I cried at Field of Dreams.
It wasn't Dad I was thinking of --
it was you --
us, lobbing that ball
back and forth.
You blossomed: Specht Fans 11 … Tuesday night.
Fireballer Bob Specht struck out 11 and allowed only two hits in leading the BPO Elks to a 4-0 victory over Lee Plumbing.
You were ten.
You threw so hard
my hand burned even with a catcher's mitt and sponge.
others caught you.
Age fifteen, and your career was done.
You were musical;
played trombone in the marching band.
School? You did well,
but were never really exceptional.
You defied conventions,
went to extremes.
In college, it wasn't enough to just protest;
you had to join the SDS,
to always be daring the police to arrest you.
You took heroin, mescaline, speed, cocaine.
You were cynical, negative, moody;
scorned all masks and indirection.
What you offered was a ruthless honesty:
in a fake and superficial world,
no small commodity.
You married --
Justice of the Peace, no friends or family.
It didn't last;
Talked of suicide, occasionally.
I argued it to be a misunderstanding
of emotions' relativity:
Only the starving understand
the exquisite flavor of plain bread.
Work took us farther apart.
You became obsessed with a married woman
who had no intention of leaving her husband.
Injured your eye in a car accident.
The doctor prescribed corticosteroids.
I fell in love and got married.
You were best man.
P.M., May 20, 1981: A body was discovered in the kitchen of the second floor apartment at 68 High St. by the building's owner, Joseph Albertson. Mr. Albertson positively identified the body as that of Robert Edward Specht, the apartment's leasee. The deceased had received a gunshot wound to the head. A .25-caliber Beretta revolver registered to the deceased was found one foot from the body. The substantial damage to the face and head, consistent with a very close firing range, the lack of any signs of intrusion or struggle, and the written materials (identified as being in Mr. Specht's handwriting) found next to the body, indicate that the wound was self-inflicted.
You'd left a note: "No hope of finding love. Refuse to live without."
Was it the accident, the drugs
that made you less communicative?
My marriage? Some inner-driven change?
Would that I could have eased your pain.
You were thirty-one.
November is full of change,
And I swear that on my own grave.
And soon after November passes,
I swear on my mothers ashes,
Nothing will be the same.
When all you want to do is create,
But all your creations are struck solid-
As if passed through by the gaze of Medusa.
Massive waves of destruction churn and rage,
As if tragedy was the true mother of Aviendha.
And October’s anxieties are much too real
In the face of November’s wounds to heal.
December’s arrival is both relief and restraint;
From grandmother wreaths and 4 year old birthday cakes.
20 came and went and so far I have not succumbed
To the throes of dear death’s mighty blows
And I guess the real test is surviving the age of 21.
And see the difference
between my parents,
To see the difference
between me and them.
November’s change is soon to arrive-
It will not carry me from the burden of being alive,
And sometimes I can’t tell if that plea is for something beyond immortality:
The kind of thing the mortal wouldn’t believe.
November’s change is hot on our tails
And I know, that if all else fails,
I have a love stronger than the
Intermittent call of death.
Meet me on the other side,
The in betweens and underneaths
Meet me in our last breath
And the glaze that covers our eyes.
Meet me where we can make every end meet.
I have known this fool from half way through high school,
And the best part about it is watching the fool replace himself
With the will of gods that only exist in myths,
And the strength of a thousand dead martyrs.
And it's gonna get harder man, it's gonna get a lot harder-
But the longer you remain,
your bones will begin to hold the secrets
On how to kill your demons.
The longer you remain,
The endorphins will drift from your veins
And your soul will take their place.
In 2017, at this age,
What normal human being isn't coping with these societal traditions
By forcing their brain into addiction?
These are ancient laws of man, transcending modern knowledge.
Evolution made us capable of questioning our origin or divinity,
And some dare say that an imaginary man gave them this gift of sight;
Societal traditions to condition us into complacent perpetuation of the history that enslaves us.
Lately I haven't been able to hold one train of thought without
Going off the rails, but instead of crashing and burning,
I just travel at the speed of light around all the answers
that could be right.
Ultimately you inspired me to say
I am so proud that you are here today.
With my brothers wild spirit tamed by opiates,
He lingers on my bicep in memorial form
He lingers in the prayers I whisper to the dead,
As gods do not hear your prayers.
(they are too busy creating universes and
punishing their own creations
for acting out of free will)
My prayers are answered by people I know,
Whose physical forms met quietus.
They live on in otherworldly favors,
They live on in signs and vibes.
There is more to death than meets the eye.
Tangent after tangent,
I shall come to a close.
My brother was lost to needle and tar:
He passed away at the grocery store,
In the emptiness of his only car.
My friend, you are not lost
And you are still with us.
I'm so proud you now know the cost
Of instantaneous gratification offered by
The murder drug.
It takes a lot to say nothing
I'm coming to find that my soul has been screaming my whole life
And I am just now able to translate its tongues
Into some sort of verbal vomit
That a human could possibly understand
I have never felt like a true part of this socially structured civilization
I have never felt like a homosapien shaped by its surroundings, its perception
Instead I have felt like a source of energy that flows without molecular or even atomic ties to this universe
Confined to a physical form in a four dimensional realm
If you cleave away the ego, you can feel the infinite
I have so much more to say,
And I have struggled my whole life in finding things to say
That matter, that are relevant
And I've come to realize that my soul has been screaming my entire life
And I am finally able to translate the tongues
Into something meaningful to say.
You may not hear the divinity in the language I use
You may not feel the sincerity in my soliloquies
But I do, and my perception is what shapes my reality
And only I can save me, now
The selfishness in the selfless
And the hollowed out remains of the empath
I can't be the only one who hears this piercing noise?
And this sickness that runs through the planets veins?
The agonized cry of every species on the earth harmonized into the humming vibration some call the will of god
Our pain is ricocheting through the void we reside within
An echo chamber of screams
I do not believe in hell because it cannot get worse than this.
No, not this moment, you may have misunderstood
The progression of these moments will lead to an inevitable end
An end to end every beginning
I am not the only one who knows that the dead are just no longer physically present
I am not the only one who knows that humans are parasites
I am not the only one who can feel the agony of someone I have never come across
Our souls all scream on a frequency
That only those who truly listen can hear.
Shake up your bones
And pluck your veins
In hopes for a rhythm,
or a melody.
The body is your medium
Between the mind of the soul
And the crushing reality
None of us can comprehend the same.
You can still find inspiration in rotting corpses-
Keep your tombstones to yourself.
The only things constant in life are change and death.
Invisible languages that only the mad can hear
Make them prophets in their own eyes,
And insane in ours.
Spoke to Lucifer.
She was dead before her body gave
Her eyes were shallow, empty
There is nothing
To the soulless body
Who you gave you life.
I am haunted by the deceased.
They do not come in physical form,
They do not come in my dreams.
They do not come to bring me harm,
They do not come to bring me peace.
They come in spurts when my fingers
Set sail over the pages, or the screen,
They come into my words when I can't hear myself think.
I do not write for me anymore,
I write for ghosts.
The magic of the mentally ill
Is the ability they master, with time,
To continue on and thrive
With a hell built into their mind.
I sobbed so hard they thought I was laughing
And instead of screaming, I whisper, silent enough that only
The weak of mind can hear.
And there's something to be said for
The weaker than the average human
And how I have to say they're different from you-
in a negative tone-
Just so you'll comprehend the difference
Between us and you.
Truth is we are stronger than anyone
Will ever give us credit for
And in our solemn solitude
We find ourselves wishing for release
Through whatever could get us out the fastest
From this hell built into our minds.
Truth is we are never going to escape.
Instead we adapt, we tie the knots between hell and heaven
And we thrive
Despite the hell built into our minds.
I am starting to think I don't make mistakes
And rather, mistakes make me.
His favorite play is "Something rotten,"
His favorite woman is someone rotten,
Spoiled with the love she doesn't deserve.
Her hair ran past her back as a child,
But as time grew shorter and shorter,
So did her brown curly locks.
Her mother bestowed them upon her,
Among other things, she tried to cut short.
"Look at the moon," he says,
As he drives us home
I hope I'm your right hand woman
Like you are the wind beneath my wings.
I am always making mistakes,
They follow me around,
closer than my shadow-
From spilled beer to spilled guts
I wish sometimes I kept it to myself.
I am always making new passageways
Through the love you keep around,
Give me your miles, I take lightyears
And still you hold me at night without doubts that
July 20th, 2020
Will be the day my mistakes
Have all lead to a life of what love was made to be.