THE HERO

The last time I would see him,
before he left for war,
I couldn’t help but wonder
if I’d see him again, or if a tattoo
would have to honor him forever,
but I couldn’t let him see my eyes swell up
as if I’d been stung by a wasp.

At 45 years old, he’s now
commanding 20-something
or others in the art of staying
alive, his idea to survive.
He can’t trust the Iraqis, who claim
to be on his side, so he imagines watching
his oldest play football again, to help pass the time.

I wish that it would have been me,
I wish that I was called into Baghdad
to fight in this mess, to live this horror
so he could be with our family again.
It’s not me, I can’t, I can’t breathe easy,
until I welcome him home. I can’t.

All I can do now is tell the story
of my dad, tell the story of my
father, tell the story of a man
who sacrificed so much for you
me and this country. Just tell the
story of my dad, my father,
my hero.

INSOMNIA

Don’t know how to sleep, need to stay awake
put in the DVD, grab the remote, watch a movie.
Hard knock life, can’t function without the help
of a pill. It makes me wonder if Simon Birch feels
as fucked up as I do, someone needs to be here.
Some say I need Jesus, just call my name.
Always there, screaming, freaking out, yelling out the name,
eyes getting heavy, can’t seem to focus, no more feel,
freaking out, feels like a Ron Howard movie,
everything turning blue. Sirens start to sound, suddenly awake.
Pricking the dog with a thumb tack, bored, here nor there,
all along, too embarrassed to go to a doctor, to seek help.

Dactylonomy is as close as I can get to help,
counting my fingers is the art, is my personal movie.
Tired as an ox carrying goods from here to there,
voices swirl again, screaming, screeching, yelling my name,
keeping me up. Never sleeping, never resting, always awake,
sick with exhaustion, suicide comes to mind, to help the way I feel.

Slowly turning into a public enemy, nothing left to feel,
but the emptiness is all that I fell down there,
in the bottom of my stomach. So sick, I forgot my name.
So in need of a doctor, a therapist, just in need of help,
always. Never getting a wink, never not being awake.
An awful real rendition of stories told through movies:

Fight Club, a story about insomnia, a movie
based solely on what I suffer, what I constantly feel,
yet when I watch, it will keep me awake
for days. A movie so twisted, people can’t figure out their names,
a film which depicts a guy in need of so much help,
yet when he seeks the help, it’s no longer there.

Finally gotta get to the docs, on my way there
now, going to a doctor’s, going for some help
which is much needed. No longer feel
afraid, incense smells great and movies
don’t help. Finally out in public, remembering my name,
finally, fully in tune to the world, finally, awake.

Get there, receptionist asks my name,
I just need help, my head is spinning like a movie
reel. No longer have that comfortable feel, gone, forever awake.

FLASH

Sun beaming like the flash of a camera
stuck in my eyes, erasing my sight, scorching
my corneas. The ocean breeze whips,
winds, cools off the half nude bodies
glistening with oil. Oil aromas fill the air,
but not the type you’re thinking of: oil
of coconut, oil of carrot, extracted
to welcome the sun onto
the skin of skinny bodies, while
the wide bodies use sunscreen, afraid
of getting sunburnt ass rolls.

I’m particularly attracted to one couple:
a beautiful olive skin teenager with a large
man-child, who could crush me with his
thumb and index. There they lay, welcoming
the hot summer sun with open arms,
unaware that I’ve taken a liking to them.
Her supple breast has me memorized, yet
his playful grin gives me a sensation rarely
felt, especially of man my age.

They get up, I turn over to my stomach,
let the sun bake my backside so I
can continue to get a good glimpse of
this wonderful couple. They walk down to
the waves, playful the whole way, winding
through the bodies to finally get to the
surf, able to cool off. In they go, my god,
she looks fantastic, yet I’m still oddly attracted
to the tattoos on that wonderful boyfriend.
He leans in to kiss her, I become hard.
I tell myself I can turn over now,
and begin to weep on the inside.

The beautiful couple leaves, hours later,
unaware that I’ve done nothing
but watch them all day. I tell myself
I’m a failure, and look at the glock
that’s in my dresser drawer.
I know it’s what needs to be done.
Up to my head, shaking like
a man with Parkinson’s, I finger
the trigger, and a series of events
flash past my eyes.

HELPER (after Eminem)

Every morning, every day.
The flick of the light,
a boom of the speaker,
Marvin Gaye,
“Let’s get it on.”
The rush of water out of its spout,
a sudden change of stream.
Water runs down his nude body
all while I lay here,
sometimes in a ball.
Merely lying, waiting for my turn.
I see the soap get pressed to his body
while I feel myself turning into
a giddy 8 year old child at Christmas time.
The outer layer becomes suds,
smells of fresh cut lavender
rush through the water closet.
All of a sudden it’s my turn,
as I caress his chiseled shoulder
down his washboard abs,
over his rippling thighs.
I do my job.
The soap rubbed in,
he no longer needs me.
Proud, another
day at the office,
mosey back to my spot in the corner
hanging near the shampoo.
Nothin’ else for me to say:
my public adores me.