To those of us who knew Dan
everything is already ok
Thread Starter
Join Date: May 2005
Location: Melbourne Victoria Australia
Posts: 19,789
To those of us who knew Dan
Administrator
Join Date: Aug 2003
Location: Dancing in the Light
Posts: 61,465
It's been years since I talked to Dan too.
We had our differences, but at one time we were good friends.
My heart goes out to his children during this difficult time, and also to Molly.
We had our differences, but at one time we were good friends.
My heart goes out to his children during this difficult time, and also to Molly.
everything is already ok
Thread Starter
Join Date: May 2005
Location: Melbourne Victoria Australia
Posts: 19,789
In Memory of Dan
Quote:
For years in AA, I was haunted by the thought of all the alcoholics who lived and died before there was an AA to come to—the absolute hopelessness of their condition. Whenever I would speak at meetings, I'd want to talk about it, but I never did, because I was afraid I'd break down into uncontrollable weeping.
When I got serious about writing poetry, one of my first inspirations was that poetry might be a way to say some of the things I had been wanting to say for so long. In the writing of this poem, a strange thing happened. I sat down to write about all the people who died before there was an AA, but almost all of the examples are my contemporaries, people I knew or knew of who died before they got the program. The guy who died of pneumonia in a furnished room was a man named Dennis Mc. (no relation) who bought me breakfast the first Sunday morning of my sobriety. The one who died under the Southeast Expressway with his hands tied behind him was an ex-boxer named Tony Veranis whose brother was in the fourth grade with me. I didn't know the man who took his family with him; he was from the Westwood Group and he had a slip—it may have been his first night of drinking. Ernest Hemingway, Dylan Thomas, and John Berryman also find their way in.
When I finished this poem, I thought, "This may be the poem I was born to write." I've written a lot of poems since, but I've never had that feeling again.
I have often read this poem at meetings, and when I do, I usually bring copies, because people usually ask for them. A few years ago, through those copies, the poem started showing up on the Internet. I just did a Google search on the first line and found that it shows up in thirteen places, including websites in Arabia and Jerusalem. It's very gratifying that that many people want to publish it. Of course I've never made a nickel from it, and I wouldn't want to.
Feel free to read the poem to any audience any time. But if you should give out a printed copy or an email, please make sure my name is on it. If the poem survives, I'm not humble enough yet to want it to be as "by Anonymous."
DRUNKS
for my father, and the people who almost saved his life
We died of pneumonia in furnished rooms
where they found us three days later
when somebody complained about the smell
we died against bridge abutments
and nobody knew if it was suicide
and we probably didn't know either
except in the sense that it was always suicide
we died in hospitals
our stomachs huge, distended
and there was nothing they could do
we died in cells
never knowing whether we were guilty or not.
We went to priests
they gave us pledges
they told us to pray
they told us to go and sin no more, but go
we tried and we died
we died of overdoses
we died in bed (but usually not the Big Bed)
we died in straitjackets
in the DTs seeing God knows what
creeping skittering slithering
shuffling things
And you know what the worst thing was?
The worst thing was that
nobody ever believed how hard we tried
We went to doctors and they gave us stuff to take
that would make us sick when we drank
on the principle of so crazy, it just might work, I guess
or maybe they just shook their heads
and sent us places like Dropkick Murphy's
and when we got out we were hooked on paraldehyde
or maybe we lied to the doctors
and they told us not to drink so much
just drink like me
and we tried
and we died
we drowned in our own vomit
or choked on it
our broken jaws wired shut
we died playing Russian roulette
and people thought we'd lost
but we knew better
we died under the hoofs of horses
under the wheels of vehicles
under the knives and bootheels of our brother drunks
we died in shame
And you know what was even worse?
was that we couldn't believe it ourselves
that we had tried
we figured we just thought we tried
and we died believing that
we didn't know what it meant to try
When we were desperate enough
or hopeful or deluded or embattled enough to go for help
we went to people with letters after their names
and prayed that they might have read the right books
that had the right words in them
never suspecting the terrifying truth
that the right words, as simple as they were
had not been written yet
We died falling off girders on high buildings
because of course ironworkers drink
of course they do
we died with a shotgun in our mouth
or jumping off a bridge
and everybody knew it was suicide
we died under the Southeast Expressway
with our hands tied behind us
and a bullet in the back of our head
because this time the people that we disappointed
were the wrong people
we died in convulsions, or of "insult to the brain"
we died incontinent, and in disgrace, abandoned
if we were women, we died degraded,
because women have so much more to live up to
we tried and we died and nobody cried
And the very worst thing
was that for every one of us that died
there were another hundred of us, or another thousand
who wished that we could die
who went to sleep praying we would not have to wake up
because what we were enduring was intolerable
and we knew in our hearts
it wasn't ever gonna change
One day in a hospital room in New York City
one of us had what the books call
a transforming spiritual experience
and he said to himself
I've got it
(no you haven't you've only got part of it)
and I have to share it
(now you've ALMOST got it)
and he kept trying to give it away
but we couldn't hear it
the transmission line wasn't open yet
we tried to hear it
we tried and we died
we died of one last cigarette
the comfort of its glowing in the dark
we passed out and the bed caught fire
they said we suffocated before our body burned
they said we never felt a thing
that was the best way maybe that we died
except sometimes we took our family with us
And the man in New York was so sure he had it
he tried to love us into sobriety
but that didn't work either, love confuses drunks
and he tried and still we died
one after another we got his hopes up
and we broke his heart
because that's what we do
And the worst thing was that every time
we thought we knew what the worst thing was
something happened that was worse
Until a day came in a hotel lobby
and it wasn't in Rome, or Jerusalem, or Mecca
or even Dublin, or South Boston
it was in Akron, Ohio, for Christ's sake
a day came when the man said I have to find a drunk
because I need him as much as he needs me
(NOW
you've got it)
and the transmission line
after all those years
was open
the transmission line was open
And now we don't go to priests
and we don't go to doctors
and people with letters after their names
we come to people who have been there
we come to each other
and we try
and we don't have to die
©—Jack Mc
Quote:
For years in AA, I was haunted by the thought of all the alcoholics who lived and died before there was an AA to come to—the absolute hopelessness of their condition. Whenever I would speak at meetings, I'd want to talk about it, but I never did, because I was afraid I'd break down into uncontrollable weeping.
When I got serious about writing poetry, one of my first inspirations was that poetry might be a way to say some of the things I had been wanting to say for so long. In the writing of this poem, a strange thing happened. I sat down to write about all the people who died before there was an AA, but almost all of the examples are my contemporaries, people I knew or knew of who died before they got the program. The guy who died of pneumonia in a furnished room was a man named Dennis Mc. (no relation) who bought me breakfast the first Sunday morning of my sobriety. The one who died under the Southeast Expressway with his hands tied behind him was an ex-boxer named Tony Veranis whose brother was in the fourth grade with me. I didn't know the man who took his family with him; he was from the Westwood Group and he had a slip—it may have been his first night of drinking. Ernest Hemingway, Dylan Thomas, and John Berryman also find their way in.
When I finished this poem, I thought, "This may be the poem I was born to write." I've written a lot of poems since, but I've never had that feeling again.
I have often read this poem at meetings, and when I do, I usually bring copies, because people usually ask for them. A few years ago, through those copies, the poem started showing up on the Internet. I just did a Google search on the first line and found that it shows up in thirteen places, including websites in Arabia and Jerusalem. It's very gratifying that that many people want to publish it. Of course I've never made a nickel from it, and I wouldn't want to.
Feel free to read the poem to any audience any time. But if you should give out a printed copy or an email, please make sure my name is on it. If the poem survives, I'm not humble enough yet to want it to be as "by Anonymous."
DRUNKS
for my father, and the people who almost saved his life
We died of pneumonia in furnished rooms
where they found us three days later
when somebody complained about the smell
we died against bridge abutments
and nobody knew if it was suicide
and we probably didn't know either
except in the sense that it was always suicide
we died in hospitals
our stomachs huge, distended
and there was nothing they could do
we died in cells
never knowing whether we were guilty or not.
We went to priests
they gave us pledges
they told us to pray
they told us to go and sin no more, but go
we tried and we died
we died of overdoses
we died in bed (but usually not the Big Bed)
we died in straitjackets
in the DTs seeing God knows what
creeping skittering slithering
shuffling things
And you know what the worst thing was?
The worst thing was that
nobody ever believed how hard we tried
We went to doctors and they gave us stuff to take
that would make us sick when we drank
on the principle of so crazy, it just might work, I guess
or maybe they just shook their heads
and sent us places like Dropkick Murphy's
and when we got out we were hooked on paraldehyde
or maybe we lied to the doctors
and they told us not to drink so much
just drink like me
and we tried
and we died
we drowned in our own vomit
or choked on it
our broken jaws wired shut
we died playing Russian roulette
and people thought we'd lost
but we knew better
we died under the hoofs of horses
under the wheels of vehicles
under the knives and bootheels of our brother drunks
we died in shame
And you know what was even worse?
was that we couldn't believe it ourselves
that we had tried
we figured we just thought we tried
and we died believing that
we didn't know what it meant to try
When we were desperate enough
or hopeful or deluded or embattled enough to go for help
we went to people with letters after their names
and prayed that they might have read the right books
that had the right words in them
never suspecting the terrifying truth
that the right words, as simple as they were
had not been written yet
We died falling off girders on high buildings
because of course ironworkers drink
of course they do
we died with a shotgun in our mouth
or jumping off a bridge
and everybody knew it was suicide
we died under the Southeast Expressway
with our hands tied behind us
and a bullet in the back of our head
because this time the people that we disappointed
were the wrong people
we died in convulsions, or of "insult to the brain"
we died incontinent, and in disgrace, abandoned
if we were women, we died degraded,
because women have so much more to live up to
we tried and we died and nobody cried
And the very worst thing
was that for every one of us that died
there were another hundred of us, or another thousand
who wished that we could die
who went to sleep praying we would not have to wake up
because what we were enduring was intolerable
and we knew in our hearts
it wasn't ever gonna change
One day in a hospital room in New York City
one of us had what the books call
a transforming spiritual experience
and he said to himself
I've got it
(no you haven't you've only got part of it)
and I have to share it
(now you've ALMOST got it)
and he kept trying to give it away
but we couldn't hear it
the transmission line wasn't open yet
we tried to hear it
we tried and we died
we died of one last cigarette
the comfort of its glowing in the dark
we passed out and the bed caught fire
they said we suffocated before our body burned
they said we never felt a thing
that was the best way maybe that we died
except sometimes we took our family with us
And the man in New York was so sure he had it
he tried to love us into sobriety
but that didn't work either, love confuses drunks
and he tried and still we died
one after another we got his hopes up
and we broke his heart
because that's what we do
And the worst thing was that every time
we thought we knew what the worst thing was
something happened that was worse
Until a day came in a hotel lobby
and it wasn't in Rome, or Jerusalem, or Mecca
or even Dublin, or South Boston
it was in Akron, Ohio, for Christ's sake
a day came when the man said I have to find a drunk
because I need him as much as he needs me
(NOW
you've got it)
and the transmission line
after all those years
was open
the transmission line was open
And now we don't go to priests
and we don't go to doctors
and people with letters after their names
we come to people who have been there
we come to each other
and we try
and we don't have to die
©—Jack Mc
learning
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: Where I need to be
Posts: 310
Well,
It has been four years since Dangerous Dan died.
I still miss you everyday bro. And I still promise carry a message of recovery with all the compassion and humor you did no matter how far I fall short.
I'm falling short far less these days and I hope you are proud of me.
It has been four years since Dangerous Dan died.
I still miss you everyday bro. And I still promise carry a message of recovery with all the compassion and humor you did no matter how far I fall short.
I'm falling short far less these days and I hope you are proud of me.
learning
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: Where I need to be
Posts: 310
Well,
It's been 5 years since this disease took Dangerous Dan from us.
I still miss you so much bro. Countless times I've needed the kind of laugh that you provided so effortlessly. (
<--Dan's favorite smilie)
I'm still sober and you had a lot to do with that.
Remembering you today my friend.
It's been 5 years since this disease took Dangerous Dan from us.
I still miss you so much bro. Countless times I've needed the kind of laugh that you provided so effortlessly. (
<--Dan's favorite smilie)I'm still sober and you had a lot to do with that.
Remembering you today my friend.
learning
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: Where I need to be
Posts: 310
Well we are about a month and a half out from the 7 years since we lost Dan.
Still miss him every day.
But I honor him each day by staying sober, and I know he's proud of me for that.
Quick aside. I sponsored an episode of the recovered podcast to honor Dan. Each episode has a discussion topic. I made the donation and sat back and waited to see what this week's topic would be and if Dan would have liked it.
A bolt of joy hit me when I saw the topic:
"Recovery and the digital age"
Yeah if you know Dan's back story, that bolt just hit you as well.
Miss you bro!
Still miss him every day.
But I honor him each day by staying sober, and I know he's proud of me for that.
Quick aside. I sponsored an episode of the recovered podcast to honor Dan. Each episode has a discussion topic. I made the donation and sat back and waited to see what this week's topic would be and if Dan would have liked it.
A bolt of joy hit me when I saw the topic:
"Recovery and the digital age"
Yeah if you know Dan's back story, that bolt just hit you as well.
Miss you bro!
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