That was what she said concerning his father passing away at the age of 66. It was the ugly truth about life. Nobody escapes death, its methods might change through the years as you age and time matures, but death always catches you in the end.

Those were morbid thoughts going through John's mind as he sat drinking in the bar. His father, John Smith the third, had passed away earlier that day. It was a type of pancreatic cancer. John Smith Jr, did not remember the specific type, but he remembered the doctor saying it was the same kind that got that apple guy, the one that invented ipods and the Mac, in the end. Essentially, his dad had little change of survival. His dad was diagnosed exactly four months before he passed away. Today.

Even though John was nearly 30, no kids, or wife for that matter, he could not keep the tears from his eyes. Something that his dad might have issue with, maybe. It was because he dead. His dad always told him to get up on his feet and not cry, that men don't cry. To keep the tears at bay, John took a drink of his cheap beer. It was in a white mug with multicoloured polkdots, it was an odd bar, but it was the closest one to the hospital. The hospital did not allow alcohol on the premises.

Of the two of them, John was the only one that cried at his mothers funeral. Carcrash, due to driving while intoxicated with her not-so secret lover. Both of them passed away. She was an orphan, and his father's side of the family were not the close kind. So the two of them were the only ones who attended the funeral and the burial. It would be the same now, except it would just be John. His father had no friends or coworkers that would remember him. The steel mill that he used to work for had closed down two years before he retired, he worked at a super market store for those last two years, and then he moved states when he retired, away from his son.

He only contacted John when he was diagnosed, so John rented a short term apartment in the city to help him get his things in order as his father stayed at a hospice care center. Even though it had been three months, John could still remember the disappointment his dad's eyes and face when John told him that he still had no kids and no wife. "So much for keeping the family name alive," he said. He seemed more worried about that than he did about dying. "We work for most of our lives, yet we still have nothing to show for it when death comes knocking. Well, I understand John. I never liked being a father." That was all he said that day. For the next few weeks, his verbiage mostly consisted of that, including his final words.

The polkdot covered mug was empty; John went to have it refilled, for the third time. He was going to die soon to, what did he have to show for it?

I found you

When I was alone and tired

I found you

When I was empty and afraid

I found you

When nothing else mattered

I found you

And the lights shone brighter

I found you

And now I am never alone

I found you

And I prayed for the first time in years

I found you

And I couldn't look away from your smile

I found you

And you found me

Over and Over again

No matter how far I ran

I found you

Beside my car

I found you

In front of my house

I found you

In my room

I found you

And you found me

"Welcome to heaven," said St. Peter to the new angel. "Here's your harp."

"Welcome to hell." The devil's eyes gleamed. "Here's your accordion."

The musician's one man band. I know, I used to play one. I was more than good at it, until life intervened.

The trouble with an accordion, if it is like mine was, is it has a zillion moving parts. Tiny metal levers, leather vibrating reeds, buttons, and keys are only the beginning of where things can go wrong. When it breaks and things tangle, it takes days to figure it out. The conglomeration can produce the sounds of may others, and in a pinch, imitate the organ in a grand cathedral church.

I still miss the union with an instrument I held for the fist time as a seven year old child. I started with a music book and a record player. Yes, my father bought both from a traveling salesman. Doesn't that sound like a scam? It probably was, but I mastered everything in that book, and was soon playing along with the stereo record player, doing everything the monotone disembodied voice instructed. Surprise, I had an affinity for making music.

Dad searched the yellow pages for a local instructor, and I graduated to a group lesson held on Sunday afternoons in an empty daycare. His sharp eyes spotted a sign across the street. Harold MacKenzie Music Studios. One afternoon, when the instructor at the daycare told him I needed a better teacher than he was, Dad wrote down the number on the two foot by three foot sign on the lawn across the road.

Enter Harold MacKenzie. Teacher, mentor, friend and accordion genius.

He told me years later, I surprised him with the speed I learned at. I finished testing in the Canadian Royal Conservatory of Music to a very advanced level. I soaked in music theory, music history, and was well on my way to making music my career as I picked up the flute as another instrument. On a side note, I was also beginning to write, with pieces published in yearbooks and other small school publications.

I kept that accordion for years after I quit taking lessons and played off and on for my own pleasure. The trouble was, after a traumatic event in my late teens, I was no longer a musician. I was only a technician. My technique was flawless. But there was no soul in it. The connection was severed. The timeless joy of sitting playing the music in front of me, was gone. Vanished along with innocence, joy and trust.

I have long since healed. Music is my friend again, but only to be listened to, and admired for the emotions I used to be able to share through the notes. I've made my peace with saying goodbye, and accepting the severed connection. I gained so much through the journey I've been on since.

But the imp in me will always agree, better in hell. I love the accordion. Still.

A needle,

Titanium.

Little holes

On something beautiful.

When you use the special needle

you can see the light, right though them.

On a candle,

little patterns.

eager. excited.

maybe you could even call it bright-eyed for the future.

hungry…

a vision so dense it drowned out all other reality.

never once imagining this narrow sighting was selfishly oblivious,

gullible to all other aspects of life.

a vision so narrowly focused,

it burned,

along with it’s blind spots.

If I had a dick

I would have made a

great

father

The last you have of me

is pig tailed dna

and that last placenta pill

I kept in y(our) freezer

so sentimental

I never popped it

a red balloon

now I

float

here

alone

when she makes you get rid of it

what metaphorical

life

blood

bleeds out

basking

in the

undead

never said

miscarriage

on the

mattress

you've fucked

the last

ten

on

and happy

day

to the men

I made

fathers

to the bloody mess

we

made

and those

beautiful

babies

I cannot find my father's

phone number

to call

and say

thank you for teaching me how to

dream

I am so sorry

I never learned

how

sans

somnambulance

Samson stands.

Solid sentry, standing

so Samuel’s citizens sew seeds, socialize,

souls safe.

Samson smiles:

strong, sole, sacrosanct.

Samson’s strength source -

so simple, so secret -

strands -

sable stream.

Samson stands.

Still, strength saps.

Strong, settled, safe…

Souls slip.

Supple, sweet

seraphic slut

spy

slinks so Samson sees.

Smooth skin,

silver sin,

swings self,

slinks so sultry

so Samson sees,

seeks.

Samson slips.

Supine, Samson suckles sin,

suckles sweetness,

solace.

Standing solo,

citizens’ sole strength,

spirit sags.

So Samson seeks:

skin sin

sliding sliding

supple smoothness

sliding sliding

sweat scent

sliding sliding

soft slap

sliding sliding

strain squeeze

sliding sliding

strain scream sigh

satisfy

Samson sleeps.

So sly,

sultry spy,

seeking silver

snips sacred strands;

sable stream, sliced.

Source stopped,

strength sapped,

Samson screams,

stands, staggers.

Spies surround.

Samson sinks,

seized

struck

slaved

Samson snarls, cinched;

sentries scorn.

Samson screams, “slut! serpent!”

Stops.

Stunned, sees.

Sees self:

supercilious

sex-seeking

stupid

Samson sinks,

seared, sorry, small.

Sentries scorn.

Sunken, Samson supplicates.

“Spirit Sire,”

Samson says,

“Samson’s sinful.

Samson’s small.

Sans spirit,

senseless self

signifies…”

sobs

“Samson’s sorry,

Spirit Sire…

sorry.

Samson sees.

Send strength.

Send spirit.

Send…

send Samson.”

Sinews stretch.

Scorning sentries see,

stare.

Strings snap.

Samson stands.