My father’s watch,
I notice stopped.
His movement ceased
to turn the cogs,
that spin the gears,
which move the dials,
that give the promise
of a while.
 
The watch now mine,
but still it’s stopped.
It sits inside a precious box.
The frozen hands,
my father still,
his whispered breath,
his secrets kept.
Regret, regret.
 
One day ready
to wear that watch,
I’ll move the gears,
start time again,
in good knowing
the hour I’m stood
will come to be,
eventually.

For William and Meredith


For treatment of panic and anxiety disorders,
short-acting anxiolytics are generally recommended
to provide temporary bursts of clarity
but should be reassessed periodically for
usefulness and concerns regarding tolerance,
dependence,
and abuse.

Xanax releases dopamine into the brain
to function as a neurotransmitter to send signals
between nerve cells
including reward motivated behavior
and pathways known to reinforce addictive neuronal activity

Perhaps to build her,
you had to break yourself
amongst the glass of that summer day.
Leave her waiting for your hair to peek
around a weathered edge
toward a forgotten living room corner

You are still her Patron Saint.
A long shadow cast across a small ghost.

She still screams at the sky to stop raining
beats her fists down the path
to the house of death
unceasing, and changeless.
Prodding a dull,
familiar
wound.
One that leaves its mark,
with pain felt more
from memory
than from anything else.


Withdrawal and rebound symptoms commonly occur and
necessitate a gradual reduction
to minimize the effects of discontinuation.
Not all withdrawal effects are evidence
of true dependence or withdrawal.

Recurrence may suggest no more
than the drug having the expected effect
and that,
in the absence of the drug,
the symptom has returned to pretreatment levels.

Tell me how you are feeling,
Or tell me to go.
Say its none of my business
Or I don’t need to know.

Tell me what’s going on,
Or tell me **** out.
Say it or text it.
Whisper or shout

But silence is hurtful -
Though it may seem absurd -
Every unwritten sentence
And each unspoken word.

Cowering in the corner, the boy began to cry,
******* in the gloom.
Searching the room
As his father slowly went by.

His father’s reddened ******
Caught under the weak bedroom light
His genitals pink and bright,
Like a swollen crucifix hanging impudently.

“Out my boy.” He called
In a voice that to the child
Sounded like thunder, ill-tempered and wild.
“Daddy needs you.” The father bawled.

The father’s affection was a wound
That disfigured body and mind
Care sullied, love unkind-
First loved, made love to, then wholly ruined.

His father’s hand jabbed the gloom
And laughing cruelly pulled him out
“I knew you were somewhere about.”
Dragging him through the room.

The child at first whimpered,
Then was muted. As his father began,
Through his small body the pain ran,
Biting his lips, the boy quietly simpered.

life was so dull
until she swept in,
a beautiful hurricane,
rendering me speechless
with her love and kindness.
oh god, she was so kind.
her heart beat for everyone else,
not an inch of her soul
belonged to her.
she was one of those people
who you could just trust.
you could look into her eyes
and you knew everything would be okay.
she saved my life
and so many others
in so many ways.
i owe her everything
but i'm too scared
to tell her
how much she means to me.

i
love
you

There is no experience in the world
      that I cherish more
            than hearing my father play the piano.

It's imperfect and beautiful and
                                                       sounds
                                                          ­     like
                                                            ­      home.

The notes are often choppy, and there are pauses
      as his mind turns over what keys to play next --
            sort of like our lives as a family.

We're awkward
      and have
            broken             periods,
but altogether we're making music.

Every breath a note,
      every laugh a chord,
every      "I love you"      a harmony
            that
only our family
      can hear.

And there's staccato! arguments,

and there's fortissimo days with pianissimo nights,

and there's repeat on repeat on repeat,
      making our lives seem
      constantly       andante.

But life is like a series of randomly placed fermatas --
unpredictable, yet musically enriched because of it.

            And I wouldn't want it any other way.