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The Summer of 1984 started in 1983, of course,
all paths that led to my insanity laid out and
carved by then.

I was twelve, going on thirteen when everything
was not as it seemed, blackouts and throw-up
becoming routine.

Nothing worked, when it came to reporting
my feelings!  I loved her!  That girl in third
grade, my dream!

But I lacked the words in a house about
to “divorce,” no one listening to the wise,
rebellious Nazarene rabbi,

who said “man cannot separate what God
had bound together,” and so we went our
separate ways—

Love, peace and happiness on one side,
trading “up” we thought for more, so
wouldn’t it be fun to

Have two Christmases?  Two homes?
Two codes by which to live, two lives
in one, distinct and yet same?

We were split down the middle, alcohol
a great religious or scientific riddle, “God”
if you will or won’t

standing at least for unknown creating
and moving… God needed by Need itself,
the atheist using other words

to mean the same exact thing!


Anne in third grade was good enough,
and Mary said that was a sure “feast,”
but lack of truth

festering in the pit of Bourbon and water,
psychotic sips taken because a commercial
or mother or father

thought it was okay, and pitched the flames
into our very best days…

Anne was good enough, but I lacked the words.

Sorry, indeed, I was bound for a hell of
my own sad making! From Anne I went
to plan B, then C, then D, then all the others
doing the same thing!

Lying and loving, lying about loving, not
telling them of my feelings but getting
darn good at alcohol drinking.

Barf. That and blackouts, like the one during
the Mexican world cup of 1986.

Peeing on my friend’s couch, being awakened
in the middle of the sleep by sister’s
friends, laughed at because I was small,
immature and two years from puberty.

Proverbs and Malachi warned against certain
things, among them not treating the wife of
your youth well.

To deal treacherously with her was to curse
your life, and make all clear wins a steady
blur; pastimes like baseball only hiding the
love for an hour or three.

God a word sung but nothing good without

Bill Maher and the atheists—I love you—
a rose by any other name as sweet, so bitter
leaning, the journey back to youth,

all our adult plays and words so futile,
as we look at Grandma, give her a hug
and say good bye.

Grandpa surrounded by loved ones with a
tear in his eye!

This, if not a place in the clouds could
certainly be eternal life!

Never have to die…


Movies and tennis, trips to a beach
with friends.  I didn’t know I was a serious
talk with one person away from a
spiritual awakening!

I had to almost die, before the choice
is made to live—not because you have to,
but because you want the love you find
when you discard the lies.

Every dance in ’84 was one away from Anne
and the wife of my youth.

Cursed I write this song; cursed I seek a
better home; cursed I walk along, penitent
and aware of my horrible sins of putting
myself and my fears ahead of God and his or
her will for me.

Alcohol is a False god.  Kills more people
spiritually than physically, but then again they’re
the same thing, the worlds collide in the mix
of pain and joy, the rainbow after the rain
our path to the sober and sane!

Feel that!  Yeah, feel the pain!!!

We have a path to Heaven not by our
actions but efforts; imperfect we reach for the
thing babies reach for, Creation smiling,
ourselves powerless over the next caress,
hurricane or frilly red dress.

We purge our old life in the memory of
sickness on the ground, picking up the
pieces of the mess of messing around.

Rich kids, poor kids, the only thing that
matters our commitment to being as
little kids!

Heaven is the gate in front of us, open
when we halt our advanced studies of
love and hate. Look up…

Give and love today…

Before it is too late.