raise my head up high enough to do so, not for her or for a car that was coming for me). Instead, this women stood at my side with her two little girls in front of me and said " I saw you and I needed to talk to you to ask, can I pray for you?" I felt a hand on my arm and heard a soft prayer, right now, right then and right there, on the spot. I am not sure of how to say it, but she bent down and I saw this healthy, strong, clear eyes of a women with two little girls, who could easily look into my face from their little angelic eyes, into my eyes. At that moment her husband, the girls father, who at about 6' 4" tall and maybe 250 lbs, smiled, hugged his little family, then disappeared into the crowd. At that moment, I was alone, left with that gift of prayer, recognized as a brother by such strength, power and compassion of a family who loves God and giving. I love God, with all my strength and always have, although lately, I have been speaking to Him like a Lion far too far from the Gate.

If I could

If I could decent the darkest ocean, be in of all things there, I would welcome the deepest thoughts of obscurity beyond all that bothers me here. If I could be all but a sound amongst any morning songbird, be in all them here, I would welcome centre thoughts of Saturns rings, beyond all that likens me here. If I could circum little things, be in of all debted here, I would welcome unto being who I am. If I could fathom purpose, be in of all given here, I would welcome rewarding thoughts and grow bountifully. Against nature all comes up dry, lost of color, searchless, still and amongst inevitably all of everything. Against nature all comes up full, having of light, searching, about and amongst deserving of everything. Against nature all comes up reaching, gainful of identity, served, indelibly as everything. Against nature all comes up inadequate, said of life, sinful, without from as all things are now.

As it should have been.

Today, I am not well, I am like water in the desert, consumed and hiding, clear and shallow, but honestly weak, an angry fire without enough grass to burn. I need so much what should have been, it is all that can cure me, it is all that can make me one person with my true self, as I was before. Tonight, I want to dream, as it should have been.

In this cold place.

We have summer in this cold place and will have summer long enough, I believe this now. I live so very high up on the top floor of a building that follows the sun from window to window. I would often dream about having a travel trailer. I would follow the sun, staying just on approach of the melt. I would slow down if I saw the fall and speed up if I got caught, long in spring. I would pray for snow everyday, large, sloppy snowflakes and watch from a huge, lazy stay in front a wide grin, of course. I could fall in and out of sleep all day, my biggest struggle would be to finish reading Victoria and Veranda magazines. I love vintage cloth, berry jam scones, with pastel Peonies dropping sugared petals by the tray. Little mouthed, fat bottomed bottles of ink and dripping, dipping styles to write on old parchment rolls. I would like that place.

What makes us alone?

What makes us alone? I don`t mean, alone sometimes, but alone all the time? Why are some people always alone? What kind of alone? Well, the ones who are loners, who have friends that are only co-workers, penpals, newsgroupers. Seniors, the old forgotten ones or just second to their children's busy lives. The disfigured, the homeless, the freakish or just the extreames (no legs, retardation, lunatics, them people etc). The depressed or those that just want to be alone or them that just do not know why. What sorts of defenses do these unapproachable behold? Are they so strange looking or just uglificatting? No one would want to leave themselves open to hurt them, or not having to hurt them, or to witness a response from someone who, never responds, so it would be a safe assumption to, just not start anything with a shronic loner. You are the witness, having seen us. Seeing us is in some strange way, seeing your(self).

The park bench and the lamp post.

Its dark at this hour of the morning, alone, here at my computer with an esspresso, with soft music and just the light of the monitor. Outside of my window the whole City seems quiet, except for the park bench, far beneath me and an old lamp post. The bus route running past that park bench has long been cancelled, but the men still come and keep it nicely painted and the grass around it is kept trimmed. That old street lamp shines a theatrical spot around the bench as darkness tries and fights it, just as two old friends should do. The bench can hold three comfortably if they waited as they would have for the bus and the old lamp post would have shone down to ease thier fears. A long time ago, I used to sit on that bench, my son and I, waiting for his school bus to take him to school and I would sit there for awhile after the bus left to ponder and process my day. I wonder if anyone knew I fell asleep sitting on that park bench at times, in the shade from so many towering Elm trees. I was put to sleep as the gentle shivering of its leaves were set sail on the very winds I dreamt of leaving on. Tonight, that park bench beneath me with its old lamp post has drawn out my thoughts for the last hour, having forgetting the pain. That park bench, with its old lamp post, has sweetened a dream, a friend, sharing a peaceful moment.

It is hard to live with what has.....?

I sit with elbows on my knees and my chin on my fist, waiting for my thoughts to break and release my mind from its harvest of desires, intentions and regrets. In a struggle for endless acceptance for all that I could have done. I search for the complex end to quench my thirst for the code of this bitterness. If I could untangle what has happened, if I could undo the damage, as the wreckage entangles me like a yoke. You can imprison yourself within the confines of pain, in its self, you can not break-free of the Dragons claws that pinch you into the earth. No metal is needed to form the realestate of inability, no watch is governed for those that can't reach out. There is no addiction when taken into account the desire for motionless dignity, they look content, beneath the surface of consciousness. I have now, what I have always desired while I was young and overworked, time, space and exhaustive sleep, all that while complaining. In the shortness of time I have found the abundance of endless nothing in the constant, inseparable moments. As a child I wanted to learn, and I found the failures that would better me were the successes that would compell me to except the brush across my face. I proudly stood by the mess I made and stared at the right words cursed. I listened quietly, never letting go of the very brush crushed in my hand as my little fingers cracked, I never let go of that brush. I have painted for some of the most influential people in the world, but can't form the mindset to paint for myself today. I remember angrily ripping up a basket full of old work that I was once so proud of and cursing that which I was, who was I that wanted my old work, years of old work? I can not do what I have done before and am not as I was, why should it be here to remind me of what should have been? I regret that immature moment of time, but regret those beginnings to, I call them beginnings, since those beginnings have an end, before my time. It is hard to live with what has ..... ?

Is there a way back?

This has been a long week for us since I don't get outside enough, this last 2 weeks we've spent most of the time in the house. I really want a balcony, but this wonderful apartment that has an eagle's eye view of the city from sunrises that crest the downtown highrises in the bedrooms to the sunsets over old Avenues from in the living-room. This place has no balcony to sit on for our breakfast and since I really like coffee and would really love to have it on the balcony through-out the day. I look from my window and see all the little patio tables outside on the corner with all the pretty, fashionable people sipping their espresso and all the energy from those walking from the University or from the hospital. Everyone seems so strong and healthy with such drive that I feel pulled by their energies. I fight the urge to mix with them and since, I am not one of them, all I can do is witness, want and dream. Those days are over for me and probably will never be for my son either and its hard to want to be a part of the present on the breaths of the past. I have found great adventures in my dreams, like rewalking the past, its very easy to do, with slow deep breathing and directing your thoughts to your past. I can walk the streets of Croatia again, the open markets in Milan or by the cafe's of Paris or the pearl farms of Tokyo. I miss the sweet butterscotch candy I ate in Ireland and the hot roasted peanuts in NewYork, Old Montreal theatres and the parks of Shaboogamoo or even just simple Banff are in reach this way. Am I going crazy? Is there a way back?

A little of all things.

I am a little tired tonight, even though its late and I can't sleep, I am still sick, a little weak from the pain. We managed to get outside in the sun, which we needed since being inside from the rain and the wind of the last couple of days. I can walk with the help of my crutches, but I like to use my electric scooter so we can go farther into the old neighborhoods. We moved from our usual home, so no one knows how I have changed and that is good, because I am not handsome anymore. I used to be a very tall, strong and noble man with men working for me and friends in the neighborhood, who admired my loyalty to my family. Now, I have disappeared into this new home, far from my past and far from anyone who once knew me well. I now live in a highrise apartment with many disabled people, whom I have never met and who are all suffering, enormously, there have been 5 deaths here in the past few years. In this place no one knows of me, which I am very glad to be able to conceal. I will never be found here and will never be compared, all who remember me, will remember what I used to look like and will never compare me to the past. However, I miss greatly, a little of all things.

I hate these days.

I sleep in darkness and am awake in the same, as the mornings song is taken on winds warmed by the sun, running for darkness, is not unlike what I've done all-night, sought the longer night. This morning, I dreamt of help. I wanted. I should not have been so weak and afraid. This morning the Dragon has waited for me and I didn't have the strength to take his venom, weak from seeking shadows all night, I've hidden in want. Shameful, I am to have wished for someone to make breakfast for my son, shameful, I have wished for warm, strong hands on my shoulders to steal the pain from my blood. I was married for 20 yrs, and alone now, with my son for almost 7 years, although, I do not miss her, at all, I do miss soulfully, passionately, the gift of a women's strength. No hands in life can get closer to you than your mother, but your love can get even closer, her power can give you strength and take from you weakness. Its hard to say this, but loss is a way to appreciate having. Although today I have spent the day in bed, too sick to take my medicine, I did bring grapes, cheese and bread to my son with cookies and ribs in the fridge, which he loves to sneak quietly antways by the numbers of them lsft, I knew he would be fine. Its around 2:00 am and I am up, feeling a little better and very happy to be eating some bread, though my son ate all the ribs and all the cheese, he left me my favorites, grapes and berries. Moj Zlato

In front of me.

I read an empowering post today, which spoke of strength and spoke of such freedom and discovery, in a clear, clean truth. Truth and perception, compassionately discovering life's pulse. I closed my eyes and began breathing, nervously seeking out, this author's strength, but found myself fearful of relenting, everything is in front of me, beyond the Dragon. Metaphorically speaking "the Dragon" is the constant fog of the morphine or maybe its just my being too weak. I closed my eyes and felt him in front of me and circled away from his torment, only to feel him breathing in all the fog and leaving me to my pain. Can I feel this pulse of life, in all that, I sought out the suns ribbons of light, growing, taking, sharing? I hear the words, I have drawn in my mind, what they are saying, but honestly, I only hear my heart beating and the deeper I reach into my inner-self, the clearer the Dragon becomes. I walk in the dragons foot steps and at times, I hear him stop, I smell the broken earth and I almost see what he's done. I don't know any other way to describe something so powerful, so wanted, so hated and so a part of my everyday, that nothing else is in front of me. The Dragon is my light and my darkness, my deepest inner strength and my real weakness. I am being his self and he rules the hours that are left of me. If I could take, again, I would reach past the Dragon for what is in front of me.

My face is nice.

Third day and I'm still tired, feel sick all over, am sick all over, so why not feel sick and tired all over? My vertebrae is fused solid in a stooped over, twisted and stooped sideways position. The sideways is from a cluster of stress fractures at where I broke my back. The cartilage in my spine is ravaged from inflammation and is gone, but in its place is new delicate bone growth from the vertebrae touching each other then fusing together. This fusion is new, baby delicate bone that broke some years ago, and fused itself fixed. So, at the centre of the bend in my spine is the old break, which settled forward. My torso, since I am a tall man, the torso turned as if the spine did a rotated spin to the right and then settled sideways. So that's like bending to touch your toes and turning to the right, bending and stretching sideways to the ground and freezing in that position. I have good large shoulders, a broad chest that now crunches down and is permanently squishing my stomach and organs out of there natural position, sort of down and out, I guess. I have extreme problems swallowing, even water and when I do labor threw a meal, its like one bite begins to feel as though I've eaten a Thanksgiving day meal, this makes standing after eating very difficult. Today, I did nothing, except stare at my thoughts, which I am tired of doing. If I have the operation by my 11 surgeon team, I could stand at my usual 6'-1" again, also all the muscles in my back, that I use to try and keep from falling over or the muscles I strain to pull my head up to look straight ahead(since my skull is fused to my spine so there is no looking left or right or up). The operation, if successful, could leave no trace of this hunched over look, that I am now, but I said, if it were a success. It is a dangerous operation and has a 45% chance of my dieing on the table from blood loss, infection from an open wound that would be about 30" long. The surgeons would have to break my neck and re-attach, break my back and re-attach it, then cut the muscles on one side to twist the spine back to normal, then re-attach them. Once this is done and the steel rods, bolts, etc and if everything goes right. They would then leave me in the hospital upside, strapped to a bed that would be upside down, for a year. If anything goes wrong, I may be a quadriplegic, crippled with a bag to ... relieve myself into and maybe never talk again. Right! What would you choose? I have a severely disabled son who has been with me since birth and we have been alone for the last 6/7 years, the mother just couldn't get along with him so she left a 20 yr marriage, oh and she didn't like me much either, tee hee. I have a 25 yr old daughter, who is grown and gone and an 18 yr old son, they all left at the same time. Anyways, they never much hung around their disabled brother antways. He is severely retarded, but has always been close to me, I named him after me when he was born and spent every minute with him as he grew up. He is handsome like me and tall, strong and so cool to be with, he is extra kind and always in love with life. That's why I won't have the operation, because he will be alone if something goes wrong and I will never let him go into an institution. I'll just stay this way and we can just carry on as we always have. Him and I, and the Dragon, we will make it some how. I know my son misses his mother horribly and she only visits him maybe once amonth for an hour or two, but when he comes back form his visit, he brings the light back with him. He is all I will ever have again and I thank God for his leaving me this much. I do miss a warm hand to reach for, but will settle for wanting, its enough, I mean, I could never let a women see me that way again. I am sure of that, absolutely not comfortable with how I look now, just picture it, now I apologies for compromising anyone's dinner, but I'm not this tall, strong handsome guy anymore. My face is nice.

Finding what's left.

I closed my bedroom window this morning on the birds wake in song, but not in vain, I love when in the wee hours that song is easily discerned. I was cold, for the first time since I can remember, I was cold from the run of the winds across me. As I lay in total silence, I felt my self searching for what's left of my life. I thought, today I would cook a good meal and since I am an artist, was an artist, have always felt that the palette is - what it is - and today it would be Portabella mushrooms, onions and handmade pasta. On the the side colors of tangerine, cantaloupe, baby carrots, celery, cucumbers and dicon with parmesan curls. I just couldn't enjoy laboring through trying to eat it. After I peeled open the tangerine I was immediately pulled into Christmas memories, neading the flour and egg I felt my mother's hands squeezing mine and with the first lemon cut I heared the ice cubes cracking and clinkling in pitchers brought out to the garden, long forgotten, brought to me, lemonade. will I forget the wake of mornings song birds without searching, what's left of me?

Where are you?

Will you be magic to-night and put dreams in bed with me, now, soon? Fires of, fires beneath, embers. What fuels this constant burn? I will soon call out for the Dragons night, but fear this fire is stronger again, than he. I wish for such strength that is not given me, where are you? I own pain, I am with a hot, iron yoke, too tight and ill fitting that my arms are heavier than fear and even though, I feel all this, it is my stomach that envies constant loss. How fragile can ones ache be that is as delicate as the minds tissue, split, cried and intimatly parted raw, but left breathing in gasps of prayers for defeat. Somehow this can not be what it is with out the Dragons fog, where are you? Bastard, where are you?

Reached these words.

Its taken from me, but I am through the worst of it, we are through the best its given us yet. I've been wanting to write and have written editions in want, but here in front of the white, I am blank. Guilty of what I've felt recently, guilty of certain thoughts, weak. The Dragon is not strong enough, unless I am left defeated, I call upon his explosive relief and chant, ridiculing him, to strike and numb me. Everyday will be better from here on in, it always works this way. It starts out as that small mountain before all I want, through it I fear the climb and throw dares to the Dragon. At the top of the mountain, I look away from the dragon and wait just at the edge, in the fog, hoping to stumble, wanting the Dragon angry. Its been 7 years since anyone who knew me before has seen me since, becoming weak. I am finding comfort in the fact that, to them I have not changed, to them there is no-who I am now. I was in magazines, strong, tall and handsome, happy, safe, invincible and forever. I will never again walk the earth as I did before, from the far East to Europe, from the bottom to the top of America. I think all who experience earth, in suffering or not, will have a thirst for some semblance of it in Heaven. The greater comfort in no more suffering, no thirst, in the Dragons claws the earth breaks. I will fall into exhaustion tonight, breath the fogs of venom and remain still, until tomorrow. Bring mornings again, but not as they have come lately.

What I want?

I know for a fact, that if everyone gets what they want, then I'll get what I want. So, I wait for a trip back to that small mountain I was scared of, over that mountain, its Lake St, Charles - via Devil's Falls. I'll never go on the sunny side of the other mountain, there will be enough sun on top of my small mountain. Devil's Falls always wore out our bathing suits and the girls knew that too, best skinny dipping in the gorge. How I loved my small mountain top, in the shadow side, my eyes wide open and heart aching, I felt such fear in my small, dark mountain. I would dare them to come up out of the water, and slide down Devil's Falls, crystal clear and only deep enough to stretch out and crawl, their backsides sore. To roll over and look up into the clouds while they float on from Lake St. Charles. Never looking ahead, winding back down to Devil's Falls, over and over again. I feel like the hunchback, look like the hunchback, hiding in the shadows, if I could dare to skinny dip again, at Devil's Falls.

Broken earth.

Well, I lost the fight, got caught up on its claw, actually, reached for it, reached into the fog. Laid opened my hand, reached past, then upon. Again, I am with the Dragon, its before me in a calm walk, cuts of broken earth, fallen shallow ruts , angered strikes, deep clawings bitter pith. Calm me for the dragon's near, reasons for giving, excuses for seeking, reasons for taking. I am anything other more than broken earth, claws clearly rest earthened, waiting, clenched, frothing between us, our hate, our desires, our loss.

From a small scare.

Here we are back from a small scare, but were ok and will continue to take it one day, a time, and counting. I prayed for one more day and thank God, we are here. The last time I was here. Every day you can see us in our windows, high above this city, with its expansive view reaching out to an eternal vanishing point. So many tiny, tiny little scurriers running about, following the trails of the same. Do they know I am up here wondering about them? Do they know we are here? I sigh a lot when I`m thinking, almost like I have expressed an opinion. Like an unhappy escape, a given up sarcastic immunity, a system. Can you be patient with the world? With them? Are we patient`s or patient? Is anyone counting on counting on us? To-day, again I feel alone, and I see a lot of them down there, walking alone, standing alone, looking by them selves.

Imagine close enough.

While outside, the smells conjure up memories, the rotting fleshy earth, the leave of whispering steam trails, caught and lost. Something new begins, a thought that lasts motionless. How I wouldn`t mind if I were with someone, again. I, in wondering, would instill this mess of emotions, now. Is it still incredible to fall for someone? Tonight, tonight would be, could be, a good time, now in this cold, small drizzle, here, there, outside? Imagine, close enough, our hands in our coat pockets, our shy rocking, back and forth, rubbing shoulders while we sit here. Loving this, "never time" all too early morning, not wanting daylight, yet. Her purple cheeks and puffy eyes have yesterdays make up, her cold blue lips, drawing tawt across her chattering play and smile. If I could get close enough to her frosted shiver, to warm against her face, to fall into her neck. To be close enough to smell her shoulder, her hair, to have found yesterdays touch of perfume. Small, slender fingers, half out of her big sleeves, covering her lips, hiding that she didn`t expect to be caught without her toothbrush. I never noticed that lamp post over the park bench, nor the fact that we sat under it most of the night. I know her jacket and her faded jeans. Could I remember any closer? Looking into her eyes longer than a quiet search, a kiss left lost in that hope, the time instead, enough. We would've drawn closer, but... we never did, we don`t exist, not her or I... remember? I asked "Imagine close enough". The park bench is 11 floors down from my apartment window and the only eyes twinkling last night, were the city lights and that bench, it never saw us. You know, you have to admit, I have an incredible view from here, such a pretty city, isn`t she? I need to get more sleep, its almost 6:00 am.

Sleep and type.

I can actually awaken gradually, while typing this reclined in my chair as the keyboard lays on my lap and my eyes close, open, close and a little open, now closed. At times like this, I lose the battle and awaken to find a long page filled with a single letter, 5000 letter k`s or m`s. Today, I am watching the sunrise and the first few morningers out there, braving the cold, bettering themselves. I could join them, take out my wheelchair and have my son push me, but nah, it might be easier if I just let him try to keep up with me and my scooter, nah. Well, here he is curled up at my feet like a loyal beast, a friend or like how Berlin used to do before he died on us some 4 years ago (Germanshepherd). I am not sure why, but Sal just wants to sleep in the livingroom with me on the floor, not on the couch, just on the floor and at my feet. I sleep in a recliner, automatic type that lifts me up or lays me down, I need it since I am bent like a hunchback. It just fits the sitting position I sleep in and have done for years now. The day is looking great and the venum is greying the fog, there is little room for light so I`ll just go back to sleep, I`ll melt into the chair while my eyes become assured were safe. Guilty, heavanly and quiet, my son breathes a trusting, comfortful, rhythmic song that leads me to sleep every time. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzz zz zzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I am strong.

I am.

I am here and so is the dragon.

I can make him bigger and stronger, smaller and weaker, I can hide or ingest more venom. He will shut me down, my insides siezed, no longer do I seek the fog. I can hear you, what are you afraid of?

Whats morphine like?

I heard someone ask "Whats morphine like?" I thought about it, I thought about tears at that moment, how hard I fight to avoid them, but when the shields come down, there is an awakening. For myself, morphine is like you, I heard ask. Its like the way I used to be. It is the Dragon you think it is and the one I have led into my viens. I breath its fuel, it replaces my blood, my blood it depletes and I find him at his will. The dragon is strong and takes my world as it enters me. Morphine has made me, it has become my dream, my wants and my desires to look forward to each day. A reason to get out of bed so strong like a newly entered compositional DNA. Everything is the dragaon now, my smile, my greetings, my impression upon you. Is the Dragon nice? It could hurt no more than when it bit down to when it let go, morphine is without the Dragon shaking its head and having its teeth clean the flesh off my bones. I give in to the dragon, because it is far less painfull then not having to, for without it, is that very question, "Whats morphine like?"

And again and enough.

Its getting harder, the strategy to get me here, to this crisp, empty, and honest morphine moment. Nothing can be more forthcoming than a prayer, a moment between your grip, your gut or your cold quiet room that can take a deep void apart. Is it? As long as it gets you past reality, and that treatment? If the experiment(cheamo) seeks out the quality of your day, give it surrender. I want to stop the treatments... just one day at a time, please. I can't take this stuff anymore!

Happy Thanksgiving Lord

Thank You Father, for all that was given us, Oh Lord. Today we had a meal of great Joy, with love served to us by all the ladies in my building. The nurses and caregivers and staff, Yes I live in a handi-capped housing highrise. Anyway, the supper was good, so good that, of course, I ate too much. The turkey was plentiful, as was the ham and for the first time, I did eat sweet potato with golden toasted marshmallows on top, Oh! what strange things we do, that is so good and just everything else during dinner was good and mmmmm pumkin pie with mmmmm cream. I am not used to this much goodness in my system, so we slept, and slept and zzzzzzzz zzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzz zzzzzzzzzzzzz zzz zzzzzzzzz

Close call..

Not sure why or what it was, but we made it, alone and pulled through. I was real sick this time, real close it was, but big baby I am and Sal putting up with my "can`t leave home yet, this good place" atleast we were together. I can`t just leave and get help, what would I have done with Sal, who would have watched him while I was out of it? We made it though, at home and together, safe. I just maintained the hours and slept like usual and stayed here. I wish I could find someone to love us and take care of us, we could take care of her too. Thank you God for taking care of us. My son was such a big help bringing empty pails to me and cold cloths to fight the sweat. I could not have done it without him or without his love. Thanks son. When I am strong enough, I will get back to my way.

It`s 5:00 am can`t sleep.

I am up, I am up, I am up, two hours of sleep and it was not easy, even with all the morphine! I could ever want, I could have it(comfort is my right). I still can`t sleep, more than a couple of hours after waking, crying. I`ve gone to all the windows and looked at the city from very high above the twinkling, tiny lights and deserted street corners. Some lights out there, in others windows, tell me I am not alone. Someone, tell me. In the highrises across from me and in the distance, I can see you, in your window and may be your looking back at me, are you? I stand in my windows and watch sunrises, the first papers being delivered, our morning reads and the white bakers trucks with our bread. All the air is cold, cleared from above and left along the riverbanks frosted edge. The fogs creeping up out of the water, growing up it boasts, reaching the little houses along the green alleys. Please, Oh Lord, take in your arms everyone sent to you on September 11, forgive us if we fail, show our love if we have not found Jesus, Amen.

Question mark!

What does it mean to be a part of the human community? What does it mean "the human spirit?" Do we all belong to this community? Those that see, hear, know and acknowledge the existance of seperate views, do we all have answers to those questions? If only someone where here to discuss this with me, like my window, distracting, besides it speaks in parables and its moody. I know, kinda in a dark mood, being that its 4 a.m and were both sort of on a different pane right now. On a completly new topic, I will be going to the lake this afternoon, Half Moon Lake to just sit on the beach. I might, maybe, I will bring my watercolors and do some much missed meditating, thinking and fried chicken. I love to be "plien air", dipping my brush into the lake, imagine it with me.

As far as I could stare.

Caught myself stairing out the window, far too long these times here, again. I blessed the joining of the sky to the earth, its mix of oceans and light, vast is life, gentle and deep is my profit. Who is aware, that I had been dreaming? Who could not see my hands pressing through the glass, harvesting? Awaken me. It has been raining all week and the clouds parallel my mood so in through the fog this share of nature is on its way to me or on its way from me. I wonder, every morning we are safe and warm, our coffee cups, our bowls waiting empty on the table and waiting.

The least recieves a miracle.

The other day, Sal and I headed to Safeway for our groceries and we could hear this awful chattering from a squirrel. Curiuosly, every time it shrieked, it would lift its front paws off the elbow of the tree limb it was squared off on. The smallest warrior didn`t seem to notice or even care that we were beneath it. In with this strange fight, its stance lifted its screamming higher and higher. We could not see if it was warning a mate or was this his cry of terror? Was a cat or maybe a bird or snake, serving up its young? We just couldn`t see his concern, what had made me invision this horror? I closed my eyes and prayed, Oh Lord, I have walked into of this day one of your least, and, I would ask you to give it strength and quiet his anxiety, Oh Lord, place a miracle as his prayers of mercy are pleaded before us. Oh Lord, on all that it cares so deeply for, as today the sun is shining, the birds are singing and the air is so warm, please leave a miracle before us. In faith, we walked and slowly, the squirrel stopped, calmed our hearts, so together we never heard another sound from the little warrior. I felt the presence of our Lord, smiled and felt a safe, our prayer was answered. I am telling the truth, I will never forget. Thank you Oh Lord, Amen.

First time this has blogged me.

Well had a long, uncomfortable weekend, seems I am a little closer to the ground and finding it hard to straighten out. I have a condition called Anklyosing Spondylitis(inflammation of the spinal column which leads to total fusion of the spine in a hunched over position). I have recently been diagnosed with sculiosis as well, and have a new curve to deal with. I can`t walk and see forward at the same time any more, but I do walk with the special canes. I`ve slept for the first 2 yrs in my wheelchair because it reclines, and since I can never lay flat again. I now sleep in a specially modified recliner that lays me down from standing into a sitting position to sleep reclined. Now, everything in my apartment is one level with no stairs, hardwood floors and huge, low, wall to wall windows. I can see out from my chair and its on the top of this highrise, which I love. I really need things to enjoy, to love, since there is not much out there for my son and I to win over. The whole place is automated and modified, in ways we can easily reach and grab. My Son is severely retarded, that he is 20 yrs old and has the reasoning of a 5 yrs old. He has a hard time walking and is underdeveloped physicaly, besides all this, we rely on each other. As he does what I physicaly can not, and I am his reasoning, to a certain extent. He suffers from mild autism with varied fascilations and unique, gift like abilities, all are a joy and a blessing . His vision is incredible and his hand strength is that of 2 men. The learning is still everyday, and that is what continues to be an honour. The gift of being a father. We both are on permanent disability and live in a special, love of forgiving each other for breaking promises. I have to sleep now, since I started writing this entry, I have fallen asleep at my desk a dozen times.

Passages of Acts.

I spent most of the weekend inside, I feel alone and quiet. I am alive and counting, one day at a time. I like sleeping in, not exactly sleeping in, since I don`t sleep well and I am always up in the wee hours of the morning. I am up around 4:00 am and stay up for a few hours playing around on the computer or looking out our windows. I will read passages of Acts until Sal finds me asleep and curls up at my feet, he is now holding my Bible and socks, cradled them under his chin, drawn his knees close under them. I see his stuffed gorilla looking away, dejected it seems, but together we have found the good sleep. The same good sleep.

I think we could go far.

I am thinking of doing something with Sal, like go somewhere camping . I don`t know if I can, if we can do this or should just stay home. Can we carry ourselves, all the camping gear and the scooter? Maybe we could go somewhere and just rent a hotel room, we could still hike, I think we could. We could go far into a forest or the beach and bring a tent and make a fire on the beach or by a river or a lakes edge and fry bacon in the morning, couldn`t we? Could I breach the fires and make warmth? Maybe I am just stupid for thinking it and how will a father in a wheelchair/scooter make any great moment, and try and go with his disabled son on such a journey? I guess its just as stupid as my thinking that I can go looking for a memory, a memory for Sal, who likes being read to, who likes to play ball barefoot in the grass. His face would look at me with a sudden smile, I could, cause Sal to smile, wide in wonder or squint when I have been silly. Love and trust. That what you do with them, you will have done for the father. You think we should go on a trip?

alone and in a lingering sweat,

Again, I am up, alone and in a lingering sweat, thick with pity and cold. Anger clenched in my beard and at the back of my neck. 02:39 a.m. and I have only been asleep for 30 minutes, not a single twitch, just deep sinking deep. Looking out my window at the biggest room on earth and its sweet dark silence. Its lost its hustle, lost its color, but its has gained a calm and moved its resolve before me. I belong, to-night is a repeat of last night. Our Father Who...

I wish our dreams would,

I wish. I wish our dreams would. I wish our dreams could come true, yours, then theirs and then mine. We wouldn`t be alone, us who are alone and we wouldn`t be hungry, us who are hungry. We are not. We are not afraid. We are not afraid, because we are with God. We want and we are sometimes afraid we won`t want. We want...

Slowly, I hope I will be here everyday, I love.

Slowly, I hope, will I be here everyday? I have such thoughts. Its been a number of years and I am still unpacking reasons to belong. Its been raining hard and the wind is a songs thoughts here, my rooms eye looking out over the storms mightiest, lightning strike thrown rumble, to lifes groans. It looks into my face, waits for my yell and screams back at me, together we grumble, pain.

I fell asleep again.

Hmmmmm, I fell asleep, again, and at the keyboard. I am tired of backstroking a trail of letters only 600 lines deep. I have rested my hands in holding down the key of f, like so... ffffffffff, and of course, there have been times when I have held down letter after letter and filled many pages, some paragraphs made sense. What do I do when this happens? Like now, I got up from a well molded office chair and made a pot of coffee. This is the part I don`t understand, I fall back into sleep while holding my coffee and you guessed, I am now wearing it, in my lap, on my feet and I never let go of the cup. Just like I never let go of the keyboard, ever, when I fall asleep at/on it. I like that line, I fall back into sleep, exhausted, actually fallen back into sleep. Oh yes, for the first two or three times, I`d jump up! and try to land on my feet as I was falling off instead of falling back into, falling off to sleep, off what? Conscienseness, never seems to let go its grip on an awakening grasp, the sudden loss of that grasp, which should have anchored me is now an attempt to re-establish grace, in the moment. I`m not making sense but, the lost coffee was the way.

My mp3 player

I just purchased an mp3 player, a WaveX 128mgs and I like it of course with the radio and voice record, its a nice toy, my mom got it for my birthday in April. Its 4:30 am and I`m staring at the big view of the big city and listening to the birds waking up. There are times I will sit here and in the mornings betrayal of darkness, close my eyes and let the songs of the cold air keep me, asleep. Right now, there are sirens and screaming tires adding to that huge rooms colors. Seeing the, "out there" I call the biggest room in the world, with the highest ceilings and of course the most corners. The room of which most of it, I have never entered into, that is I am not sure if I should excuse the mess but, I am not cleaning anyone of them. Just an hour ago, I had my morphine so I won`t miss it because I was doing something good like sleeping, rocking. I am so tired right now, a feeling I like and if I only could I would wish to dream.