That was who
As never before
Pauses cherished
Open closed doors

By removing the lid
New moments miss
Pandora’s box of pain and bliss

Fading images worn and scratched
Pile of rectangles with squares overlap

Upon the bedspread
Patterns connect
Loved ones held
Passing respects

Kodak prints, Polaroids
There I was while still a boy
Unconvinced that I would age
A mirror now shows
I’m quick to change

The following film is a short poetic narrative. It was filmed in East Lansing, MI during a majestic snowfall.

At the end
Of this long winter day
Shoveling most of the way
Without spectacles blurring
Snow clouds cover my eyes
Breath from cold air drier
Frigid cold though fever fire

Back burned, never quite learned
To love beyond spit bubbles
Solipsistic mumbles
How to be human
Care for one’s troubles
Feeling stupid and clueless
Poetic nerd Judas

Account for the best
Life itself blessed
Spared by listening
Though lines sound frayed
8 seconds left
Too old for that game
Decide on a mission
Run into change
Overtime
Remains the same
At the end
Of this long winter day

The following excerpt is from the end of Ch. 25, Medal of Valor
Copyright © 2009 Adam Dustus

Aside from the incident with the delivery truck, I loved the holidays. My father really loved the holidays too. Bursting with constant energy and cheer, it was as if he went out of his way to make sure that everything was extremely enjoyable for all of us most years. Even though I didn’t always get a lot of presents, we spent a great deal of quality time together. Even before Abby was born, my father would go overboard acting like a goofball for the sake of the holidays.

“Why do you always make such a big deal about this every year?” I asked him during our last holiday together when he was wrapped in strings of popcorn.

“Oh, don’t be such a Scrooge about the holidays, Ar-thur,” he spoke half-joking.

I started to say, “I just don’t see what the big deal…”

“Well, let me tell you a story,” he began.

“Is this going to take long?” I asked and yawned as loud and wide as I could.

“No, I promise not to be long-winded.”

“Cool,” I said, “Get right to the point then,” but it came out sounding mean.

“Anyway,” he began, “the holidays were not so much fun while I was growing up…”

“Why?” I interrupted.

“I’m getting to that, Arthur. Don’t interrupt if you want me to get to the point,” he spoke half-serious.

I said, “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Anyway…” he began again. “Holidays were not so much fun because my parents were always extremely sad during this time of year.”

“Why were they always sad?” I asked and began to help him hang the popcorn, as well as a few ornaments.

“Well, when I was a few years older than you are now, my parents and I found out that my older brother was killed during the holidays.”

He handed me a string of popcorn and was watching my reaction. I went blank, and the popcorn felt stale and dry in my hand.

I remember at that moment there was a long pause between us. Dad’s face tensed as he squinted to blink away oncoming tears that never did fully surface. The muscle on the side of his neck stood out from clenching his teeth. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing weight in water when he gulped without sound. It was obviously hard for him to talk about this.

“Oh…” was all I said, being taken by surprise.

“Ray was shot in Vietnam when I was only sixteen years old.” My father became a little more choked up.

I was speechless. Nobody ever told me anything about my father even having a brother. They never talked about him. I never even saw any pictures of Uncle Ray.

Dad continued, “I don’t think my parents ever got over his loss. I guess it made holidays seem incomplete without their eldest son being there to enjoy them.”

I asked in disbelief, “I had an uncle?”

“Yeah, and I miss him so much that it always hurts to remember him this time of year. I even missed when he used to beat me up and pick on me. So I guess that’s why I tend to make such a big deal over the holidays. It’s a personal thing. Anyway, if you are able to celebrate, then you should be thankful that you are able to do so.”

“I get it,” I said kindly.

“Man, I miss Ray. You would have loved him, Ar-thur. He was always so much fun.”

By the way Dad was looking at me, I think he was full of pride and sorrow that he accumulated for my Uncle Ray over the years. My father appeared teary-eyed, but he did not cry. He passed another string of popcorn along to me.

I think I looked at my father differently after he told me that he lost his older brother. After that, I never made fun of him for acting like a weirdo during the holidays.

“You know what, Arthur?”

“What?” I responded, interested.

“You look a lot like Ray when he was a teenager. He had the same look around his eyes that you do.”

“Really—what kind of look?”

“Yes sir,” he said and smiled. “You have it all right. It’s that look in your eyes like you have a very deep soul. I think you both share those same warm, brown expressive eyes.”

“Oh,” I said and chuckled, holding back any possible sarcastic comment. I never knew why my eyes were brown.

After that conversation, my father’s overflowing joy for the holidays no longer bothered me. I felt happy for him because he could still get excited despite the fact that Christmas coincides with the anniversary of his big brother’s death. I think I could now understand a little better why he did not want to feel depressed around the holidays. He tried so hard to stay in good spirits, and I didn’t know it wasn’t always easy for him. Wanting to know more, I asked him a few questions about my Uncle Ray. I felt like I needed to know the whole story, but I wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about it.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“What was Ray like?”

“Arthur, your Uncle Ray was the best—the coolest kid in all of Queens.”

“What was he like?” I asked again.

“Boy, he was coolness personified,” Dad responded with an emotional chuckle that was slightly uneasy, missing his big brother so much at that moment.

“Cool like how?” I asked.

“Well, first of all, Ray was really tough. I mean he was as tough as they come. In high school he was an undefeated wrestler. I used to sit in the stands next to college recruiters who kept talking to my parents during the matches, trying to get my folks to convince Ray to go to their school. Meanwhile, the crowd was all a buzz of electricity. Mostly everyone was there to see Ray go undefeated each of his four years. It was Ray they all came to see. The gymnasium would go berserk for him. So many spectators chanted his name, and as I watched him grapple, I thought he was invincible. There he would be at the end of each match standing tall with his arm raised in victory thrilled by the applause. My big brother was a state champ all four years. He was truly a great athlete, and nobody would ever pick on me at school because they knew he was tough and didn’t mind getting physical. Ray always told us he wanted to learn how to kickbox, but my father wouldn’t let him take karate at the local dojo because it had a Korean flag in the window.”

My father sighed again and then tried to force a smile.

“Arthur, he enlisted in the Army right after high school, just like our father had. Ray was convinced in his heart that our country needed his service, and my parents both raved to all their friends about their brave and noble son who wanted to be a hero like his father. But I never wanted Ray to leave us, God no. My parents bragged about how Ray didn’t need to be drafted. He enlisted of his own volition, which rendered his service to America a great point of distinction in our home. It made my father especially proud, but my mother and I wanted to see Ray go to college instead….”

My father continued…

“Until Ray left for boot camp, we used to talk every night in the room we shared, like Wally and The Beaver.”

“Huh?” I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Never mind, that was an old TV show in black and white. You might not have ever seen it. Anyway, there were wrestling trophies and books everywhere in our room. The books were mine and he called me ‘Pointdexter,’ but bragged to all his friends about how smart I was. Wasn’t much of an athlete myself, being only into basketball and never making the varsity squad. Ray would constantly tease me about girls. I tried talking him into not leaving for war. I said everything I could think of to change his mind. I even pleaded with his girlfriend to beg Ray to stay.”

My father seemed momentarily sapped of energy, but after a sigh-filled pause, he continued telling me about my Uncle Ray….

“My brother left one day in August, and a few letters came from boot camp. Later one came from Saigon two weeks after we watched him march in his military graduation that seemed cut short. Then the letters almost stopped for a while. Then came a very long one from the frontline. We never knew when or if any more of his letters would arrive. That was really destroying my mother. Me, I was just glad Ray could tell us that he loved us while he still could. I saved all his letters. God, he sounded so afraid and wrote about how much he missed home and how war drove many men out of their minds. Ray sounded so scared to die in an unfamiliar place during battle. He told us that his greatest fear was that he would never come home again. Then the letters stopped, and I suspected the worst every single night. I now had our bedroom all to myself, and at night I hated the empty feeling of our silent room.”

I did not say anything and patted my father on the back. I felt his spine bumps through his sweater.

My father sighed again, and this time I knew he smiled on purpose. That weak attempt at a smile did not mask the painful memory it was supposed to hide. I could tell he wanted to talk to me more about Ray, even though it seemed hard for him. Talking about a death like that could feel like it kills you inside. I understand that now, but I didn’t know that then.

“Arthur, one day a veteran official came to my par-ents’ house a month after we received Ray’s last letter. The soldier was dressed in full officer’s uniform with every button and medal polished to a shine. He said my brother Raymond Aaron Newman was shot while pulling his squad leader out of a ditch, an “honorable death” it was deter-mined. After fifteen minutes of my father’s silence and mother’s sobbing, he presented my parents with an American flag folded into a triangle, along with the Army Medal of Valor in honor of their son’s bravery.

“I’ll never forget when that man told us Ray was dead. It was a Christmas Day that drastically changed the relationship between my parents and me. They both became disheartened in my presence because I think I always reminded them of my big brother. Meanwhile, I fantasized that Ray would visit our house through the chimney like Santa Claus. In reality, the officer regretted to inform us that Ray had died a hero, and I couldn’t even think about Christmas that year and kept obsessing and hurting over my bro and idol being gone.”

Dad stopped talking. I was speechless and could barely sit still. My father said very little as we began to finish decorating much of the tree.

“You were right, Dad,” I spoke up.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Ray sounded really cool,” I said and then asked, “Did he pick on you a lot?”

“Not much at all, just enough.”

I laughed.

“I wish you got the chance to know him, Arthur. He had such a great heart. The heart of a generous champion, like you.”

“Not like me,” I said.

“Exactly like you,” Dad insisted and threw a stray piece of popcorn that hit me between the eyes.

“Hey! Mom’s gonna make you clean that up.”

“Come on, Arthur,” my father tackled me and then pulled me up by the arm. “Let’s go make some hot chocolate. See if Abby wants some. Then we have presents to wrap.”

My father stood up to go make hot chocolate in the kitchen.

“Dad?”

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Do you have any pictures of Ray?” I asked.

“I sure do, lots of them. I’ll show you after dinner. I have a few letters that I also saved… if you want to read them?”

“Okay,” I said. “I want to read them.”

“No problem,” he said.

“Thanks,” I responded.

He nodded and seemed pretty relaxed after telling me everything about Ray. My father smiled as he walked into the kitchen with a string of popcorn draped around his neck. I stood by our Christmas tree wondering about the uncle I never knew I had. Dad kept insisting he was so much like me—Ray, that is. From the kitchen, my father asked me if I wanted a lot of marshmallows in my chocolate.

“Come on,” I shouted. “You know me.”

“Mega-marshmallows it is then,” he shouted back.

I had to smile.

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High School Asylum is now available on Amazon.com

Click on the logo if you wish to purchase my novel
Thank you.

Hollow echoes over mountain peaks
Smoke signals trail in wind blur streaks
Ones and zeros a right click away
Sunlight floods an empty cave

Social capital, image arranged
Transparent world
Where pebbles smash panes

Say whatever you must today
Thinking life leads perpetual change
Time being essence
Spirit awake
World full of seconds
When moments equate

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You can visit my Poetry Archive on The Dustus Blog @
http://dustus.wordpress.com/category/poetry/

High School Asylum (Copyright © 2009 by Adam Dustus)

Under the sign with the circular treetop school logo, a plaque revealed that Skyview High School was built in 1892. I thought it looked much like our town courthouse. The school sits like the turn of last century captured on an old postcard or in a history book with faded pictures from before the Civil War. Walking through the entrance, I immediately realized that the inside of the old building looked even older than outside. It seemed to be falling apart all around me like the cinderblock walls were rusting beneath the beige paint. The ceiling tiles appeared yellow-rust stained and grossly chewed. I thought the walls had gingivitis, and outside the cafeteria smelled like really sour bad breath with a tinge of mold. (p. 24)

John Paul Newman is ten months old now, and he probably understands more than I give him credit for. Everyone says he looks like a smart baby, but I’m not sure what a smart baby’s supposed to look like. It’s not like John Paul wears glasses and carries a clipboard. (p. 18)

Nothing is forever except the words and memories that have stuck with me for some reason or other. Conversations I’ve had with people that I know, as well as my address or login password—those interactions and little things remain the same. The rest of those days seem to fade away too easily. (p. 13)

I was scared out of my mind because right then everything seemed too real, like it was almost in slow motion. Mom threw her wine glass against the wall without watching it fly and shatter. It created a bloody splotch on our living-room wall like one of those ink paintings the first psychiatrist asked me to describe. Anyway, before Mom threw the glass, a friend of hers ushered Abby to the backyard, so she wouldn’t witness my mother losing her mind. (p. 12)

I began arguing with my mom way too much when she homeschooled me for eighth grade. That plan to educate me in the kitchen seemed like a good idea at the time. I was awfully depressed and would be helping her during her most pregnant months. In theory, I’d have all the time away from school that I needed to “heal.” However, I felt guilty about resenting her while she was pregnant and trying to teach me. We fought like every day. While mom attempted to motivate me, the situation just made me feel worse. I became obsessed about my own problems and didn’t think too much about going out in public while being homeschooled. It wasn’t that I missed school. At times, it felt like I was under house arrest. Mom became overly protective after Dad died, so I spent most of my time surfing the Internet and downloading free software. (p.

We were living and looking for miracles to happen while some lives had ended and another was about to begin. The reality of it all did not sink in yet. It took me about a week of reflection to get used to the idea of a new birth. (p. 2)

You might think I’m crazy, but then again, who knows? I’m not exactly sure how you’ll judge my memories, or if anyone is going to make sense of my dreams. All I know is that my mind keeps turning over the same things, moments in time, and a particular instance when I began to look forward to the future. (p. 1, 1st lines)
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Book cover illustration by Keven Lupien @ http://2pitch.com
High School Asylum can be ordered on Amazon.com
(There is also a Kindle Edition)

Sincere thanks for supporting my work

Life changes so fast. In only a short time I’ve developed a passion for blogging that far exceeds all my former expectations about computer technology and the blogosphere. Yet another reality I’ve considered recently: the possibility that I may be hurting my chances of ever being accepted in traditional literary communities.

While blogging is able to combine writing and visual art (alongside multimedia web technologies), it still elicits a phlegmatic scoff in certain circles. Consequently, while I am thrilled over the result of this new blogging canvas, there remains a significant possibility that I’m killing my literary credibility—death by blog?

http://dustus.wordpress.com