Category Archives: tragedy

Mothers Day and Suicide – For My Sister Whom I Miss Each Day

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My younger sister died after taking her life years ago, but never does a day go by that I am not thinking of her – especially during Mother’s Day-
I  know her children are crushed still by her void, she would be so proud of all of them.
I can only hope that the genetics that drove my Mother and Sister to their own demise are recognized by our family so this
treacherous cycle of Prescription drug abuse never continues.
And to those of you with chemical dependence,  find that voice within and respond to it’s call for help.
Seek it out — we all suffer when the ones we love face addiction.

To Bella Lynda Sue

9/11/1952 – 8/12/2003

It seemed that car ride would never end-
these meditative hours spent with teary eyes focused upon the road,
mind locked into a stunted,  ‘auto-mode’ process
reviewing – diagnosing
yet being in denial the past three days about what you had done.

Sleeping for me came as spliced, fragmented hours with
Polaroid brain scans of the past, flashing – flashing.
My dreams became altered, damp journeys
calling your name below blackwater –
parallels and absurdities
wondering why you didn’t call me that morning?

I sat among front row among the mourners,
listened to the same Music –
The Beatles repeating,
There are places I remember
all my life,
Though some have changed Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and
some remain.“
I watched the tribute video,
heard the kind, rehearsed words meant to console,
but where was the truth – you were an addict-

At your house the bathroom door was open –
mocking.
There was no ‘portoncini cei morti’ ,
plastering up this door to the netherworld.
The Charon you used was only a cold,
fixed, porcelain cradle
ferrying you thru,
what a dirt cheap deal you cut for all of us –

Knowing that urn was packed with your ashes
could not obscure the vision of your beautiful face
nor could it ignore the memory of your raw laughter and vital wit.
Your loving presence inside me still stirred by our last conversation
the night before your passing —
you were up, far up,
I remember thinking, how hard will this crash be ?

Nothing of your essence could be could ever be burned away by crematory fire,
those dusty ashes in that lovely container
could never suppress the source of who you were:
loving wife, mother, aunt-
my only sister – my confidant – my best friend
yet, I could not protect you.

Maybe the others were consoled by
adjectives awash in penned solace
meant to calm the transition into cessation,
but I screamed inside at your willingness to surrender
by using an act of dramatic contrition to show
the world you left behind.

If only I could have helped  resolve your feelings of rejection
of helplessness,
but opiates mothered your soul,  soothed all the wrongs –
All those years of ‘downers’ taking the razors edge off-
like mother like daughter, umbilical never severed completely
between the both of you –
An infected genetic cycle that kept circling, feeding and festering
with a vampire ‘s lust,
yours became a warped continuum of living life through Dieric Bout’s, Hell
simply opting each day for that bait of peace that death kept dangling.

The three of us were bred from the same Harpie –
a bosomless woman who drove out all her men,  (except for our brother)
she loved her parents and friends, but not herself,
and had no use for daughters.
She retreated to her bedroom,
to the bottled world of capitulation and chronic decay of addiction.
While I spent my life ignoring the tethers to that bond,
the slack left behind only bound you tighter –
pills also became your chemical carapace against the constant Siren’s wail in your head,
The war  you both waged for your souls
was  mapped out on many a prescription pad –
I found our Mother dead and alone when she was 47,
but could never find one tear to shed for her.

Your final battle was waged
upon the water, you as Captain decided to go down with the ship
as you tied your knots in the plastic darkness –
a final ‘fuck you’ rippled through those rainbowed waves
then the water went slack with calm, but measured chaos –
you continued the family cycle of mother relinquishing life
only to have their daughter’s  find them – what a family legacy.

If only it had been a case of a planned suicide,
you would have come home from the office, cleaned the house,
made a complete dinner,
showered and dressed to perfection,
with a splash of  Quelque Fleur before
resolutely overdosing on your chaise lounge
as a matter of a beautiful corpse.
But  your naked statement left no doubt – this was immediate,
this was anger,
pills had taken all your dignity
nothing more for vultured  life to suck out.

But you left us too soon Lynda Sue,
always kidding that you lived longer than our Mother once you hit 48-
You left us feeling guilty and
heartbroken in death’s long, tenebristic shadow.

While I feel for all those you left behind,
and while I am still angry with you,
I grieve harder for your hurt my sister,
I grieve everyday that you gave up on yourself,
I grieve that reality became the enemy within, but,
I grieve hardest mostly knowing that you became the one person
you always feared becoming most,
and oh God, how that sent you over the edge-
as you cut off that last strip of tape and bound it tight,
it was you who controlled the  final stake-
the only act of control you took for yourself in years…

The Policy – short story

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The Policy

by abbe

Lu Wong nursed her baby, staring into round, shining eyes, the color of water at midnight. A tiny smile caused the infant to stop suckling as she gazed into a face of warm familiarity. Lu Wong smiled back smoothing her hand over the newborn’s silken strands of fine, black hair. As the baby became sated with milk, her small lids grew heavy, with the burden of sleep.

The infant was laid upon the bed, the diaper changed along with warmer clothes for the journey. Lu Wong hummed a melancholy tune, something she remembered hearing her grandmother sing. It was a song about a swan who lost its mate and swam round and round until the fowl grew exhausted and drowned. Somehow Lu Wong felt the same, her own thoughts exhausting and drowning in her head like rocks tossed into  water.

She worked her tired fingers around the small buttons before gently positioning the baby inside the blanket. So pale the infant looked as compared with the red fabric that surrendered her shape. The baby squirmed for a moment, then returned to the blissful slumber reserved for the truly innocent.

Lu Wong peered through the window, the day was encumbered by gray, woolen clouds. Birds had long lifted their wings to the southern winds. The carp in the murky pond were driven to the bottom becoming random muted patterns with sunken autumn leaves. The heavy rains would come soon, cold and penetrating, the rain of a burgeoning, hostile season. Ice too would then form like poised crystal dagger. Everything in nature seemed to be coming apart, disconnected as with each leaf blown loose from its mother tree.

Lu Wong looked at her watch, her son would be back from school in four hours, her husband in five. She must leave now if she were to be back before her boy arrived. The young mother put on her down jacket, positioning the baby cradled close to her heart. She straddled the bicycle, wobbling at first until she found her balance. Would the baby wake? She did not, for the infant was secured, much like a confined butterfly within its cocoon. Even the random bumping into the many ruts along the frayed road did not disengage this genuine slumber.

The temperature had fallen, the cold slapped pink into her cheeks as Lu Wong rode. There were few people about the village, no one she recognized or who recognized her. She peddled hard – finding with the extra weight of the baby, she must walk the bicycle up the larger inclines. There were a few stray dogs on the outskirts of the forest who barked and charged at her, but she out-maneuvered them.

Rain began to spill from the clouds and Lu Wong rounded her shoulders shielding her daughter from this wet intrusion. The path she followed thickened with skeletal trees, cedar and plum. Wind postured the branches to reach forward like empty hands offering nothing.  The rain then whipped into sheets and the mother found a thick cluster of bushes for shelter. The baby began to cry and so did Lu Wong, both wailed in an effort to be comforted. The mother drew her daughter to her bosom to nurse. The rain would bead off a branch and drop onto the mother’s chest in small rivulets, wetting the blanket and clothes, but it did not keep the baby from drinking. Lu Wong wondered if the infant noticed how loud and fast her mother’s heart was beating, if the foreign rhythm would distract and disturb the little one. This was not so, it was only when a few droplets of water came to play upon the newborn’s forehead that it startled her, she stopped to share a joyous smile with her mother before continuing to feed.

Finally, with her tiny one asleep, Lu Wong buttoned up her damp shirt and zipped her coat high on her neck, the cold metal zipper might as well have been a knife cutting her throat. Lu Wong breathed rapidly as if all the oxygen were escaping from her lungs. She looked at the sleeping infant then looked at her watch and knew she must get home. Lu Wong reached down and kissed the tiny cheek, a cheek as delicate as the blossoms of the lotus floating in simple splendor on a summers day along the pond. She reached for a loose end of the blanket and held it tightly against the newborn’s face. Using both hands, Lu Wong pressed down firmly upon the fabric aware of her own rush for breath as she looked away. She counted out loud as a  distraction. When the muffled infant sounds stopped and the tiny waving hands surrender their flight, relinquishing their hold upon this earth, the mother sobbed wildly. Lu Wong reached for the dainty hands – still warm. She stroked the miniature,  lifeless fingers between her own. The job was done, ‘The Policy’ carried through.

Her daughter’s spirit was now free while Lu Wong’s heart was shackled: imprisoned by the iron bondage of guilt and shame, torment and time. She lifted the blanket and looked one last time into the empty face, so small and helpless, like that of a broken necked sparrow she once found. Lu Wong covered the baby once again, her tears as chilled as the rain. Her eyes blurred from the combination of weeping and water heaving itself upon her. She tenderly pushed the red bundle under the thickest part of the bushes. Lu Wong grabbed her bicycle and rode erratically – frightened to look back.  She pushed away the thoughts of feral animals and wondered if she could have done as her neighbor, Winnie who dropped her live daughter from the city bridge in the dark.
Lu Wong bumped the sides of tree trunks and lost her balance several times on slippery rocks and mud. Her face scraped against a sharp branch, cutting her cheek. Blood trickled from the gash, she accepted this as punishment, letting this fluid of life run down her face and jacket as a symbol cursed upon her.

Lu Wong suddenly felt no urgency of time as she walked the bicycle along the nearby path ahead that would take her home, back to her village, back to her first born, the only child she was permitted by law to have, back to her husband who would hold her and cry with her, long into the mornings of many tomorrow’s…

*The Policy in China is one child only. Most couples keep the son for he is the one who takes care of the parents in old age. Many women do not opt for adoption and instead, take the lives of their newborns.

Fishcubes

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Photo by Abbe

Fish Cubes –From Tales Beneath The Electric Blanket

Fishcubes Winter 2008

went to bed late last night knowing the frost was coming,
the news said Florida would freeze.
i woke at 7am, it was 30 degrees,
but the windchill made it feel like minus 21
looking out the back, I could see the lake was lumpy,
things were bobbing up and down,
but what?

i bundled up under 3 sweaters and 2 coats,
2 pair of socks
figuring seven was a lucky number to keep me warm,
while accenting the look with
vinyl dishwashing gloves.
even the cold burn of the metal door handle could be felt
through the yellow elastic fingers.

standing by the shore,
i could see by the light of a tepid rising sun
that the bodies of the fish had frozen into cubes
floating atop the lake.
Surely they would die!
so I gathered trash cans onto my small boat
and went about netting bream,
shiners, bass and mudfish into the cans.
when sufficiently satisfied
that all the fishcubes had been harvested,
i rowed back to shore, rushed inside the house
and built a nice fire with a fake log,
then wheeled the trash cans in,
warming the fishcubes before the phony phlames
stirring the scaly swill with metal tongs
and a pinch old bay seasonings.

one by one the fishcubes melted
with utterances of a deep, aquatic nature.
a rather large bass floated to the top of one can
and asked where he was and what date was it?
saying his memory had been impaired by the cold,
“it’s January 3rd 2008”,  i remarked.
when a bream, so excited to be thawed,
jumped from one trash can flopping onto the hearth
with his gills fully expanded,
thanking me profusely
for rescuing his family
i lifted him gently back into the water.

a very mature mudfish leaned forward
telling me his family
had resided there since the Esocene era —
he said his fish ancestors were the
oldest living residents of the lake
to which a shiner called him a liar-
there was a sudden ‘fish-two-cuffs’,
a bass jumped up and pinned the mudfish to the wall of a can
calling the shiner a lowlife carp
– barbs were exchanged.

once the shiner dove back down,
the mudfish seemed to calm
until he spied my fishing pole in the corner of the room.
he pointed a fin toward the pole yelling,
“traitor human, traitor human, we’re all gonna die! ”
while pitching his slimy body out of the can shouting,
“i would rather sacrifice the generations of my family
than become  your trophy–”  he pointed to a deer head
on the wall “look!” he gurgled.
hundreds of fish heads peered over the edges-
mouths agape looking betrayed and fearful.

the bass was the first to raise a dorsal fin and call for anarchy—
suddenly fish and water overturned the trash cans
splashing violently all over the pink carpet,
as scaly, wet bodies crashed about
ruining my antique furniture,
hurling through the glass of the china cabinet,
while 2 gars played catch with my Lalique figures,
delighting in watching them shatter
into glass confetti.
slimy fins slapped open the books off the low shelves
as smudged, black ink stained the water.
there was complete piscine chaos-
heads and tails
heads and tails
flapping about chattering in ‘fishlish’,
one catfish croaking “o sole mio”-

what had i done? i wondered,
what had i done? i didn’t know what to do.

i ran to the garage and put on waders,
got my net,
put on nose plugs and dove
onto the saturated carpet.
fish crammed into my boots
slashing my legs with sharp scales,
i did a hand stand to get them out
and opened the back sliding door
with my feet.
fish and water
gushed out the opening
in an adfluvial advance,
those crazy fish somersaulted
all the way back to the lake.

i sloshed my way toward the garage
to get the wet/dry vac,
lighting some candles to get that fishy smell out,
when i noticed a small 3inch bream stuck
to the side of the leather couch
his shiny lungs expanding and contracting.
i slowly peeled him loose as
his bleary eyes looked up,
“water, water” he said in a very puny voice.

i rushed him to the sink and plugged it up,
the little guy was swimming about happily,
a smile on it’s little fishy face.
its’ fishy gaping lips breached the surface of
the stainless steel sink.
“do u mind if i ask u something?” the fish lips flapped.
“feel free,” i reached down and tickled his sides
as he laughed out loud emitting burpy bubbles.
it tilted it’s head, “i have always wanted to be domesticated –
would u let me live here with u?”
i didn’t know how to react,
so i asked if his family wouldn’t miss him?
he said he was orphaned when he was only a fry
and was afraid the other fish would try and eat him.
i told him it would be an honor to have him as a pet
and went into the attic to search for the old fish tank.

When I came inside carrying the tank,
the neighbors cat sat hovering
over the sink
and suddenly pierced it’s canines into the heart of
my new pet fish which was screaming,
it’s anal fin flapping  spasmatically back and forth
as the cat ran off with it.
i held the tank in my arms and
weeped 10 gallons worth of saltwater tears
into it, born from sadness and frustration,
the weight being so heavy it slipped from my hands,
and spilled to the floor.
i was afraid it might take
bringing in a herd of deer when it dried
for a salt-lick-up.

my legs were wet and cold and
plastered with glass and loose scales.
the floors were ‘ichthy’ and wet,
everything reeked of fish and mayhem.
i moved the vacuum to the kitchen
to mop up my tears.
i felt i had learned a lesson that day,
don’t ever be a humanitarian on freezing days
by saving frozen fishcubes,
they will be fine left alone.
and never make big promises
you can’t keep
to small fry…

College Poetry Night

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photo credit: Abbe Arenson

Poetry night November 2009

thought it might be good to roost on college campus
for poetry night,
the night of the new moon,
listening to fresh voices for inspiration
something to assault my elder brain with key words
to give my dulled senses new food
I was hungry to write again

about thirty students and their professor assembled
I was the oldest one in that room
absorbing their ages and innocence
watching their squirming angst as
the professor told them to come up and read,
read something they wrote,
read something by someone else,
he began the evening by reading his own work
I don’t remember one word

the first young man stood right up
macho, tanned, firm arms ablaze with colored inks
and clingy shirt to compliment,
he reminded me of Michael Fitzsimmons
in “Peggy Sue Got Married” –  his words curt and forceful,
trying for hardedge reflection,
the girls whispered and smiled
this was the one Peggy Sue would crave

the white girls came up one by one
shiny haired, nervous and generic
despair, depression, break ups, near  suicides,
the pattern was set for every designer jeaned one of them
except for one who mumbled something at a Nascar pace
about trying to understand her two year old cousin,
while a petite blond peeped in a high overture to
Dickinson’s, “I heard a Fly Buzz”

Then a beaded and braided, “player” swaggered to the mike
silky smooth in his Barry White delivey
the voice overrode what he was saying
he will be a DJ or radio host
the velvety voice will net its’ lions’ share
of female prey

I do remember the bespectacled student
I do remember his serious rap, his ramrod vibe
his righteous tangent on hope and God
and Jesus being the light – the way
he spoke with clarity and passion,
I pictured a stern mother
delivering  Biblical justice with a firm hand

my eyes wandered through the herd
scoped out  ‘boys’ through ‘cougar’  eyes,
I liked the dirty blond with goatee –
found myself still  drawn to the same ‘type’
that appealed to me in high school  4 decades ago,
my mind buzzed back to days of mad crushes,
learning what the word cunnilingus meant,
French kissing and copping feels  under bleachers and
of course rejection
ah, the ‘60’s, the best times ever,
but back to poetry

the rest of the poems seemed like fine silicate
loose words slipping off pages
kids read, then were rewarded with light, polite clapping for all,
one woman in her forties held worn sheets of paper,
pieces  about cancer, death and killing
I would call it melancholy “schmaltz”  at best
go look it up, gentiles

when time finally lapsed between readers
the Professor got up and read another of his poems
which was funny to the ear
as the young crowd all laughed at the staged lines,
but I heard the undertones ,
of wanting fame and reverence for self
for wishing that swooning college females would hive
at his honeyed words and experience,
it was obvious  mid-life was imploding,
the balding pate, the soft body looked computer chained
the humor was truth doused in itching powder
tickling him without mercy
about all that had been denied

when he finished, the professor looked around-
was about to call it a night
when from the back stood a skinny, dark haired guy ,
looked about twenty,
he slinked up to the podium on tall khaki legs
standing silent for a moment-
no notes, no books, no laptop in attendance
we waited as he took in a breath
and began to recite
and recite he did,
stanza after compelling stanza
a poem not his own, but so impacting in its’ delivery
it should have been,
the subject was about going back to rehab,
it cut gashes into my psyche
my blood took to splashing hard against the arteries,
he made me shiver in his sincerity,
I saw scenery and visions raped by knowledge too sage
for one so young to know,
but he spoke with eloquence –
with the fullness of living behind thick shadows,
of speaking a churchyard elegy to a corpse still alive
this was the moment worth waiting for,
this was ‘The One’ worth hearing,
the one who was calm, yet dangerous,
the one reeking of undigested fumaroles waiting for a shunt
the audience silenced by his chainsaw reality –
the poet he memorized should sweat him

there was silence for a second or two after he finished –
words like scorching rain were still wetting
and burning the audience
and then came the clapping
hands reddened by hard smacking
for the savior of poetry night, the true artist among us,
or rather a true actor who walked past all of us
walked right out of the room before the accolades finished –
more of an exile than an exit

the veneer of the night finally peeled  –
I walked out to my truck under the dark new moon,
slipped the key into the ignition
but didn’t turn it,
I closed my eyes
waiting for the moment of impact…

Porn for Piece or Peace?

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100_6506re

Porn for piece and peace

Saleh al Jalaheen should have left the movie theater –
should not have stayed so long –
he had an easy fifty dollars in his pocket,
big money to make in Syria in 1994
all he had to do was the legwork –
a quick dropoff,
but the legwork consumed him
time and dreams all became forged
by the showing that day
inside the Salwa Cinema

Even though it was a film from Turkey,
Saleh didn’t need to know the foreign language
he had entered a theater bathed in soft-porn
featuring, ‘delights of the flesh’
the things the Holy Book told him were forbidden-
advised him to avoid

Suddenly up front and bluntly before him
in size and detail
big engaging sex-
womens unclothed bodies-
Saleh became the lion stalking it’s prey in the dark,
his pupils expanded with visions of pleasure
his ears attune to the soft moans,
his brain locked into the secret moments
his tongue salivating for the taste of ambrosia,
of shapely naked breasts and stiffened nipples,
of positions and fetishes he never imagined –
his apterous body could not abandon its’ nest

When they paid him,
he thought he followed directions
but no one warned him about the movie
poor Saleh did not heed his employer’s instruction
after placing the bomb beneath his chair
he forgot his culture
forgot The Koran
forgot all about the evils of voyeurism
but mostly, he forgot the mission

That fifty dollars was to be coveted in vane
it could not cover the loss of his legs
blown off because those appendages
were fixed like mafia cement to the floor
Saleh didn’t even think about moving to another seat
where he might have been spared

Saleh became a casualty to sex
lost both his legs without getting any of the pleasure
from either the sex act nor the terror act
he became condemned as a terrorist failure
he does not qualify for the virgins promised him in heaven
and most likely, that was the only sex he will know…
The destruction he was going to impose upon others,
imposed itself upon him

Some people just aren’t meant to be bombers for a cause,
they should forget doing favors for easy money
which itself is seduction
How is it that being mesmorized by ‘piece’
could bring about both pleasure and horror –
And yet by the sheer act
of sitting there in the Salwa theatre
surrounded by soft female images
on the big screen,
it erased all thought of Jihad
all thought of hate and
of planting bombs for money.

Imagine that… ‘piece’  for peace
the sheer idiosyncrasy of it;
piece for peace–
Well… it kept Saleh, the bomber
occupied and thinking more about glorious sex acts
than the act of committing terror didn’t it…

Catching “The Kraken”

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Apalone Ferox – Soft shelled Turtle

The myth of the Kraken

Twelve months of moon phases have passed
since I began fishing this lake of Lethe,
each day the circadian rhythm suspends
and I am granted 2 hours for fishing
in my Zen dimension.

I stand like a Moses poised over the lake,
commanding with a mighty rod –
I WILL change the dynamics today
by interrupting fish schedules,
all catches to be released
and no ill will between the species.

Even a slow fishing day
does not diminish the essence of clean mind absorption
of taking in the saturation of the lake,
birds coasting overhead,
and even the red belly of Flyglobespan
leaving Sanford and traveling due north to Scotland at 6pm
is only one more pair of beautiful wings over the horizon.

Mysterious forces swirl just beneath the sheath of water
a magnified-mottled softshell skirting the depths
like an armed floating leather shield.
“The Kracken”, I dubbed it –
Avatar with largess guarding over this territory –
turtle of intimidation,
respecting that we both have a purpose here.

I cast my bait away from it,
watching for the hooded head with
two circular orbs revealing its’ position.
Sometimes obvious masses of  bubbles surfaced,
expelled by both ends of it’s reptile alimentary canal.
Cretaceous ‘Kracken’ and its’ ilk
belonging to this planet millions of years prior to man,
still in basic uniform adapting better than most.
The dark waters mysteriously stifle the pattern
of brown and olive
all monochromatic and symbiotic as one unit –
it is the red and white bobber that’s grossly out of place here.

Suddenly two winking eyes
and massive soft plastron breaks the water
neck extending,
attached to a thick body breaching two diverse worlds
of wet and dry.

These are the largest soft shell turtles in the New World,
sea monsters scanning the lakes from their secret aquatic depths,
making the neighbor children squirm and shout
when the swift-pattern shell passes by.
Many times I was startled by it’s sudden appearance
and I did not want to hook it,
did not want its’ hissing and snapping mouth near my
fingers and toes.
This liquid warrior,
soft frigate fighting vigorously for it’s space,
and it was me who was the invader,
the unwelcomed ‘occupier’

On land there is no faster turtle
and in the lake it’s wet lightning,
I continued to see him as more than a simple species
this turtle was the embodiment of MY modern myth,
voiding the edges of reality to become
a leviathan we all feared would latch onto our lines,
chase us down and eat us whole.

Bringing in bream or shiners too slowly was always a risk,
the Kracken sometimes trailed my catch.
This reptile has a nose made for sniffing death and
is quick to nab anything moving erratic,
like wounded fish or even small ducks-
bottoms up!

This day there was an edgy wind
and wide rippling of the lake.
It was late afternoon,
the sun had been sacked by a wall of gray clouds,
the tannin water did not have the clarity of
sunlight illuminating behind it,
preventing my normal aquatic acuity
from reaching its sight into
the water’s most intimate wet spaces.

I cast out and felt the pull-
just from that tug my adrenalin spilled,
I had hooked something large!
Turtles jerk at a hook differently than fish
and suddenly my line was heading out toward the weeds,
but not sharply down as with a hooked bass.

There was a struggle coming,
from a risky looking sky above
and the waves and reptile fighting against me,
I fought with an invisible power upon the line
as it thrust against the pain of impalement
from a new, sharp hook.

I let it have more line hoping maybe it would loosen,
maybe free itself and swim away,
only to reel and find it still fighting-
fighting against the hook,
fighting against domination,
fighting to preserve its’ turtle dignity.

For a while the line stretched taut,
the rod bending in contortions I didn’t think possible
until finally it was exhausted
as I pulled it closer to shore –
tangling through massive thick hydrilla,
water cutting against it slowing its surrender.

I knew his temper would be ill
his mouth tender and injured
and susceptible to infections-
that hook could prove as lethal as a wounding bullet
to both of us,
one stick and the smallest of deadly bacteria
takes precedent over the largest of beings.

We both struggled for control,
the weeds thickened around him,
the rain began beating down,
but I could not abandon the fight-
my line was still jerking.
I jumped down from the sea wall
to the waters sandy shore
anticipating the worst
thinking how using needle nose pliers,
would be like tackling a minotaur with a safety pin.

As I reeled while standing braced on the shore,
rain saturating my every fiber from head to toe,
the massive beast came into view,
but,
it was not the behemoth I had so imagined
the carapace about 2 feet long — not 5 or greater-
as magnified by the mocking water,
it certainly lacked in Karken proportions.
It’s long neck and legs flailing-
a hook swallowed – the line inside the mouth
it bled red – it’s agony and instinct intact.

My Kracken –
myth of the lake,
myth of my mind –
swimming against the storm tide,
struggling against the pain,
bubbles trailing a route to panic-
animal brought down to scale.

I reached out to try and net him,
but he jerked and pulled
there was no restraining
a very mad, agitated turtle.

As I pulled to get it closer to shore,
it’s feet gave one last thrust of traction
breaking the weakened line then lurching down,
the bobber floating up
riding long the choppy waves.
I watched as a torpedo hurled back to the deep
past the weeds,
past the thick walled and banging water,
past the now fractured tale.

I worried my hook would cost Kracken it’s life,
would it bleed to death, infect and rot?
Sadly, I looked at my pole with dangling,
worn 12 lb. test line,
my head down and battered by rain,
I picked up the wet tackle box and left.

The rain yelled at me,
I had clearly violated the tenets of the lake –
lightning forked above my head,
bent branches whipped me hard with water
as I passed beneath them.
The storm screamed and cried and moaned
for it’s loss,
I listened to it’s anger that whole night,
and thought of nothing else except
how it would feel to be hooked and reeled in,
skin pierced and ripped as vessels burst,
I too cried along with the howling storm…

The Bloodletting of Erzsebet Bathory

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Erzsebet

When dissecting the events coloring  history,
it is hard not to judge royalty –
so consumed with inbreeding,
inbreeding as a result of greed for keeping
treasures and power within select families
for political gains.

Sometimes these alliances of power and land holdings
grow genetically flawed and
proved themselves a recipe for self-immolation,
an amalgam that sparks legends and myths to be generated.
And in the case of Countess Eresebet’s, a reality so harsh,
an ‘Act’ of Parliament resulted,
declaring the mention of  her name a criminal act.

This niece of the King of Poland was scarred
at the moment of conception,
the maleficence of genes dividing within the zygote
became cells dividing into sects of evil compounding evil,
spliced between layers of schizophrenia and insanity.

Her head crowned into a dynasty of the arcane,
the richest most powerful Protestant family in Hungary.
1560 welcomed Erzsebet Bathory into a rich life
below the shadows of the Carpathian mountains.

By the age of five, they called her Elizabeth,
epilepsy  rocked the delicate, porcelain skinned child.
She was beautiful, spoiled  and catered to,
better educated than most men.
Elizabeth knew her standing was different,
she saw it the day when a gypsy was held for a crime.
Brought outside the castle,
Elizabeth’s young ears heard  the screams
and she loosed herself from a nanny to watch justice:
the gypsy’s horse sliced open and eviscerated while still alive
the condemned man then sewn inside to die
this impression became a raw infusion of dark portentous thought
latching forever into Elizabeth’s psyche.

By age eleven, raven haired Elizabeth was sent to her fiancee’s Castle ,
where she was groomed for marriage,
to prepare for the raping
and taking of all childhood innocence, a custom carried forward.
Her marriage deemed a political allegiance,
her husband a soldier eleven years her senior,
Ferenc Nadasdy, gave his gift to her, Castle Csejte,
a new home for her pleasures and pain.

While he busied himself with fighting the Turks,
The engaged 13 year old, Elizabeth gave birth by a male servant,
the baby was removed along with the hushed secrets
always dulled within castle walls.

At 15 she married as highest royalty,
her husband took from her, the last name of Bathory,
a  more socially prominent name.
Her new mother-in-law tended to dominate and criticize,
her new husband was busy on distant battle fields as
Elizabeth was living a life of boredom
and a recognition that she needed attention.

True bliss came only on her visits to Aunt Karla
and pleasuring themselves with indulgent, all female orgies
and extravagant flagellation.
The newlywed  Countess,  preferred buxom women, hot wax,
and hot branding irons.
Ferenc specialized in his own devices of torture for the enemy.

Elizabeth became absorbed by the occult
taught by her servant, Dorka.
With her nurse and several ‘witches’, Elizabeth had a new hobby;
beating  female servants for her sexual delight,
inserting pins into their lips and fingernails,
hot metal spikes for girl’s tender body parts,
cutting them with scissors,
shoving oiled papers between their tender
toes and setting the papers on fire.

Elizabeth delighted in having a servant taken into the freezing snow,
to have water poured upon the girl until she froze.
If the weather was fair,
Elizabeth poured honey on her victim
waiting  for the fleas and rats and wild animals to consume the body alive.
Heaven and lust found at the fringes of mutilation and
bloodied female corpses.

In between the torture, She bred spawns for legacy,
a daughter, then two children died. She produced two more heirs,
but heirs to what?
Did they suffer from her sicknesses?
Did they desire their parent’s predilection of pain as pleasure?
Where were the children when they mother was having her orgies
and killing sprees?
Did they hear the screams, did they peek as Erzsebet had done
with the gypsy’s horse?

Don’t you wonder what the bedroom chambers held
between two people so thriving on hurt and suffering
and hungering for perverse attention?
Frenec was recognized as “The Black Hero of Hungary” –
one of  “The Unholy Quintet’ known for his ravaging cruel nature.
But even the Count became repulsed by his wife’s insatiable capacity
for overt sadism.

1604 brought death into Castle Csejte as Ferenc died,
a war injury had spoiled the blood.
Finally, after 29 years of marriage,
the mother-in-law was removed,
Elizabeth now had complete domination,
a new meaning to home sweet home.

The countess was aware of her age, her faded beauty
and one day after a release of blood from striking a servant,
she welcomed a warm rush of red fluid against her aging body,
a vitality unrecognized before.
She demanded a servant girl be drained of blood
so Elizabeth could bath and drink in this resource of eternal youth,
revitalizing herself by the lives she would sacrifice.
After that Elizabeth got greedy,  setting up cages in the dungeon
hoisted high metal bars with perforated bottoms –
spikes penetrated the flesh of the victims for draining blood.
These cages provided Elizabeth the showers of rejuvenation.

Needing more ‘available help’,
in 1609 she advertised her castle
as a ‘finishing’ school,  which it literally became.
Elizabeth was grateful for so many virginal girls
and their rich blood source.
She saw to it they each received a Christian burial for their sacrifice –
even though the priest wondered how so many died mysteriously.

Elizabeth grew sloppy in her obsessions,
a victim escaped,  bodies were reported thrown out of the castle in
laziness.
The King ordered Elizabeth’s cousin,
Count Gyorgy, governor of the providence to raid the castle.
Gyorgy waited for Christmas, and sent his men in –
They found victims scattered about,
50 bodies had been buried  beneath  the castle,
one victim was being drained, but still alive.

The trial was political,
they wanted no scandal,
and no royalty to be put to death.
Elizabeth did not plead anything,  nor did she make an appearance.
The jury heard from those who had suffered for sometimes months of unrelenting vile servitude for Elizabeth’s bloodthirsty fetishes.

The ‘cache’ of ‘ritualists’ assisting the Countess
were sentenced in ‘Biblical’, Christian justice;
their fingers torn off with hot metal pinchers,
their tortured bodies then tossed into a pyre.
A few lessor criminals were simply beheaded.
Proving religion was just as guilty of
having its’ own vicious, fetish perversion
in their desire for retribution.

Elizabeth was ordered sealed inside a small room at the castle,
no windows or doors,
only a small opening for food and ventilation.

Her remaining in residence at the castle assured that her children
kept their royal inheritance.
Assured the good name of Bathory was unspoiled,
even with those who claimed she was a victim of a conspiracy.
By the time she died in 1614, she had tortured almost  650 girls,
keeping  hand written lists of incrimination,
possibly taking pleasure from the sheer numbers
or the remembrances themselves.

Mostly they were virgins,
mostly poor or lower peasant class –
They all served the Countess and country beyond the call of duty.
The records were sealed; no one was to speak her name for a century,
for fear the words themselves would release a dark force
or spell bringing her deeds back in spirit form.

What became of her children?
her Castle Csejte fell into ruins –
Bram Stoker wrote Dracula, the  fictional account
of similar events of psychosis living among the mountain.
Stories spread throughout the world.

Was it was due to simple inbreeding?
To the people talking inside Erezsbet’s brain?
Or maybe it breaks down to spoiled, bored  ‘titled people’
with too much time
on their bloodied, royal hands.
Perhaps there were too many tantalizing tales of perversion
on the battlefield and from the Church.
Too many twisted opportunities with little respect for human life.
Elizabeth Bathory’s life will not be remembered for her
duty as loving wife or mother,
but as a bloodthirsty dominatrix who needed to inflict pain
to satisfy her own.
These are the secrets still lingering today,
still whispered in the Carpethian mist
and read off the stains from castle dungeon walls…

Mary The Elephant – A Cash Cow’s Fate

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Actual photo of Mary the Elephant hanging in Tennessee, September 13, 1916

A Cash Cow’s Fate

Mary must have felt like Eve when spotting the denied fruit
so tempting, so luscious
just one taste
just one mouthful couldn’t hurt anything –

Mary’s dark eyes fixated upon the treasure
her trunk reaching out to take in the smell –
a broken hunk of watermelon left in full view
she remembered as elephants do, the taste
the sweet, pink ripeness
making her mouth water
even her aching abscessed teeth could handle this

On that September day in Kingsport, Tennessee
nothing could stop her five-ton desire –
surely not  the skinny handler
the rusty mopped ‘Red’ Eldridge riding her back –
He warned Mary to stay away from the watermelon
or pay the consequence
Mary decided his words were spoken with a serpents forked tongue
as she fixated upon the only thing truly worth living for
as a mighty hunger drove her on

Red tried to stop her by hitting her on the head blow after blow
gaffing his sharp hook behind her sensitive, ears
Mary did what she had done to several other abusive handlers
she threw him to the ground-
only this time she had had enough
and stomped upon his red head
until it was as broken and spilled of contents  as the mellon
she then walked away free
walked free to her beloved awaiting treat
now she ate of her forbidden fruit with supreme satisfaction

Mary savored each morsel as if knowing it was a last meal
even as a blacksmith appeared and
pumped five bullets into her side
and Sheriff Gallahan braised her with his .45
she showed no pain or remorse when taken back to her tent

At the two-bit failing Circus show of Charlie Sparks that night
Mary performed as she always had despite the bullet wounds,
despite the blows and fresh, bloody scabs from the gaffing hook,
But some human with a voice of conscience
decided upon Biblical justice –
and just as Eve was caught and reprimanded,
so did someone cast a ‘Genesis’ fate
onto this 30 year old elephant by implying;
“I will greatly multiply thy pain”.

That would draw the crowd!
that  would bring the Sparks Brothers Circus publicity!
The lynching of an elephant –

Mary was to be hung in typical Big-Top fashion
and just like the show
did they go
elephants head to tail,  a four pachyderm procession
led by Mary on her final tour of the Apocalypse

2500 humans with a morbid curiosity
marched behind to the Clinchfield Railroad yards
for  free-admission to the biggest show in town
for a look upon punishment for committing evil

Mary’s wrinkled leg was chained to a rail
another chain was fixed about Mary’s neck
and a 100-ton crane with a Herculean task
hoisted  her 10,000 pounds off the ground
but her leg was still attached to the lower rail
as they pulled her neck up
and as her body swayed
the 7/8” chain broke

Gravity pulled her gargantuan weight down
bones were heard to snap
ligaments torn
Mary trumpeted  in pain from the broken hip
that planted her solid weight hard
against gravel rock and timbers
Mary squealed, protested and struggled
as they shackled her once again
but finally the task was completed –
she hung there a while in complete protocol
a vision of  ‘old’ Southern redemption
reserved for any crime committed back then
by those of African ancestry

After the last spectator left –
they brought poor Mary down
cut away her tusks
then plowed her broken body into a burial site
at the railroad yard

We can learn a lot from the imprinting of elephant memory
about how an animal’s brain really thinks,
we know Mary loved the taste for something sweet
and had a bitter taste for revenge after years
of being forced into labor
of being manacled to what cruelty and abuse
humanity had inflicted upon her –
years of daily blows to the body-
of gaffing hooks that tore into the flesh-
and a mouth full of untreated aching and rotting teeth
it’s no wonder an elephant could snap
it’s no wonder an elephant really never forgets…

image8-1res don’t know who to give credit for-

Abbe  2005  – Please report all animal cruelty to your local Humane Society

In Memory of the Children of Andrea Yates

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Dedicated To the Children Of Andrea Yates 2001

She stands for a long time
as if gravity is concrete –
staring through lost, glassy eyes
sheets lay limp as exhausted sails
a testament to the surrendering of wills

Long dampened strands of hair
stick to her face
she looks out toward the water
watching for them to come home
when the children arrive next time
they will be aglow with smiles,
full of hugs and celebration –
a house finally resounding with life

For now the baptism abounds
She sees them reflected
from beneath an aqueous mirror
so small  – so white – so still
faces now calm after the tempest,
reality finds her drenched and disheveled
she is exorcised, stoically calm
a rock hard silence deafens the ears
the heaving of her chest
is the only physical sensation she feels
there are no more waves left churning the water
no more shrieks – nor children’s hands violently
slashing through the wetness
to grip onto something solid

The bathroom light becomes a blinding sunlight mockery
her eyes hollow of vision
her heart emptied of soul
how did it come to this
why did Rusty ignore storm warnings
why let her captain a ship
ferrying the devil with a mutinous mission-

Those babies were conceived in liquid
held sacred in her ‘Quiverfull’ womb
and back to the water she has led them
back to the water by her capsized emotions
emotions that left her more than once submerged in
zones of sterilized and sedated padding
enabling her to float just slightly above the madness
till now

For everyday it will come back to her
heavy as an iron anchor
they can condemn her
they can sentence her
it doesn’t matter
from now on she is tethered to memory
The Valedictorian lives behind bars
pills keeping the demons tamed
as she goes through this life
spitting out words from her Bosch-womb/brain
recanting that her children’s fates were sealed
because their mother was deemed evil

Andrea now lives in metered purgatory,
every time she touches or hears water
she feels that tinge of suffocation
she feels her pulse rise as theirs was silenced
she too drowns inside
for vision cannot be obliterated
by a simple drawing of the lids,
she will always see them
their mouth’s last bubbles rising as muted screams
those five beautiful faces looking up
innocent, wide eyes full of panic
they will always stare back at their mother
out of breath
out of time,
silently pleading
silently pleading…

Abbe 2001

Remembering 911 — Leviathan’s Charge / The Rakers

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Leviathan’s Charge

What is this shadow that has been thrust across the world
this leviathan’s charge full of doubt and mistrust
stalking us from all angles
draining from us our pleasures
pumping its’ venom into the atoms we breathe
as madmen threaten us with nuclear rage and
devious sinister plots make us squirm as
they talk of martyrdom — of heaven’s rewards
yet cowardly these madmen send others to do their bidding
and we are anchored by their threats – waiting

No clock can forward its’ hands to reveal the future
no force can carry us back into a case of passive memory
it all stands before us in unmitigated mutiny
anticipation is the new oxygen
our orientation is to be left always wondering
when
where
how
who
yet being afraid only amuses them
being brave makes them all the more determined

It used to go in cycles
bouts with dissenting growling governments and dissidents
as we flaunted our own political savvy and might
but what good is might or savvy
when those who hate feel their own will is also God’s will
when those who hate are willing to unleash the dragons
without conscience

It’ s now all a matter of what one holds sacred
of being prepared for the worst
and hoping for the best
and being able to love and appreciate
all the things we take for granted
all that can slip away in a moment’s gleaning
so love hard
care hard
be aware of showing kindness to others who need our help
and remember
if anything
this new age brings to us
a focus on the importance of being
a focus on knowing we now live
in a new era with very sharp edges that cuts deep…

Sept11FiremenInjComradeFDNYFireman.htm

The Rakers

September  11, 2001 Anniversary  – A Tribute To The ‘Rakers’

Two planes with their hostages slammed into the twin towers
boom the first
boom the second at 9:11 on 9/11
people stunned
mesmerized – switching back and forth between channels
two more planes buried themselves elsewhere
meanwhile the towers were ablaze

People on the upper Twin Towers freaked
some jumped
some phoned
all trying in vain to find a way out

Firefighters, ambulances, police headed toward the scene
so many men and women risking their lives
so many humans reduced to ash
squadrons absorbed by collapsing walls

The fires burned for three months straight
but one of the things that touched me two years later
was not all the debilitating chaos
nor the horror repeatedly drilled into us by the media
nor the talk of rebuilding
it was of those who chose to be “Rakers”

Many retired fireman rushed to the scene Tuesday on 9/12/2001
and for months they came back daily
spending countless hours helping as back up
while waiting to see if they could identify a missing face,
relative, or friend
when the fires finally quit and the clean-up began
many firefighters both retired and active became Rakers
for the dump trucks to spread a thin load of debris on the ground
so they could literally rake through  the ash
dirt and dust looking for parts to retrieve:
fingers
toes
organs
anything of human remains
they mostly wanted to find bones
solid parts to catalogue
vestiges of  the dead to bring closure
to those in mourning.

The Rakers would slowly cast out the rake
catching the remnants of carnage
in metal teeth
one fireman said he had to stop
after coming across a human heart

The lesson of course comes down to love for their fellow man
and dedication
maybe they possess an extra gene for caring-
for doing a job
that requires a stiffening of the spine
and yet inside, a great swell compassion

It is these “Rakers”
these firemen volunteers
combing for traces of human pieces
who are certainly the cream of humanity
willing to go beyond what is asked
willing to look beyond what many of us would be repulsed by
willing to feel beyond all emotional pain they must continually store
and I salute you for your bravery and valor!
I salute you for doing a task
while your hearts were bursting at the seams
for your fellow fire fighters killed while on the line of duty-
I suppose for them it is really about that old adage –
what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger
and that strength is what we will always honor you for…
Abbe