Paradise Lost

On this Friday of the First Week of Lent, I continue my journey through Scott Hahn’s book, Lenten Reflections from A Father Who Keeps His Promises.

When Rudy, our Westie mix, does something wrong, she knows it. Sometimes we arrive home to find a bag of goodies shredded. The instant that Rudy notices that we see the mess, her ears, head and tail droop—her whole body seems to sag—and she crawls toward her crate. The kids find this amusing and sometimes tease her by calling her name in a low, what-did-you-do-now tone: “Rudy.” Just to watch the Walk Of Shame.

I remember growing up, whenever I broke something of my Mom’s—like a vase—my instant reaction (after failing miserably to repair it) was to hide the evidence. And then blame someone else when the crime was discovered.

Crash

a slam poem

This place sucks
But not ‘cause it’s this place
It’s not geographically based
It’s more vicinity
‘Cause all in my proximity
Just sucks.

I guess it’s me
‘Cause everywhere I go
All under my long shadow
Is dropped into despair
Beyond all hope, in disrepair
And I can’t flee.

A Midas touch
Except it’s in reverse
And all I touch is made perverse
A pustule-ridden sore
A sticky crusty theater floor
It’s all too much.

I can’t escape
It’s just as I say
I just can’t seem to get away

Drunken Bliss

or Reflections of a (Seldom) Sober Conscience

Seven pence and a peso, too,
Were all i had, and a soleless shoe,
To put my son through college.

So i took two pence and i bought the News
And i thought, “surely, now they can’t refuse
To hire a High School Drop-Out.”

But i didn’t get to the classifieds.
The cinema blue is what i spied
And there went a pence and a peso.

My threadbare coat was a sight to see
But the ladies there were nice to me
So there went two more pennies.

When they saw those two round Lincoln-heads
Their heads ’bout burst and they turn’d bright red
And they threw me out the window.

And there i lay with a swollen eye
When i heard behind an embarrassed sigh
And i ducked what i thought was coming.

963. The One That Got Away

Dream House

If you love something, let it go.  If it comes back, then it was meant to be.  If it doesn’t . . . .  But what if that something is a moment in time? Or an opportunity?  Or a careless word?

My mind was still hazy as I swayed over the toilet, emptying an unusually full bladder.  Ok, so it’s not unusual for me.  Besides my throbbing headache, I didn’t have much to remind me of what happened last night. How many nights have I lost to that beast?  How many girlfriends?  Jobs?  Friends?

I didn’t even remember waking up.  Did the alarm go off?

Stumbled through the morning routine.  Shit.  Shower.  Shave.  Bleed.  Brush.  Bleed.  Dress.  Inspect the bare cupboard.  Cuss.  Drive to Mickey D’s.

I finally stumbled into work. Funny looks, side glances.  Occasional gasps.  Then I noticed the nametag on my door.  NOT my name.  NOT my door.  How could I forget?  That question was quickly replaced by, “how do I get out of here without being seen?”