MY FEELINGS

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Are the frozen people
In my family photo album
like the one snapped by my
Uncle Raymond during the war,
of a freshly immolated Japanese soldier
barbecued by the business-end
of a flame-thrower in
some south pacific island trench
which appears right next to a picture of me
blowing out my 4th birthday cake candles
and another of my
bare-chested dad
flipping burgers at the beach.
Which, perhaps subconsciously,
created a theme featuring
all the different fires that sooner or later
had to be put out.

My feelings are every single
Girl and woman who I have ever loved
And still do
The one that I did the Mexican Hat Dance with
While sporting a wind taunting paper sombrero
on Cinco De Mayo
The one who accepted my i.d. bracelet at
The World’s Fair
And flaunted it like it was an engagement ring,
The one whose bra I unhooked
Like I was defusing an Iraqi road bomb
Until her boob finally sprung free and wiggled
Like a Jello mold on a just dropped dessert plate,
The very first full naked one
Whose grown-up parts rivaled the best
That the salad bar at The Sizzler had to offer.
The one who was the one
Who will always be the one
Who the boy ingenue will sing about should there ever be a musical adaptation of my life
Where in the end, the boy will
get the girl in the end
Even though I never did.

And my feelings are every single woman who
Popped up  along the way like a Whack-a-Mole
Who, in the thrilling moments, made me
believe those premature ejaculations
Were both masterful and euphoria producing.

My feelings are the rowboat survivors
Of my own, personal Titanic
Who have to fight that sinking feeling
For the rest of their lives
To the accompaniment of drowning musicians.

They’re every single, fear,
Enough to fill a Sears Roebuck catalog
If they had one for Psychological disorders
Which I inherited from my mom
Who never met a torment
That she didn’t embrace like a returning
War hero.

My feelings are
Staggered orphans
Astronauts lost in space
A Democratic senate
Where despite best intentions, nothing gets done
They’re dreamers who believe in the sanctity of magic
Atheists who accept the darkness
Spiritual beings who cling to their faith.

They’re every bit as jealous and competitive as any
character in a Jane Austen novel.
They’re who surfaces every time Frank sings about
The wee small hours of the morning,
Or when Clarence leaves George that message that no one
Man is a failure who has friends.  Thanks, for the wings.

They are who I live with
Day in/Day out
And will travel with to the ends
Of the earth 
Even though they come with all that baggage.

They simply are the literal facts of my life
And there is not a thing that I can do about it.
Other than
Hogtie them in the event of a sudden stampede
Shepherd them with Hank,
my imaginary Belgian Malinois,
or just let them be
as they howl at the moon
and threaten to jump
off the cliff
for a change
until it’s time for supper
and so…
with the slow rise of
a milk-fed moon
like overworked farmers
they will drudge in from the field
and will no doubt spin endless stories
around the table
for hours and hours
about themselves.

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