Every day is a title fight: the last round

I haven't felt like blogging lately, at least in the vein that I normally do in this space. That's not to say I haven't been writing, because I have. And it's also not to say that there's lack of things to  expound upon and I haven't developed a case of apathy for the general state of the world. But I am aware that just having a blog, a slightly above average vocabulary, and a need to string words together just to feel like I'm not wasting space on the planet are not enough to drive me to comb through all of the comb-worthy things happening in the world to lay out my opinion on them. 
This could have something to do with the fact that I just turned 45, or with the fact that I recently got my 90 day chip from AA. 

From Inferno, Canto 29, engraving by Gustav Dore'

Part of the process, other than being able to sit in a room of other People Like Me and say "Hi, my name's Mick and I'm an alcoholic" is examining both the impacts and causal relationship of drinking in your life. It's taken me forever -- 90 days, actually -- to get a sponsor I trust enough to let be my sponsor... which is to say, I found someone whose experience and opinions I trust so that I can release myself into the life-long process called sobriety. 
My sponsor is the Virgil to my Dante in this journey. And yes, being in the process of maintaining my sobriety feels more like a circle of hell than a ring of paradise these days. Even though I've been really productive lately in my professional life and doing a pretty okay job of keeping my house in order, the fact it there isn't a day that I don't obsess over drinking... even if I'm just obsessing over not drinking.  
When you're not in recovery, or if you're not one of the 10% of the population with this particular allergy to alcohol, it sounds absurd. I know that. I also know it sounds equally absurd that as I am engaged in the process of my sobriety, I know that relapse is built into the disease. 
As Virgil says... my sponsor, that is ... it's never a question of IF we will relapse. It's a question of when. 
In last two weeks, two people I care about very much, people in my recovery community, have relapsed. They both struggle hard with their addictions... for them it's drugs and not booze, but the disease is fundamentally the same. The most recent of them relapsed on his 90th day of sobriety. It's hard for me not to think about that in terms of the dumb luck that's kept me sober for 90 days. Dumb luck or faith, depending on what day it is, how I feel, and how I feel about myself. Today it feels like dumb luck. Tomorrow, with any luck, I'll still be sober and feel differently about it.
Part of being sober means I feel things differently... which is to say more. One of the reasons I drink is that I get really worn out on feeling things. Working in homeless outreach and seeing what people go through, or what they put themselves through, or what they have no control over, hurts my heart. It makes me angry when politicians and some so-called religious folk dismiss, ignore, and erase the suffering of people. School shootings make me scared for my friends who are teachers, for kids, and for their parents. That people place the need to own a death machine over the lives of children enrages me. That Kentucky's governor can only dismiss violence by blaming video games, only to commit economic violence upon teachers and students in the name of a balanced budget deepens my mistrust of governments, of institutions, and of people in positions of power. 
There's so much to write about, but I'm not convinced that being one more blogger in the blogosphere makes a damn bit of difference. I'm not sure this is a time for bloggers. But I know it is a time for poets and artists. That's one arena where the fight is and that's where I'm going to be... and yes, some of it will get posted here. It's not like I'm going anywhere. I'm just shifting my process and step work to something more productive.
I've written before that everyday is a title fight. And it is. I've written before about fighting my demons, and I'm sure I'll write more. But no one talks about the fact that we end up fighting our angels, too. And contrary to popular belief, angels and demons aren't always on opposing sides. Sometimes they tag team. And sometimes faith wins. Other times it's dumb luck. Because we're just people, and flawed, though, it's sometimes damn hard to tell the difference.

But the fight goes on, anyway.

By Gustav Dore'

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Ethel's Frankie - a short dog fiction (draft)

Ethel knew there was just something not right about the boy, and she could never quite lay her finger on what it was. He ran around like boys were supposed to. Growing up, he played sports and did ok in school. He wasn’t going to be a scholar or anything like that, but he wasn’t simple, either. 

But dogs didn’t like him. And smaller children at church seemed scared of him, although he was always polite to everyone as far as she had noticed. Bessie, her friend at Wednesday bible study, told her she was looking at him as an extension of his father. There was always something wrong with Big Frank, and when her Stacy took up with him it was all Ethel could do to keep her faith that it would work out in God’s good time. Even after Big Frank disappeared, her Stacy was never the same. In and out of detox and rehab facilities in the city. In and out of jail. It about broke Ethel’s heart and mortified her at the same time when Stacy called from the police station after being picked up for solicitation at that big truck stop on just off the interstate. It made her think about all the men in town and wondered how many of them Stacy had allowed to use her like a cheap sock. The police wouldn’t tell her who the man was she got caught with, only that she was the only one arrested. 
Leave it to a man to get away after getting what man always wants, she thought.
So, when Bessie told her she was heaping the sins of the parents on the head of her Frankie-boy, she tried to take it to heart. She really did. And for a time, it all seemed all right. 
And then all the cats started disappearing. And then Ethel found where the bones were buried behind the compost bin.

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2 Poems: of journeys and nightmares (draft)

Everything feels more

Better men than me have walked this way.

If there is forgiveness to be had

first I must drop this old, bloody dagger.

Late winter bird songs 

no longer hold any secrets for me,

and the dog refuses to translate.

Erase the ash from your forehead

and be made whole.

There is no room for your squeamish social mores here.

These visions are not prophetic,

and the cat playing at your feet

is not a sign of contrition.

The dog interrupts my prayers to go outside

and chase down starlings

because dogs know instinctively

that grace does not come from over-thinking.

It makes each step a pain, like dancing on broken glass

I never thought I deserved it.

Even now, in the light of a day like this,

the first whisper of Spring,

it is difficult to accept 

the inherent grace of this hour.

There are mornings –most mornings, still –

I open my eyes and marvel I am not dead

(though my dreams would tell me different)

and I reach for you, amazed in my desperation,

that my mind simply didn’t conjure you

as a defense against this bottomless hole in my chest.

Sweet mirage, warm and soft,

let me drink deep from your waters

as you wipe away these tears.

Let me pray as you breathe life back into me

from your own sacred lips.

This journey wears on me.

The clay packed in my heels is ageless

and makes each step a pain, like dancing on broken glass.

Take your hands, remove these shards

and I shall be healed.

Soothe my nightmares and remind me

one more time

I am allowed to embrace the grace

that has placed me in your arms.

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