I evolve.

You evolve.

We evolve.

I think of evolution

in terms of

cockroaches.

I have plenty of time

to live with them

in New York.

And over the 25 years

we live together

I watch them

evolve --

beyond common roach spray,

beyond RAID,

beyond COMBAT.

Always that few;

that one maybe --

who alters behavior,

who adapts,

who survives.

They've been spraying

me for years now.

I take their poison

and turn it into art --

make a performance of it.

Reveal it.

Them.

COMBAT, indeed.

this soap opera.

For 40 years.

Not 40 years straight.

I do have a life.

Of sorts.

40 years off and on.

I'll be 55....

so for all but 15 years

of my life

this soap opera

runs parallel.

Mom dies.

How strange

at first

to actually say that:

Mom dies.

Write that:

Mom dies.

December 1, 1995.

I am on a flight

to California

when she dies.

Yes, she had been

sick, very sick.

I was with her

not two weeks

ago, mending

healing.

That is when

she tells me

about her dream.

We are alone.

'Guess who I dreamed about

last night?'

Who?

'Jack Kevorkian.

I could see his face

right here'.

She motions with

her hand.

Next day

again alone,

together,

she asks

I guess basically

when do I think

it is alright

to give up

the fight?

I say

I don't know.

Not in the sense

that I could

answer that

question

for her.

But I do

say

I think that

time does exist...

that place of

final submission.

I also say

based on what I

know of her current

medical situation,

our conversations

time together...

that I don't think

this is that place

or that time.

I...

I got that wrong.

None of this is

intended to be

universal.

We are not the same.

Me, an only child.

Other differences.

Lots of differences.

After some time passes

this death...

there are many deaths

over and over

in the last few years...

but this death

the death of mother

leaves me

with a feeling

of this now missing

cocoon.

In his play

Seascape,

Edward Albee has

two ocean living

lizard creatures

come up onto

land to live

because they are

dissatisfied.

On the beach

they meet

a middle aged

human couple.

These are talking lizards.

And during the course

of the conversation

between the two females --

different species --

they exchange information

about birthing

and parenting:

Female lizard says:

'I release

several thousands eggs

at a time

watch as

they float away.'

Female human

in shock

disbelief

responds:

'Oh my God!'

This upsets

Female lizard who

quickly asks:

'Well what do you do?'

Female human says:

'Well, we have one...

sometimes more at time...

and they stay with

us for...oh say

18 years or longer...'

To which

Female lizard exclaims:

'Oh my God!'

You get the point.

Shhhhh.

We're at the viewing.

People come and go.

Some I know.

Most I don't.

It is December.

I keep thinking that

with all these people

touching me

with their hands

the kisses too

that I'm bound to

get some disease.

Some cold or flu

going round.

They mean well.

I take 2 Valium.

Smoke a joint.

I'm stable.

This afternoon,

before we

get to view

the body privately...

after the sale of

coffin,

accoutrements...

my dad

and I are sitting

going over details

cars

flowers

with the....

what's his euphemism?

The mortician...

I mention I bought

a hand bouquet

for my mother to hold...

a white rose

some white freesia.

'real or artificial?'

asks the mortician.

Real.

'Well I have

to tell you

that New Jersey law

prohibits burying

live flowers with the body.

They rot and mold.'

I want to ask

...and?

....what?

That would make her sick?

Perhaps KILL HER?

But I'm caring for my father.

So I say nothing.

But I think to myself

for the first time:

The absurdity of it!

This is a performance.

Start taking notes.

Then I'm thinking maybe...

since I'll be one of the last

people at the casket...

I think of shoving the flowers

under her...

down her pants

under the pillow

but

once again

I'm caring for my father

so I forget this fantasy.

The absurdity of it.

We fly her body

3,000 miles from

California to New Jersey.

The absurdity of it.

I'm sitting here

whacked out on Valium --

my mother

lays in the coffin.

What am I thinking about now?

I'm thinking about

that space probe.

1960?

Galileo?

I forget the name.

The one where they sent that

laser disc

into space.

Filled with items

which would represent

us

'earth'

to intelligent life

out there.

You remember that?

They put all kinds of

things on that laser disc

to represent us

'earth':

Beethoven's Fifth.

Video of the Grand Canyon,

other wonders of the world.

The Declaration of Independence.

And, more

to the point

what I remember

here now

with my mother

in the coffin

is that they put

the Kingsmen's

Louie Louie

on that disc and

I'm sitting here spinning

thinking

that intelligent life

out there is sure

in for a surprise

when Louie Louie

comes on.

My bet is that

they are up for

The Declaration.

The Grand Canyon.

But, Louie Louie?

I don't think so.

They aren't going to know

those words either.

When the minister

of the local church

comes to call...

she will preside?

at the funeral...

she inquires as to my faith.

Faith in humanity,

I reply.

Quickly she says:

'Oh you and my son should talk.'

She asks if I

would like to say anything

at the service before

the funeral.

My father is distracted

and I don't think

he hears this.

Next morning --

morning of the funeral,

he calls me into his room

at his sister's house.

'Are you gonna say anything?'

Yes.

'I don't want you sayin anything

about who you are!'

I'm stunned by the blow.

I turn and leave the room.

I go outside.

Light a cigarette.

Lose it.

Sob uncontrollably.

Boxer indeed.

You are the boxer

who never chooses

the right battle.

You are the boxer

who never finds

the just cause.

Right then

the title of this piece

comes to me.

But every time I try to

say it

or write it

for months to come

I keep saying

writing

Mom Lives

Dad Dies.

We don't have to spend much time

psychoanalyzing that do we?

I gather courage.

I go back inside

back into that room

back to him

and I say:

If you think

I would do or say anything

that would upset

anyone right now

you don't

know me at all.

He tries to wiggle out

but it has been said.

It has been done.

And, actually very on target:

'don't say anything about who you are...'

WHO YOU ARE!

I'm mean 'who you are'

is 'you'

isn't it?

I take a couple more Valium;

go outside and smoke a joint.

Then I think of

the button

I took off my dark blue blazer.

I call the mortician

and ask if I can place a small

white box in my mother's hands

with a note.

I can?

My Aunt has a perfect size

small white box.

With cotton inside.

I write my note.

I take the dark blue

button with white letters

from my blazer pocket

and place it face up on

the white cotton.

I place my note to my mother

over it and close the box,

place it in my mother's hand

and speak:

My mother was born in 1917.

She lived among us for 78 years.

She shared 66 years of her life

with her sister, Evelyn.

She shared more than 55 years

of her living with her husband,

my father.

And for 53 years, I was proud

to be her son.

Time, years, are convenient ways

to measure our life and death.

She was a good woman.

A good wife.

A good sister.

A good mother.

She was not perfect.

None of us are.

Goodness is another way

to measure our time here.

This good work is what she

has left behind for each of us.

And, while today we are sad and

mournful because her body

has left us, let us all rejoice,

celebrate and be thankful

for her good spirit which each

of us will have forever.

That night

after she is buried

with my departing gift

in her now

lifeless

rigid hands,

I have a dream.

I'm somewhere in South Florida

I think

and there are lots

of people around

and I inquire as to

my mother's whereabouts.

Somebody replies:

'Oh, she left

on an earlier flight.'

I'm 7 or 8?

Maybe younger.

At the beach

in New Jersey

with the Thompson family.

Reverend and Mrs. Thompson.

Son Jim.

He's a year younger than me.

I don't remember

if my parents

are here.

Was it Beach Haven?

Was it Ship Bottom?

I think Ship Bottom New Jersey.

I am sick.

Maybe just too much sun;

maybe too much wave.

A slight fever.

And Mrs. Thompson

fixes me tea and toast

in the house they rent.

She cuts the toast

into strips;

each slice buttered,

then cut into strips.

Maybe 4 or 5

strips per slice.

She arranges them

like a log cabin

on the plate --

stacked strips of toast,

one on the other --

and brings it to me

like that

with tea in a cup.

Me,

flush with fever,

dipping each strip

into the tea.

I soon finish and

sleep.

Do I ever wake?

Why is it that whenever

I think back,

remember

that time --

that toast

I always think perhaps

I never woke.

That everything since

that time,

that toast

has been a dream...

There

in Ship Bottom

I still sleep --

perhaps a few strips

of Mrs. Thompson's

toast still on the plate,

some cooled tea

in the cup.

Still 7 or 8.

Maybe younger.

Sleeping and...

all this...

from last bite of toast

till this very second...

nothing more than

a fleeting dream.

You don't exist.

If I wake up

you're gone!

Clock strikes 7.

He's in his bedroom.

Door is almost fully closed.

So, he has been crying.

In another round

earlier today

I was holed up

in my room,

doors fully closed

spaced out on Valium;

withdrawn.

I wake up hungry.

Clock chimes 3.

I begin to fix generic

microwave leftovers.

He enters the kitchen.

Looks at his watch.

'You gonna eat now?'

I turn.

He sees my

face.

He sees the punch land.

He asks

'What's the matter?'

'I'm hungry.

Can I eat?'

'Yeah. Sure.'

He retreats

back to his

corner.

I eat

not unlike a robot

then

return to my bed

stare at the ceiling

sleep

again.

We have always been.

We will always be.

Why does this fail to comfort?

Why is it not enough?

Matter can neither

be created

nor destroyed.

I am alive now.

Or have a consciousness

of aliveness.

I don't understand

comprehend

the type of consciousness

(if there is any)

previous to this one

and I fear

greatly

the consciousness

or lack thereof

to come.

Nothing?

I am unable

to comprehend

nothing

when there has

always been

something.

I have always been.

I will always be.

That is the only true

comfort.

I'm getting through

this with Valium --

pot

caffeine

cigarettes --

let's not

forget

cigarettes.

Some other self-medications:

hot showers

cold showers

walks

writing

Valium is new.

I mean I've done

Valium before.

I ask for it by brand name.

But, it's been quite awhile.

I love

particularly

how they

put that red sticker

on the Valium label

telling you

if you consume

alcohol

it will

'enhance the effects of the Valium'.

Which easily

translates to

(since the Valium

is expensive)

take one Valium

with a drink.

I take

a short walk

smoke half a joint

come back to

mobile home

in the

'mobile home park'

(don't EVER

call it

a trailer park!)

My dad is in the room.

Watching TV.

Clock is ticking

to my left.

Soon it will strike

again

the hour

the half hour.

Tension less

this evening

but still there.

More

'distance'.

Him, his TV.

Me, my computer.

Each in his own corner.

waiting for the bell.

That is

my earliest memory

of him.

His wanting

to teach me

to box.

To hit the bag.

He buys a punching bag.

Hangs it in the basement.

Regularly forces me down there

to give me 'lessons'.

The pain

of that abuse

is so deep

so shoved down

I can't

tell you

how I

dealt with that.

I survive.

I'm sure

my mother

intervened.

She almost always

protected me

from his abuse.

Stood between.

Buffer.

Mediator.

My protector.

She saw to my privacy,

which gave me access

to fantasy

to dreaming

to thinking.

Now I sit here

clock ticking

with a man

I would not

be with

were it not

for blood

and semen.

Very little in common.

Now a death.

His wife.

My mother.

But, beyond strangers.

Dad lives.

Mom dies.

What is your

thought on that?

I know you

thought about it.

What if

mom/dad

goes first?

I know you

have a preference.

For some of you,

for me,

now

it is

already

played out.

I think

the lucky ones

have both go at once.

I loose

this lottery.

Mom dies,

Dad lives.

You are 23 now.

I think.

I've never been good

keeping track

that way.

We part

when you turn 22.

So,

now a year comes

and goes in time.

The space

is much larger.

I still struggle

'onward'

hating at times

having written

that line

'onward

somebody else

is still

living somewhere

somebody else

isn't dead

yet'

So easy

it scrolls

from the mind

onto the screen,

then out of the mouth.

Yes...

somebody else is still living

somewhere.

Truth is

I hardly ever

meet them.

Yes...

somebody else isn't dead...

yet.

Yet,

they die

all around me

daily

and that

doesn't even consider

the 'living dead'.

Times are bleak.

Truth is,

will get much bleaker.

Okay

time for some jokes.

A few laughs here.

Okay,

you heard this one?

Isn't life funny?

Isn't life gay?

Isn't life the perfect thing

to pass

the time

away?

I go

to get cigarettes.

Five minute walk.

Out of MHP

(mobile home park)

across the street

out into

a less

surreal world.

Something happening.

Excitement!

Movement at the least!

Anyway,

I go

to get cigarettes.

I see

this

blond dude

up ahead

nearing store.

I notice

his ass

first.

Then his

strong back.

I think

'I bet

he arches

when he shoots'.

I make

a mental note

to check

him out

closer

in the store.

I enter the store

but don't see him.

Get my cigarettes.

Start my return

back to MHP.

I sense him

behind me

as I cross street.

I turn

looking

at clouds.

You know

'my my what a lovely sky'.

Yes.

It is him.

I slow my pace.

Try to let him

catch up.

I do several more

sky checks

but we aren't going

to meet.

He's too far behind

unless

he's going into

MHP.

Not likely.

He's too young.

So when

he turns

into MHP

I'm thrown.

He asks

for a cigarette.

As we do

this ritual

I look

into his eyes.

I am wearing

my mirrored

sun glasses

so,

he can't

see my eyes.

I look

into his eyes

and know

where

this

can go.

Oh yes

he 'parties'.

He does

arch his back

when he shoots.

But while

I can carry out

the cigarette

ritual --

it is mostly

silent.

I am

not up to

the maneuvers

moves

lines

required

to complete

a more lengthy

more intimate

although just

as familiar ritual.

I'm still

wounded

damaged

bruised

from

earlier

rounds.

I think

of our cousins,

our ancestors.

Apes

Chimps.

The way they

pleasure themselves

and each other.

A lot.

Habitually.

I think

at one time

we did.

Some of us

still do.

Why did we

stop doing that?

How did we get

to the point

where today

it's provocative

to TALK ABOUT

teaching masturbation

in school?

(By the way...

then

and

only then

would I

seriously reconsider

reentering

that profession!)

I think pleasure

especially

sexual pleasure

was channeled

into procreation

first

just out of copying

other species.

Then along came

'Thought'

then

'Language'.

The word

could be spread.

'Safety in numbers.'

And this position

this direction

was necessary

THEN.

But certainly

not

NOW.

And masturbation

particularly.

Self-pleasure.

And what a different

place it would be

if that

value

returned.

I know.

I go there often

when I'm battered

and bruised.

Today,

with the blond dude

I come home

and write this

down

for you.

To ponder.

Then,

I jerk off.

I'm near the end

of a long

4 Valium

sleep.

I only remember

fragments of the dream.

I'm laying on the ground

in a fetal position

cold

shaking

in a catatonic

frozen pain.

People who are close

to me are around.

People I know.

People I like.

Nearest is Mark.

He is reading newspapers

from a pile close

to me --

very rapidly reading

one after another.

Other friends move

in the dark

slowly

quietly.

I follow each one

with my eyes.

My body trembles

and shakes.

None of them

notices me

looks at me

touches me

comforts me.

I begin to shake with

body chills

so intense

it feels like a seizure.

And then

as I begin to cover

myself with newspapers

I start screaming

screaming

screaming

As the friends

suddenly turn towards me

move towards me

I wake up.

I don't know

if I was really

screaming or

just screaming in

my dream.

Only one could comfort

now.

One gone.

Not my mother.

You.

You know who you are.

But you have relegated

me to non-existence

non-thought.

Your shirt my only comfort.

He is not

an evil man.

My father.

There is no evil present here.

No bad intentions.

No corrupt motives.

It is the example:

'The road to hell is

paved with good intentions."

It is ignorance;

pure and simple.

It surrounds me

engulfs me

stuns me

makes me unable

to deal with

to even see

my ignorance.

So, credit.

Due.

Dad.

There was a ficus tree

On my patio

New Orleans.

One of the largest ficus

trees I've ever seen; healthy.

That winter

winter of my mother's death

ficus tree died in the freeze.

As Spring came few leaves remained

in bare branches.

Then none.

Bare branches.

Skeleton of ficus tree.

Shape of ficus tree.

One day I hear

buzzsaw.

I don't watch.

Later walking out patio doors

going to the store

I stop

shock

now absence

of the shape.

The shape now a memory.

I live

either in the past

or the future

most of the time

daydreaming.

The 'here'

the 'now'

is hardly noticed.

Yesterday is gone.

Past.

Tomorrow is the future.

Today.

Right here.

Right now.

That's a gift.

Maybe that's why

we call it

the 'Present'?

Oh!

The note I put in the white box.

the last thing I gave my mother...

before they buried her...

Dark blue button inside....

The note says:

"Mom...just in case...with love"

The dark blue button

with white letters

reads:

"HONORARY LESBIAN"