Good friends. Good whiskey. Good lovin'.

Mom, it is your fault that I have this in my soul. As much as I do not want it. As much as I hate it---I love it--- because there you are, dancing in the kitchen with your hand wrapped around a sweating glass of whiskey, ice cubes sparkling through the smoke of your cigarette like stars through city smog. You are singing as loud as you can, swaggering and crying...and while the rest of the world said that you were just being too drunk and too loud...You really brought the house down, you really did.

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It is rainy today and so I couldn't take my normal morning walk to school. It's okay, though, because it has to rain sometimes. It has to.

I don't really have anything to blog about other than I feel very blessed right now, in my life. The road is still difficult to travel but I am no longer going it alone. I have good friends. I have a good family. I have people who care and people that I care about.

Poetry time!

This has no title, but a label should only tell you the contents and the facts, not influence how you feel about the contents. Maybe a title will come later. Maybe one will never come. Enjoy, at any rate. Or don't, whatever floats your ice-cream.

I.

They call her whip smart, she’s not a pop-tart
but she is third-eye candy.
You may cry fallacy
and call her Malice. See,
her heart is not a mallet, nor pliable—

reliable
and without deceit.

But, conceit tends to bind her to the glass.

II.

If you hear her words
above the crowd
You must be listening just as loud.
Little red x’s
constellation style
have stolen her smile
and left her with a longing for scars.

A dream once whispered the promise of a fountain
and she dove, head first, into a vast sea.
She emerged forever seventeen—
a mermaid, a princess, a beauty queen.

But it remains a dream,

and she has to wake up some time.

On the other side of the mirror, where the glass
is much more silver,
the old hag cackles and accepts another date with death.

III.

Shaded in false light, her memories
become minute realities and her dreams,

memories.

She’ll never miss you again
because Alzheimer’s, in its ruthless thievery

has stolen your faces,
the places, any traces
of time…

even the words, “I love you.”
Blown away like glitter

—you never were.

And she’s seventeen forever.


mG