He pinched me

Even though he is almost 10 he is still small and helpless
and during this early-morning family outing to get coffee and scones
he has fallen asleep next to you on the couch.

your work responsibility causes the need to leave.

so lift him carefully to your shoulder to protect his innocence.
and to the car, the family walks.

his arms cling to your neck
the protective strength you feel
feeling his warmth and total trust in you
his legs flopping with each step you take
so you slow to protect his slumber state


the older brother, almost 15 yrs old trailing behind on the way to the car,
pinches the sleeping child hard
hard enough to startle
hard enough to welt
hard enough to cause uncontrollable sobbing

As the father you scold the 15 yr old.
"that was not funny"
"why did you do that?"
"what were you thinking?"
"I'm really disappointed in you" this last statement directed at the soul of the 15 yr old.

The mom is oblivious
to busy in her own reality
busy texting
busy face booking
busy farmville -ing
busy twitter - ing
busy google - ing
busy hiding
she did not want to come at all
she lives in her own world
distant and isolated

She does not see life as other mom's
although plenty of food
her kids go to school without breakfast
although plenty of clothes
her kids go to school dirty

her defense: "she does not sleep well, and can't get up in the morning to be with them."

but she sees not the cause is her awakening at 3:am nightly.

for her husband 3am
is believable lies told by her
"I just needed some water"
"I hoped to read myself to sleep"
"I have an upset stomach"
"I heard a noise in the boy's room and was checking on them"

for her 3:am
is selfishness and power
it is adrenaline and control
it is for secrets
"he doesn't know what I'm doing, he's asleep"
"if he didn't like it he would tell me"
for her it is justifications
"tonight I'll just look and not touch"
"tonight I'll Just touch, only with my hand"
"oh, tonight I went too far, tomorrow I won't do anything"
"next time I won't li
"next time I won't
"next time
"next time
"next time
and
"next time,.....


for the almost 15 year old
3am is
feeling confused and scared
... hopeless ....
feeling alone and helpless
... dirty ....
feeling powerless
feeling betrayed by his mother
feeling guilty for hating his mother so,
feeling betrayed by his dad, cause he doesn't see what is going on.
betrayed by himself for NOT telling her to stop IT.
betrayed by his body that responded to something that feels so horribly wrong
he feels tortured.
. he feels numb mixed with bouts of horror unimaginable,....


And in the daylight the almost 15 yr old now trailing behind the family on the way to the car, after the impromptu family outing, was re-living the previous 3:am.


if one could rate the horror scale,... last night,
last night would have been the worst,

because the outrageous evil of his body almost caused him to cum at the lips of his abuser.


he sees his little brother
innocent
helpless

and he thinks back to the first 3:am,...
and realizes that his little brother is as old now as he was then.

a thought causing crashing waves of concern, confusion and overwhelming helplessness,..
"Has she started doing it to him?"



the older brother, almost 15, pinches the sleeping child hard
hard enough to startle
hard enough to welt
hard enough to cause uncontrollable sobbing

he knew his father would scold.
"what were you thinking"
"you should be ashamed of yourself"
"I'm really disappointed in you" this last statement directed at the soul of the 15 yr old.

And the almost 15 yr old inhaled the disappointment, like he had been underwater for 5 minutes and needed air.

The shame of self-inflicted guilt of hurting his little brother was like his intestines turned inside out and his mouth filled with the taste of shit and bile..


And breathing in the dad's disappointment, and tasting the shit and bile,
at this moment,
is easier to live with than his thought that,..

even though, 15 years old, he can't protect his little brother from their mother.


***

the name

"gross" is what my dad called it,
my mom was totally disgusted
his dad just sighed at us as if that was enough to change things.
his mom left years ago, on his 11th birthday so we couldn't freak her out even if we wanted to.

We have a garage band this summer and we are sounding great. We even had one of the "popular ones" ask us to play at a party he was having, actually his parents paying for, out in the sticks.

Some covers, but a lot of our own guts and sweat.

Other kids are just stupid.
Parents-for that matter-all adults, -- not much better, except when you need a ride or some cash for shopping, then the parents are the best.

our music is real
its about the love of our life,
the unjustness of being grounded,
the bully that no one likes
that really queer kid - you know the one that think he's straight when he is obviously Soooo, gay.
the homeless ones.
the hungry.
the addicted.

So many songs have that stupid predictable repeat yourself, repeat yourself, repeat yourself, repeat yourself, repeat yourself, ............ everyone play your instruments Loud - then END-song.

Some of the songs our parents liked, how disappointing it was for us when they asked us to "please play that one song of yours that starts and ends with a guitar solo."

It took real pain to create the one my parents liked so much. no formula, no copying, no "influenced by", just me being me.

Then you have that cherub-faced kid that sang a Lady Gaga song and now has a new record label funded by Ellen.

Life is so unfair.

I wonder if its worth the fight, or should we just be like everyone else??

So that's where our name came from we were looking for something different, a little bit meaningless, not real, memorable, and- how did my dad put it,.... "gross"

We need to be us, you'll know our sound when you hear it

and you will remember our name

Thank to Michael,

you'll remember our name.




"Carbonated Afterbirth"

looking for some relief

I am lost there is something deep inside not willing to show itself
I stay stuck and in pain waiting for it to show

but relief is nowhere near
the forced tears, the therapist said to try is not working for me this time.
the porn is boring
the thought of drugs does not excite me either.
I am looking for the words to give me relief from the stress and pain of life.
but no magic to be found on-line.

No food can fill the void.

I call a friend but she is not home, so I feel so alone.

I rock like an autistic idiot and hope for relief, distraction or death

But none will come, the past is too strong and it pulls me into depression.

The past needs to come out, but I am afraid
afraid of the pain
afraid of the truth
afraid if my new-found friends shun me.

the music can't get loud enough
the pictures dark enough
the stories sad enough

I am still stuck with me.

Exercise can't sweat it out
Can't fall a sleep to let sleep hide it from me.
the hot line just put me on hold.

no one to talk to
nothing to stop me this time

my knife collection so large, I leave it to my son's
my car, paid in full, I leave to my daughter
the insurance will take care of the house for the wife.

not much else to do,


except of course,...



to stop living.

Dharavi

and the bright blues and reds of the pictures of the small portion of a town are very appealing and beautiful. the high gloss of the National Geographic photographs legendary; 

does paint the town in a pretty light. pictures of the adults working kids playing a girl in a dress the occasional close up of an old person's weathered, life spent, face you know the one I'm talking of, a man that looks to be 110 years old, 

wearing non-American headgear (towel-head, you might say). a man that has been through life and has kids, grandkids and great-grandkids to his credit. he has seen it all and his face shows the pains, and each hardship cut into the deep cracks in his cheeks.

 the look that half says "whats the big deal I'm just me" and half says "I have lived through more horror than you can imagine" There are plenty of words to go with the pictures, but nobody really reads when there are pictures - whats the point? 

 Dharavi - a slum, full of poor who wash their clothes in sewer water. aerial shot of the cardboard shacks inches apart. dirty people in a dirty part of a city as if this is the only city with its shame contained to a few square blocks. kind of easy to view the pictures in the magazine and talk of the sadness in distant countries while drinking a latte looking out the window of the coffee shop. but not easy to see those children sitting in the grass while a homeless woman, their mother, stands in the middle of the road with a sign pleading to be pitied, helped, and most of all acknowledge.

dead dog

my dog is still alive.
a disappointment,..

sort of.

I was hoping for some break in my otherwise mediocre life.
a little bit of fear
a little bit of adrenaline


is he breathing?
what do I tell the kids?
how do I lift the lifeless body?
That feeling of what once was life now heavy in my hands, .....
where would I carry him to?


but no, he met me at the door, all happy to be.

I wish I was.