He walked miles for a girl in
reading sunglasses
that sat with her feet propped up on a Mississippi
verandah
sunset shining in the lenses, reflecting,
her eyes, his eyes,
his heart
never looked so swollen as the day that she put it in
Tupperware and ate it with a plastic fork,
driving home to Delaware on an
empty tank of gas
clutching a scratched rosary, telling herself it was
still pure, that
unpurity sunk into the Mississippi sands and
she doesn’t think that southern seashells will ever find their way
to the east coast.

Ten years later, he is still standing in the
same place she left him,
creaky board on a smashed front porch,
except today he wears a terrycloth bathrobe but
still barefoot, callused,
cracks from heel to heel, he sets out, towards
the highway, newly built and roaring
like Africa
it runs behind his old place, and he often finds himself
wandering after a shot of too much whiskey,
finds a place between a memory and a slight drunk,
finds a place to sit his ass and watch the cars go by,
swearing at each
motherfucking damn car…
this remains relevant as he sometimes sees
her eyes
during these moments,
glancing back in the rearview
and he will feel the acid running, acid rising
from his stomach,
burning the back of his throat,
then goes back down.

She sits in church and doodles
his name on the back of  
a donation pamphlet,
stained glass light turns her white dress
red
blood wrenching, heart
bleeding, invisible
and she thinks to herself that
“this is the strangest thing that has ever happened to me”
How often do we bleed invisibly?
Unknowably?

They write letters to each other
that will never be sent, and
if they were,
would never make it to the right addresses
return to sender
return to the places in between your bones where
the sadness sits,
a tulip wilted with frost,
anguish oozed out by accident.

Wipe them on your kitchen towel,
keep going.

I notice you the moment I walk in
You, however, don't give a damn
Looking at your pretty little associates
Giggling over some inane matter
While you sit like you are
Some kind of holy,
With a shit-eating grin
On your face. Your attention
Doesn't waver from them

I walk inside, intensely tired
Gone insane with all the fake-
grins and the somewhat awkward
Fun we all had. Your attention
Doesn't waver from your papers
Your precious little papers
I note, with a sardonic grin
I close my eyes and simply
Don't care any more as I
Strip out of my clothes
Chuck off my stupid heels
And fall on the bed, letting
Out a sigh of relief, comfort
Finally, I get to relax
My spine relaxes but it tingles
With awareness of the
Audience. I open my eyes
My vision blurry from over-use
I meet his gaze across the room

He keeps staring
Disconcerted and too weary to deal
With his mood-swings, I close my eyes
And bury my face in the pillow

My head is hurting, it is pounding
And I am at the end of my rope
He comes with slow, languid strides
Makes me sit-up, hands over the flask
Filled with water, my name engraved
On the cap, and a pamphlet of Aspirin
I praise the medical wonders
As I knock it down and lie on the bed again
I can feel it acting its magic
My nerves are loosening out
My head is being quietened bit by bit

As my vision blackens, I notice his
Face, eyes, expression
Strangely, something looks
Like longing on his face

When I was a kid, like
10 or 11 or 9, somewhere
In that range of my unbeknownst Reign
As Emperor of Planet Goofball,

My sisters would torture me
With the stupidest, corniest jokes
In all of existence.

It’s no wonder I can hardly
Remember diddly.

The worst, though, was
The unwanted midget-sized
Plunger salesman
(Who sold mini-sized plungers –
I’m not trying to imply that he himself
Was a midget – that would have
Been trey cool)
Who wished to gain access
By sticking something in
The door of my mind…

Emotional
Equivalent of fluffy snow
Packed hard fast and tight
Around a perfectly round
Chunk of ice.

“HEY TEDDY BEAR!”
(I’m trying to hide, not
Realizing I make more noise than
Six kids duct-taped together)
“WANNA HEAR A JOKE?”
(Silent, thinking: You mean the
One you’ve told 18 times a day
For the last three weeks? Criminy,
I can’t even do math that high!)
“KNOCK-KNOCK!”
(Oh Lord in Heaven, spare me this)
“WHERE’D HE GO?”
(I’m under a huge pile of laundry,
Which includes several pairs of Dad’s
REALLY stinky underwear)
“HE WENT DOWN THE BASEMENT!”
(Jumped down the entire flight of stairs,
And if my feet had balls, they’d be smashed)
They pass me by, probably faking
That they didn’t see me. I flee in terror
Back up the stairs.

(Now I’m actually sleeping, having
Successfully hid by lifting the couch
Up on two feet and squirreling
Myself beneath it)
They eventually heard me snoring.
Oh, it was relentless.

Strapped to a chair.
(I’m seated snugly between my older sisters)
Bright light shining in my eyes,
(It’s actually evening, dark inside the house
The only light from the streetlight outside)
(Heavy heaved sigh)
(Who’s there)
“YOU WALRUS!”

The plunger salesman has all his
Wares spread out on every conceivable
Surface of the living room. And
He’s going through his spiel. And
I feel my hand reaching for my snow-shoveling
And lawn-mowing money I never ever
Saved up for, because if I had it, I’d
Spend it, but for the sake of argument…

I pay for every single stupid
Piece of miniature midget-sized plungers.
(You Walrus-who?)
YOU WALRUS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE!
Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha ad infinitum.

That’s just the first one on the first page.
There were probably 8,433 pages
(55)
In that encyclopedia
(Pamphlet)
And most of them were much,
Much worse than that one.

“HEY TEDDY KNOCK-KNOCK!”
(Sam and Janet)
“HUH?”
(Sam and Janet Evening, We Will Be Together)

Now that people are becoming more aware of my poetic efforts, interests are being expressed regarding the background of my poetry - in addition, to my spiritual muse. In this installment, I share the background and poem "In Remembrance of Grandma".

I recognize that most of you reading this article will not know much about my maternal Grandmother, other than what you're able to glean from this page. However, there are universal lessons that need to be shared. This poem was originally written for her funeral.

For nearly forty years, I was blessed to have known my grandparents; blessed - because many people don't have the opportunity to know their family history personally from those who came before them. Within about one decade, mine were all gone - with my maternal grandmother being the last one to die. Of the four of them, I had spent the most time with her. My grandmother had moved to Portland, Maine; this came about as the result of two significant events in her life. First, her husband Al Massa died unexpectedly; second, her oldest daughter (and my mom) had gone through a divorce. So they decided to purchase a home jointly and move on with their lives. Also living with them was my aunt Tina, my mother's younger sister.

My grandmother was an intelligent woman; she was one of those people who completed the New York Times crossword puzzles - in ink and usually in under an hour. And she grew some of the most beautiful roses in her tiny backyard. It was wonderful to see the joy in her eyes when it came to her flowers. The problem was that she was heart-broken when Al passed away; for decades they would go dancing at night, just to hold one another more often. With him gone, she stopped living for herself. Less than a year from his retirement, her husband died on the picket line at work. Although I can only imagine her grief, it was difficult to see the affects of this tragedy slowly eat away at her soul. She rarely left her home, with the exception of going to Church, the grocery store or some of the neighbors' homes a few times during the month. She and Al were to go to Hawaii for a second honeymoon, but she could not bear to go there without him. In The Word, we are essentially reminded that "people without vision perish" (and yes, I know that there are variations of interpretation of this concept). Despite our ability to absorb pain, we must learn to move forward in life and not let the pain consume us.

For many years, she smoked cigarettes and was unwilling to give them up. She did so eventually; my mother moved out of their house, Tina got married; she and her husband lived with my grandma. Tina and husband Greg started their own family, raising three boys - thus giving her the incentive to quit. As most everyone knows, smoking increases one's risk of having cancer. My family were under the impression that she had managed to escape the misery of that disease. Less than two weeks from her death was when most of the family learned that she had contracted cancer and emphysema.

Although I understand and appreciate the need for privacy, it was selfish of my grandmother not to share the condition of her health. Her justification for not telling anyone, was that she had decided not to go through with the cancer treatment. By not telling us, she figured that no one would be given the opportunity to dissuade her from her decision. After all, it was her decision (and rightfully so). Before she died, Tina started quickly gathering information about cancer - to better learn about what to expect regarding the few remaining days of her mother's life. One cancer brochure shocked her; as a result of reading the material, she was now having to deal with guilt. This particular pamphlet laid out symptoms and patterns of human behavior of those suffering from this fatal disease - stuff that Tina had observed, but never realized the meaning of until it was too late. So in effect, my grandmother caused her family more pain by not sharing. In addition, not everyone who cared about her, had enough time to say good-bye (while she was alive).

Although I had time to compose this brief poem in her honor, I did not have enough time to process my grandmother's death fully (prior to the service). I was supposed to read the following poem and share a few words. To my surprise, I was choked up with immense grief, which kept me from delivering my eulogy; my wife kindly stepped in and presented the poem. One of my brothers was extremely upset for my inability to talk on behalf of my grandmother; so he spoke on my family's behalf. It's one of my few regrets in life; however, she was the only grandparent of mine that got to read my poetry manuscript. Less than two months before her death, she had taken time read my poetry and was pleasantly pleased with my efforts. During her appraisal of my work was the first time I learned that she wrote poetry - as of today, I've never gotten to read a line of poetry that she wrote. So it breaks my heart not to know what she composed, as well as not being able to share any more of my writing with her. And so here is my tribute for her...



　

In Remembrance of Grandma

A manicured garden
of colored, cultured roses
now goes untended.
For Marguerite has been freed
of all mortal constraint;
left behind
is a silver trowel
and dancing shoes,
as her spirit flies
to the Hawaiian shore
for pirouetting barefoot
on the seashell sand.

Goodbye Grandma Massa; I miss you already.
(18 June 2006)

to three zero four turnstone, back right bedroom, one red wall,
one year ago.
things improve.
I remember how much you hurt.
I remember how badly your skin blistered inside those cinderblock walls,
the ticking clock, burning eyes, deadened.
I remember the way your voice wavered over the turf and into the pitch-black sky
pinching yourself, aching with the one pounding word pumping again and again:
finally finally finally finally finally finally
you had plans to fulfill and places to be and you knew what they were and that you were going to get them just as soon as you could crawl through the sludge of the months holding you back.
I liked to be free on a wednesday morning, just before lunch. there is always something about the allure of a store so many hours before you will arrive out of breath at the door just to watch the "open" sign flicker off.
I learned to enjoy that summer, I really did,
but lodged somewhere behind a kidney I remember a pair of teeth so tightly clenched that they were beginning to crack.

to three zero four turnstone, back right bedroom, one red wall,
two years ago.
things improve.
I can dive inside my memory and watch your face distend and bubble with tears as you painstakingly pace your way through every goddamn college pamphlet you were ever mailed.
I don't like to remember; I still know how acutely you bled,
and how much I'd like to reach back to pull you from your misery and show you what we have done.
I know that you know things will sharpen and blossom and that's why you're crying so wholly;
perk up love, hold fast to your countdown,
fail to combust with ravenous envy as others cross the illustrious stage,
I'm waiting for you here and I promise it really is everything you've ever wanted.

to eight five zero jerry's lane, second floor, front right bedroom, lavender walls,
four years ago,
things improve.
I remember those dry eyes and that flawless exterior,
I remember the knot in your throat and the clamp on your heart that played games with your head.
for the love of god and your health
will you shake your own shoulders so hard you see stars?
no one you meet worth a dime of your time will judge you as hard as yourself,
and I have found even in darkness you will never face demons completely alone.
I want you to climb to your rooftop and fill your lungs with the air of the ashes that haunt you;
for every heart that is broken we also break ground.

to six two three zero north kenmore, fourth floor, southeastern side, western bedroom, perfect white walls,
present day,
things are whirling forward.
finally finally finally finally finally finally

dear alcohol,

i wish you wouldn't take his mind so
and turn him into this hideous version of himself
i wish you could hold back your molecules from meeting with his mouth
because once you let them in it is over for me
there are no more rational thoughts or good night kisses
just anger and voices that get louder and louder
just the demonstration of someone in an aa pamphlet
he represents the past of a man who ends up losing everything
because he threw a fit when someone took his bottle
and stomped on his only love to get it back

dear alcohol,

please save us women of the world
whom dread your presence the most
especially after a long hard day
you infect the only thing that matters
you bring us closer to accepting that this is it
and how it always will be

Goliath:
You buy your love with bourbon creams,
cans of beans and full cupboard brims;
steal clothes to hide a torso of lies
twist that in with teaspoon brown eyes,
deeper than any holy bible’s spine:
found in hotel drawers,
away from the preachy, needy, cast iron shrine.

David:
Whilst the girl you’re with has nothing to give,
no family member nor money splendour,
you battle on with the train rides
cross country,
cross country train track guides.
Audiobook it; listen to it; learn it and write it,
write the letter she deserves, explaining
the ins and outs of your hidden nerves:
the nerves entitled ‘I don’t love you anymore’


My first poetry pamphlet, 'Homeland & Borderland' is still available to buy for only 3.00 GBP with free P+P to anywhere in the world. Both handmade and self published>> http://www.coffeeshoppoems.com/2012/11/it-is-here-homeland-border­land.html