The Sad Truth

I guess I have to say that one thing that sucks about the world today is the poor parental skills so many people seem to have. I am not a perfect dad, I'm sure, and I don't stand on some high tower looking downward like some pre-enlightened Siddartha...But I do pay attention to what I see around me, and it seems there are a few simple things parents could do that would make this world a better place. Well at least Las Vegas anyway...
1. Don't build a meth lab in your house. This seems pretty easy, yet it is amazing how many parents seem to let this little basic rule slip right on by.
2. Don't fuck your kids, or burn them with cigarettes. Once again, simple, simple ideas here.
3. Do listen to your kids when they are trying to explain something, or more importantly, when they ask a question. For example, an inappropriate situation might be: Child: "Dad, can I go get my cock pierced?" Dad: "Shut up, I'm watching 'The Man Show' , oh go do whatever you want" Child: "Gee dad, thanks"
Dad: "Shut up I said."
4. Do set parameters for your child. If you say your going to take it away, do it. Imagine if your boss said to you: "John, if I catch you masturbating at your desk again, that's it, your fired" and you did it again and NOTHING HAPPENED...well imagine how much work WOULDN'T ever get done.
5. Don't let children play "Grand Theft Auto". Ever. Period. Unless of course you wish to teach a child the joys of murder, robbery and prostitution and the consumate awards thereof. Let 'em wait to play like YOU had to.

This list is just a tiny slice of the simplicity of childrearing. Basically, listen to your kids, stand by your convictions, act fairly, and most importantly, lead by example. Remember, if you don't raise your children....Snoop Doggy Dogg will.

Smaller

There is nothing
Quite like the stare of a baby
That open wonderment painted on perfect porcelain
Captures and entwines one
Until you realize that hours
Not minutes
Have passed
You sitting on the edge of the sofa
Baby poised in automated swinging chair
Locking you in
Drinking you in
Forgetting the fret of finality
The rasping mask of mortality
The daily quicksand of routine
For a while
We are like giants to them
To the littlest of the little
Loud and fantastic and maybe a bit scary
But utterly enrapturing
They see our monstrous forms stomping
Hither and tither
Round the endless light that is a baby's realm
They hope we bring food and comfort
We should
I do
But selfish it is at times
This loving of the smallest
For in every breath they breathe
In every word they whisper
In every gesture they create
They are healers
Reminding us in the big big biggest places
That small is where we came from
And we can choose to see from there
Close your eyes at the end of this poem
And imagine
The trees as tall as mountains
The land populated with leviathans
The world as if brand new
See if you don't lose a year a minute
I do

Copyright 2003 Harry R. Fagel ARR

Another thing...

Philosphy of friendship...

A wise man once said to me..."Harry, in order to be a true friend to someone you have to like the worst thing about them" (props to Frank Massey, whereever you are my southern friend). He went on to to add that it's easy to like the cool shit about someone, but you won't really know your level of toleration of them until you see 'em at their worst.
Which brings me to my own personal thoughts on this. I believe that in order to be close friends with someone, you have to share similar values with them. For example, I believe that honesty is an important value. Therefore, I don't have time for dishonest people. I mean, some people will tolerate a great deal of lying in a relationship, but I have a tough time tolerating any, at least without a damn good reason. (yes, hypocritical but there are times when lying is acceptable...i.e. self preservation in the face of deadly consequense, in order to not hurt someones feelings callously ((perhaps that is "temperment" of the truth)) or when it is part of ones legal responsibility to lie) Mostly however, the truth is the best course in all things with little or no exception.
I meet people all the time who make dishonesty the rule, rather than as noted above. This is amazing to me. They will cajole, beat around, disregard, fantasize, and at times believe falsely for what I see as no apparent good reason. Perhaps they are late for something, and instead of saying....."Sorry I'm late" one is forced to listen to a tremendous exercise in horseshit. I find that by being honest in life, people around you respect you, even though at times you may come across as harsh and maybe even a bit mean. As long as one is consistently honest, then respect follows I think. Of course, none of this rant addresses the nature of "bullshitting" and I will save that for another discourse.
Summarily, close friends should have common values to make relationships successful.

Lifting Weights

Lately it seemed as if the only weight lifting I was doing was getting the 'Ol Fat Ass off the couch....However tonight I felt ready to get back in the swing of it...And lifted weights when I got off work! WOO HOO, now I won't be so fricken miserable...More reporting coming..

Oh and those with questions about the diet part of it..
ONE THING AT A TIME BABY

HoTale

Butter in her hips
Swinging it
Tight lips
parted bringing strangers pleasure
For cash
Pants provided by dark man
Gold tooth
Wicked razor slash
On her lower back
Lovers mark
Death mark
Either way it means the end
The end
Glass pipe the real dick
It impregnates her with false hope
She sucks it harder
Almost flaming her self
Burning her self
wasting her self
Another car
Another nervous guy
All hard from Viagra and crazy lust
He doesn?t look at her head bobbing there
Just stares into inner space
Wishing he could
Come home
come
He does
The money is a guilty thing
Stinking and filthy he hands it over and
Drives away
Stain on his pants
Stain on her lips
Lips over butter hips
That roll away into the darkness
On Main Street

Copyright 2003 Harry R. Fagel ARR

Giant Robot

Rolling around here
Foggy is appropriate
Doesn't seem like me
Looking out from the window
Instead I jump from thoughts
To thoughts without really being sure
Of who it is
I am
Is that a dangerous game
Kinda comic book
Only out here super powers
Only exist for the super fucked up
I know I'm in here somewhere
Probably 5 years old
Hiding in my bedroom
Listening to breaking glass and apish screams
Curled up and thumb sucking
Listening with fear driven amplification
To the night
Foggy is appropriate
Clearly
The five year old has built himself
A giant radio controlled robot
To fight the villains and spiders that careen
Through empty spaces inside
A robot with bullet proof skin and
iron clad heart
Tall as trees and
Never ever scared
Booming laugh and carefree diligence
Were all part of the programming
Five year old knew there would be something to
Cry about
And didn't want something to
Cry about
And I am something of that
And the robot and maybe I am some magic
Comic book guy
All wrapped together and mobile

Copyright 2003 Harry R. Fagel ARR

Gasman

Gas man hopped the wall
just readin' the meter gonna get a figure
His clipboard had a warning about the
Dogs
But he ignored it after all they weren?t there last time
Gas man hopped over
Stood checking the dial
Probably heard a low throaty growl before it was
Too Late
But then it was too late
The first bite ripped flesh and muscle from his inner thigh
Just missed the artery
He tried to run
But the dogs psyched him out
The big Akita taunting him by
Piercing his biceps with an inch and half of enamel
Blood streaking the hamburger left behind
and the Little Pit
Blood crazy and lusting
Nipped and hopped and struck taking only dieter morsels
He froze then
Completely
Deer in the headlights of their canine mirrors
Bleeding
Crying for help
I saw him just beyond the low wall
Trembling dry leaf painted in red stripes and
Gas man golf shirt
I gassed the dogs
They backed off and we saved his life.
The news came and interviewed us
Cause we was heroes we saved him isn't that great
That night 11 o' clock showed a story about a man
Allegedly beaten by police
No mention of the heroic dog conquerors
Bitter? No.
Gas man alive

Copyright 2000 Harry R. Fagel ARR

Cracked

The world they live in
Is populated with demons
Fraught with insanity
Cherished by sadness
They were human before the fall
Now covered in death
They huddle in alleys and
Wait
Their skin is stretched and hollow
Smeary with ash and unholy
Their breath reeking and poison
Exhales tales of empty
The safe drive by in cars
Never knowing the crack house is the
True haunted house
Not seeing the dirty floors littered with souls
Not knowing the want
I imagine a paper boy
Folded and worn
Over and over and smaller too
Until
It fits into nothingness and stays there
A person imprisoned in a house of mirrors
Terrified by the image seen endlessly
Yet compelled
To trade another piece for a moments peace
Driving diving deeper
To the end
Hot crack sizzles in pan
Beckoning the lost
Rooking them in
Killing their ideas
Replacing them
The true body snatchers
The true seed pod
It has invaded
And does reside here
Inside the once person
Who now is gone
And I hear the bellyaching and
Crying about
Freedom of choice
Yet I can't imagine
Anyone choosing this
So I hope that no one we love
Chooses this

Copyright 2003 Harry R. Fagel

Fathers Day

Wow what a great Father's day!

Today I realized once again how very much I love my family. This was such a great day, spent entirely with my loved ones and some of my friends as well. So no negativity or anything remotely sad or pathetic or poetic. Just a great day!

Garbage Metaphor

I

You put that shit in a box
And pack it away in the basement, or attic, or garage
Wherever some room is left
And
You fill another and another and another box
And pack it away
Pretty soon you realize your living space is being encroached by
Boxes of shit
But you don't get rid of any of it
Instead
You move to a bigger place
(so you can collect more boxes of shit)
Occasionally the older, more decaying boxes burst open
Like the stomachs of rotten corpses spilling burning contents
across your usually
Tidy rug
And instead of replacing the box or throwing it away you get out your
Duct tape and seal the thing back up so that
Pretty soon
Your world
Is filled with
Row after row after row of towering (mountainous even)
Duct taped boxes of shit
And you move to a bigger place

II

What's in there
Huh?
What's so damn important
Huh?
Is it the one with pictures of your mama
Bruised swollen eye
Tears cascading
Sitting on a poodle stained carpet with the shadowy demonesque
Figure of
Pops
Good Ol' Da'
Father
Standing over her
Fists clenched into anvils
Maybe it's the box of shattered glass from a window
Step-psycho shoved you through when you were 17
Or
Is it cases of humiliation and shame from bad choices
Made entirely of the dark
The dark
The dark
Hey
Here's one that by the rolls and rolls of duct tape ensconcing it must go wayyyyy back
Its' silvery countenance reminiscent of 1950's astronaut space suit talk boxes and it's full of
Nothing
Nothing
Nothing
But printed in child?s scribbly script on the side the word
"Trophies"
Not as faded as heaping racking screaming winds of
Regret
So many boxes
So many
So many I can't count them all
So I don't
I just laugh
A little like a loons laugh it
Creeps from my belly traveling faster gathering speed up my windpipe and exploding from my mouth a semi full of dynamite careening from Hell's tunnel
BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN
Boxes awash in rapture
Sizzle crackle pop
Smoke rises a fist to shake at Heavens gate
BURN MOTHERFUCKER BURN
Naked now sweat streaming from every pore
Awash in wetness
Grinning and pouring gas and
Lighting
Barely able hear the sound of my chant like cackling over the deafening roar
As
Cardboard
Duct tape
Accelerant and
Bad dreams
Disintegrate

III

I am no longer here
I fly high above my arson
on mighty thermals
Surveying the smoking ruins and
Finding nothing but ashes
Ashes that look nothing like the painful tears of a child
Just ashes
Which I collect using a straw broom and a cheap plastic dustpan and deposit in a baggie
Which I put in a box
Which goes in my attic
It's unobtrusive
All by its self
Alone
Surrounded by nothing except
Spaces to fill

Copyright 2003 Harry R. Fagel

My Franchise

So you dance nightly at the keyboard
Tasting the fresh ideas
Sasla for the mind
Bringing on the gas or
Heartburn or sometimes
Rarely
Your cum shoots freshets at the thoughts
Thats where it's at
The center
The juicy idea
The one raptured in real
The connected
I live out here on the fringes
Sponging off pain and
Soaking in misery
I am the biggest collection dish in these parts
Gathering the hate and anger and even the silly mistakes
Mixing them with the world spirit
And serving up words
Trying to make sense of stupid choices
Trying to blot out children crying
Trying to ignore the universal freak
And do the job
Sort out ugly from ugly
Hate from hate
Pierce the veil of hypocrisy
Laugh at all the madness
And stay two steps ahead of crazy
And get paid
The whole stinking time

©2002 Harry Fagel

Mom

This one is for my Mom...

My Mom
Such the cool one
Living life for everyone around her
Dancing with joy
Always with the meal or the cash or the hug
Whatever your need
She's there
My Mom
Deserving so much so very much
Yet settling for
So little so very little
My Mom
Just a wee baby listening to bombs crashing
Teeny bopper in the Vegas scene
Young woman married to drunk
Mom with two kiddies same drunk
Mom divorced and remarried
Woman married to Judas
Woman divorced
Same kiddies
Same kiddies she always
Has time for
Room for
Love for
I know that there is always a bed I can sleep in
A meal I can chow down
A shoulder I can cry on
A place for me
Even when I'm 64
So strong so strong to know in the deepest places
That love is a constant
That support is unconditional
That She is there
My Mom
Mommy
Mother
How I do so very much
Love her
Now and forever
Amen