A Beautifully Chaotic Life


I’ve lived a beautiful life, and even though I know my countdown has begun earlier than most people, I am ok with it- the majority of the time. Fact is the kid who had a blasé outlook for so long is absolutely loving life. However, on the way home from the Tool concert, I lost it talking to my buddy.

He saw a side of me few do-the raw, unpolished, unprepared guy whose truest emotions rest at the bottom of God’s murky filled cauldron of mystery stew. My batch is good on salt big guy. Every once in a while though the angel stirring the pot is out smoking or on a more important call-lord knows there is enough tragedy and pain on this planet, it’s a wonder dinner is ever served. Point is, that calm, collected demeanor sticks to the bottom sometimes and I scream out unrehearsed material -which goes like this – “I don’t want to fucking die yet. It’s too early!”

Obviously I am still here, but I felt human the other night at Tool. Maybe diseased  or a cancer-ridden  human is more accurate. The metastasized bone cancer areas made their presence known on a couple hour drive. My last vertebrae is affected, as well as areas in my pelvis, meaning sitting hurt. Talk about something we take for granted. “I don’t want to fucking die, and I don’t want to feel so much pain just fucking sitting.” I don’t get both right now, so the living part will be the better play. Tomorrow when I meet with my hospice nurse, my pain meds may go up again. 300mg of extended-release morphine twice a day and 20mg of immediate release hourly if needed put most of my body at peace, but now there’s this, so 400mg, here we come probably.

I had someone tell me how lucky I am to be getting so many opiates. I won’t be speaking to that cretin anymore. “Yeah, I’m blessed- Look at that, I have some leftover chondrosarcoma, lung and bone cancer there’s plenty to spare. Lucky for you my mom raised me to share.” Speaking of lung cancer, 4 flights of stairs at the parking garage and I could barely breathe to curse the cheap bastards for saving  a dime on no elevators. I needed oxygen, desperately. I’ve never felt that before unless someone knocks the wind out of me. It’s a race of ironies, because  needed it as fast as possible, yet had to pace myself between a narcoleptic snail and a Xanax addicted 3-toed sloth.

By far the worst thing though was the other 5 people I was with-they wanted to do something. As I sat breathing in my oxygen, I began to sob. I just can’t keep up with regular people-I’m sick. I’m slowly dying.

I told one of them about it, and through his Russian accent, I remember him telling me that it was cool, not to worry about it. I was there wasn’t I? Isn’t that the important thing? I was fucking there, and that is a beautiful thing. I turn 43 Wednesday. Pearl Jam plays here on April 8th. It would be the 25th show I’ve seen them, and plan on seeing them.

My life has been a wonderful experience. I’ve truly lived it, through all the pain and bs, nothing has stopped me. I saw Game 1 of the 1992 Stanley Cup Finals. I’ve been halfway around the world, countless countries and historical monuments, like Ankgor Wat in Cambodia, Mayan ruins in Tulum, Stanley Cup and a Steeler  victory parades. On and on with the sights, but then there’s the people through all of it. From Mario Lemieux Christmas shopping at Kaufman’s. As a boy, Jimmy “Superfly” (sadly a Murderer) Snuka, to my guys on the railroad tracks, having their deep philosophical conversations on everything from politics to what dog looks strong in the 8th race at the kennel club. The amount of awesome in my life is just humbling.

I got this text last night and cried like a baby who had his Twinkies stolen. Do babies eat Twinkies? Not important.

You’re the man. I appreciate your strength more than you know. It was a good time. I’ll be back sometime this week.

Funny thing, he taught me how to be that man.

Peace & Love-


Monogamous Prostitution and Other Love Poems


The process has started. If you have read any of the “Independent Breaks,” this is what it has become. Watch for updates. Hopefully Gabby and I can get this done soon! Oh, we need an artist for the cover. Inquire please, already know what I want.

Independent Breaks #4

You really should read from the beginning….


Kicking ass and forgetting the names. I am a liar, don’t remember my mentor, but he’s with me still. I’m a charmer, a slick talking leech. I construct my dreams on sand and patiently wait for an act of God to wash it away. Hey God, there’s blood stains everywhere. Thumbs down on your laundry skills. Isn’t Billy Mays up there? Ask him about OxyClean. Now I have to start from scratch. My solace is that they’re way better off, choose better next time ladies. Justify the wrecking ball with a life lesson. I’d apologize, but I’m consumed by picking scabs, by deepening the wound. I need to dig you out of me. What do you do when the company you need gets stale and gray? Can’t be alone but I can’t stand you. The perfect excuse, always have a plan H. My back burner bitch, always there for me. It’s not so bad being all alone with her. With warmth covering me. Take time to notice the small things, but the walls have cracks… something has to give, my tainted soul can’t hold in much longer.


The office space looked as enclosed as my twisted mindset, withdrawn and counterproductive
Flying thoughts circulating in the confined space of my head
I’m rattling my own cage to get out
Where to go however? I know I’m not safe anywhere
Alone, in a busy structure provides no safety,
The echoes of haunting memories of his hallow screams blasting through my ears
I want to pull my hair out as if that could make it stop.
My thumb nail, strong and lustrous digs deeper into my index until a raw, burgundy leak springs
A child alone no longer plays in mud but in my own disappointments of life
Capping one mishap and unveiling another
In most forms, they take shape of a man
He always looks the same, tall frame with dark husky eyes
Eyes that will lie to me but yet I live in that darkness
I love in that chaos
And I die when he leaves, every time.
Back here, I return.
” Welcome Love, it’s been ______ since last time, my, the weight you’ve lost, don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.. We always do.”
The door shuts.


Independent Breaks #3

A vital lesson I have learned in recovery is this: My relationship with myself will always determine my relationships with others.


Learned a lesson or two being ground to dust at the end of her stiletto fears.
A little easier to expect a hair above nothing so I can squeak by on minimal effort.
We’re symbiotic that way, at least before defining the roles of host and parasite.
Not that either of us has much nourishment for the other.
It’s hard to grow strong from decay…
But I’m doubting that knowledge is going to stop me from falling.

It’s almost as if I’m rewinding the same old tape
In that same old VCR
Fighting myself to change the storyline, adding & subtracting new characters…
Actors all very similar in face.
Cold, plastic smiles as realistic as a unicorn
I remember this place now
I remember this feeling- and all of those feelings
I let it happen again
His approach outstanding compared to the others
Applause should be rewarded
Leaching off my sick emotional stand point
His ego grew till eventually the table at which we both sat
It could only just seat him
The life I pictured several times over was misplaced beyond a bad decision
None of them said they never meant to do this
I never thought each time I’d still be picking up the pieces of myself
Glueing them together just with less and less left
A truly scrapped together existence of what I used to be
Once upon a dream.
Staring at the floor from this bed, focus intense
Waiting for the littered hardwood background to spring to life
I drift, upwards, I’m floating far away as a roach skitters across the floor
I’m happy where I am, mainly because roaches disgust me
But I’m held back, by something, not shoved down, just imprisoned.
No, I’m contained. Passive aggressive restraints…
I don’t know who is the what and certainly can’t define this paradoxical ascent
Like gravity got lazy or selective and my dopamine darlings made a deal with the devil, Backroom type of shit.
Signing on the dotted line is dated, was it ever barely connected?
Kind of feeling like that, holding on to chemical tricks to be here…alone.
The sugar ants have picked up the scent and march
Back and forth to somewhere
Anywhere might be better than my head
I miss her- her flesh, her touch, her forced smiles
I’m dirty, mind on the never ending pleasure quest
Don’t think I saw her slip away, too busy separating our broken hearts…
Too busy filling in the gaps with a stranger’s pieces
I did this
I am this…betrayal
Nameless, faceless Dopamine Darling, never let me go.
The solitude fortress of vodka bottle was shattering,
Staring at a base that no longer could protect me
I was slipping further into illusion and deeper into despair,
My demons knew his would over power them in strength
We allowed this all to happen, again
A funky smell of defeat, my alcohol was selling me out
The phone felt like it would never ring again.
My life an empty mess
A star that had once shined so bright,
I constantly dimmed myself
I promised myself this wasn’t going to end this way
Three trips to the liquor store to ease my emotional pain
The tears wouldn’t stop rushing
I reference a past hurt as I’d rather take another black eye then a broken heart any day…
This punching bag became a sponge, soaking in every last word
Repeatedly rehearsing it
Always chiming in ” But my dear, I say worse to myself alone, shall I help you?”
My deteriorating body and mind now lay awake
Unforgiving of all these strangers I convinced myself I had once knew
And of the woman I had pretended to be that kept landing me here, again.

Have to Write


Strictly Me Killing 2 Birds with a Picture of the Perpetually Stoned One

I’ve learned a trick or two about shoving my creativity out of the shadows, learned how to dismiss labeling laziness as writer’s block. Sometimes I get on these planes, okay, lower myself onto less clever ones, where I don’t need to be so over the top cryptic, where I don’t have to be so profound. I’m hardly infamous, let alone famous, but more than a few times I’ve heard requests to entertain with a laugh, or inspire with some life lesson. Sometimes though, I have nothing. I want to sit down, shed my responsibilities like my clothes on a Tinder date, and veg out watching Ancient Aliens or some such frivolous show that adds absolutely zero to my intelligence, the boob tube was labeled such long before cable…let that marinate.

That said, perhaps I put a picture of Willie Nelson playing cards to tell you the time when maybe he connected with the ancient cosmonauts through a special strain of pot they left his forefathers.Similar to peyote and other shaman-esque herbs, this particular strain of marijuana causes Willie to enter a deep trance, where he can travel space and time to communicate with great minds of the past. Ironically, the portal of metaphysical travel opens only on April 15th annually.

When not transcending space and time, Willie and I get together to play some Texas Hold ‘Em. Sometimes we watch documentaries, but really none of this matters because this is just an exercise in getting the fingers and brain a wake up call,because I need to write for a living, and know aimless thoughts about a random picture on Google force a story, so now I can call this educational.

Still I am granted this wonderful opportunity, and I don’t trust my ability, not a perfectionist or anything, am I finding the right words, stringing them together in a concise, yet ambiguous way? Ok, what I come up with is never good enough, I struggle to illuminate an emotion in print, describe a feeling of festering pain rotting in a place I can’t reach to leech.

Old time charlatan cures passed on for free since the patents long since expired, pretty much like the story I was going to spin about Willie going all in with a 4, 9 off suit, but this really has served its purpose, possibly. I needed more characters, more explanation as to who Angie was and why she stabbed the old man in the palm with an ice pick when he tried to gather his winnings, which in reality turned out to be anything but, since he got a nasty infection and I am all out of this:


Talk about a picture being worth a thousand words…

I’m thinking ‘and’ would have been a better conjunction, so no decisions need made. “Make me a bust cream and jelly sandwich please,”or there’s always the bedroom…

Time to get to work.