Cancer Sucks!

Wrote this after visiting a family at the hospital. A mother was protecting her sick daughter like a hawk. Her insurance wouldn't pay for vital medicines that would help her Bone Marrow Transplant 'stick.' The insurance payed for her transplant but not the meds that might keep the transplant from failing. Ughh. Dirty crooks! When the Case Manager approached the mother, the mother firmly stated the line that begins this poem. It hurt the Case Manager deeply. She shared two things with the mom. They were both African-American and both were women. The Case Manager later said, "It gets up next to me." She was speaking of the pain that gets so close it is almost yours. Willy helped make each line 10 syllables long. Thanks Willy.

Up Next to Me

“You come back when you can help my daughter.”
That criterion stifles me for good.
Sweaty hands to shake could persuade fairness,
Yet half truths and inequities creep up.
You can see ‘em coming a mile away,
Never too few and too often too late.

It rubs me raw like a horsehair sweater.
Her open anger--truly justified.
And it gets up next to me, I tell ya.
I breathe it in; it nests within my pores.
Not mine and too near to be separate,
But it gets up so damn close to me still.

Rib over rib under rib, breast to breast,
Up next to me yet within and ‘round her
Like steely flesh made for a wild creature--
One more accustom to a harsher life.
This soul desires justice innate yet knows
The lack of it separates her from me.

A few mysterious thoughts light on me
Like a sparse but unexpected flurry:
Fairest Jesus, get up in between us
And that which stealthily hangs upon us
Oh, but with bane eternal hooks for her.
We can see you coming a mile away.

And never too late.

Flight of the Conchords

I mentioned in my last post that I'd be watching the HBO series, John from Cincinnati. True, I have watched it and the jury is still out on this one. But I have also run across HBO's new comedy series, Flight of the Conchords. I'm basing my review on the series opener that I found quite humorous. The basis of the show from what I can tell is these two deadpan rock band wannabes from New Zealand try their luck at making it big in New York. One of the main characters (who I've seen somewhere before) is a Mick Jagger look-a-like. Actually he is more of a caricature of ole Mick. The funniest aspect about the show is that these two who are stars in their own heads break into music videos throughout the show. Funny. The lyrics of these songs are common uncreative lyrics explaining the current emotions that are taking place with these two. After being dumped by the girl (or should I say gull) of his dreams, they sing something like, "I'm not crying, I'm not crying, it's just rainin' real hawd." And then later in the same song, "I'm not crying, I've just been choppin' onions." The characters never laugh at themselves. FUNNY, I'm tellin' ya. Watch it for a guffaw or two.

Duck Tony!

I have a confession to make. I love the Sopranos. The HBO series is the most well-written show I've ever seen on TV. I've watched from the start. Remember those days, Tony? Who coulda guessed so many people whacked? I've enjoyed the weaving in of the psychology and even spirituality from time to time amidst all the violence and stuff that a Baptist minister should probably be blogging against. But man-o-man I love the show. I have loved and hated Tony and other characters on the show. They all struggled for something higher, and all have failed. We'll see if Tony fails tonight and you gotta think he will. I also find the show quite funny. All the misspeaks that Tony and others gave without cracking a smile. Here is one as an example: (Tony speaking to his therapist about his son A.J., paraphrased) "My son oughta be out there getting laid, instead he's at home watching cartoons in a fetus position!" HA! a fetus position! That's great. He can whack people but he is dumb as a tire tool.

Tony, alive or dead, I'm gonna miss you in a weird sort of way. You should have never killed Christopher though he was on his way out anyway. It was the ultimate sin. Some things are more important than being the boss. I guess now I'll have to watch John from Cincinnati.

Society's Need for 12 Step

What the hell is wrong with us? I called my mom a few days ago and she was ticked off because Paris Hilton and her return to jail was dominating the airways. FOX NEWS: Paris. CNN NEWS: Paris. ABC local news: Paris. Do I blame this on Rupert Murdoch who I truly believe sees it his duty to control as much of the news as possible? Does he want us to forget that a mess of a war is taking place in Afghanistan and Iraq? Does he want us to forget congress' botched attempt at immigration reform? As much as I'd like to blame that jerk with the media's fascination with Paris and Bradgelina, I'm afraid the problem is with us. We are like addicts that need a good AA program. We are in denial. If we slow down, if we admit our powerlessness, we think the wheels will come off the train we all ride. However, that is exactly what we need. Our world is in a whole lot of trouble- Iraq, Sudan, the environment, New Orleans, etc. I don't have any answers. I'm mad. I get frustrated that our government is so inept that it can't help Katrina survivors and when the next disaster takes place I expect the same mismanagement of money and resources. Will they ever mess up so bad that we demand them all to go home or reform? I believe the day is coming. In the mean time maybe we can demand more of our media sources and more of ourselves. We could stop caring about the Hiltons and start singing the praises of our Troops and those that preach peace and solid solutions.

I'm glad Paris is in jail again. I hope she returns to her mansion a little more like Mother Theresa than her old posing self. I heard this morning on Sunday Morning with Charles Osgood, that she actually said she hoped the media would turn its focus to more important events like the War in Iraq. I hope she meant it. Then maybe I'd care.

Old Thoughts on Katrina

I wrote this hoping NPR would accept it on their "This I Believe" program. Honestly it's not a great piece. I have been unable to write too creatively about Hurricane Katrina b/c I have so many crazy memories and feelings associated with those memories. My younger bro along with Willy's encouragement inspired me to go ahead and place this in the blog. My brother writes about the hurricane often on his blog, http://richardswrightings.blogspot.com/. Willie just tells me that writing about it is good whether it all makes sense or not. You'll be glad to know that my parents are close to being able to move into their new home. July 4th, we pray is the moving date. but the contractor first said New Years Day, then Mother's Day. We'll see. You'll also be glad to know that my parents are excited about their new home so my fears I expressed below might be of my own creation.

This I Believe

The first water-logged object I picked up was my parent’s wedding album. If I hadn’t caught a glimpse of my father’s face with his horn rim glasses and crew cut, I wouldn’t have known these pages of black and white streaks were at one time an important piece of our family history. They might as well have been charcoal drawings the way the gulf waters washed the images away. I flung the leather carcass of useless pages into what would become the junk pile. Things do matter! Perhaps an ordained Baptist minister like me shouldn’t say such things. The spirit, the intangible, is the penultimate of creation, right? Nevertheless . . . I believe in things.

I am indeed thankful my parent’s survived Hurricane Katrina but those that continue to claim that unlike people ‘things can be replaced’ are not familiar with the stress that comes with frantically trying to hang on to memories less they quietly slip from your brain never to be retrieved. Old photos, wedding china, Nanna’s silver set, all carry memories with them.

Atop one pile of debris is a Johnny Mathis album that I remember my parent’s dancing to on Sunday afternoons now scratched beyond recognition. Strewn clear over into the neighbor’s yard, the stained-glass candle holder that as a child I purchased with some hard earned dollars for my mother at the Pascagoula Beach Park Craft Show, now shattered and useless. I actually thought about keeping it because though the gift was broken the memory it held was still in tact. Then comes hope in the form of a neighbor who pulls from behind his back a 12 X 18 framed picture of my mother in her wedding dress. The wall on which it hung is no more. It floated for an entire block and sustained little damage. Hope in the form of a thing? You betcha.

I worry about my parents who are in their mid to late 60’s and still reside in a 30ft trailer on the same property where their house once stood. I worry more about that day when they move into their new bigger, better, and brighter home chocked full with new furniture and art—all pretty and gleaming but almost void of memories. How long will they feel like strangers in that new place before their ‘stuff’ once again attracts some memories? When my family visits for the holidays, will this new place feel like home or the Holiday Inn?

I’m thinking the small number of pictures, and the new Katrina-inspired side table tiled with generations of broken china, will be enough to give new energy to a new start for my parents. Hope will gain momentum and not all memories will be lost. Yea, I’m really into things, now. I believe in the necessity of my stuff. I’m not collecting anything or saving every Mason jar, but I am taking notice of my stuff and the stories they carry.

I gave in and bought some CROCS

I know, I know. What does a slightly overweight, 6'3.5" 38 y/o male like me have any business going and buying a pair of CROCS. I need accessories to make me look cool, not like a goofy guy approaching midlife. But I was walking around in may favorite flip flops over Memorial Day Weekend and my feet were killing me. Supposedly the flip-flop craze will pay off with many of us having chronic feet issues to deal with. I believe it. So I walk into this store with buying a cool pair of those hiking shoes that are a cross between flip flops and hiking shoes on my mind. They weren't selling them but they had CROCS all over the freakin' place. I didn't go for the normal clog looking CROC but for the flip-flop CROC. I slipped them on my bare pain-stricken feet and I let out an audible sigh. It's like I was walking on air. I know I just used a tired metaphor, but my feet did feel instant relief. So, if you are not planning on being a fashion guru but want to treat your feet to some cushiony goodness, put away your pride and by some flip-flop CROCS.