Sunday, May 29, 2011

Memorial Day and "It's What You Did"

Tomorrow is Memorial Day...a strange holiday for me. I'm the daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter of a looooooong line of military men. That's a fairly common tale in every culture around the globe, I think. That my ex-step-father is a Vietnam Vet is nothing spectacular either. That he was an abusive pedophile alcoholic son of a bitch from hell...well...that's probably no shocker either. Not because he was a Vet. Millions of folks are Vets and never once indulge in committing evil sins against their families. I only feel its a common sad story because...well...that's the world we live in these days.

But it makes Memorial Day and the Fourth of July complicated for me.

There's the loyal patriot within me who wants to stand up and praise my ancestors (who served all the way back to the Revolutionary War--no joke). But there's also the angry bitter woman inside who knows first hand what war can do to a their their mind. It's bitter-sweet at best--this tug-of-war between respect and frustrated tears.

So I wrote a story last year and was too cowardly to post it...taking much of it from conversations with my ex-step-father...and my recollections of his 3am nightmares. You know, the fun ones where he drug us out of bed screaming, "Get Down!!! Get Down!!!" Mom called them flashbacks. At 8 years old...I called them "Holy Shit! Moments." I still remember my mother saying, "Just be glad he doesn't think your the enemy during his flashbacks." Considering that he treated me like the enemy when he was stone-cold-sober...I'd say she was right about that.

This story I feel could speak for itself, just fine. This glimpse into my reasoning is merely to calm my inner patriot. I want to be clear that even though I've wanted to hang my ex-step-father's head on a spear in my front yard--I have always--ALWAYS--respected his service. I've always understood that he was plagued with a lot of unaddressed war related issues and pain. So this story isn't meant to hurt him. It isn't meant to hurt anyone. It's just a vessel to pour out the pain I witnessed and the confusion I experienced and maybe...just's one last attempt to understand that which can never be understood.

Happy Memorial Day folks. God Bless and many thanks to those who have served and fallen and to those who still stand to remember. Much love and respect,

It's What You Did

The stench from the fireworks clouded his lungs. He coughed. Just a small thing, but it brought blood up all the same. The doc said he had Agent Orange. His feet were eroded by jungle rot. They don’t talk about that shit in the glamorized Hollywood versions of Nam.

Nope. Hollywood just wants some buff Charlie Sheen running through the jungle with sweat gleaming on his muscles. Hell, give him a bandana—make him look like Rambo. Rambo well, at least that prick had balls.

A chubby little kid sat on his yuppie daddy’s shoulders and waved an America flag singin’ “Born in the USA…I was born in the USA.” No way did that kid know what that song was about. Hell the yuppie idiot who sired him didn’t know either.

He scoffed in silence. He’d paid his dues and everybody else’s. No need to march on DC or write the local paper for vet’s rights. He’d said his piece behind the machine gun on a tank. After Cathy spoke—wasn’t nothing but silence. He dug in his pocket. A faded photograph of four skinny guys with dreams as big as the New Mexico sky smiled back with cock sure grins and a joint hanging from the corners of their mouths.

The caption read: “The boys and Cathy’s Clown.”

Dave had busted his chops when he’d named the tank Cathy’s Clown. It hadn’t been so funny when the real Cathy had sent him a Dear John letter—3 months pregnant with Jimmy Kearns’ kid. It was even less humorous when they left Dave’s body floating in a fucking rice paddy. He could still see him floating there—face down—as the chopper pulled away.

He married a little Vietnamese girl. It was the 60’s man, that’s what you did. She divorced him in ’73. He couldn’t blame her. He was an asshole, everyone said so. He drank too much. He’d get the beast upon him and knock her pretty head into a wall. He never meant to…it just sorta happened. The seventies passed him by in a blur of alcohol induced coma. The eighties weren’t much better.

He looked at the picture again. Jesus they were young. Was he really ever that green? He shook his head and passed the families on the green grass. He saw their stares. But he didn’t care. He always dressed in full uniform on the 4th. He was one in a long line of military men. His daddy went to Korea. His granddaddy fought in WWWII. It’s what they did. They served.

He stuffed the photo away.

Only he and John made it outta Nam. And John was still locked up far as he knew. That shit made you crazy. That’s what the doc said, “No shame in talking about it. You guys weren’t treated right. We know it. There’s help out there if you want it.” He shrugged the vet doc off. He was tough. It’s what you did. Only pansies cried and talked about their feelings.

Folks were grilling out today. The air was ripe with charred burgers and hot dogs. That’s what you did on the 4th. Took your kids to a park and cooked out while watching fireworks and waving little paper flags. There were flags all over the lawn. He shook his head, his long hair stringing down his back. It was illegal for the flag to touch the ground. Folks don’t care about shit like that anymore. He picked one up—smeared with mustard. Shoulda been ketchup, the flag was dead, it might as well bleed.

He tossed it down and rolled over it with his wheelchair.

The street was crowded with people pushing and shoving to get to their cars.

They parted when they saw him. It could have been respect for his sacrifice. Or it could have been fear. Why fear a disheveled vet? He pushed the wheels over the pavement. A guy in a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts stood up and saluted him. Fucking civilians. You don’t salute anyone other than a commanding officer. He nodded at the guy as he rolled past.

When he got to his little apartment he checked his mail. More bills. A letter from the V. A. Nothing important, so he tossed the stack on the counter. He rolled to his bedroom and pulled out his old revolver. It felt good in his hand—heavy and real.

He rolled to the mirror and looked at himself. He paused, then put the gun in his mouth.

When a dog is old and no longer vital you put them to sleep. It’s what you did.

Friday, May 27, 2011


"You know me." My tongue darts out to nervously lick the desperation from my lips. "Sure, I'm a mess. Who isn't?" I remain rooted to the floor watching his face close a steel door to me. He says nothing. Again. Still.

How many times have we been here? Him shutting me out, me clawing and scratching my way in...and for what? The constant pain and disappointment? I told a friend once that he needed to sort out why he felt he didn't deserve happiness...hello pot.

What is it about me that repulses men? They get drawn in by my smile, my words, but once they know me...poof. Am I too intense? Too demanding? Do I ask so much? Is it impossible to love me?

Why do I fight to keep them? Why?

I slink down the wall and crumple on the floor. I pull my knees up to my chest. He stands, resolute, across the room. He might as well be on the moon. The chill wounds me. I feel the fight within me die. I resign myself to this zombie-like existence. Maybe all I'm good for is a fuck. They don't want understand me, show no interest in my mind, won't even read the shit I write. They cherry pick the bits they like and amplify them in their minds. But when reality smashes the fantasy...well...I end up here again.

"Fine. Go." He lets out a breath like a deflating balloon. I don't look up when the door closes.


Two halves of a whole
Separated by pride and fear

Empty words
And lost dreams

Linger with vampiric intensity
How to prove?

How to reassure?
How to let go?

Thursday, May 26, 2011

More Words

Sometimes I wallow
Sit by the river and swallow
Lies I've heard
Truths absurd

I listen to the trees
So easy to please
So quiet and clam
Fragile in my palm

Is the heart that beats
Against empty teat
I just wanted love
Words on wings of the dove

Flit and flutter
Slippery as butter
And drift away
And drift away...


Old emails swim
Behind leaky eyes
Ghosts of who we were
And may never be again

I loved you with wild abandon
Naive and free

My voice constricts now
I still smile
Though you'll never see 
You don't want to

This polite distance
This strained ache
I knew that befriending you would challenge
Though loving you is fatal

I still look for love
I peer from face to face
Pale comparisons
Empty shells

Or maybe I'm the shell?
The fraud?
The one with nothing left to give?
Hope burns true

I'll find love one day
It won't be with you
But I'll find it
I'll never give up...

Wednesday, May 25, 2011


Sometimes I want to slap you
Reach through this computer
And claw your face
And snarl

I want to shake the stupid from you
Make you see the glory you deny us
To keep us apart
When love still burns...

I growl and shake

But I'm too polite to budge
Too kind to say a word
I close my eyes and chant
Just friends is better...

Tuesday, May 24, 2011


The phone feels foriegn in my hands. It's shiny sliver surface and black buttons wink with slimy perfection. I hear his breathing on the other end of the line. I look at my brightly colored toenails. Cherry red. I painted them an hour ago. His gasps come faster, more hotly now.

I swallow hard.

My voice is silky smooth and wraps around him softly.

I caress his face with velvet words. I moan and sigh. I arch my back and wish I could hang up this vile telephone. I wish I had a lover. A flesh and blood man to wrap me up in strong arms and kiss the sweet curve of my neck.

"I need to kiss and lick and taste you. Would you like that? Would you like it if I swirled my tongue over the tip of your cock and swallowed you whole? Mmmm...I can taste your cum now...." I moan and pretend to rub flesh that he has no idea is bone dry and nowhere near my fingers. "Ahhhh....ohhh God...honey...please...give it to me!" I moan louder, more excitedly, giving Meg Ryan a run for her money.

I hear him gasp and gurgle. Grunting harder, faster. His climax is loud and somehow sterile.

The line goes dead.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The call ended.

Beep. Beep.

The system tells me that I'm ready for the next caller.

I clear my throat and lay back on the pillows. I glance at the clock. That call was 12 minutes long. Need to keep them a bit longer to make my bonus. My eyes drift to a photo of my boys. What the hell am I doing? I close my eyes against the shame...the growing emptiness in my chest.


"Hi!" My voice sounds fabricated, as if I'd stolen artificial cheeriness from a perpetual--ageless--bimbo. "This is 'Jenna.' Who's this?"