The hero

When I finally pass away some day,
I can merely hope and pray
That I will gaze upon HIM.
Though he is constantly depicted in free flowing robes of white,
That is not the Savior I expect to see in my sights,
No, that image simply is not right.
My Savior wears jeans.

Yes, He wears jeans, an opinion I refuse to deny,
And if you need reassurance you only need to look toward the sky,
And gaze at the intricate shades of blue.

His jeans are long, battered, tattered, and torn.
They've been stained with blood, tears, and sweat since before I was born.
The blue varies through fades, and prices He's paid.
The most appealing part of the jeans are the many splotches of bleach,
>From where He has tried to reach and teach,
As He walks to and fro,
Cleaning the coats, of those whom He knows.
And I will be the one of the first to confide,
That those stains on his jeans will stay there with pride,
No matter how much He uses Clorox 2 or Tide,
Because the blotches we see is from where He's lived, thrived, and died,
And eventually risen days after making his crucial decision.
Yes, it is true, I can see through the blue, my Savior wears jeans.

Please I am asking that you do not cry, for I only went home to meet Isis in the sky. I have a room, a family, and a beautiful white shirt, and what a glory it is to walk on streets paved of gold. Now to all my children, grandchildren, and great-grand I must say that, I have fought a good fight and I have kept the faith, and with the help of the Lord I was able to win the race. Now when times get hard and you can't see your way, you just fall on your knees and begin to pray; if you listen with your heart and not with your ear you will hear a still small voice say I am still here. I was born to live here some eighteen years ago. The Lord said, Come, Som for it is now time for you to go, come go with me and receive your reward on high, in that big city called Heaven up in the sky. Again I am asking that you do not cry, because like I said I have only went home to meet Isis in the sky. The day I went home was like a dream come true, because there is nothing like a sky nicely shaded blue. So If You Shed A Tear, please let it be of joy, because now I can see once again my motherand her tears of smiles

Besides........

I am a loner with walls around me
I have no shadow
I have no voice
My heart has no beat
And my eyes has no light
Feeling does not exist upon me
I lost them in another person's heart
A woman I once called mother
A mother I once had loved
She flies with angles
Spoke with god
And has taken my soul with her
I feel like nothing
So alive yet dead
I remember
I remember that moment
The night she last spilled blood
When there were no stars to light her way
And no one to guide her
How could she have been so daring?
To face death that night
To cross it and leave me behind
I cry to my self
And hear my own voice
Beside her body
And beside death

Elaine

ON an exquisite Saturday afternoon in June, an assistant watch repairer named Dennis Cooney temporarily distracted the audience at an indoor flea circus just off Forty-third and Broadway by dropping dead. He was survived by his wife, Evelyn Cooney, and a daughter, Elaine, aged six, who had won two Beautiful Child contests; the first at the age of three, the second at the age of five, being defeated when she was four by a Miss Zelda “Bunny” Krakauer, of Staten Island. Cooney left his wife a little insurance: enough for her to import her widowed mother, a Mrs. Hoover, from Grand Rapids, Michigan, where the aging woman had supported herself by working as a cashier in a cafeteria. The money was enough for the three to live in relative comfort in the Bronx. The superintendent of the apartment house in which Mrs. Cooney and her mother and daughter proceeded to live was a Mr. Freedlander. A few years before Freedlander had been “super” of the house where they finally “got” Bloomy Bloomberg. Freedlander informed Mrs. Cooney that Bloomy didn’t look any deader than Mrs. Cooney, or anybody. Freedlander made it clear to Mrs. Cooney that Bloomy never called Freedlander anything but Mort, and Freedlander never called Bloomy anything but Bloomy.

“I remember readin’ all about it,” remarked Mrs. Cooney enthusiastically. “I mean I remember readin’ all about it.”

Freedlander nodded approvingly. “Yeah, it was quite a case.” He looked around his tenant’s living room. “Where’s Mrs. Boyle?” he asked. “I haven’t seen her around lately.”

“Who?”

“Mrs. —your mother.”

“Oh. Mrs. Hoover. My mother’s name is Hoover. I oughtta know. It was my name once!”

Mrs. Cooney laughed immoderately.

Freedlander laughed with her. “What’d I call her?” he asked. “Boyle didn’t I? We had a Mrs. Boyle in this apartment last. That’s why. Hoover. Hoover’s her name, eh? I get it.”

“She’s out,” said Mrs. Cooney.

“Oh,” said Freedlander.

“It’s really awful. I mean she stays out for hours and hours. I keep thinking of her getting run over by a truck or something at her age.”

“Yeah,” Freedlander commented, sympathetically. “Cigarette?”

AT the age of seven, little Elaine Cooney was sent to Public School 332 in the Bronx, where she was tested in accordance with the newest, most scientific methods, and consequently placed in Class 1-A-4, which included a group of forty-four pupils referred to among the faculty as the “slower” children. Every day Mrs. Cooney or her mother, Mrs. Hoover, brought the child to and from school. Usually it was Mrs. Hoover who made the delivery in the morning, and Mrs. Cooney would pick up her daughter in the afternoon. Mrs. Cooney went to the movies at least four times a week, frequently attending the late evening show, in which case she slept late mornings. Sometimes, owing to some unforeseen emergency, Mrs. Cooney was unable to call for her daughter. Under this not uncommon circumstance, the child was forced to wait as long as an hour by the second exit door from the corner, marked Girls, until her grandmother plodded irritably into view. On the way to and from school, the conversation between Elaine and her grandmother never achieved an exceptionally high degree of comradery between generations.

“Don’t lose your lunch box again.”

“What, Grandma?”

“Don’t lose your lunch box again.”

“Do I have peanut butter?”

“Do you have what?”

“Peanut butter.”

“I don’t know. Your mother fixed your lunch. Pull up your pants.”

i am dead and i am writing back at life.

i just remembered that there is this one last ritual i need to finish before i can be properly dead. the ritual where i exonerate everyone from any blame over my death and tell people that i am choosing to kill myself because the world had become unbearable and life intolerable.
well, do not assume any of that in my case!

my death is actually a disguise. i am actually not going anywhere, i will always lurk here and there, reminding you of the injustice that you have meted out to me, one lifetime after another. and if that is not painful enough, i will hide in your fridge, mix with your milk and stew with your chicken and make such a raucous there that you will flee your home.

what vanity!

while dying, a last shower of words on a sheet of paper. i imagine myself staring at my last written words, knowing that these too i will have to leave behind. there is a fondness associated with writing suicide notes that arises from the finality of the act. i think poets are probably the fondest of these notes, trying to make one last statement to this terribly prosaic world through them. i am a poet. i am fond of my suicide note. i want to be able to read it when i am dead, even if it is the only property i am allowed to carry to the land of the dead.

to be dead without my words is such a nightmare…!s

i was blessed with yet another birth

Love may be beautiful, love may be bliss.
But I only slept with you, because I was pissed.

I thought that I could love no other.
Until, that is, I met your brother.

Roses are red, violets are blue,
sugar is sweet and so are you.
But the roses are wilting, the violets are dead,
the sugar bowl's empty and so is your head.

Of loving beauty you float with grace.
If only you could hide your face.

Kind, intelligent, loving and hot.
This describes everything you are not.

I want to feel your sweet embrace.
But don't take that paper bag off of your face.

I love your smile, your face, and your eyes.
Damn, I'm good at telling lies!

My darling, my lover, my beautiful wife:
Marrying you screwed up my life.

I see your face when I am dreaming.
That's why I always wake up screaming.

My love, you take my breath away.
What have you stepped in to smell this way?

My feelings for you no words can tell.
Except for maybe "go to hell".

What inspired this amorous rhyme?
Two bike stunts and a dive. GTA rox!!!