Melissa and I were married 5 years ago, today. And it keeps getting funnier, every time.

Gad LJ, I have been a bad son, not even prodigal. And here I come back to you, like a wandering wayward, to open a post with something along the lines of "Hey, I'm not dead! Yay!!!!!"

Like with my writing, I always am struggling with that opening line... thingie...

The basic upside is that, being someone with COPD, I should know better than to push myself, in Winter, while having a chest-cold, just because my 18 year-old brain believes the best way to motivate its shell is to ignore that said shell is turning 50 this year. Also, if you're sick, go to a doctor or a clinic, especially if you're in my age/health range.

I had had a bad cough (along with usual asthma business) for a good week or two previous. I then picked up a cold, which like the flu, almost always leads to some kind of chest/lung infection. I shoulda stood at home, as the misquote goes.

Instead, I pushed myself to go do poetry, poetry events, parenting business, etc.

Last Friday I was obviously under duress, but damn it – I had the Attleboro Slam to compete in, a paid hosting gig in Providence, stuff to do at my church along the lines of trying to finally get a coffeehouse up and running (or at least up) at First Unitarian in Providence, along with continuing my reign upon this earth as a still-not-too-horrifying old person.

Besides the usual asthma meds, I combined OTC meds, herbal tea, long, steamy showers, meditation, prayer, stolid denial and a decades-old experience in pure denial. By late Friday night, it was clear I wasn't doing well, but I've gotten through worse nights.

Well, no. No I haven't... not like this.

By 2:30 am, I was both hyperventilating and yet unable to get any oxygen into my lungs. A triple-strength dose of mullen tea, combined with both OTC and prescription meds wasn't going to get me out of this. Fortunately, Melissa was uncharacteristically awake at that time, and mobilized quickly when I wheezed,

"Hon, I think I need to go to the hospital..."

It was a stupidly scary ride to RI Hospital, in which I early passed out from oxygen deprivation which ended in the minor slapstick episode of trying to gasp out what was wrong at the emergency room, while the guard there said "Sir, can you catch your breath? I can't understand you."

What i was sure, even then, would amount to an over-night in the emergency room for some nebulizer dancing, became a one, two and then three day stay, as the staff tried to reduce the wheezing in my lungs, the spasmodic coughing. Also along the line, we found I have high BP again (in the 160-170 over 90-100 range), my potassium levels were worryingly low, and that even under these circumstances, I will somehow find the strength to ensure flirting with nurses continues.

I finally was released yesterday, but am on strict house-rest for the rest of the week. By house rest, I mean of course, no walking around with my cane, being a smart-mouthed cynical-yet-amusing curmudgeon. It also means I ain't even going outside until Spring acts like Spring and not Winter's bitch.

An interesting (to me anyway) sideline here is that I was reading Arthur Marx's biography of his father, called "My Life With Groucho" which, towards the end, chronicles the funny, yet ever-unconfident, comic during his declining health years. More on those thoughts later.

To sum it all up, LJ Family, I am Ok, expecting a full (full for me, anyway) recovery, although clearly – some changes in life-style and eating habits, etc. is in order here.

Also, if my 18 year-old brain could accept its appropriate position in my near-50 year-old body, that would be awesome.

#22 "Silent Night"

They said I had to be out of my mind
wanting to celebrate Christmas this
year, that survival was all we had
to be thankful for, that the stories
were lies, and worse, hope was harm
just waiting to happen. I said "Shut up
all of you and open your presents."

See, Jenny used to talk all the time
about this special-composite bat
she saw once, and it's no surprise
that Steve's jokes about shoveling
his driveway with a flame thrower
each winter, masked a child's dream
come true come Christmas morning.

Finding these things was hard enough,
hiding them for a few days? Almost
impossible. But it gave me something
to focus on other than death. My gift
was seeing their faces look a little bit
like before all this happened: normal.
I won't tell them how I risked myself

raiding that 7/11 out by the main town
just to find ingredients for the eggnog.
The stockings are just plain wool socks,
but the handguns inside are the gifts
that keep on giving. This year we have
a small piece of a holiday we used to
curse. We enjoy some time together.

I'll tell them about the bite tomorrow.

(for those who would rather teabag than heal the sick)

Ooo rock me Commie Jesus
Rock me Commie Jesus.
Rock rock rock rock me Commie Jesus
Rock me 'til the hurting stops

He was a Son o’ God
lived in the Bethlehem
He was a hero from Year Zero
he loved everything.
He liked to heal the sick
They had no coverage
All the Socialists shouted:
Come on and rock me Commie Jesus

Commie Jesus, Commie Jesus, Commie Jesus
Commie Jesus, Commie Jesus, Commie Jesus
Commie Jesus, Commie Jesus, oh oh oh Commie Jesus
C'mon and save me, Commie Jesus!

He was Superstar
He was the Holy Lamb
He was so exalted
and Un-American
He was bound to fail
allergic to the nails
Still all the lepers shouted:
Come on and heal me Commie Jesus!

(Chorus)

It was 21st Century
It was America
Healthcare for everyone
Teabaggers against him
“What you do unto the least
is what you do to Me.”
I bet Karl Marx said that.
Who you quoting, Commie Jesus?

Look Poet, See?
(A poem using "shards of glass", "revolution", "crimson blood", "third eye", "poetic warrior", and involving rhyme. Written with sympathy and solidarity for Fish Vargas, and with much respect.)

Look Poet, see? You can’t walk through
the door. We will need to search you,
in deep, unpleasant ways. We’re looking
for the “hidden compartment” you think
is a secret, where you keep glass shards
you try to pass off as gemstones. Please

poet, you think those second-hand tricks
are anything new? We’ve heard them all
before, we may even know the very artist
who owned them before you. You’re late–
the “revolution” has been over for years,
transformed into everyday work by writers

who work every day. We’re doing various
shades of “Ok.” Sure, there are struggles
but we keep our crimson blood inside us.
That’s called “common courtesy.” I see
how you might’ve missed that. Too busy
gazing majestically through your third

eye, you miss the things that are there,
right under your feet. I know, I know–
you’re a “poetic warrior”, and you chose
“the street” for your battleground, using
“knowledge as your ammunition” writing
“Every one has there right too education!”

You don’t understand how hard of hearing
we’ve become, us older poets who tried,
maybe, to help you when you first came
around with your toy cowboy spittings
about how you “write from the gut” I don’t
know, maybe you should try using a pen.

P.S. Your time for a deluge of rhyme
has chimed. Next time it's on your mind?
Please, decline.

(for Gabrielle Boullaine)

"There you go
Swimming deeper into mystery
Here I remain
Only seeing where you used to be."

I met Gabrielle so long ago I don't remember
when. That fact is lost in the history of us
and everyone else we know. All we know
is the link we share between, and that's
family, in every way that really matters.
Gabrielle fused us together by reminding us
that none of us have to be alone in our pain.

"Stared at the ceiling
'Til my ears filled up with tears
Never got to know you
Suddenly you're out of here"

Cancer is a shitty exit-line for your role
in your history. It is circumstantial proof
that this world isn't playing fair, but fuck it-
right now it's good enough for me. I confess
I don't understand it, God. So many wicked
people will get up for breakfast tomorrow
and Gabrielle won't? You got strange ways.

"Gone from mystery into mystery
Gone from daylight into night
Another step deeper into darkness
Closer to the light"

Then again, when I heard the news tonight,
of her passing I admit, I wept from relief
that she wasn't in pain anymore. Kept warm
in the love of family and friends. Amen.
Let's hope when our time comes, we'll be
all remembered and loved even half as much.
We don't have to feel alone. We are a family.

"Walked outside
Summer moon was nearly down
Mist on the fields
Holy stillness all around
Death's no stranger
No stranger than the life I've seen
Still I cry
Still I begged to get you back again"

It's natural, all the stages we stumble through
with grief in our pockets weighing us down,
willing to trade our anger for denial, bargaining
just to get her back. That's called being human.
It's supernatural to imagine Gabrielle in Heaven
wearing bunny ears with a light that pleases God.
Call me weak, I'm going with the supernatural.

"Gone from mystery into mystery
Gone from daylight into night
Another step deeper into darkness
Closer to the light."

(The quoted parts are from the Bruce Cockburn song "Closer to the Light")

Deck the halls with parts of humans (fa la la la la la la la la!)
Zombie Time is now resumin' (fa la la la la la la la la!)
Don we now our leather faces, (fa la la la la la la la la!)
Tender are the human races, (fa la la la la la la la la!)

Rise from grave and E.R. gurneys (fa la la la la la la la la)
Take the first step of your journey (fa la la la la la la la la)
Walk real slow and chew on humans (fa la la la la la la la la)
You can't be vegan (we're assumin') (fa la la la la... la la la la!!!!"

Independence Day. It has aliens, cities blowing up, aliens, the White House being destroyed, Judd Hirsch, Will Smith, Hot women, aliens, and more aliens.

Tuesday night, I was coming back from a gig in Portland,Me when I started having extreme pain in my chest and the sensation of my heart beating really fast. Also, I was going really fast, and got pulled over by an NH State Trooper. Things quickly, led to me being rushed to Exeter Hospital, where I was determined to be a short distance from a heart-attack. I was given various drugs to quiet and calm my heart (don't ask, I don't remember which) and held for observation overnight.

I'm home now, resting, and doing Ok. I had to pass on a few performances and may not be around as much for a while, as I need to slow down, ditch stress, and build health. Thanks for everyone who has sent emails, FaceBook messages, phone calls, etc.

I think I'll be fine. I think my daddy was part cockroach, on his daddy's side.

last Friday, Dec. 4th, 27 days ahead of schedule. This one of of my favorite poems I wrote all year. Even I think this poem is good.

Capsized (365/365 #360)

I fell in love with a river once and started weeping
immediately. I knew it would be an impossible thing,
but my heart had set sail. There was no other option
left, except to paddle gently, and learn to talk to water
in its native tongue. I threw away absorbent clothing,

kicked my shoes off one last time, and sat naked
in the boat as it follow the urges and undulating
currents. All things led to the next step– the river
to the sea, a kiss to a caress– I didn’t like exposure
to the sun, so I jumped in feet first. It was natural

that I let the river take me. Knowing no jealousy,
it held me for the short time we both knew we had.
I think it was even proud it would give me away
to the ocean. This could have been awkward, but
we figured a way out of sorrow. We found whole

moments we could hold onto. When I heard ocean
calling for me, I spread my arms as wide as if flying,
kicked my legs until I frothed the waves and ripped
the tides. We had sex like that for hours. It was right
that my last breath came just as I did. I grew dizzy,

saw a sea-sky full of fish stars, I learned new names
for green and blue. I did not die, but the sea changed
me in its depths, and I am a different creature since.
My waterlogged mouth can't tell the story, my heart
doesn’t want to, my body loves the way it can move.