Pie in the face of infamy.

I am feeling like a bit of a prick this hour. I will not apologize for my rant or the decision I have made. Please, consider yourselves warned. I have a bit of the devil in me.

My foremost priority is to put an end to a certain debate that has been going on inside my head for some time. I am weary from thought, and can barely function from the stress. My torment is unending, and my head is pounding. I have not been able to eat or sleep. I am gaunt, my eyes are hollow, and I look like shit. I have to, at this moment, come to terms with the horror. Ultimately, I must confront my fears and face the question that has been plaguing me at the start of each day. Boxers or briefs? I must admit I have been weighing my options quite heavily. Both have positive and negative qualities, but in the end (yes, I just said that) it is…






p.s. fucker’s out of his mind if you ask me.

Rush.

I am expended. I have given my soul to you and, without question, you deserve it. I am rewarded by my investment and I know I get more out of it than you. Regardless, at the end of the day, I know its worth.

I am reminded that not so long ago I was so afraid of death that I taunted it, begged it to take me on. For a little while, I allowed its insidious grip to hold my soul. I was seduced by chance and by choice.

Temptation will always tug at my better judgment. I have been successful at averting my attention from ruinous behaviors toward the seemingly benign. Still, I question whether I have just shifted gears rather than changed lanes.

Perhaps I will again fall prey to deaths seductive whisper and allow myself to be captured by the romance of self destruction. It is wise to consider that I tempt fate. The alternative is blind supposition.

For now I am anchored to the rocky bottom. I will drift, but I will not be carried out to sea.


p.s. it takes hours to come down and the fall may lead to my imperfection.

Do not surrender your ears.

The click of the door brought comfort to my well worn ears and my heart sick chest. My throat, raw from futile attempts at making myself heard, was bleeding. Alone in the center of the room I am suddenly cold and tired. The heat having been drained from the room at your departure and every ounce of energy I had was expended to keep myself from begging you to stay. You had to go.

Then, relief washes over me in its sickening way. I am suddenly aware of the emptiness of my stomach and my sudden urge to vomit. To dry heave the words I did not say. “I am sorry, don’t go.” Instead, I sit. Right there, I sit right in the middle of the room that heard my pleas for you to leave, my pleading for you to stop believing and start listening to the truth. “Why don’t you hear me?...I have done such terrible things.”

Sitting there, alone with my shame, I realized I had let this drag out far too long.



p.s. make sure it is so loud that they have no choice but to listen.

At any given moment.

My bedside manner is awkward at best. But I will stand beside you and hold your hand. When your mouth is dry I will get you a glass of water. When you hurt I will attempt a story or two to keep your mind off the pain.

Please do not take it personal if I fall asleep. My mind is everywhere lately; sleep overcomes me at the strangest times. Perhaps we shall rest together?

p.s. arrive at once yet move about with disregard and a clumsy swagger.





"FUCK!"

Illusory Perfection.

I am captive and captured in stills, recalled and rendered in sepia toned illusion. My skin is translucent and tangible only to those with clever eyes and a mangled perception. It is there, hovering above birthdays, anniversaries, doctor appointments, and due dates that you will find me, a constant reminder to offer best wishes and maintain schedule. It seems strange to consider that someone would be ticking off days in such a way, counting down to events that I will never attend.

I am usually inspired while I do my ticking, but that does not happen very often. It is rarely with me, and I often forget…tick, tick, tick.

I am absent, and days go by while I forget. But I am drawn out soon enough. The need to move among the living, shoulder to shoulder, pulls me from my daydream. I must be just in reach. Then I wander off for a coffee, and I am reminded again, my impulsive progression brought to a screeching halt by an unfamiliar voice. The sinister tone still rings my ears “Hey motherfucker you got anything real to say?” I never do. I will though, and I will smile when I say it. “Too bad you missed it prick.”

Now that I have had a good breather, stretched my legs, and fashioned myself a clever new suit, I will attempt to remember to tick off the days.

There are things that I have yet to say, ears I have yet to perk. Shall I scream?


p.s. strange days.

The sincerest form of flattery.

Seasonal Affect

Three months ahead
It gets deep.
The measure remains
Uncharted
While dirt stains

Underneath, waiting warmth
Will rise again.
Spirits lift eyes
Renewed
To the skies

A blazing rage
Hammers shoulders
Covered in paste.
Saved
In the haste

A death produced
Yellow orange glow.
To waste away
Piled
For another day.


Because I am feeling rather optimistic.

p.s. do not be fooled by imitation spread.

Happy Endings.

Shame Folded Neatly

The closet was dark, and the air stale.
I waited until I could no longer hear
the breathing, and cracked open the door.
It took several seconds for my eyes to begin
to adjust to the light; I had been hidden
for several hours, most of the night.
And each breath you withhold, while still
sat across the room, arms crossed, and waiting
is released into the center of the room. I hear you
now your image becomes shadow, then curved line,
then hair, cheeks, eyes, lips, and my racing heart
is released into the center of the room. I hear you
I am fully admitted and betrayed
by the vibrations of that persistent organ
pounding in my ears and of that accidental welcome.
You alight beside me
relieving me of my guard, and returning
my promise of faith.

I thought I had waited long enough, but instead you held fast to your claim that I would emerge faithfully back into the room. And of course, I did. Not yet ready to face our lost time. And the screaming, long since dulled against the cold green plaster walls now cracked by our words thrown hard, aimed at heads and hearts, but missing. In the center of this room all that remains is heated breath and pounding heart. And the two of us are searching our thoughts, and desperately trying to string together enough words to reconnect.







p.s. sometimes in the moment we are unable to see the forest for the trees.



"Yes, I do." so now, back to that question...

I prefer it twice a day.

To a Reader
Robert Hass

I've watched memory wound you.
I felt nothing but envy.
Having slept in wet meadows,
I was not through desiring.
Imagine January and the beach,
a bleached sky, gulls. And
look seaward: what is not there
is there, isn't it, the huge
bird of the first light
arched above first waters
beyond our touching or intention
or the reasonable shore.



p.s. they are not entirely well yet...in the meantime, in others words I revel.

For now...this bit of my bad, bad wit.

The magician is in the kitchen
Cooking up some fun
Pasteurize the chicken
Then put it on a bun
Load it up with sauce
And then
Put it on a plate
Eat it up and smile again
Before it is too late.

Now ask…too late for what?











The rhythm of my thoughts is calming. The grainy cadence of my voice is a constant reminder that I must, and will, refrain. It rains and it pours, beating the pattern like a tambour in my skull. The words are fugacious, and conservation is my priority. I have the ability to catch the phrases, hold them in sanctuary until they are well, and re-release them back into their natural habitat. I must let them go. Captivity will only foster anxiety, increasing the pacing…the back and forth search for limits.

It is there that they will live out the duration of their lives.



p.s. is it ridiculous to consider the possibility?

Absent minded memory.

Last night you said
“I would give you the moon.”
Pull it down from the sky
and feed you by spoon.

In your whisper, while hushed
I was bribed by conceit.
Force fed through a tube
of ill will and deceit.

Then, the grandest of gestures
you walked out of the room.
Strangling me in a glut
of dissonance and doom.

Last night I said
“I would give you the moon.”
And you took it greedily
not a moment too soon.

p.s. it was at that exact moment that the unraveling began.