In my dream I usually
make it to the bar,
it's a particular bar
an odd bar
It's at the end of the shopping mall
In my dream
just past the book store,
the bar front looks like some
kind of Irish pub
no sign
no windows
oak doors
rock walls
fine finish,
you walk in
your shoes so perfect
with it's fine carpet
of red silk,
to the left of the bar
sit the politicians
the lawyers
the bureaucrats,
they all laugh and spill their drinks
sloppy in corruption
smirks and disgust
powdered ******* noses
glass eyes,
to the right of the bar
is where I sit
and also
sits the average freaks
the 9 to 5's
the norms
the ones that still hold on to a dream
but work to survive,
a dream
for a dream is the only
hope left worth holding onto,
I drink and laugh
at the ******
staring next to me,
I blow cigarette smoke
In their face
"what the **** are you looking at, aha?!"
"******* ******!"
they stare at me with their
blank dead eyes
and
their ******* sag
ripping out of their
musky ripped blouse
almost knocking over their drinks
in sorrow
and their *****,
their ***** hang
over the bar stool
coming down like a quake
an avalanche,
the China man to
blows smoke in their face
and we both laugh
in cheers
and on any given Sunday
at any given moment
the little blue man escapes from
my heart,
the little blue man then guzzles
down what's left of my drink
and the China mans drink
then leaps across the bar,
the little blue man glides across
the silk red carpet
like some kind super human mutant freak,
the little blue man jumps and slaps the politicians
slaps the lawyers
and gnaws on the skulls of the bureaucrats
like the cannibal they had made him,
eating the flesh
as if it were his first taste of meat,
the hunger of a man trapped on an island for twenty five years,
a conscience that has been trapped in a soul for twenty five more,
in my dream I usually make
It to the bar,
It's a particular bar
an odd bar
and tonight I didn't,
maybe they were closed
maybe they weren't,
"tell me something little blue man,
is there a heaven in hell?"
"only for the saints." -Shane Book

on my way home from work I see him.
he stands on the sidewalk on Magnolia just passing Chapman,
he waves at passing cars driving by.
I wave back
he smiles
crazy
lonely
old
sad
I see a man that is lost
I see a man that is broken
I see a man that tired
I see a man that is done
he has the face of a ghost like he is already dead,
his shopping cart stands next to him as if it was his only companion,
his only friend.
a whole life in one cart,
a whole life in one misery.
I drove by today on my way home,
he was gone
no man
no misery,
Just the loneliest shopping cart I have ever seen. -Shane Book

as the storm die down
the drifter say's goodbye and sets off just as I,
a well formed memory that sways
atrociously with the wind. -Shane Book

yes, it was January of 98 on some fateful day when she had her stroke, I can still remember the paramedics rolling her away on the gurney.
the ambulance
the flashing lights
the sirens,
the despair breeze that blew with the wind.
I was 7
she was paralyzed and could no longer speak,
the cigarettes
fried food
bad health
old age had finally caught up with her.
the next 15 years her life would be of silence, no hope.
15 years no walking
15 years no speaking
no adventuring
no writing
no cooking
no story telling
no playing
no fun,
15 years observing
15 years thinking
15 years laying
15 years sitting
15 years waiting
15 years without her
wondering,
why.
January of 2013 the time came, it was at the Pacific Haven Nursing Home on Trask just passing Harbor right across the street from the 22 freeway. That would be the last night I spent with her as she took her last breaths, as I sat and sipped the snuck in beer, I wept. I held her hand and talked to her for a while, apologized for not being there as much as I should have. I expressed my love and appreciation for all she did while she was in my life, promising her we would meet again.
wishing I could hear something back, silence.
kissed her on the cheek
took my last glance
closed the curtains
and left just as she did,
I was 22
sure do miss you. -Shane Book

In
order
to
become
insane
you
must
first
have
some
sanity
to
lose. -Shane Book

he was a simple man
a saint,
he dragged his metal ice chest with him for many years
wherever life lead him
ball and chain,
birthdays
weddings
reunions
garage sales
the theaters
graduations
work
funerals
the bars
even church,
he brought beer
to drink
to share
to spill,
a simple man
the little blue man
he was a saint
who tried not to feel. -Shane Book