Treasure of the Mind - J. Michaels

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nothing ever feels good again? I guess I can always drink or drug myself into oblivion. What if that doesn’t do it? I’m scared, I can’t live like this.

      Emptiness prevails

      Darkness has chased away the light

      My soul aches for redemption

      To go beyond the pain

      Agony so deep it pierces my soul

      Don’t hate me, my son

      Though failed I have

      To see you truly and pure

      Lend me some time, my Father

      Let me go back

      To treasure what once was put off

      And know its sweet moment again

      Damn Those Dreams

      I love Bob Dylan. Gracie can’t stand him but I think he’s a genius. His words are always popping into my head and there’s just something about that raspy voice that I really relate to. Bobby and I have grown up together and he’s the poet I always wished I could be. “I don’t give a damn about your dreams” he says in his latest, greatest classic. I love it as usual but damn Bob, this was one dream I cared a lot about, just a gunshot and a funeral too late.

      My mind rambles a lot these days, from one pointless thought to another. I need something that turns my crank again. I need for one of those pointless thoughts to mean something again. I have the big office, a six-figure income, an impressive home, and a new beemer. And none of it means anything to me. The girls and Grace have been great and I truly love them. But even they can’t lift this heaviness that hangs over me, weighs me down, and maybe some day soon will devour me.

      I guess it’s time to call Jimmy and see if he still grows that great weed. I need something to keep me from going where it hurts so much. Maybe a poker game with the boys will help. We can drink beer, maybe smoke some pot, and get crazy. I love those guys but I don’t know if I’ll be able to stomach their inevitable pity. No reason to pity me, I’m the one who blew it with Chris. I’m the one who passed by his childhood like he would be waiting for me when I finally decided to be there for him. Dreams be damned. They don’t wait for us while we waste our time chasing the buck, and the career, and the toys that we value so much.

      Maybe I should consider going back to work. But then I’d have to deal with all the well-meaning sympathy that does nothing for me except remind me of what I’m trying to forget. At least I could get lost in the endless details, the useless meetings that will hush when I walk in. The problem is I just don’t care about all that anymore. I wish I could leave my skin and deaden my feelings. Maybe a new dream to replace the one I messed up or just something else to be more pissed off about than I am about the kid who killed my son.

      Regret gnaws at me

      Eats away my being

      Let me escape this torture

      Let me not be

      Why must I choose

      Between despair and hate

      Shall I kill to save me

      Will it salvage my soul

      Will it tame the beast

      Or destroy my hope

      I know not where to turn

      I have lost sight of love

      Erase my mind and feelings

      Ease my suffering heart

      Lord, come save me

      Before I fall apart

      Poker with the Boys

      Here I am pounding beers and playing poker with some of the best guys in the world and even that is empty. And damn, they’re afraid of me. I can see it in their eyes. They’re afraid of where I’ve been and of where I am, afraid to get too close to it.

      “Guys, we need to ratchet this party up a notch. Let’s crank up the music and get this shindig going. How about some Eagles or Dire Straits?” I call out, hoping to drown out the thoughts. Nervous laughter that just doesn’t fit these guys forces its way out. But they’re trying. They’re my friends and they want me to feel better.

      Jimmy breaks open the baggie and loads the pipe. “Tom, turn up the music and give this man some rock and roll,” he yells across the room. “And let’s get the pizza going before the damn munchies set in.”

      “Mike old buddy, what’s your pleasure, Dylan or the Eagles? Jimmy’s got all the good ones. He’s more of a Dylan and Eagles freak than you are,” Tom calls out as he rifles through Jimmy’s CD collection.

      “Hotel California and crank it up, way up. If I going to lose all my hard-earned money to you jokers, at least you can serenade me while you’re doing it.” Real laughter comes this time. For just a minute, we all forgot.

      “Who needs a beer?” Mark offers as he beelines to the fridge. “Let’s get this party going.” But the nervousness starts to seep back in . . .

      Not a bad night, things could have gone worse. At least I didn’t lose it in front of the guys. With all the booze and pot we consumed, a lot could have gone wrong. Who would think a bunch of sports-loving, foul-mouthed, middle-aged guys could be so sensitive and selfless? It’s good to have friends, even if they can only distract you for a couple of hours on a Saturday night. Maybe I’m drunk and stoned enough that I’ll sleep tonight, maybe.

      My brothers confirm me

      Clumsily offering hope

      Agreeing to be distracted

      From insidious plague inside

      Attempting to defer my temptation

      To slit my hated throat

      Offering a sliver to live for

      Friends to fill the void

      If only for a moment’s persuasion

      Hoping to help me hang on

      Offering drink and herb

      Soothing with words and music

      To keep me diverted

      From despair’s lonely door

      Moving On

      Man, this rush hour traffic never lets up. The windows are down and the music is popping but I’m nervous as hell about facing all those people at work. I better get over, my exit’s coming up. Damn, I missed it. I guess I’ll just keep going. Let’s check the console. If I remember right, Jimmy handed me a joint after the poker game. Where did I put it? Here it is, a big fat ugly one! You would think that a guy that’s been smoking pot as long as Jimmy has would have learned to roll a good joint by now. What the hell am I doing? Its 8:15 on a Monday morning and I’m cruising past work and lighting up a joint; me, mister reliable, mister taking care of business. So what, it’s only a job and they’ll cut me some slack. After all, my son just died and I’ve lost a lot more than an occupation. No work today, time get away.

      It’s better now. The weed has my mind soothed and the wind in my face sure feels good. You know, right now I don’t really care what happens. I could even drive right into a tree and except for the possibility of coming out crippled instead of dead, the thought of it doesn’t even scare me. Like Janis Joplin said, “Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.” Hey, pull yourself out of this morbid crap. You’ve got a lot to live for; a great home, a loving wife and family, and a high-paying job. You’re just short one son, your only son.

      I need to do something before I turn into an addict or a drunk or a pile of maimed flesh on the side of the road. Who can understand this kind of loss; loss of a son and loss of a life that used to mean something to me? The guys are great but most of them have the same kind of life I

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