It came from the blue,
Not quite true,
For we had been scared a time or two to be true,
But now,
WOW,
Such a tiny "+" symbol can change so much.

You now rest in your Mama,
Just the size of a jellybean,
but our little Bam beano.
how you'll grow.

Will you love Harry Potter,
Star Wars,
both, neither?

In my dreams I see you playing the guitar,
but I'd be just as happy if you decided to play the bassoon,
to follow your dreams,
and love the journey for the beautiful chaos that it is.
To be foolish and terrifying,
because like Willi Carlisle says,
"It takes a certain kind of fool,
to make a difference in the world."

I imagine you being kind,
and these acts bring tears to my dilated eyes.

Speaking of eyes,
Will you have your mother's or my eyes?
Here entrancing green or my steely blue?
Will the world harden your eyes to what you see,
or will what you see soften you to what you can do?

Sweet child,
are you my daughter or my son?
Will you have me wrapped around your finger?
Or will you have me thinking of my own old man,
trying to not do what he failed in and copy what he had succeeded with.

I think of the future,
the danger,
the cost,
the sheer time.

God the time.

When you learn to drive, I'll be 44,
graduate with the class of 40 or 41.

My God the time.

We can't wait to meet you, my child,
Our sweet little bean,
Whether you're a Wyatt or an Ellise,
Just know that Mommy and Daddy love you,
and can't wait to show you the world,
with all in it to be seen.

It zips forward and past,
Through and around,
Tick Tock goes the hazy clock,
Apples decay to fuzzy and shriveled husks,
Beside blooming lilies.

Just five and a half years,
Transformation in the oddest of ways,
arriving bitter and broken,
Moving along this next path as excited and improved.

Momentum gaining,
like breaking into a run downhill,
where any moment's hesitation brings devastation and disorientation,
Heartbeat hammering from a stone solid 50 to 105,
is it anticipation that drives this acceleration.

Ecstasy of movement and insanity,
like feather brushes of fae-like intent,
getting lost in fogs of spirituality and philosophy.
Brutal momentum of guitar strings being finger picked,
Psychically projecting images of brutal revenge and bitter grief

Madness? No
******....

What are you, a cop?

Missing a step now,
the stumble turns into a tumble,
as the green of the grass flash past, as does the blue-white of the sky. Blue then green, blue then green,
blue green,blue green, blue green,
bluegreen, bluegreen, bluegreen
bluegreenbluegreenbluegreenbluegreen.

The hill turned out to be a cliff,
stomach roiling as I fall,
into some fantastic and manic vision below.

Seeing as it's 6:45 in the morning,
I pray that this will suffice,
That a poem on your phone,
Beats a petal on a pillow,
In the Tuesday morning light.

It's your kind and empathic nature my May Queen,
That I find so sweet,
That you could be such a rousing supporter,
Of my dumb jokes and my argumentative streak.

I promise next time will be a pedal,
The fortune teller said that'd be fine,
So sleep well my lion, dragon, and May Queen,
Revel in the sandman's night time delights.

Oh my beautiful May Queen,
Sleeping beside me on this bed,
Your hair tousled,
Breathing soft and rythmic,
Dog staring out the window to your left.

I wonder to myself,
On this Saturday morning,
Of how lucky I could be,
To have met such a pearlescent example of goodness in the world,
And graced enough to have you see me.

Your kindness is without second,
Your gentleness bar none,
With a mischievous streak a mile long,
And a loving tenderness that sings out to my heart a great and gentle song.

A balm to my anger,
Your words and touch have been,
A gentle pouring of warm water upon my heart set abalze,
To temper my hatred and my rage.

I know that I wish to wed you my May Queen,
Who sleeps gently by my side,
Perhaps you'll dance and merrily keen,
At that ring if gold and jewel inside.

But for now my love,
I must sleep again,
For sleep piles heavy at my eyes,
So that I may wake up,
So happy and carefree,
That you are by my side

Sitting and swinging,
On the bench of my Grandfather's lakeside home,
Where warm summers were spent,
Learning to swim, ski, and fish in Kentucky waters,
Where I read The Stand in a week,
When I was only 13 years old.

Where I plinked at soda cans with a BB gun,
Had corn on the cob, hushpuppies, and catfish,
Had annual family putt putt competitions,
And night's filled with dominoes and stayed up until 3,
Just sitting on the porch and watching the moon bathed lake,
Passing a J and listening to the crickets,
Softly holding discussions regarding topics from music to the planets,
We truly talked about everything.

That summer we spent fixing up that job boat, swimming the half mile across the cove without a life jacket,
Where I truly felt at peace.

They took you off life support,
The day the willow flies died,
I went back to work,
Finished my shift,
But to tell the truth I felt hollow inside.

You were already brain dead,
The doc's said,
That you wouldn't be in any pain,
But all that was running through my head,
Was memories of disturbingly good meatloaf,
And looking forward to you birthday cakes made from scratch,
Every single year.

I thought of the horror my mother must be going through,
Watching her life long friend,
Tube down her throat,
Having to watch her pass.

Eyes stinging from loss,
Anger bubbling deep inside,
Need to go get drunk,
Smash some ****,
That's a healthy way to deal with it....

Right?

Your raspy laugh, joining into with my mom's fit of guffaws,
At some dumb inside joke,
That all started when you two were still in grade 5.


I get home to the apartment,
Bring the whiskey to my lips,
It's frostbite burn making it's way down my throat,
To pool,
Swirl,
And radiate out,
Making me numb and glacial cold.

It was so unexpected,
That's the rub,
To blindside us,
To make this hurt so raw,
But it's the fact that you were one of the TRULY good ones,
That's what chaps me most of all.

One of those special breed,
That makes you want to shout up at God,
To unleash your grief, anger, and dare I say it, hatred?
To spit in the face of some divine plan?

It poured down though,
A downward deluge so bad it's as if it's Him confirming,
That he is saddened by having to do it too.

She told me as they wheeled you out of your hospital room,
The staff lined the hall,
As they wheeled you to that surgical suite,
Where you were to perform your last physical act of kindness in the world,
To donate your lungs and and kidney to people who desperately needed them,
And that makes me tearfully wonder too.

Will they ever know of you,
Your gentle nature and generosity,
Loving demeanor and benevolent heart,
To help all those that you knew?
....
That they took you off life support,
They day the willow flies died,
Where the sun was bright,
It poured down lake Erie,
When the angel trumpets bloomed.

I sit in an ocean of empty Budweiser bottles,
Upon an island of Johnnie Walker Blue,
Mind flittering  through topics,
Whilst Steve Martin rocks the banjo,
Pickin' those old folk tunes.

I'm in a happy spot,
Between buzzed and blitzed,
That place you can only get to on a summer evening,
Or perhaps a bachelor party or two.

But listen to me ramble,
Please,
Come and take a seat,
Your dogs must be barking,
Would you like a cig?
Or perhaps a drink?

If it's neither that's no matter,
It's the company that keeps,
Just ignore my rambling when it crops up,
Treat it like a bad **** on a spring breeze.

You remember old cartoons?
What care and expertise.
Every cell hand drawn,
Fufilling every child's entertainment needs.

But what of old television programming?
What the hell happened to MTV?
Just give me my music videos and rock music,
Even if you can only go as far back as 2003.

Oops,
I'm doing it again,
How embarrassing,
Just a tipsy old fool,
Remember,
A **** on the spring breeze.

But seriously,
What about Vault?
Saturday morning cartoons?
Products as seen on tv?
Cha-cha-cha-chia?
Myspace?
Zines?

Perhaps you don't know what all those are,
Too young to remember the scene,
Of ska, skateboards, roller derbies,
Of Cribs, **** my ride, skating videos, and terrible tv.

Remember it all,
Those strange years,
Young and transitionary.

I remember it all,
Those strange, strange years,
Back in 2003.