It Is What It Is…

You ask any parent of a special needs child and a common thread you will find among them is the explanation as to why their children are the way they are: it is what it is.

Far gone are the days when they stopped blaming themselves, or each other.  Far gone are the days when they used to try and rationalize why their child isn’t like Jimmy next door.  They’ve heard the theories-is it a conspiracy, genetics perhaps-all of these are folly to them anymore.

An autism parent hearing, I don’t know how you do it, is not a fucking compliment! What that tells us is that you really don’t like it when our kids are around.  

Family functions?  Oh, you can forget about sitting down and relaxing and having a good old adult conversation!  It seems like the smallest of things attracts an autistic child’s mind.

Earlier this week, we went to my sister’s house for supper.  We were outside smoking and she asked if I thought my youngest is on the spectrum.  To be honest, yes, I do.  He has all the hallmarks of an autistic child.

Another child that can’t say his own name.  Another child that can’t talk, or potty train as easy.  And while daddy is still his hero, he still can’t say, “I love you, daddy!”

I have a lot to be thankful for, I know.  And I know that there are people out there that have it far worse than I do.  But the only way I can quantify it in my mind, the ONLY way I can relieve some of the guilt and stress, is by simply acknowledging that it is what it is.

Tomorrow is another day…

-Graveyard Night


Nonsensical Musings

I love to read and I love to write.  The sad part is, I don’t get time to do either one.  Just like when I am masturbating in the shower (I know you wanted to know that I choke-the-chicken when I am washing), writing takes me to another place in my mind.  I close all the doors, and just concentrate.

I’ve tried the journal books.  And even though I still use them once in a while, they aren’t exactly foolproof against the prying eyes of a nosy wife.  I’ve tried the writing/journaling apps on my phone, but they don’t allow for the same level of intimacy with my writing.  Granted, blogs are still part of the public domain and at times I still censor myself, there is that level anonymity that is unparalleled.

With a blog, we can divulge our biggest fears, hopes and dreams, we can write about our lives, a subject of our passions, or, we can write porn.

When I started the original Grave Yard, some of you may remember it, I contemplated on what to call myself.  Then, it struck me!  Like a meteor, red hot and falling from the sky, it hit me!  Working security, at times, was boring and most of the time was as silent as the grave.  Given the fact that I worked third shift, hence my name!

In a moment of rash panic, I deleted that blog.  I regret it now.  Even then, it felt as if a part if me had died.  So many introspective musings, so many rants and fuck stories.  I don’t know if I have it left in me to recreate it.

I work with mostly women and the elderly now.  Despite the fact that it is a noble vocation, I miss the solitude of the guard shack; of pouring a hot cup of coffee and setting to leave my personal imprint on the information age.

It’s sad to see the old grow weary.  They are in their nineties and wonder what more could God want with them.  Those who are in their eighties and seventies, don’t want to reach ninety-much less a hundred.  It almost seems like an injustice when a dementia or Alzheimer’s patient can’t recall the date, time, year or who is even visiting them.  They grow depressed and frustrated, wondering what in the hell is happening to me?!

And that’s the thing about them-they may lose their minds, but they don’t lose their intelligence.  They know something ain’t right!  And like me, I imagine they wonder what happened to the dreams they once had.

It is said that the workforce in nursing homes is sorely needed.  However, I ponder on how long that will last.  With the way politicians try to swindle the American people out of money, while funding every Tom, Dick, and Harry and seeking out boogeymen to destroy, I can envision a day in this country when the elderly will be on the short list of life.

I think about the people I met during the Grave Yard’s tenure.  I think of the bisexual guy out in Montana-I think it was-who had the wife that liked to put him down.  I think of Mark and Nikki of Sluts and Soulmates and how their love affair came to an abrupt end.  I think I could have used Mark’s advice last year.  I wonder how they are doing?  Have they moved on?  Stayed in their own respective marriages?  Are they blogging again?

Remember the Dark Room?  It was written by a woman that had her own real-life personal blog and she stumbled upon my Revenge series, which sadly, never saw completion.  Stephanie, I think was her name.  It wasn’t long before she was writing on my blog and started her own erotica site.  After a while, I saw that she wasn’t writing anymore on mine.  Soon, I found out that not only had she deleted her personal site, but her erotica site, and each and every fuck story she wrote on my blog was gone!

I can hardly fault her for it.  After her, there was another woman that wrote on my blog.  She was a nurse and she told me in an email that guys “butts look awesome in scrubs.” Which leads me to wonder if any of my female counterparts have checked out my ass?! 

Like I said, I deleted The Grave Yard in a rush of panic.  I should have given that lady notice, but I didn’t.  She later thanked me for the opportunity I gave her.  Should either of these two ladies read this post, I hope to hear from them.  At least, to know that they are okay.

I don’t know I would be open to adding another writer or not.

Ever feel like the things that God has allowed to enter your life to bring you strength and discipline are the very things that feel like they are tearing you down?  You keep searching for a reason behind it all, but none can be found.

That’s the way I feel today.  I miss the guard shack.  The solitude.  I miss taking a brief break from writing, grabbing my hot cup of coffee and stepping outside for a cigarette.  Cold air meets my face and I am refreshed.

My mind is mired in the pit of depravity and despair.

-Graveyard Night

Ghosts In Our Closets

We all have ghosts in our closets; painful memories and things we’d rather forget.  Howling ghouls, screaming banshees, the rattle of chains, and the scraping of claws on wood keep us up at night.  Long, skeletal, slimy fingers slide out from under the door.  Blood begins to ooze from the pores in the wood.  An eerie green light shines out from under the door and there’s ten, twenty, hell, maybe even a thousand shadows stretching out across your floor.

Disembodied voices call out your name and beckon for you to come forth.  Tossing away the covers, and against your better judgement, you swing your legs off the bed, and set your feet firmly on the ground.  As you slowly creep towards the door, you notice that it is now twisting and pulsing, as if it has its own heartbeat.  

The carpet, which once felt cool and soft on your feet, is now hot and sticky; feeling like a wet sponge, it slides between your toes.  With each arduous step, there is a sick sucking sound.  You look down at your feet and find that they are stained crimson red.

Your blood cries out to me!!!

Who was that?  It didn’t come from the closet!  God, perhaps?

Finally, you reach the closet and grasp the knob in a shaking hand.  The heat of the metal scorches your hand, holding you in place.  Voices!  Voices!  A cacophony of voices crowd your ears!  Your eardrums ring like they were pierced with needles!  

This is the sum of all your nightmares!

Throwing open the door, you see wayward souls caught in the purgatory of your mind.  Their bodies are as frail as vapor and their faces are stretched long in agony!  No longer can you see walls, shelves, clothes and boxes.  What was once a storage of things rarely used has become a haunt for the deepest recesses of your mind.

A ghastly apparition floats up in front you.  The black eye sockets lock onto your eyes, the gateway to your soul.  There’s a high pitched wispy sound and it is at this moment that you realize that it is sucking the life out of you!

Visions and old memories are recalled to your mind; experiences too painful to tell.  Tears stream down your face.  Your feet feel cemented to the floor.  In an act of desperation, you place your hands on the edge of the door and the frame.  With any luck you can pry yourself from your personal tormentor.

Specters and personal demons continue to float bye, awaiting their turn.  With an anguishing cry, you shove with all your might….

Come with us…


…we like it here….

…let’s go fuck some more people…

…you’re nothing, worthless, a dumbass….

…I want to fuck your wife….

One by one, your toes pop free, then the balls of your feet.  The voices don’t stop, they keep coming…

Let us out of here….please…

Then, from behind you, you hear that voice again.  However, this voice doesn’t speak with a tragic whisper.  It’s voice is large and encompassing; strong and soothing.  Tendons and ligaments stretch to their full potential, and with a final yell, you are pulled back from the closet.  The door slams shut.  It’s silent and still.

Sweating profusely, you lay a crumpled mess on the floor.  The ghosts are gone, the sobering voice is gone, and for the moment, so are the memories.  Climbing to your feet, you stare out the window.  

In the world beyond of rolling hills and monolithic statues, is the grave yard.  A couple of disfigured bodies are digging a fresh grave.  An oil lantern resting atop the headstone illuminates the words etched in granite.  Closing your eyes, you try and repress the memory.

As the memory is laid to rest, tears stream down your face once more at the sound of the same tragic whisper: I know you remember me!

This is what happens when you are the Caretaker.

-Graveyard Night

Broken Mirrors

That’s what I see whenever I look in the mirror.

Broken mirrors.  Or, is it a broken man?

A man that for so long has tried to do things on his own.  Like a freight train, long since void of its fuel, I am stuck in the middle of nowhere.  Unable to move forward or backward.

People criticize me for the way that I feel.  But I can’t help it.  I’m playing the victim, I know.  I can only sense what I feel and not what others feel.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick.

Proverbs 13

How many times must a man be put down and hear “I’m sorry” and highly doubt it’s authenticity before he’s a locomotive stuck in the middle of a desolate wasteland?

Time and people move on.  Seasons change.  But the train erodes and decays.  Wheels rust and corrode and the smoke stacks no longer send out plumes of smoke.

The train sits and waits silently for help to arrive.  Waiting.  Waiting..  Waiting…

-Graveyard Night

Selfish Poison

I think man is inherently bent towards evil.  We bitch and complain about the corruption and malice in the world, when we are no different.  It is a conscious act of the will and the mind to be good.

I am not a philosopher or anything like that-I am just another human with an opinion.  And at the end of the day, I guess that is all I have.

I have tried to be a selfless person; giving of my time, mind and body to others.  Jesus taught that to be first, you must last.  But when does being “last” transition from being a leader to being taken advantage of?

Yesterday, I got woke up, in regular fashion, of being yelled at and having my wife kick the bed.  A wonderful way to start out your morning, huh?  I have been woke up so many times this way, it even surprises me that I still get pissed.

One thing led to another, and soon, it was a verbal slug-fest!  But out of all of this, one thing still remains with me: I was told that I am a selfish person.  Why?  Because I buy myself things when I get paid.  It’s never anything costly or huge, just little things-like a shirt, boxer shorts, ten-dollar headphones.

But because I reward myself with something small when I get paid, I am selfish.  And the “ugly ass” green dress I bought her the other day doesn’t suffice.  Hearing that, my heart broke.

I have tried to be the best man I can be, the best husband, father, brother, son-you name it.  And I feel like I have failed.  Miserably.

It’s true, we cannot rely on others to make us happy, however, there are external forces that dictate our moods.  The next time you put someone down, watch their mannerisms; you can practically see their self-esteem dwindle down to nothing.  All day today, I have put myself down.  Putting yourself down is a dirty job, but hey, someone has to do it.

Wherever you are, I hope you have a wonderful day.

Graveyard Night

Lost In Memory

Its a barren wasteland out here.  You can see for miles.  Something that resembles a coyote scampers off in the distance with a three-day dead rag in it’s mouth.  Vultures call behind me.  I wonder if they are coming for me.

I don’t give a fuck!

I am mired in my own self pity; a feeling that I will never go anyplace in my life.  It is exhausting living your life from one paycheck to another.  Old Man Poverty creeping in.

People say that I should go back to school.  I fear that will add even more frustrations to my already complicated life.  I am not confident that I will pass the classes and I am not confident that my wife will be my rock and support system.

I miss the solitude of the guard shack!  I miss the original Grave Yard.  Am I still Graveyard Night even if I am no longer a nightowl?

I should care more about money, school and life in general.  But right now: I don’t give a fuck!

Graveyard Night


The first time I listened to this song not long ago-I mean, really listened to it, I thought, dear, God!  That’s me!  They may not claim to be a Christian rock band, but it sounds like a prayer to me.  

My prayer.

-Gtaveyard Night

I pulled a gun on my (Wife)

This happened several years ago.  Before kids.  Before adulthood really took full effect.  It was back when my wife was just my girlfriend; when we were shacking up.  Or, as some would say, living in sin. 

Back then, my wife had a terrible habit of getting a job one month and quitting it the next.  This was one those times when she was between jobs.  

We lived in a trailer that had walls as thin as cardboard and single pane windows.  A good western winter wind would tear through the park and have us freezing to the bone.  The landlords lived in the woods just behind the trailer court.  I’ve been in their house.  It’s a goddamn mansion.

To this day, I still have little respect for those people.  Living in your mansion on the hill, while you watched your tenants scurry around like ants, trying their best to make your tenement as livable as possible.  Kind of like, we’re here and you never will be! 

The American Dream, I guess.

Anyway, like I said, she was between jobs, it was the dead of winter, we only had enough gas for me to make it to work, and I had the flu.  All day long I listened to her bitch about how we were broke, of how hungry she was, of how she was horny and wanted fucked, of how I had the points to call in (even though I knew we couldn’t afford it), and the straw that broke the camel’s back was when she told me of how I made her feel like shit!

You see, since the day we got together, my wife and I have always been trying to change something about the other; I don’t like this, I don’t like that!  When two people get together, shouldn’t they love everything, if not, most things about one another?  Fast forward nearly twelve years later and its pretty much the same thing.

Hence the reason why I like to say another year older and not another day wiser.  That’s particularly true of birthdays!

So, hearing that I made her feel like shit (this would be a line I would hear numerous times down through the years; that, and you’ve already pissed me off today), I went down the hall, grabbed my nickle plated 38 Special, emptied the revolver, put one bullet back, spun the revolver and slapped back into the gun.

What can I say?  The bitch pissed me off!  There are a million different ways it could have gone wrong.  Okay, not a million.  But you get my drift?

“You say that I make you feel like shit,” I said, walking back into the living room, “then I would like to see you live without me.”

I raised the gun and placed the barrel up under my chin.  In the middle of a tussle, she was able to wrestle the gun from me.  In hindsight, since I had a few spare seconds to squeeze the trigger and didn’t, and since I only put one bullet in the gun, maybe I wasn’t so keen on killing myself, afterall.

-Graveyard Night

The Cube Test

This was so stupid.  I found it difficult to keep track of the cube, the ladder, the horse, the flower and the storm.  A complete waste of time.  I can already tell you that I am a guarded person.  Even with family, I keep them at a distance.  I feel like I am going nowhere in life.  Another year older and not another day wiser.  I have three kids and that’s enough!  And the storm is a fucking hurricaine!  I’d rather get profiled by an FBI agent!
Graveyard Night