Busses, Dreams, and Other Means of Transportation:

Do you believe in dreams?

I do . . .

They say our dreams only last a few seconds. I have read that research shows dreams can last anywhere between 5 seconds and 45 minutes. I have read that a few seconds in a dream, to us, can translate to an hour, an afternoon, or an entire day.

I once dreamt that I spent an afternoon with The Old Man. I was young in my dream. I assume I was the age when I saw The Old Man for the last time. Then again, I am often young in my dreams.
It was winter in this dream. I was dressed warmly and sitting in the backseat of my Father’s two-tone, black and gray, Dodge pickup truck with a cap on the back. The truck was exactly as I remembered it. Black on the upper half and silver below it. The maroon interior was the same, the long steel gear-shift with the black ball atop, and the dashboard, the radio, the heat and air conditioning switches all looked the same.

It was clear to me that The Old Man was Continue reading →

Institution Prose

I tell you this, you do not understand victory
until you are sat in a room with a group of kids,
all of them mad and starving to escape,
each one with a unique story
all of them lost and each one sick of life,the system,
and sick of the surroundings,
sick of the world they find themselves in.

and sick of the fact
that the only brief intermission of ease

is the momentary high that comes with drugs or alcohol.

I say you can’t know victory until you sit in this group,
institutionalized with Continue reading →

For The Boys

I know who they were then and I know who they are now. I was one of them and together, we were the wild ones of the town. We were only kids at the time, with the emphasis on the word, “Kids,” being confused and angry—we were young and willful. I know what we were and how others saw us. We were the opposite side of the good kids in lunchroom crowd. We were the kids with the long hair, ripped jeans, a pack of Marlboro cigarettes, stuffed in the pocket of a denim jacket or a leather jacket. We were part of a tragic fashion, beautiful in our own way and aggressive—mad to the touch but wonderful and curiously eager, yearning to feel the rush of something better than simple complacency of a spoon-fed life.

I was amongst Continue reading →

From The Daddy Diaires

As a dad, there are sounds that I will always remember. These sounds are simple. These are the sounds of my daughter laughing and sometimes crying. They are the sounds a child makes while running through the lawn sprinkler and screaming happily in a high-pitched scream. My daughter has certainly made a few of these sounds. Over the years, I’ve collected them like tiny pieces of memorabilia.
I hold them close so that one day, whenever my little girl grows up and heads off into the world and the last thing she thinks about is her dad, I will have a collection of memories—and when I need to, I can Continue reading →

feeling it . . .

I spent decades running as fast as I could, only to stop one day and find that no matter where I went nor how fast I ran, I could never hide from me nor could I ever outrun myself.

I ran for decades and for this very reason—I never wanted to feel the feelings that come with life on life’s terms. I never wanted to feel pain or understand desperation. I tried to turn this off to the best of my ability.
For decades, I tried to be numb—I wanted to be callous and tough. I wanted to be impenetrable and unaffected.
Instead, I was only hiding from Continue reading →

About Beauty

This is a piece about beauty . . .

I was driving upstate and heading northwest to a destination far beyond the reaches of the city or suburban life.
Tall tree-covered mountains were on either side of the road. My windows were opened to allow the air to filter through and give me a taste of that early autumn breeze.
It is drives like this that cause me to change my definitions and descriptions of beauty.

I drove passed farmlands and pastures. I went across Continue reading →

A Personal Ramble

This is nothing more than a personal ramble.
In fairness, I am not sure what you (the reader) will picture or what you will imagine if you decide to follow along. I’m not sure if this will even make sense to anyone else but me. Still, a ramble is a ramble and this is just that—a ramble .

I am driving up to see two of my most special friends this morning. Had it not been for them and others like them when we all lived together on The Farm, I would not be the man I am now. Had it not Continue reading →

Poem From A Son

“Take this,” she said to him—an old woman
sitting in her favorite chair, upstairs,
living in a house built by the man she loved,
in a room where life happened
and memories were built.

She was a mother above all things,
loving and caring,
and she handed him a white silken scarf
which had been folded carefully.
“This belonged to your father,” she said,
a wife, 
a widow in mourning. Continue reading →

Junkie Stories: The First Day

Everything is a blur. The reasons I became this way and what I went through to get here had all been dulled like an old knife that was left in a drawer someplace, rusted, and aged without the resemblance of its once shiny self. There I was at the sick house with fellow drunks and fellow junkies, drying out for their first few days, and wondering, dumbfounded, with the same look in the eye and similar expressions on their faces. Each one in the house was Continue reading →

Bedtime Stories: The Best Time

It’s better like this. The best times are the unexpected ones. This is when he comes behind you and grabs you without warning. Startled at first, you feel his arms wrap around you. This is the best way because it brings with it an element of surprise. At this point, your heart is racing because of the quick scare. At the same time, your heart is racing because there he is, right behind you, and you know he is not willing to give in.

He caught you without leaving so much as a clue—standing by the mirror in your bathroom; you were thinking Continue reading →