Alton One

Inhale me into your lungs

2011-06-29T12:02:00.000-07:00

Inhale me into your lungs.
Let me flow in your tubes, then out.
No mother's thought shall think of me.
No boy stops running speaks
How great air is and breathing is so fun.
Then unseen allergens come in with me.
Bronchioles twitch and trap me in,
And you shall be tall and frogged up, lips of blue,
High on the bed you gasp for me.
Inhaler me... into your lungs.

2011-06-22T17:36:00.000-07:00

Callie's riding round the house on her blades
That she purchases at her first yard sale
Such a frugal shopper she is
...just like her grandma was.

Lanie's running round the house
With a smile on cheek to cheek
Her speech is quite impressive
...just like her mother's is.

Jordan's lying on the couch in the basement
Playing his Wii and watching ESPN
He pretty laid back that way
...just like his father.

Myles is sleeping in his new crib
Worn out from all his playing.
Play, play, play, play, play, play
...just like 9 monthr's do.

Crystal is our shopping for Callie's party
Because tomorrow is Callie's 1st Communion
Can't believe she's that OLD already
...it seems time flies so fast.

I'm sitting here writing this poem
Listening to the laughter of my two girls
Enjoying happy times at home
...just as good dad's do I suppose

Worked all night last night at Shoreline
And Jordan's game was out of town
So his dad stayed up, and he stayed up
...and so his eyes now burn

And so the dad cracks a Natural Ice
And he enjoys the cool, refreshment
As he searches his mind for the right words
to use in this frivolous poem.

It's raining outside so here we sit
Now Callie and Laney are in the tubby
Myles still asleep, and Jordan silent downstairs
A peaceful night her on the home front

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Crying! He hears crying

2011-06-15T17:33:00.000-07:00

Cring! He hears crying.
It's Myles! It's Myles who's crying
He's awake! He's crying 'cause he's awake!
He wants out! He's getting angry now!
I can hear the visciousness in his cry.
He wants me to stop whatever I'm doing
to cater to HIS needs
That's the way he is, my Myles.
Crying! Still Cyring!
He wants out!
So now I have to stop typing
and cater to my little boy's needs

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Two brothers in a tubby

2011-06-08T17:31:00.000-07:00

Two brothers in a tubby
Splashing and splashing,
and laughing and laughing
Two brother's in a tubby

Fast forward 35 years
Two sisters in the tubby
Slashing and splashing,
and laughing and laughing
Two sisters in a tubby

Fast forward 35 years

Two siblings in the tubby
Splashing and splashing
and laughing and laughing
Two siblings in a tubby

Who will they be?

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The outsider says

2011-06-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

The outsider says:
If the alarm goes off
and you're not ready to wake
.......get up anyway

The outsider says:
If someone asks how you're doing
and you're feeling gloomy
......say, "I feel great!"

The outsider says:
If it makes you feel
uncomfortable
........don't do it.

The outsider says:
It's better to have
an awkward moment
.....than to say something stupid

The outsider says:
If you don't like the feel
of the tux
.........wear a t-shirt

The outsider says:
If party preparation
stresses you out
.......eat out instead

The outsider says:
If your job's no fun
and stresses you out
.......get a new one

The outsider says:
If you don't want to sing
at the birthday party
....stand behind the singers

The outsider says:
If your kids are screaming
for no reason at all
...... use your selective hearing

The outsider says:
If picking up after kids
is wearing you out
......get used to it.

The outsider says:
If you don't wanna go to your son's game
'cause you tired and worn
.......go and enjoy it.

The outsider says:
If you squabble with your wife
and she stresses you out
......work it out dummy

The outsider says:
If you wanna keep a bad situation
from becoming a major mess
....stick to your principles

The outsider says:
Look outside the paradigm
or simply outside the box
....for more solutions

The outsider says:
Everyone else does it
the same as everyone else
....just because

The outsider says:
Be an observer
and a free thinker
....to see what they don't

The outsider says:
Find it inside yourself
And be yourself
....because you can

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Please listen! Please listen!

2011-05-25T17:20:00.000-07:00

Please listen! Please listen! I have something to say.
There's no point in making plans now, the goals I sought are done
The days are short, the end is near, the sun is quickly dropping
All loose ends tied, all wounds are healed, the stairs are set for walking
But then Thump! Thump! Thump!
Dribbling, frothy drops of red
Like on my cheek the reaper rides
Riding steady ahead.

Please listen! Please listen! Do not leave this room!
Listen you -- for you I share my faith -- for you I've lived this long,
for you my stories and thoughts wait -- for you I'm set for talking,
For you He calls, the faithful one, to hear the Angels singing,
My Johnny! My Johnny!
Come sit here by my bed
Don't tell me there is no time
Because you're riding steady ahead.

My Johnny did not listen, his heart yearns for my song
My Johnny does not feel my pulse, which once was beating strong,
Old stories tucked deep and bound, never ever to get out,
As regret sets, his mind sails, seething lots to think about,
Posturing happens, and breathing stops!
And stories that once bled,
Wake up in my Johnny's mind,
Riding steady ahead.

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Thump! Thump! Thump!

2011-05-18T17:18:00.000-07:00

Thump! Thump! Thump! -- Gurgle! Gurgle! Gurgle!
Bust the vessels -- through tubes -- suctioned copious green,
Inside the somber room, filled with friends and family,
Into the past where those gathered are reminiscing;
He looked like his brother's twin -- that likeness no longer with the old patient.
Yes his long-time wife did seem peaceful, talking about him and holding his hand,
So neat I feel as his heart pounds -- I put my yankaur down.

Thump! Thump! Thump! --Gurgle! Gurgle! Gurgle!
Into the battle of D-Day -- where scenes of battle humbled his soul,
Back home he met a girl he carried on roller blades, hand in hand, round and round and round,
He maintained used cars by day -- no Chevy's or clunkers -- would he buy or sell.
Six kids walking and talking, six found their ways into this world,
Here they all are, all talking. Here the kids are thinking about dad,
The drip, drop dripping, beeping lines, heart rhythm slows way down.

Thump! Thump Thump! -- Gurgle! Gurgle! Gurgle!
He squeezes my hand -- he opens his eyes and smiles
Such short time we've known -- became more than just a patient,
Rick loved the old man gurgling on death's bed,
Yet not a sorrow's cry was heard, even with Cheyne Stoke's breathing,
The man was a hero in the minds of those surrounding his bed, even me,
So strong his legacy will live on -- I put his eyelids down.

Chapter 2

2010-11-06T15:25:00.000-07:00

I remember dying once by suffocation. I can't remember if it was by drowning or if someone tried to kill me. I don't remember details of any of my past lives other than what presents to me in dreams. Yet I do know that I met Abraham Lincoln and Tye Cobb too at some point, in previous lives that is.

While my last life may not have been the most tragic, it was the most vivid. Things that I did in that life occur to me over and over in dreams, especially dreams I had as a kid, perhaps because when I was a kid I was closer to that life. Now my brain (or soul if you wish) is full of memories from this life that clutter up the memory process.

Now I don't know if I don't remember past lives because I don't want to or because I can't. Between lives were we given a vaccine to prevent us from remembering, or is it, as I wrote in the last paragraph, because we simply forget; that the current life takes precedence and past lives don't matter so much.

Or is it an accumulation of things that happen in life that matter. Or does none of it matter, as clesiastes wrote in the Bible. To sum up his writings, the sum will also rise regardless tomorrow regardless of what happens to us. And, therefore, what is the point of our existence?

So I'm not sure what the meaning is of my transfer from one life to another. Am I the only one this is happening to, or is this the way with everyone. I suppose the quest will be ongoing, and may only be answered in some future life.

And when does it end? When do we end this life and move on to the next. I think I obtained my best theory on this during the funeral of my father in law. It was a Lutheran funeral, not a Catholic as have most of the funerals I've attended in this life -- now for 40 years, and the family was quite outgoing, so many of the six brother in-laws got up and gave eulogies about their father.

Todd was six feet tall with scruffy beard and mustache and looked like a giant up there on the stage. He also gave the presentation of a sage. He was the taciturn member of the family, the one who didn't talk much, and other than his height, he gave the countenance of a wise Mark Twain. He was young, only 27, and yet his hair and beard were white as snow.

Yet he got up to the podium, up in front of the congregation of 30 or so friends and relatives of the man who dropped dead of a supposed heart attack, and he pretty much broke down to the point he couldn't speak. So his brother Mathew came to his side, gave him a hug, and guided him back to his seat in the front row.

Even though I barely knew the dead man, as this event took place only a few months my marriage to Christie, my feelings about him was that he was a cool guy, and so were his kids. I especially hit it off with Todd, the one who broke down. The only one I wasn't to familiar with was Matthew, because he came up all the way to Shoreline from Detroit. And here he was, trying to be the leader; trying to hold up amid his brother's breakdown. Yet holding up was not something many in the audience did, as one could hear crying and sniffling from the audience, as though it were angels speaking to us all. The few babies in the back of the church squeaked in innocent happiness.

So Charlie got up next and said, "I'll go first." He paused while he composed himself, and said, "Dad gave me a book a couple months ago called, "Being with the Lord." He and I spent many times together talking about Jesus, and how the Bible teaches independence and personal accountability and, well..." he paused a moment to compose himself, "capitalism. The Bible teaches capitalism.

"And then," he continued, "Dad came to me the other day and gave me this book, and he said, 'This book helped me put things in perspective. I think it will help you too.' And I read the book, and it was as though giving me this book dad was kind of putting everything in perspective for me.

"The book talked about how the Bible writes about Heaven as a continuation of this life. In Heaven God needs all sorts of people to do all sorts of work for him. In Heaven we have an ideal world. In Heaven there is a true Euphoria. In Heaven, and only Heaven, will there be peace. And this peace, this euphoia, no matter how hard we try, is not possible on this earth. And that is why the Bible preaches personal accountability and responsibility, and in a way preaches capitalism."

While he spoke there was complete silence. Not even the babies in the back made a sound.

"And it is by this book that, I think, I am able to find solace in dad's death. I think, I hope, that by dad dying, according to this book anyway, God has decided he needs a carpenter in Heaven more so than we need a carpenter here in Shoreline. And that we must not be sad by him leaving this world, we must not be angry, we must not be selfish for our love of him and our need for him too, and let him go to be with the Lord. Let him go onto the next world."

And he stepped away from the podium. And while he did so the silence was broken by sniffles of sadness, and guffaws. And even my own eyes filled with tears. In otherwise sad day, that was the presentation I remembered. To this day I can remember almost word per word what Mathew said about his father, and see the bright look in his eyes as he spoke. Eyes that saw hope and a future in an otherwise bleak moment.

And now as I look back on that moment, that speech or eulogy, I can't help but think he had obtained a message in a way, or the author of that book (Bob Malter) had a vision from God as I have had in my life. Yet when you have a vision, you can't just talk about it like you could in Biblical times. You are treated as a nut and a loon if you do. And so we have to write about our experience in other ways.

So here I am, trying to make sense of my experiences, and I think back on what Matthew said. And I think back on the message in that book. And I can't help but think Malter knew something. That he had experiences as I had, jumping from life to life. And he had come up with an explanation for it all; an explanation I've been looking for for many years.

####

So at the end of my last life I think I was in Vietnam. I don't know for sure, although that would be my best guess. I can still see the van as it travels alongside a late or stream. Or was it some military vehicle. I'm not sure. In this life I'm not much acquainted with cars and stuff. I can see the boats in the marina, and the overcast sky as though I was right there. I can see the green marine vehicle traveling down the path. And I can hear the whistle coming from the sky. I can se this all as though it were a slow motion movie. And an eerie feeling rushes through the flow of my blood as though it were injected with fear, or the wisdom that you knew you were going to die.

And then there was an explosion, and I see shrapnel buzzing in every direction amid a bust of smoke and flames. It's neat that even while I was inside the vehicle my soul was above the vehicle looking down upon the event as though I were an angel of God. I could see parts of the vehicle, and bodies. I floated down and tried to find someone.

"Bobby! Bobby!" I shrieked frantically. I saw the remains of people lying on the ground outside the wreckage of the vehicle, and as I passed over each body my heart (at least that's the best way of describing it, because I was a soul at this point) sank. It sank because I knew the person who had died, and because I was disappointed that it wasn't who I was looking for. Of course that someone I was looking for I was praying was still alive. Although I had a sinking feeling he (or she) wasn't.

So each time I passed over a body I had that sinking feeling. Four or five bodies lay outside the vehicle, and then as I set to enter the vehicle, my soul is ripped away, and I awake. I turn over and see my wife lying on her back with the pink quilt pulled all the way up so it was covering her neck. Her face so innocent and pure had a faint smile on it. It was almost as though she knew I was safe now. Yet she didn't know. She had no idea.

###

Another thought that occurs to me often is that there were four people outside the vehicle, and neither of them was Bob. The funny thing is, I have five brothers, and my oldest brother is Bob, who disappeared before I was born. He was five when the kidnapping occurred. Dad told me the story once, and never mentioned it before or since. Now dad is retired and living at a gated retirement facility near Orlando, Florida, where he golfs every day for a living and is quite socially active and very happy. He lives with mom, by the way, in case you were wondering.

So I'll tell you more about dad later, because this story has a lot to do with him. Although, at the present time, I'm not sure whether he knows about my life to life experiences or not. Perhaps he has had a similar experience, or perhaps he has wisdom greater than what I can imagine. Perhaps the reason he talks so little about Bobby is that he is still stunned by the experience. Or perhaps he blames himself. Or, even more eerie, perhaps there is more to the story of Bobby's disappearance than what he told me. Were there other people involved? Or aliens?

As it goes, as dad told me the story, Bobby was swimming in a pool at...

Yet I have another experience I would like to tell you about.

Yet I

Chapter 1

2010-09-12T11:33:00.000-07:00

The explosion was massive. He could hear it through the whirling wind. The sky lit up like an Alton Crown during the Alton Festival, back when there was such a thing. Objects of all shapes and sizes were blowing away from the fireball, and he spun around as something buzzed by his left ear.

He did it! He had defeated the... What? Who?

Something pelted his side. He was struck. The pain immense. Then it happened again. He was going down again. Suddenly he was falling into a dark abyss. He could feel heat from the lights, and it almost felt good as he hit something soft and wet. It was water. Water crashed into his face, gushing into his mouth and down his throat. He was sinking, tumbling down and down and down.

He was expecting the end, or something worse, when he felt something squeeze his arm. It was soft and slimy, and he was now being dragged through the water, away from the fireball. He did not fight it.

Let it happen. Let it take you to somewhere peaceful, if there was such a thing, in whatever world he was in. Then peace came in the form of darkness.

###

Antique Bottle: part 2

2009-01-24T08:10:00.001-08:00

Part II

The bottle was dark green, hexagonal in shape, and stood about 3.5 feet high. The words "Druggist, Skittville Drug Company" embossed on the front, "Poison" above and below the company name. The first time he saw it he was a grieving boy of 12; so much had changed since then.

Every single morning of his life, since his grandma gave it to him several years earlier, he looked at it; and even the most cursory glance reminded him of his grandma and the indelible impression she made on him.

It sat in the window sill at her home probably since a time before Paul was born, but he didn’t notice it until that fateful night back on October 7, 1984; the day his mom and dad died. his parents had left him home alone, something they did very seldom, but he had insisted on watching a special program on CBS about the Detroit Tiger’s spectacular season.

“We’ll be back before your show is over then,” his mom had said just before she kissed his forehead and started for the door. She turned around, he remembered, and said, “I love you, Paul. You’re the most special person in my life.” He remembered her staring at him with those big blue eyes, slightly glossy from the tears that were forming. “You’re growing up so fast,” she had said, “and you’ve more than earned the right to stay home alone.”

Paul had wanted to say, “I love you too, mommy.” But he thought maybe he was too old. Instead he said, “I can handle it mom. I am 12-years-old now.” She turned and slowly walked through the doorway to the car where her husband of 20 years had been waiting for her. Paul looked out the window and watched as the family mini-van moved down the street and out of sight.

He remembered the staying power of his mom’s perfume even after she had left; that perfume, of which, she only wore on special occasions. He wondered, though, why she had worn it this day, considering dad was only taking her to show a new apartment house he thought would be a good buy. Perhaps, she subconsciously new her fate.

The TV show ended and his parents still had not returned. He was fine by this at first, but when the 11-O-clock news came on he was tired and hungry. Instead of putting his pajamas on and going to bed, he paced the house, continuously going to the living room windows to look out. He kept seeing cars turning down his street, each time thinking his mom and dad were coming home, but they would drive right by the house.

Finally, at about midnight, when his eyes were burning and he was on the verge of tears, he saw headlights coming down the street, and, this time, the vehicle turned into the driveway. He left the window and rushed to his room to put his pajamas on and rushed back out to the front door. He was excited that his parents were home until he heard a knock at the door.

The officer told him the bad news, and drove the child Paul to his grandma’s house. He slept well that night on the back end of his grandparent’s bed, but the next day he moped around her house stressed and depressed about the loss of his parents. His grandma comforted him as best she could, yet he continued to have a hard time. He decided, finally, that he just wanted to be alone, so he went to his grandma’s library and shut the door. He sat on an old leather chair that faced the window and stared out as the sun descended and the day grew dark. He thought about all the moments he spent with his mom and dad and, finally, he cried.

After a long cry, he noticed, on the sill of the window before him, sat an odd shaped, dark green antique bottle from an old, old drugstore. He picked it up, twirled it round and round in his fingers studying it. He wondered, for the first time, what kind of drug had been in it, and how it had ended up in his grandma’s house. For a while anyway, it was that bottle which helped him to forget about the realities of his life for a while. He imagined that perhaps the bottle had been filled with a wizard’s magic potion that would cure him of his aches: and this gave him an idea.

He worked out the cork with the tips of his fingers, tipped back his head, lifted the bottle, and pretended to drink what was inside. “I don’t ever want to be sad again,” he said as he took in the imaginary draught. He set the bottle back on the sill and heard a knock on the door, a creak as it was slowly pushed open, and a soft, “Paul, are you okay.”

“I’m okay, grandma,” the boy whispered. “I’m going to be okay now.”

“You will be,” she whispered as she walked over to him and gave him a gigantic hug. He held him for quite some time before she said, “You’re parents loved you and always will be with you. Now it’s time to let them go.”

“I will,” he said.

“They are with grandpa now. They are in a special place.”

“I know. I understand.”

“Sometimes things are difficult to understand.”

“This might sound strange grandma,” he said, uneasily, still wrapped within his grandma’s loving hug, “but I understand everything. It IS going to be okay.”

He lived with his grandma from that day until he graduated and moved out of the house. He went to college, became a doctor, met the most amazing person and married her. His grandma thought it was the most wonderful wedding ever, and that Paul’s parents would have been proud.

Antique Bottle: part 1

2009-01-12T11:35:00.000-08:00

Paul woke up from a nightmare, sweating profusely, and shot straight up in bed; his heart palpitating. In the dull morning light he could see well enough to note that, as he looked around the room, nothing was out of place. He looked over at Martha: she was soundly sleeping.

The weather unseasonably warm for early October, he pushed the blankets to the back of the bed, laid back down next to his wife whose breathing remained slow and regular. He folded his arms across his bare chest, and, looking up at the ceiling, noticed a crack running down the middle of it. "How long had it been there?" he wondered. "Why hadn’t I noticed it before?"

He closed his eyes and was about to fall back asleep when a thwitt-thwitt-thwitt sound startled him; he opened his eyes, heart again reverberating through his chest. He looked toward where the sound was coming from, out the open window, and noticed the neigbor’s sprinkler system had kicked on. He laughed at his puerile trepidation at something so simple; those sprinklers went off every morning, he thought, only he normally slept right through it; perhaps even incorporating the soft sputtering sound into his dreams.

He closed his eyes and tried to fall back asleep, but this time he couldn’t get his mind off the dead kid at work the day before. The 8-yr-old boy had choked on a hotdog, but by the time his dad had driven the boy to the hospital, placed him on the ER cot, the boy was blue: there was no chance of reviving him.

The boy’s dad, probably modest on a normal day, cried vehemently; blaming himself. Paul comforted him at the loss of his only child; cried with him too. It was a long rest of the day.

Paul, two days past his 60th birthday, hopped out of bed, sauntered to the kitchen, and prepared a glass of ice cold water. He looked out the kitchen window and watched as the neighbor across the street backed his Jeep out of his driveway and drove off. Then, as by habit, Paul saw the antique bottle that sat on the window sill.

He wondered, as he had many times before, what poison had been stored in it over 120 years ago, and what it was used for.

Trapped

2009-01-12T11:29:00.000-08:00

He didn’t know who he was, nor where. All he knew was that he was in agonizing pain, especially around the head and neck area, and he was exorbitantly uncomfortable; and not just because of the excruciating pain. He was slouched over in an awkward position, and when he tried to get up, he bonked his head a good one. He was in total darkness, a world of oblivion, and with each breath the stuffy air seemed to get hotter and hotter and hotter.

The smell was familiar; he figured it to be a mixture of old tires and dirt; or the smell of an old-fashioned car or (“Oh my God”) that of a trunk of an old car used to haul those things at one time. But there was another scent that was rancid. What was it? While he could see nothing, he could hear muffled voices. “What the heck is going on here?” he thought to himself. He wanted to yell, but what if he were in hiding? What if he had jumped into the trunk of an old car to get away from someone who had been chasing him? But who? Who would want to hurt him? And, more to the point, “Who the hell am I?”

All of this engendered consternation and caused him to become panicky, and then as time moved on and his situation not improved upon, this panic abounded. He wanted to get out. He wanted to scream, but, for the love of God, he dare not scream. He wanted to kick with all his energy the trunk of the vehicle open, but when he tried he realized he couldn’t move his limbs. He thought that if a chicken could reason it might feel as though he did then, as it awaited the coup d’etat of the farmers axe.

Who were the owners of the muffled voices? Was this help to be, or inauspicious fate pent on keeping him in this unpropitious state. Hell might be a better place for him, for then he would at least know his fate; and know where the hell he was. And he would know the cause of his pain, and the reason he was suffering so. For what would be the reason he was in the state he was in now? Was he an indigenous felon pent on using clever artifice in an insidious act to destroy his own country? What ever that country might be? Or was he the protagonist caught up in the web of a venomous scheme of some unknown miscreant. His mind conjectured a hundred such scenarios. Ideas rolled around in his head like farts in a whirlwind as he strived to place a who, a what, a where, a when, a why and a how to his predicament. As it were, he could muster no answers.

Hate, rage and apprehension were defeating him now. These emotions were so strong that he had all but forgotten the pain. It was a mind game now. He was torturing himself with his own thoughts. His dilemma was worse than that of a prisoner fettered and cast into solitaire. He was a useless slap of skin; a total waste of time and space. Whatever time he had spent on this planet was life wasted and without purpose. He figured he must have been forgotten, like a child’s rag doll once that child grows old. Yes, he was the childhood rag doll of an old lady. He was in an old musty, dusty attic with old tires stored and rotting. He was in a box and he was helpless to escape because the lid was locked. He was in agony because he was in need of repair. He was a forgotten memory, and had no memory himself because the last time something worth remembering happened so long ago. Thus he had no memories to even help to rot away his mind; so he rotted it with pessimism; he rotted it with a bunch of fictitious crap. He rotted it with hate at what he had become, rage to escape and, yes, fear of the unknown.

Oh, then he must have been a pessimist in his past. Or, better yet, he was the villain he had conjured up in his mind (when was it) minutes ago, hours ago, days, weeks. How the hell long had he been trapped in this car, this box, this...? What? There were no answers and there were no answers to be, or so he surmised. So he must make up his own reasoning. He must have been a journalist intent on destroying the profession he had been born to do. Why else would he think up all these damn questions? He must have written an article that destroyed the career of an evil politician, or (better yet) a very popular politician with a twisted scheme. Or was it some other public official? Or no public official at all.

Or perhaps it could be... Hush! He heard the shuffle of feet on the macadam. Macadam? Was he having a memory? Did something happen on macadam? Was his job laying it down, or did he have his face stuffed up against it moments before he was... There was a rattle of keys and a clicking sound. Then there was daylight, which overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes and then blinked trying to adjust to the light. He heard two distinct voices, but couldn’t concentrate enough to determine what they were talking about. Finally he squinted, and saw the outlines of two men; but everything was a blur. The two figures lifted the limp, bound and gagged body from the trunk and let it flop to the ground with a dull thud and a barely audible “humph” as the wind was knocked out of the prisoner. The pain was unbearable, but too bad; nobody was around who cared or even noticed. The two figures lifted the wounded man, who was in agonizing pain but presumed to be dead, about two feet before one of them said something like, “Oh, he’s too flipping heavy,” and proceeded to drop the body so its top half smashed onto the macadam. Its lower half dropped half a second later.

The pain didn’t matter. He was trying to will himself awake so he could figure out how to get out of this circumstance, but was, at this point, just barely able to move his fingers. One of the figures grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him for what seemed to the prisoner a long distance, and then dropped him (again) bonking his head (again) against the macadam; which knocked the wind out of him. One of the figures may even have heard an audible “humph” with this effort, but he didn’t care at this point. The whole matter would be out of his hands in a few moments. The prisoner, whomever he was, heard a door squeak open, and then he was shoved feet first through the door and down a slide where he landed at the bottom with another dull thud and an “oomph” for emphasis. Incisive pain raged through his ankle up to his spine, an effort to roar ravaged in his throat, but all that came out was that muffled groan. However, this time he did managed the strength to keep his head from hitting the ground.

He managed to a sitting position and realized that he could now move his head, fingers and arms. But he still hadn’t regained the ability to move his legs. He looked quickly about the capacious room and noticed a pool of water on a cement floor with several bodies lying on the right side of this pool; obviously the end of someone‘s repugnant act. “How long had they been there? Did they come upon this room by the same fate? If so, what was that fate?” This thought process reminded him again of his raging pain. And then the smell overwhelmed him: The strong musty smell of the dungeon, coupled with the smell of rotting, dead bodies. It was as though this whole affair were a nightmare: “What the hell?” he thought, as a warm, tingly sensation of fear flushed through his body as he thought this might be his fate and his final destiny to die and then to rot down here until there was nothing left but ossified bones with a gold wedding ring lying near the remains of the left hand -- which would be the same fate as those other bodies, minus the gold ring. They were dead, he figured based on the smell; for he noticed no movement. Was there blood? He couldn’t tell; he couldn’t focus. But, then, what the hell could he tell anyway in his stunned and feeble state. He might be here years, perhaps, until some happy kids come wandering about these parts and find joy in breaking into this barn or shed or warehouse (or whatever the hell it was), and enjoy sliding down that slide -- the shoot -- he was forced to slide down to meat his eternal fate, and come upon the bodies with their flesh rotting, smelling rancid and full of white slimy maggots. But, in thinking of all this, he forgot that he should have been trying to escape. Before he had a chance to look around and back up the shoot he heard a door slam and, moments later, a car drive away. He was left in pitch darkness again.

Then, just as he figured he was going to be left to die (if that wasn’t what he was already supposed to be) he heard a door open on the other side of the room and a light was turned on. The two figures were a blur, but he watched as the two blurs walked around the other bodies and toward the prisoner. They were taciturn as they set the prisoner’s hands and feet free from the shackles that bound his limbs. One of the men grabbed him under the armpits and helped him to his feet. The prisoner was surprised he was able to use his legs. Within a few minutes he had enough strength to stand on his own, and when he could do so he turned and looked at the faces of the two men. Their faces didn‘t ring a bell, but he did think he was pretty sure they were not the same two men that gagged him, beat the crap out of him, strangled him and left him for dead in the trunk of their car. How the heck had he survived all of that? Was it with the help of God? Was it simply not his fate to die at that time? And how the hell could they not have known he was not dead all that time? Was it the drug?

Sure, he had been drugged. But what was he doing that required someone to drug him? Why had he been beaten? Was he beaten before or after the drug? These and other questions raced through his mind, but then a tap on his back by one of the men brought his mind back to the present He realized that the two men were people from his past. Who were they? Well, you can’t expect him to remember everything. What was it? Sure, he figured it would come to him in time, perhaps when his sight came fully back (when the drug loosened its grip on his mind).

“Are you all right, Art?” One of the men asked. When the feeble man nodded that he was fine (which he clearly wasn’t) one of the shady men (he couldn’t tell which) said, “Then we’re going to help you out here. We’ll get you out of this situation.” Then the hostage, who had just realized his name was Art, replied, “What’s going on here?” He had thought about asking, “Who the hell are you?” but decided against it. But it didn’t matter either way, for his voice was barely audible. To these two young men it sounded like moans and groans from the severely wounded old man.

"Things worked out a bit unexpectedly, but everything works out as planned in the end. Don’t they?" Said one of the men. Art wondered why these men were here. Why would they want to be around all this carnage, and the smell of rotting flesh? Surely they didn’t know he would be here at this location at this time. Did they? Surely they had to be bothered by that fetid smell; perhaps they had a direr task at hand that caused them to not think of the smell. Or, perhaps they had worked around such carnage before and were used to it, if that were possible. Art, anyway, knew he could smell the rotting flesh, so he knew it had to be there. But, then again, by now his nose and sinuses were so swelled up he may have lost all sense of smell and was just imagining things. That might be it. Forgetting about his surroundings, and the people in it, Art wondered what the plan was, and what he had to do with it. Either way, he was relieved to know he was among people who weren’t trying to hurt him.

Then, both these men stood by Art’s side as a third man entered the scene. Things were still a bit cloudy, but our prisoner was able to sense an eminence of evil radiating from this man. He had wondered if he had had contact with him in the past. This man, whoever he was, pulled out a gun and, as he went to pull the trigger, was bumped from the side by one of the perceived good guys. A shot was heard, then plaster fell from the ceiling.

“You ass!” someone shouted. One of the good guys had the one with the evil eminence by the wrist trying to wrest the gun from him. The gun fell to the ground and there was a discordant clashing of knives. Art felt confident now that this evil man was going to die and Art would be able to walk away and, hopefully, piece together the events of the past few days. Then, even better, piece together his life.

Then a flash of joy reverberated through his body as he saw the perceived good guys had succeeded in disarming the perceived enemy. There was discussion among all three men, something about the bodies. And then all the memories came rushing back to Art as though they were being injected into his veins. He realized right then that he was the cause of all this horror, and he had now become trapped in his own malicious game.

Art bent down with much difficulty and picked up the loose weapon from the cold, damp floor. When he looked back at the battle he noticed that the officer had a gun in his grip again, and had it pointed at the other two. Art figured they had forgotten about him, so he expeditiously gripped his newly discovered weapon and set to drive it into the head of the man with the gun. But, to his dismay, one of his perceived friends took notice of this, turned, and drove a knife into Art’s abdomen once, twice...

His world spun away.

Adorable little family

2009-01-03T16:16:00.000-08:00

Days flying, going by faster and faster.
And yet this dad is savoring each moment.
Dad's have a great job with two girls and a boy.

Love is the great legacy you leave behind,
Of all the joys of life, that smile's the best,
Ventures through this life, I can attest, are vain,
Except for the simple joy of that special
Someone brings, all the little things that come with.

Joy is a boy you can have lots of fun with
Oaf of a dad can hardly keep up with him.
Reading and writing are things he enjoys.
Detroit Tigers and Colts are his favorite sports.
And tossing baseballs with his dad is fun
Nor can his dad beat him at video games.

Cute is a girl who loves to play with her dad
And all the wee babies she has in her room
Love is in all the hugs and kisses she gives,
Lord created the weather today, she said.
I'm certain she'll have a wonderful life
Everyone she touches filled with happiness

Adorable children of mine I love so,
Nothing but my wife do I love more than thee.
Dads love their children more than aspirations.

Love's an adorable little girl he loves.
Adorable hugs and kisses and smiles.
Naps are often, followed by smiles so big.
Each of Gods joys is in one of her kisses
Yes. Ideal is snuggling with your sweet joy

Love is a mom who spends quality time,
Oblation every Sunday from all who care,
Visits from friends who want to share what they have,
Even if it's not perfect in eye of you.

Mother of all the best reasons for living
Or the best wife of all the greatest children
Mother is everthing, defines the word love.

The library

2009-01-01T10:47:00.000-08:00

Ah, that familiar smell of wisdom, of knowledge,
wafted through eager child who stood among them.
New ideas grown to stale dust on a shelf,
Profound wisdom he could not grasp by his self,
Stood still in the silence of the library.

He stood in the aisle and found one he liked
He plucked it from its home and spept off the dust
Excitement of the beholder it cannot hold
Yet wisdom of Ancient Egypt, it is bold
And the beholder yearns to delve into it.

Sitting on a couch now he opened cover,
his body melting away into the past,
His mind racing as he flipped through ages
He plucked all the wisdom from all its sages
And soon he was lost in another world.

Oblivious of whispers, pages turning,
The pyramids were constructed of mind sand,
Arduous work, and yet the slaves were content
As gold set by dead king and with him it went;
Gold amulets, toys, statues, ships, and his throne

A clamourous child sent the slaves away,
And another one, and another entered.
A beared man, a lady with a red bag,
A lover of words with a mom and a dad
And then he noticed the time was swept away

The conundrum of reading and writing

2008-07-26T10:39:00.001-07:00

I love writing. When I was 10 my brother David and I decided to have a little competition. We were both going to write a story, and have mom be the judge.

David was done in less than an hour with his. "Okay, lets have mom judge these."

"I'm not done yet," I said.

"Okay, well, hurry it."

Every hour on the hour the rest of the day he came into my room, where I was diligently working at my desk. I had this brilliant idea for a story, and I was going to make it worth moms time to read this.

"Are you done yet?"

"No."

Well come on!"

"I'll be finished by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? What?"

"You can't rush perfection."

"I did."

The next day mom awarded me with the prize for my story.

That was pretty much the end of my fiction writing until I was 35. My brother introduced me to a website he started, where there was a new topic for each new issue. The website was updated every other week.

My brother begged me to write for his site, which was itwillfail.org. I wrote some story I thought was junk, and everybody on the site loved it. They urged me to write more. So I did. And, lo and behold, all of a sudden I was writing a novel.

Of course there were political discussions on this site too, and it was basically me against the world. But we had fun, until my brother became bogged down in his real job to the point he had to put itwill fail on the back burner.

About a year later I discovered this neat website called critique circle. This was the place that was going to get me writing again. Actually, I think there was a lady who submitted an article to itwillfail who mentioned how critique circle benefited her writing. So, I decided to check it out.

I submitted my stories I had already submitted to itwillfail, and they ripped my stories to pieces. They weren't rood by all means, they just told me I had lots of work to do. I was naive in the beginning to think that my writing was awesome.

I guess, as my friend Lucan wrote on his blog True Heir after finishing his first novel, "ignorance is bliss."

He quoted a fellow cc'er:

"I yearn for the blissful ignorance I had when I didn't know a lot about writing. Those were the days, when that first draft needed just a spell check and a few added bits of description to be perfection.

Lucan writes:

"Before I took writing serious, I devoured books without giving it much thought. Some I riled through, others were a bit more difficult. I had a general idea what made some books better, or more appealing in my view, and others not, but I didn’t stop to analyze. Now, I find it hard to read a book and simply enjoy it. One part of my brain is always the critiquer, shaking my head over certain infodumps, moaning after the tenth adverb in a chapter. Yes, it helps me to become a better writer. But I think there’s also a danger.

I think this is so true. It was so nice to be ignorant. When I was a kid I had this plan to make my story into a best selling novel. When I was 20, and decided I had yet to embellish my story, I decided I might never accomplish this goal.

CC made me see the light, that I am no Stephen King. But they also encouraged me to keep writing, which was so cool. Still, it was a lot funner when I thought I was Stephen King.

Now, to make a political tie in here, the same can be said about politics. Life was sure a lot easier when I new little about politics. I remember 16 years ago wanting to know more about politics, so I started reading political books. I loved them.

Only problem is, I learned more than just politics. And now I feel like I know too much. I leaned that what I know and believe and value is not the same as what other people know and believe and value.

That, as Ben Franlkin once wrote, as we grow old, we learn that every person has a different perspective on every issue. And, if from time to time we don't get together and come up with a compromise, nothing will ever get solved.

And the more you read the more you know, and the more you know how little you know. And, the more you write the more you learn and the more you realize how little you know. So, basically, we read and write so we can come to the realization that we humans know a lot, but that lot is really only a little.

See. It can be stressful thinking about. Think about this: If you go up, and once you are past the planets and the object out there. You would never stop. You would go up forever. There is no wall out there in space. There is just an infinity of nothing.

That is what knowledge is like. It is like space. It is everything, and at the same time it is nothing. It is huge, yet it is small.

It's complex. Life is complex. And that is exactly why I don't encourage my children to pay attention more to politics. There time will come when they will know too much too. There time will come when they realize that they know very little, and that there is an endless pool of more stuff to learn.

This is what I like to call the conundrum of reading and writing.

This is exactly why I do not push my kids to read things other than the things they choose to read. They will learn about politics in due time.

Until then, I want them to just enjoy the simple life of being a kid.

At the same time, I think that is why I write: writing allows me to make things simpler, to organize ideas. And, after all, that all we have is ideas. Even though we have a lot of scientific knowledge about space, most of what we know is based on theory.

The same is true of politics and most of life. Most of what we know is based on theory. It is an idea. And most of us disagree on just about everything, except for the few times we agree. It's kind of like a marriage between two people, or a friendship, we have to work to find common ground.

Kids are forced to learn that at an early age, either by reading or by simple experience. This is how we develop character I would surmise. (That's my theory)

And as long as I have the talent to write, to communicate, I will do so -- whether it be fiction or nonfiction. It's just what I do.

Welcome to my mind

2008-07-25T14:10:00.000-07:00

This is where I'm going to post all of my fiction. Stay tuned, because there will be more to come.