for you

may your health always be abundant

and if your heart goes on and skips a beat

may it be for raging glorious joy

and not caused by anger that you keep

i wish you all the gold and silver coins

that your pockets can absorb

and that your house be warm and stable

with no enemies at your door

may your children be strong and faithful

may they grow in the wisdom you provide

as they walk in your own footsteps

until the day of their own path arrives

may your hands always be filled with warmth and comfort

radiating from the hands of those who love you so

may you always have the blessings

from the One who guides your soul

mashed potatoes

mornings are hard when you know you’ll have to be with people with lots of soul pain. the typical refrigerated store air nipped at my nose as i trudged to the coffee line. Larry  read the hospital paperwork poking out of his coat pocket with the torn leather elbows.

Larry had probably seen Halley’s Comet twice. he wore a blue plaid shirt with faux mother of pearl snaps, black dickies and steel toes. he had a decently robust head of hair, silvery with a darker shade of gray streaking towards the back. per chance when his brain cells had a more cordial relationship amongst themselves, he might have been only assigned to crafts requiring brawn and handy work. his face was anglo. blue eyed, long and thin, perhaps an Irish boy.

     he had steady hands. a little calloused, but one could tell that he’d done his fair share of manual labor and partook in bare knuckle bar brawling, often. his dull downward stare declared days fleeted away full of insults, dukers’ blows and abysmal marks where many tears had corroded away at the spirit. all, of course, to the voice of Patsy Cline in the background. broken spirits usually have the ability to sit graciously across from a chair full of spilled coffee or possibly the Devil as well. no one paid attention so the old man introduced himself to the arabica soaked nothingness sitting at his table.

     ‘i know how to make mashed potatoes. you can’t leave the skin on, otherwise they don’t taste good.’ Larry abruptly spat out his directions to the emptiness in front of him. he had a good tone, not raspy or squeaky, kinda’ like if John Wayne and Bogey had a baby. ‘you put the butter in after you mashed them sons-of-bitches up real good! but the butter has to be soft, otherwise the potatoes taste fake.’ i relished in his pronunciation and perfect punctuation.

     distracted by the buzzy voice overhead blazing the $5 specials the old man then looked at me. turning slighty pink Larry smiled and quickly began to wipe the table down as he stuttered and apologized. i smiled and offered my extra napkins. together two bruised souls sopped up a mutual figurative mess.

i think im Hamlet tonight

pain at sunrise can cost a slight loss of mind. angry and melancholy like the crazy Hamlet. i think of actions and confusion of morality. i’m a villain to myself. i am fearful that God has gone by me super-fast, like when it’s too late to move your car when the parking ticket lady is writing the ticket. solitude and desperation of heart and soul can make one see things in a past that one never had and the reality of the future 5, 10, 30 minutes is too frightening. time grows stale at dawn. Griffith Observatory is oh so far away but down the street from where i live. the young folks are out being hip and smart in the world. i wonder if when they are as old as i am will they inherit my thoughts as they breathe my CO2 as they are doing now. i fear for us i fear for me for i am much more of a coward than they. they are still blissful in their youth and i am subjected by my wisdom of what is to come at dusk. time grows short and it comes in spurts, like my bloody noses and stories and such. maybe God will come my way again like the bus on the stop that forks in the road at sunset.