(We were called the HUGI TWINS - pronounced hoogie - we still are :-))

We were joined at the mustaches
Of chocolate milk
And giggles
Daring preschool to challenge us
On the ****** journey
Of out-of-mommy's-sight.  

I sat next to him
Immediately taken
By his first words
"What's YOUR name?"
Like he had one he had to share
But knew it wasn't polite
To just blurt it out.
In those three words
He owned me
Whether he wanted to
Or not.  

We authored world conquering agendas
On short chairs
And nap mats
Giving away all our secrets
In shouting whispers of confidentiality
(Consistently amazed
Of our teacher's Prophetic thwarts).  

Batman and Robin plagarized us
For we were unity
Inseperable
Born to co-dependency
Birthed to this bond
Which we wore like an arrogant badge
Making jealous
All the other 5 year olds.  

Inside the doors
Of lower education
We were royalty.
In the outer world
We were famous explorers
Almost too famous
Passing on the one adventure
That caved in
On three of our friend's lives.  

The alley was the highway to everything -
The playground
The market
And Russell's house.
Russell was older
Cool
And our friend.
He made us important
Until we "matured"
And became the new cool.
Southside
That's how we ride
(ok, bike...).  

But then it happened  

My crime-fighting cohort
Was taken captive
By menacing parents
And forced to move
Across town.  

I would cry as he pulled away.  

Small towns
And single high schools
Demand one fact -
There will be a reunion.  

In the same marble halls
Which echo with the footsteps
Of our fathers
The dynamic duo reignite.  

Our chariot was legend
As the Hugimobile
In Starsky and Hutch red and white
Became our calling card.
Filled with flying manes
Obscure sports paraphenalia
And healthy egos
The Show was on the road.  

The residue of living was co-owned
In the trenches
His closet was mine
My closet was his.
Everything was communal -
Ideas
Girlfriends
Jobs.
We got our nickname
Buckin' hay
And selling family bibles
Door to door
Stopping with each victory
To generate business for DQ
One cherry coke and cone
At a time.  

But those are things -
Granted
Good things
But things nonetheless.

He is more
Than good things.
He is the anchor
Of faithfulness.
He wields forgiveness
Like a shield.
When others cut and run
He picks me up
Not only from enemy hurts
But from hurts that I have caused
On my own.  

Without reward
He has eaten the burnt goods
Of my friendship
And smiled.
He introduced me to humility
For which I can never repay.
We are forever friends
Because he is forever benevolent.
And when I In these years
Find that tender boy
Fallen
He looks at me and says
"What's YOUR name?"
Strengthening I in my spirit
I reply "Hugi Twin"
Then remember I am something
Because of that unmerited favor.

Dead summer skin falls from the yielding trees
The bitter wind makes a bitter me
Grumbling inner man regretting
Ungrateful thanks in sweating
Longing for lighter clothes
I blow my chafed nose
People scamper
Teeth clamper
My fun
Done

Whatever doesn't **** you makes you stronger
unless it cripples you.

If I should die on Christmas Day
wrap me in ribbons and sing me away
be merry and thankful and have a soiree
If I should die on Christmas Day.

If I should leave on Christmas Eve
invite all my friends and help them believe
that sorrow is fruitless and love is reprieve
If I should leave on Christmas Eve.

If I should pass on yuletide high
drink hot apple wassail and pass out the pie
share stories of soul bonds and laugh till you cry
If I should pass on yuletide high

If I should set my spirit free
let Christmas on earth rejoice for me
make crazy, bright baubles and trim the large tree
If I should set my spirit free

If I should on that day depart
give purposeful gifts of love and of art
for Christmas will shine from my heavenly heart
If I should on that day depart

If I should die on Christmas Day
thank God that He chose to take me that way
the ending is perfect in script and cliche'
If I should die on Christmas Day

Versus - Movement I

I love her
But she is bigger than my endurance

She is the poster child of Discontentment
Whose sorrowfully diseased heart
Must secretly wear inconvenient braces
To hold up her chronically heavy burdens.
She is sad there in the picture
Standing with the forced smile
Beside the unconquerable walls
Of photo opportunities
and no-win situations.
We wallow in the awwwwws
Of her childlike innocence
Draped in tattered dreams
Built somewhere between lack of resolve
And incompetence.

The unreal expectations from her youth
Haunt her like reoccurring nightmares
Coming again to chase her off the cliff
Or tangle her in the struggle
Of powerless punches
From which she awakens
Sweat-drenched
And weeping.

She asks for answers
But only hears questions
Try as she might
She cannot find a positive meal
In Hope's kitchen
If it were administered intravenously
By the arch angel Michael.
She fears good news
Worse than bad news
For everything after a good report
Can only go downhill.

Her monsters are born
In the cauldron
Of pessimism
Anger
And spiritual arsenic
Untainted by reality
Which would only serve
To dilute the strength of her desperation.
Her demons are immortal
Terrifying beyond explanation
Larger than stability
The kind that makes Chuck Norris
Weep in his pillow.

Each and every torment
Is finely crafted
uniquely turned
Without one grain of truth
Immaculately conceived in failure,
Regimented rehearsal,
And late night confections.

I don't know whether to pity her
Encourage her
Scream at her
or
Leave her.
(Don't even think it.
I will not hear the criticism
For saying the thing
You were to afraid to speak out loud.)

I ask her
Why the promise of her life
Must be cruelly beaten
Into crippling impossibilities.
She pauses for inventory
Behind the foggy
Salt showered lashes
Of her imaginary world
And professes,
"I cannot stop it...
I cannot stop thinking."

I love her
But I cannot walk
Through the valley of death
With her.
Nobility with wisdom
does not call
For two souls to die
From empathy.
No, even more than two
For we are not detached.
Legacy has children.
Others always die with you
In the draft of your wake.
Someone must live.
So I shall be the one
In the midst of the hopeless watch
So that my light
Pushes back her darkness
And those that are mine
Will see clearly
The path of overcoming.


Versus- Movement II

I long for sunshine
                                You seek the rain
I turn from the labor
                                You welcome pain
I choose the easy
                                You have to strain
I walk in logic
                               You might be insane

I live for laughter
                                You die to cry
I am the summer
                                You're winter skies
I'm mocha latte
                                You're green tea chai
I want attention
                                You don't know why.

I have few boundaries
                                You follow rules
I think I'm funny
                                You think I'm a fool
I go with the flow
                                You're stuck like a mule
I love the next fad
                                You are old school.

I watch expressions
                                You watch the time
I think on the lovely
                                You dwell on the slime
I trek over problems
                                Yours are a climb
I am the free verse
                                You need to rhyme

I shout my dreams
                                Yours are unspoken
I prize strong words
                                Yours are a token
I'm alive in my spirit
                                You need to be woken
My glass is half full
                                Yours is all broken

I'm the road less traveled
                                Your path is well worn
I grasp for renewal
                                Your doubts are reborn
I hate that I love you
                                You love that I'm torn
I'm lost in my freedom
                                You're found in the scorn

(regarding the death of my son)

I fear very little
but the one thing I DO fear
is forgetting the sound of his voice.  

It was 70 year-old husky
by the age of 14.
The manifestation was a quartet bass
tucked neatly in the body
of a fray-headed sparrow.
If you closed your eyes
the lumberjack you imagined
would be tickled to see
the tiny powder keg
that actually stood before you.
Inside the resonance was a warm huckster laugh,
half good ole boy,
half saint,
half comforter.
He was fifty percent more real
than anyone I knew.
On the good days his chuckling possessed him
to the point of breathlessness.
His joy-tears are the Rembrandts of our memories
never to be tarnished by any pity demons.
But on the bad days his laughter trailed away
into a pugilistic cough.
It's the one thing I fear I will always remember.
Yet when he spoke the sincerity was so ominous
that any inaccuracies seemed irrelevant.
Love was the spine of his vocabulary.
There were no meaningless words.
Regardless of the lettering
they all had the root meaning
of clemency.
He spouted new beginnings
and hope
regardless of past mistakes of failures.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
for I fear that I have already forgotten my own.  

Today it speaks only of him being gone.
Reliquishing are the days
that were full of him.  
I submit to songs that were his
and find myself tethered to unmerited heaviness.
No matter how loud I scream
the present rains on me
and my voice is lost
in the sickness of the storm.
I cannot turn it off.
I press my radio presets
to chase away the Rascal Flatt residue in my head
and land on a Christian station.
**** it.
The only thing he loved more than Rascal Flatts
was Jesus.
Me too. But not today.
I just want to stop crying.  

It's the magician's multi-colored scarves
tied corner to corner
in a endless tug of futility and frustration.
The more I want the prank to stop
the more irritating the infinite parade of colors becomes.
I pull again and again hoping the next scarf,
the next involuntary sorrow,
will be the last one.
I open my mouth in concious agenda
to change directions
and speak of the blessings I have
in my other children
only to find his name tied to the last name
which was his as well
just in another color.
I cannot stop speaking of him
no matter how hard I try.
And I wonder if my kids know
that I know
they're suffering in his shadow
and I can't fix it.  

I fear very little
but I fear I will forget the sound of his voice
as I am forgetting mine
and terrified that I may be muting theirs as well.