Tribute to those that have gone before us.

"When a man lies, he murders some part of the world. These are the pale deaths which men miscall their lives.

All this I cannot bear to witness any longer. Cannot the kingdom of salvation take me home?"

-Cliff Burton "To Live Is To Die"

Today marks the 21st anniversary of the singularly worst day of my entire life. March 27, 1986 is the day I watched my best friend die. He was struck by a drunk driver that swerved to avoid hitting me and after bouncing off of a bus swerved back and killed my friend Gordon Stoney. This is the first time I've seen his name in print in a very, very long time.

Over the years I've developed a ritual tribute that has helped me deal with the pain of his passing. Have a drink and smoke and listen to Metallica's Master of Puppets. On that day, we were returning home from the record store. I had just purchased the vinyl and we were both eager to hear it. I had just turned 14 and we were both fanatical Metallica fans. I was already a guitar player and he was saving to buy a bass. When we weren't talking about the girls that we liked (or up to no good) we dreamed of the band we would have. At that particular time in our lives I understood him as no one else could and he understood me likewise. We were inseparable, often getting in trouble with our parents because we would say that we were staying over at each others house so that we could go out late at night and either just hang out, or commit a number of relatively harmless, yet nefarious deeds (at least for our age).

Last year which was a milestone of sorts, I had Jill to help me. We had a drink and she helped me celebrate the short time we had together and remember the happiness. This year memories I had thought that were long forgotten rose like Lazarus and kicked me in the ass.

This year I'm alone with very few friends and trying to deal with a lot of past pain. Slowly I've either been able to let it go or integrate it into who I am. Today the memories of that day came flooding back in a torrent that I was unable to deal with. Every detail of that fateful day have come back to me in such detail that it feels as if I'm reliving that day all over again. I can still see his lifeless body lying on the ground in front of me. I can see the river of blood running down the stormdrain, the blood on my backpack that he was carrying for me, my bike thrown aside as I rushed to his aide. I can remember the kindness of strangers attempting to calm me down as I screamed bloody murder. I remember being chastised by the coroner for moving the backpack. I remember having the police drive me to his house and make me tell his mother (whom I loved and loathed as my own) what happened.

I remember being at my grandparents house. I remember my mother crying in the kitchen. I remember listening to Master of Puppets for the first time. I remember everyone telling me not to worry, even though I knew he was already gone. I remember sitting in the living room with my great-grandmother watching the late news and learning that he was dead. I knew that he was gone, but hearing the newscaster report it made it concrete.

That day forever changed me. It marked the beginning of my descent into hell. It was the one event that irreparably changed my future. After the funeral I returned to school immediately and was ostracized by nearly all of my classmates. No one knew how to deal with my trauma. It marked a very empty, lonely period of my life.

I'm hoping that with everything going on in my life now, remembering that day can finally bring the closure I'm looking for. For years I held onto the pain because I feared that I would forget about him and what he meant to me. I've since learned that I can carry all of the good feelings and memories and let go of the survivor's guilt that has been plaguing me these many years. I know he would want that and I know there is no way I can ever forget him or the impact he had on me as a friend so long ago.

Farewell my friend, know that you were loved and I raise my glass high in your honor.

R.I.P.
Gordon Stoney
1973-1986

There's a tear in my beer.

There are merits to alcoholism that I think AA and their ilk have overlooked. If you drink enough often enough you get to live your life in two distinct ways. 1) In an alcoholic fog where everything is fun and you're generally too paralytic to move and 2) So fucking hungover and in pain that nothing else seems even remotely important than the hell you are feeling at the present moment.

I have recently rediscovered this as result of my life coming crashing down around me (in a rather spectacular fashion I might add). While having a wicked hangover can make your work duties hard to perform, at least I have the solace that some of my coworkers are feeling just as bad as I am. In addition, while in the depths of the toxic after effects of a good night, I can easily ignore all of the dramatic bullshit that the others around me seem to exhibit with frightening regularity.

If you're wondering, it's 4:15 on a Saturday afternoon and I'm on my 5th beer, and if the beer isn't enough, I have a bottle of bitchin' wine that one of the few lovely women that I work with gave me for my birthday. So all told I know I'm in for a good afternoon (I'd say a good night, but at this rate I don't think I'll see 7 o'clock). It must be interesting for you, the reader, to watch my personal meltdown over the course of this blog. I imagine it's like watching a car accident or train wreck, brutal but you can't peel your eyes away from the carnage.

One day I expect to wake up and see a note from my liver saying it's left me due to the fact that I've done nothing but abuse the poor fucker for so many years. In response to that eventuality I say "Good Riddance, I don't fuckin' need you anyway".

With that I raise my glass to me and to the rest of you, well you can get fucked, fuck off, or do whatever you wish, I have the two things that have never fucked me over, booze and music.

The last flight of Icarus

The inspiration for my latest work came to me out of the blue. As I lay on the couch pondering things the name Icarus jumped randomly to the front of my brain. A quick wikipedia search confirmed my knowledge of the story of the last flight of Icarus and after that I proceeded to write the following.

The Fall of Icarus

The threads of my life I weave as wings
To set aloft and escape these things
Flee the ghosts that haunt me still
Slay the demons that would bend me to their will

Again and again I set upon my task
With grim determination, yet shall I bask
In the warm glow of a life free of these
Trials and tribulations, and total catastrophes

Like Icarus before me I fly too close to the sun
My wings melt away and I watch the wax run
As I plunge to the sea, the only thought in my mind
Is “Why do I fail, when I try to be kind”

I am a poet and didn't even know it.

I've been finding inspiration for my recent spate of poems from song titles (well except the first one). This one and the last should be obvious to those of you that know my musical tastes well.

Theatre of Pain

You see me standing here, wearing this grim mask
It does nothing to hide my pain, that is an impossible task
Can you smell the scent of death upon my soul?
Can you see my heart is as black as coal?

Feel as if controlled by marionette strings
Strangely compelled to do terrible things
Setting alight that which I love, helplessly watching the fire
Contort and twist, laughing at me, raising my ire

I am the star performer in this farce
You need not a program to parse
All that is required is to look at my face, it is very plain
To see that I’m trapped in this body that is a Theatre of Pain

Poetry 101

For those of you that read the last post, the same rules apply. I've started writing again and I would feel sorry for subjecting you to my amateur wordsmithing save for the fact that I really don't give a fuck. If you don't like it don't fucking read it. So here we go with another one.

Frayed ends of Sanity

My psyche crumbles, sanity no where to be found
My heart is empty, and cold, not unlike the ground
Upon which I walk, I’ve traveled many miles all alone
No respite from these dreams, I must reap what I have sown

I cannot find love, it eludes me at every turn
And yet without it, I am lost and continuously burn
In a fire of self hatred, a cold fog of spite
I feel completely lost, unable to make it right

This self-loathing I feel drains my soul and clouds my eyes
Blinding me to the beauty of the friendship of allies
I ask not for much, yet nothing is what I am given
A simple love is all I want, and for that I have striven

As the days go by, and death draws near
Dying alone, unloved, that is my only fear
The reaper stalks me, hauntingly reminding
Me, of my impending doom with a smile that is grinding

His grim countenance I see, my future in his grasp
As I descend into a psychotic hell, my cries are only a gasp
As you can see, I am mine own worst enemy
The horizon of my dreams lost upon a sea of insanity

Of mice and friends.

I'm quite sure that by now, gentle reader, are quite tired of my tirades about the lack of romance in my life. So if that be the case I suggest you stop reading now as this is likely the most introspective entry I will ever do. For me poetry is an intensely personal medium through which I can give voice to whatever is troubling me, but in a stylized fashion. For me it is a cathartic experience, but due to the highly personal nature of the poems, they are rarely read by anyone but myself. In light of the chaotic nature of the changes I'm undergoing in my personal life right now I though I would share my most recent poem. Feel free to comment, but remember this is something deeply personal to me and I'm laying myself bare with this, so please be kind, or not (I know you fuckers are all dickheads that love to see me fail).

So without further ado, here goes.

The Dichotomy of My Soul

I’ve gone back to place I thought I had left behind
My tortured soul cries out in pain, a fire burns intensely in my mind
My dreams turn to demons that taunt my every thought
The pain of past love, of the beauty I have sought
To make mine own, yet here I stand fast
Like a statue of stone, still living in the past

I am my own prison, without voice or reason
Overwhelmed by feelings that strangely feel like treason
Lost love for one, growing feelings for another
Try as I might, these emotions I cannot smother
Unknowing and blind, she knows not that I treasure
Every smile, every touch, to me, these bring great pleasure

Will I ever find that for which I yearn
Or am I doomed, cursed forever to burn
In a hell of my own design, never stepping into the light
Of a love that is true and kind and right
Time is mine enemy, slipping away day by day
Closer to death, desperately trying to keep it at bay

In constant darkness, always wanting to take flight
To escape this insanity, to leave behind this plight
As this body withers and decays and grows weak
My mind twists and turns growing darker and more bleak
Yet the dichotomy of my soul, which to you I lay bare
Makes me hope for the future, may I yet find love there.