I was having grand ole time wading about in my newly found Kiddie Pool. The water had a slight blue color against the beautiful white pool sides. My life had kind of been going down the drain lately but this seemed to be a rather fortuitous find.

I happened upon it one dark day when I was not seeing well and decided to stay awhile. I had let some things cloud my vision and dull my senses. I was so happy in my Kiddie Pool just doing my thing. Not a care in the world and I was very contented… life was easy. When all of a sudden the bottom fell out of my nifty Kiddie Pool. I soon found myself trying to stay afloat in the middle of what appeared to a vast ocean. The smell was not so great, actually it was down right awful! I was alone it seemed at first but I could hear the cries of others somewhere just beyond me.

Despair set in. I felt very broken. What happened? Life happened but why me?

Something or someone had pulled the handle on my Kiddie Pool that I so enjoyed. I had become accustomed to its “ambiance” but now I was really feeling flushed.

I discovered my Kiddie Pool was connected to a greater pool that went by the first name of Cess. The things I thought were water toys floating about me were not and they were killing me by degrees. The things of pleasure were dragging me down and my future did not look so grand any more. I cried out in the darkness hoping someone would hear me. “Oh God”, I screamed, “are you really there? I am lost. Please help me!”

I was going down for the third and final time when the Ship of Life appeared out of nowhere. I was hauled aboard by the Captain of the Ship. Rescued from the “flushing” I had endured after getting in the Kiddie Pool of Life. My feet were now on the Ship of Life. The Captain washed me clean. My head became clear and I could finally see where I had been and it was NOT pretty.

“I once was lost but now I am found.” How wonderful it is to be found.

I was terrified of water more than I feared death,
From the youngest age,
Looking back I guess this makes since,
I was the first to climb a tall ladder,
I was the first to climb over fences,
Talk to strangers,
I had no fear of death,
It had no bound on me,
Still I was afraid of water,
One day I woke up in my little green bed,
And decided I wanted to swim,
Before my fear would make me watch as the other children did,
So what's a toddler that can barely walk to do?
Give up? no no!
I had my mind set on it,
So I stumbled right down to the end of the dock,
One little leg lifted,
Followed by another,
I was in the water,
I almost drown that day,
But death did not prevail then,
I was not allowed on the deep end for years and years after other kids,
I grew up watching,
Dreaming,
Hoping,
That one day I would swim,
My father was too busy to teach me,
My mother was too sick to swim herself,
Relatives were far away,
So I grew up in kiddie pools,
It was boring,
So very boring,
Still years later,
Even the sight of a kiddie pool bores me,
I did not give up,
Although it was drilled into my head that the deep end is dangerous,
And so is swimming alone,
And so is not wearing a life vest,
And so is walking alone by water,
And that drowning was bad,
Very very bad,
It was drilled into my head that it should be my biggest fear,
And so it did,
But still,
Me being me I did not give up,
I would grab onto the edge of the sides of my little kiddie pool,
And paddle paddle my little feet,
I could stay afloat for a few seconds,
It took me years,
Years,
To learn how to swim,
No one taught me how,
I just tried and tried,
It still took me years to not be afraid of drowning,
That still haunts me,
But I'm still not afraid of tall ladders,
Or climbing over fences,
Or talking to strangers,
I love to swim,
I loved to swim even before I could swim,
I realized something recently,
The criticism from my family,
The jabs from my friends,
All about how I couldn't swim,
Made me want to swim even more,
And I did!
They never admitted that they were wrong,
My grandma thought I was slow I'm sure,
Now I've proved her wrong and all the others,
Yet still,
They expect me to fail,
I'll just keep remembering,
How they meant to tear me down,
But instead build me up,
That is the story of how I learned to swim.

LITTLE BARMAN IN THE CITY

SAYS LOOK AFTER THE LITTLE KIDDIE

HELP HIM UNDERSTAND HIS MUM

AS SHE TRIES TO HELP HIM YEAH

HELP ME HELP ME HELP HE SAID

BEFORE ANY ROBBER DESTROYS US

COME LITTLE KIDDIE COME TO ME

AND BE AS HAPPY AS CAN BE

YA SEE LITTLE KIDDIE LOOK AT ME

YA SEE YA DRINK TOO MUCH TEA

YOU NEED TO DETOX THAT LITTLE DRUG IN TEA

THAT MAKES YOU HAPPY AS CAN BE

HELP ME HELP ME HELP HE SAID

BEFORE YOUR FATHER SHUTS YOU UP

COME LITTLE KIDDIE, COME WITH ME, AND REALLY PARTY

LITTLE GARDEN OUT THE BACK OF THE PUB

OWNED BY THE REALLY RICH SNOBS

THEY WANT NOTHING FROM ME, BUT MONEY YEAH

TO MAKE THEM HAPPY AS CAN BE

HELP ME HELP HELP ME, HELP HE SAID

BEFORE THE ROBBER SHOOTS ME DEAD

COME LITTLE YOUNG DUDE COME WITH ME,

AND BE AS HAPPY AS CAN BE

BE AS HAPPY, BE AS HAPPY BE AS HAPPY AS CAN BE

HELP ME HELP ME HELP HE SAID,

THOSE OLD KODGERS, ARE BIG *******

COME LITTLE YOUNG YOUNG DUDE, PLAY WITH ME

AS HAPPY AS CAN BE

shallow is the understatement
to express your intents
towards our pseudo friendship

you are far above,
wrapped in your nonchalant cloud
your only concerns:
"will the weather be nice enough
to golf tomorrow?

are the wheels on my new car
shined well enough?"

just because you do not try
to be any deeper in life
than a kiddie pool
does not mean I should stoop down to you

You kiss me, I kiss you
You grab me, I stroke you
On we go, *** for tat
Push inside
Fill me up
Stretch me out
I cling to you, surround you, arouse you
Still and slow at first
and the pressure builds
Harder and faster, till we're all skin, and teeth, and nails
And the smack of my skin on yours
It's a race
You pull me, I push you
You scratch me, I bite you
On and on it goes
Breath mingling, sweat mixing
Till we both come
panting, leaning on each other
This is physical, the most carnal desire.
This I understand. In this we are mere objects; animals moving solely on instinct.
It's the occasional tender touches that confuse me.
A soft kiss on my forehead, your hand seeking out mine; these baffle me.
Sometimes I wish I knew your intentions, sometimes I wish I knew mine.
Do I want more from you then the physical? Do you desire more from me?
In my wondering sometimes I think it might be nice to have a part of you,
and to give you something more of me.
But you never ask and I'm reluctant to offer.
Where are your layers?
Are we deeper than this kiddie pool we've been wading in?
What are we?
You never ask and I'm too cowardly to offer.
So we remain laying together, so close yet so distant.

The dachshund loves her kiddie pool
The honeybees love theirs
The dachshund splashes to get cool
The bees mind their affairs

i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.

lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-

a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate's brine.
   salt in the wound
   salt in the wound

angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.

turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don't try to be more original.
what haven't we seen?

choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i'm exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.

-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i'm sick

of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i'm tired of razorblades,
but at least they're honest

speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i'm fighting it.

i'm ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you'll see me as a butterfly someday.

"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times

When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.

The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.

The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.

So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.

Today I saw a frog, dried up from the heat
close by I saw another, cracked upon the street
I counted thirty four in all, mummified and dry
Fifty feet from a dried out pond, I took some time to cry

The pond was once so vibrant, full of turtles and of frogs
But with the drought now here, you could count all of the logs
A stench so strong, it burned your eyes, if you chose to get near
Decomposing life, is all that's left, the pond is dead I fear

The pond, another victim of the crippling, hellish heat
Without the rain, it is just a monster we can't beat
The farmers put a spin on, give a positive sort of line
While they have to put their livestock down, their harvest die-ing on the vine

The fields are bare, the ground is dust, no life from it will come
You see the farmers trying everything, while we just stand there numb
Fans are running in the barns to keep the livestock cool
But the heat, it just gets stronger, you can't even use the pools

You could say they've dropped the middle man, as they grow dehydrated meals
The kiddie park and water park, have no water for their seals
You see the livestock out in the fields, looking for some grass to munch on
But, with the heat taking it all away, their field of grass has now gone

The cows, no longer vibrant, a leather coat on skin and bones
The farmers losing money, they're defaulting on their loans
The barnyards running empty, you can't even see a turkey
The cows themselves are so dried up, that the butcher calls them jerky

A break might come, the tv said, with a cold front moving through
But the grounds too hard to take the rain, what extra damage will it do?
The end result is prices will go up on all we eat
It's this ******* global warming, the creator of this heat

Look around at where you live, go and check your ponds and streams
Take note if they are die-ing, this is real, not in your dreams
Take action where it's needed, conserve water where you can
This is not a local problem, it affects the whole **** land

I saw a frog this morning...he was dead...it made me cry.......

my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.

how quickly i became
synonymous with
a snicker and a sneer.


they hate what they
don't know,
and they'll
fell you,
cast your
dead body into
deep water
along with
your electric.

hope you
feel the
cruel sting
of your
creation.

but all i
feel is empty.

missing
the freedom of
oxygen.

missing
expression.

god,
i'm sorry
for one transgression.

i at least confessed.

i gave truth.

they drown you for it.
they disown you for it.

if you knew everything
your loved ones did and
said and
thought,
they'd all
be
shocking you.

my words
fell like a
power line,
fell like a power
line into a kiddie pool.

My generation
Is the generation in waiting.
We're just waiting
For our lives to change.
We do all the things
We're supposed to,
And are still met
With criticism.

Because half of us
Are doing our best,
Working our hands to the bone,
Breaking down from some
Terrible disorder.
And the other half
Are just wading around in the kiddie pool,
Trying to find their footing into adulthood,
Or not.

The adults
That were the adults
That raised us
Like to only focus
On the half that's not even trying.

But we're the generation
In waiting.

We all waited to be eleven,
So our Hogwarts letters would come.
Because we wanted to escape
This pointless existence.

Now we're all twenty two or turning so,
Give or take a few months/years,
And we're waiting for the moment
Everything changes.

Waiting on that interview, that promotion, that phone call.
Waiting for someone to confess, waiting to confess,
Or in my case, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We wait,
Because we were never taught
That our lives were our own,
We were always considered
Tools to be used by others,
Our purpose isn't ours,
And that's not a bad thing.

We're in waiting,
Because we're waiting for someone to save us,
To come to our aid,
To grab our hands
And whisk us away
To a better place.

But maybe if we all stopped waiting,
Maybe if we got up and did things for us,
And therefore each other,
We wouldn't be the generation in waiting--
Rather, the generation of doing.

I look at Sil and start to SCREAM and yell and yammer excitedly with this new idea bursting forth -  Let’s go to Sunday mass hungover, or maybe still drunk. Maybe we can puke in the pews or confess our sins to the pederast priest! Sil, always an easy read, agreed instantly so we left the watering hole in the wall, brimming with stalwart stoic sin and soaking in ***, gin and ugh…pheromones.

“fadder I puked in yer pews. How many hail Marys is dat?”

“fadder I smoked a joint in the rectory.”

“fadder I occasionally sleeps wit men.” I cry,

We see his previously shock beet red face light up.

“Wit MEN fadder wit men.  Not little boys”

Disappointed pederast priest preaching piously about the sins of drugs and alcohol and *** and ****** and y’know, pretty much everything fun ever.

“fadder I sold me mudders dentures for new headshots.”

“fadder I was in a ****” et cetera. After the pederast has a coronary we’ll steal the communion wine and dance on the church *****. You can play a sweet soft soothing melody accompanied soliloquy or Debussy’s Claire de Lune. We’ll remember better days when he could still play and cry red tears, ****** drunk. Stuck in our respective funk ruts our calls to the coronary catholic become more somber.

“fadder I’m afraid. I’m afraid of dying…I’m afraid of living.”

Rolling around on the confession booth floor now,

“fadder I want to die, fadder I tried to **** myself”

Sil shows strong salient scalpel scars that we both still remember suturing shut.

“fadder I should be in the Waterford In-patient wing”

By now we’ve revived the poor old Father…As it happens he’s a rowdy red whiskey noser. Sil’s feeling good, rambunctious and reeling secretly seething I believe.

“So fadder explain to me why it’s a sin to love another man but every other ******* week some ******’ pillar of the community cops for kiddie ****?!” His ire is up, red cheeked wide eyed boiling over.

The priest is mute silent on the subject at first, finally looking up from a leather bound book, he starts to speak in careful, measured words unfamiliar to the impatience of our generation.

“My son, I’ve never ****** any boys, nor do I hate ‘the gays’ and what’s all this about killing yourselves and Waterford Bridge Road?” I feel a lecture coming on…”What’s the allure of this demure throwaway life attitude you have, so many of you.”

This question throws a long echoing silence through the puke stained pews.  A symbol for broken, wasted, busted, beat down lost youth. Or whatever. (Say it like a valley girl honey.)

Breaking the silence I turn to him quietly, “I guess for me I really don’t see the point of any of it beyond a couple of laughs and a lot of highs. I see the corruption that I’m too stupid to fix, that I can’t realistically change.”

Sil interjects “I think generationally we just don’t really have a tether – Everyone exists superficially, digitally we don’t know how to talk to one another we just get drunk or high and crash into each other blindly praying for a little connection on those rare occasions we realize how disconnected we really are.”

“Generationally? Is that even a word?!”

“Shut up milk drinker!” Sil punches me

“Yeah everyone sitting alone in rooms or all together with a *** and coke and a cellphone silently tapping away.”

The pederast nods “you boys need family, children, religion even. You know it brings us together as a community. The ****** of the masses son” He pauses, wagging a finger “and I don’t consider that to be a pejorative.”

Taking a ridiculous swig I nod “I understand the appeal really but I prefer actual opiates  and being alone and not changing.”

After a box of communion wine, (Yes it can come in boxes, look it up) we bid farewell to the swell drunk ‘ol pederast priest, promising to return someday with Irish Mist for his thirsty Irish lips, (Is that bigotry?) the old coot.

“Sil come over and stay in my bed we can binge watch a season of Louie and drink ******’ Borises and I’ll play guitar for you an…” I stammer on

“STOP! You had me at BED” Sil yells at me belligerently as we stagger down Bully Street arms intertwined drunk walking. It’s foggy and misty, our feet soaked and my body is drained of life. Finally we knock into my front door struggling with keys, we must have dropped 5 times.

“I think yer scars are beautiful Sil” (I love it, I do) I tell her softly as I run my hand over them, feeling the slight texture change, the scar raised…We kiss and stare into eyes, not alone not for tonight.