guts

It is interesting when you get a fresh perspective of yourself from a new acquaintance. Even at this reasonably accomplished age, I am still able to find myself anew.

Recently, I have been fortunate to gain the friendship of an interesting character. A smart, quick-witted, young “old chap” of a guy whose creativity and open-minded ideals speak volumes for his generation. At his age I was not nearly as wise, worldly, cultured, present, or relevant as he is. Even now his intellect far exceeds my own, and his ability to perceive others astounds me. He is very deliberate with his words, often taking what seems to me to be far too long to respond to my often off-kilter banter. But always following his reflection, he delivers an astute, provocative discourse on whatever topic I had mindlessly rambled into. Seriously, the guy can talk me under the table…and that is saying something.

And I must admit he is a bit off, as well. Regardless, or perhaps in spite of those facts, I find him very interesting.

As it goes with most new friendships there is the crush period. The time where everything about the new friend is fascinating and we often try to find a bit of ourselves in our new pal. And so my new friend has attempted to find fascination in me, and has asked for the privilege (his term, not mine) of reading some of my writing. I initially waved him off, figured he would find what he wanted or give up. But, after the third very polite request, I obliged.

It is strange; I can write for an unknown audience without fear. I can put it out there for the world to read, all of it…without a second thought. Yet when I directly hand over a few poems to my new friend, I am paralyzed.

As I said, my new friend is very perceptive. So, when I stuffed a few of my poems in his hand and continued on about the weather, he immediately detected my insecurity. He saw in my rushed speech and downcast eyes that I was nervous. And while I waited for him to speak, to interrupt my prattle, I reeled. He placed the pages face down on the table, then said “Ah yes, I see I was correct. You are an exhibitionist and shy, both.”

Which really put me to thought…what purpose am I serving with these characteristics, if characteristics do in fact serve us?

I suppose that those opposing characteristics, that in my case are so apparently extreme, benefit each other. I can only imagine that my unchecked exhibitionism would undoubtedly lead me to my depraved end, and that my need to slap the world in the face keeps me from becoming a total shut-in.



p.s. what you got in you; what it takes.

metamorphic

Theory of Degeneration.

For as long as I can remember, I have collected little bits and pieces of people. Not eyeballs and arms, or blood and guts, but their lives, their actions, moments and movements…the way they walk or speak. I watch and listen, collecting fragments and still-frames of lives of which I know nothing. I keep these parts, and then when I am ready I attribute my own perceptions to their actions; I make up stories. I am a thief. And from what I collect, I assemble.

The way a woman, carrying her child on her hip, hesitates while crossing the street. Wrapping her hand protectively around her child’s head, she holds her breath and second guesses the crisp-suited businessman will run the red light because he is distracted talking to his mistress, and he has only five minutes to make plans with her before he meets his wife for lunch. The woman knows this because her husband left her last year for his secretary. He told her over lunch.

The way coffee shop patrons cast questioning glances at the man sitting alone at the back of the room. His eyes are downcast, and he is spinning an empty cup. He rarely moves, and never speaks. Across from him sits an empty chair, a full cup of coffee, and an uneaten pastry. Patrons avoid him, falsely assuming he is homeless or insane, because of his sour body odor and dirty clothes. It is true; he hasn’t changed them in six days, the six days since his wife died, the six days he has returned to the table at the coffee shop where they met. The same table they called “ours” twice a week.

The way a classroom full of students, half paying attention, all consider the quiet kid in the back to be a dolt. They see a girl who rarely looks up and never raises her hand. The kid isn’t ignorant or lazy. On the contrary, she has already correctly answered the question in her head. She simply can’t get past the fear that, once called upon, she will fumble through her speech and answer incorrectly, drawing upon herself the jeers of her classmates. She so fears the embarrassment of being wrong that she sacrifices achievement. She will later beat herself up because she didn’t raise her hand, taking over from where the others have left off.



No Longer Lost.

I don’t have to look for you anymore.
Not in faces that resemble yours
Round and rugged, shadow of a beard
That always seems present, but never more
Than a scruff. Is it you?
I never asked, but wonder.
This time I could not help myself.
Are you?

He told me you drowned yourself,
And that in the end they had made you a beggar
Boxed in pine, without proper notice.
It had been 20 years, but still I looked for you
Because you were kind when I was afraid.
But, I think I don’t need you anymore.



Right now, that is all prosthetic.

A lack of sleep and unending thoughts will either drive me to excuse myself from my obligations or thrust me headlong into achievement. Everything around me spins on, and I remain pushing my way through to the very end.

And that is where I remain, soldered to the front end of a rogue missile.




p.s. that is what makes it rock.

Crossing-over

I am certain that when I die I will become dirt. It would be nice to consider that upon my death golden open arms will greet me, enfolding me into them like a lost child finally returned home, but that’s not how I think. Never has been. It is completely incomprehensible for me to consider that once my life is over I will hang out watching the goings on down at earth while white silk draped, halo wearing, beings circle my head before diving down to intervene in someone or another’s life.

But, I can see the appeal.

And I am relatively certain I won’t burn in eternal damnation, either. Although that option is better suited to my personality and preferential if in fact my theory fails.

What motivates me is here and now...in what I intend as a reciprocal exchange.

This reminds me to ask myself “why am I even here?” I suppose one purpose is to procreate, to replenish human stock while in turn passing on my unique, somewhat maladaptive, genetic map to ensure the future of our type. But, at our current population rate, I do not see human extinction as a concern (that is not to say we won’t run out of natural resources thereby resulting in human extinction through overpopulation). So, as many population experts suggest, I will only replace myself. Although, it was never something I gave much thought.

So, why then? I have no other and a million ideas.

And, I do have considerations beyond the here and now; I get a kick out of the prospect that my progeny might proffer our future world. That, and who will take care of me when I can no longer find my ass?

I hope that I am doing a good job, that all my experience, everything that I have to give, and all that I create proves worthy beyond my own value. I want there to be some “take-away” meaning from how I live. And when I die the only “place” I want to spend eternity is ardently recalled in the generous conversation of my family and friends.




p.s. prosperous just like him.

Burning the Manual

I have righted myself before you.
Pulled the knife out of my wound,
And shoved it back in yours.
Like you knew I would.
Like you knew I could.
Before I ever had a name
You knew it was there,
Everything for you
And you know it, and I
Know it still, the same.




p.s. who is driving who or...what?

Set to self-destruct.

The saddest girl
In the whole world
Sits in thirty day
Thinks she owns it.
Models herself a pro
With every word just so
Crack answers for everything
And a lie to keep you guessing
Is she real or just made-up.

She says she's lost her life
And can't tell where to find it.
So she sold her soul for the high
Of the sweet synthetic lullaby.
Where's the bottom when you need it?

The saddest girl
In the whole world
Just told the doctor she's fine
The problem isn't mine
"It's them." and they've ruined me
And all that I could ever be.
So now she has a new disguise
and half-way covers her eyes
with a crystal crooked crown
Slipping just missing her frown.

She says she's lost her life
And can't tell where to find it.
So she sold her soul for the high
Of the sweet synthetic lullaby.
Where's the bottom when you need it?

She used to be a little girl
The sweetest you've ever seen.
Now she's just a tracing
Of a near broke beauty queen.

At the Home

I hate to see you
When you're falling apart
Can't you start over, again?

Elizabeth crumbles
Alone in her chair
Keeps her windows shut
To keep out the air

Elizabeth crumbles
Alone in her bed
Spends all her pastime
Mulled in her dread

What keeps her living
Is her fear of being
Anywhere other than here
So they’ll feed her too much
Or it’s never enough,
Then it's fuck you
“Get the hell out of here!"

Elizabeth stumbles
Over everything I've said
Pining words are useless
Pushed round in her head

The mystery was my bravery
I never knew what I'd get
Will it be her fear or regret?
Her confusion my denial?
Walked her shoes a while
Now she can’t turn back
So she said then she’ll stay
And I will walk away

Elizabeth mumbles
Over and over my name
Forgetting tomorrow
Will never be the same

She’s repeating her beating
Did you bring her a drink?
Why are you leaving?
What the hell do you think?
That she’ll fuck you
To get the hell out of here

Elizabeth tumbles
Out onto the floor
With an abandon of reason
It is herself abhorred

She sat alone in her room
Pouring over her gloom
Never got out of her chair
And they don't even care
Now that they’ve all receded
Into the ground or fleeted
To the wormholes
And woodwork back there

You'll find repair
Where that memory
Becomes illusory

Look, again?



p.s. in the end it is what you think you will get.

Fried

There behind the casing, a path
you do not dare to follow.

It is fate that has impressed into the dirt
all the places it has been.

When where the earth is dry it is gone,
dusted into every other moment in time.
But where it is wet and allowed to parch
the trail remains and you can follow it
back to where it began.

It is given to chasing rat tails
and following frogs flopping into ponds.

That time spent heeding…
“You will never make it across.”

Until now that it is starved and the fat rat is slow.
But, the old black rope never made it across.

Just like it was told.
It was struck straight through
the middle, crushed.
Pasted to the burning hot asphalt
by a dodging challenge to cross.

Immediately it tried to coil around itself
to pull up from the back end, its entirety.

But it failed, and will lay there frying
until it becomes fully denatured.

While above crossing the trees, its foe glides
and swoops down between each rushing conveyance.

And they will eat!
They will pick apart bit by bit by the bill.
Because they must, they will.

Chiral

That is not me
Through the mirror
From which I see
Spouting lies
And histories
None that matter
Not to me.

In reverie
I am fabled
Often wickedly
Sprouting eyes
like mysteries
A ghost blown curtain
Through which you see.

And it cycles
Its cycles.

I do not know why.

Running Laps

I am reading Dry: A Memoir, by Augusten Burroughs. It is vibrant, raw, funny, and I can hardly put it down. And, aside from the fact that the subject matter may not be the most comfortable for me, what gets me most is that the guy "sounds" like me…or, at least "textual" me*. This frightens me on many levels, but primarily because I don't know how many people read me and think, "Hey, that sounds like me." and then run with it (I've come across a few). Nevertheless, I have never spoken to him in person; he could sound like my Mom for all I know. So anyway...the book has me thinking, and recalling some of my own more clumsy moments. I would like to share one, consider it a secret.


One of the first times I ever got drunk, and I mean really wasted drunk, I was at a party with a bunch of older kids. I was a bit nervous, and I didn’t really want to be there. Most of the kids knew each other. But, I was younger and only knew one other person. I was aware that at some point my friend would be drawn into the party, and I would have to either engage in conversation with strangers or stand by myself. Neither of these options appealed to me. But between the two, I chose awkward conversation over being pointed at or whispered about.

It wasn’t a large party, there were about fifteen people talking, laughing, and giving each other a hard time just for kicks. Everyone was drinking beer, but I thought I would toughen my appearance by hitting the hard stuff. So, I got real friendly with a bottle of 100 proof peppermint schnapps that one guy swiped, of course, from his parent’s liquor cabinet. Shit felt like motor oil and tasted like the North Pole, so it went down pretty fast.

Time and the absence of much, if any, clarity has left me with dim memories of this event, but I can tell you this much; I drank most of that bottle rather quick while making the party rounds proudly showing off my drinking prowess. For a short time I performed without a net, rambling on in conversations I had no business in, but charmed my way through elegantly, getting laughs along the way. This went along smashingly for the first hour or so, but soon my head swam in sludge. And, I am fairly certain I became party entertainment, at first intentionally, then later without my knowledge.

I felt good, but soon realized that my brain had to make several requests before my arm would know to bring my cigarette to my mouth. At first, I found this funny. My out sync laughter caused my fellow delinquents to question me, “What…what’s so funny?”

“I cand fuckinsmoke.”

And, I can recall recognizing the fact that I wasn’t able to connect thoughts any longer. My mind drifted as my brain dissolved into boozy bath water. This did not help me conversationally. And when I was unable to make sense, I knew I had to get away from the party, the noise, and the people. I wanted to escape, but I didn’t want anyone to know.

The party was located, as any good high school party would be, in the basement which was split in two equal sides. I was presently located in the side furnished to entertain with sofas, chairs, and a pool table. The other side was a laundry room dark and empty, strictly utility. I knew that side would bring me solace.

I had a mission: to get there without anyone noticing.

By this time, ironically, I was sitting alone on a chair by the pool table. I managed to stand up, cross the room, and enter the darkness without attention. It took longer than normal for my eyes to adjust, and I remember seeing a sink at the far end of the room and thought I could sit underneath it. I had to get there fast, but the floor held my feet. I recall as I moved toward the basin, and just before I helplessly fell to the cement floor, my arms useless at my sides, that I acknowledged the physical and psychological falling feeling, the descent, as something I would find familiar. “Yeah, I like this.”

It went downhill from there. I think the impact broke my face, I was covered in vomit, and I had certainly lost any acquired ground on the toughness front. And, I never made it home that night.

Abuse.

I hadn’t yet discovered alcohol could be, for me, a tool useful in overcoming social anxiety. At that point it was all about being cool or "checking out" for a spell, later it became a crutch. For me, that required a bit of skill delivered through practice. In time, I learned how to reign in my greedy gut. The art was in just reaching oblivion and then maintaining, keeping my inhibitions restrained while carrying on all night without letting anyone know I was a blundering idiot. Usually, I was successful, but sometimes…not so much. And I would find myself wandering off so that I could be alone and descend without interruption.

And, sometimes I would black out.

It is slippery, I know. And, at any given moment as sure as I write this it can all fall away. I imagine it would go something like this…

So here's the thing...I love being drunk. I always have, and more so now than even before. Perhaps, it is because I don't recall ever being drunk in this way. It hits fast and hard, but it doesn't last long. Maybe that’s because I am not flooding myself for hours on end as I did in the past. And I don't fall over, or at least I haven't yet. But, I'll tell ya...it taps me on the shoulder about the same time each day.

“Remember me?”

“...I’ll take care of you and soon everything won’t seem so overwhelming, looming.”

Mostly, I ignore the call. But I miss that old feeling, and lately I think, “You’re right.”

What follows is more than a tap, it’s direct and in my face, “I know I’m right. And while you are weaving it will all make sense and they won’t care because they expect it, anyway.”

It is still a rare moment that I find myself descending. That old familiar feeling can catch me off guard in a conversation, in a book, or in a memory.

Then, I tell it "Fuck you!" and I kick its ass.





p.s. here's to a fighter's homecoming.




*By making this statement I am in no way saying that my writing ability is even close to that of Mr. Burroughs. I am fairly certain he can spell occasional correctly, every time.

Listing

You startled me
In not so much your words,
But your approach.
It was fast
And filled my head
With nonsense words
And warmth
When you weren’t there.
So, I went under
And swallowed
The surge. And above
My head is swirling water.
My hand slapping at the surface,
Desperate for structure
Steep stone. Then
My fingers finding rooted edge
Holding ground,
Finally. Almost out of breath
When I pulled myself up.
Entwined in mine, fingers
Not rooted mass, but flesh.
That took the shape
Of mysteries ability
To suddenly deliver me
Upon the edge was all
That I was meant to be.

The wrong way...

Drill Bit

Tuesday I hear it’s going around;
I’m off...again, knuckled white.
Wednesday I will talk myself into
Round about routes to denial.
If I say it, then it won’t come true.
And, I find comfortable restraint; bound to
Repeating it over and over and over. And again,
It feels better that way, medicated meditation.
Then Thursday everything is white. I eat
From a bland full service spectrum buffet,
Plated and nothing touches.
I won’t even sip from her cup.
By Friday I am unable to tolerate human contact.
And, I count back to the last
In order to find spared time. I’ll be free-
On Saturday what is in the air will kill me.
So, I hold my breath between rooms. Suffocated,
Sunday I become completely restricted.
I will not accept from anyone, anything
That has been anywhere other than here.
Those days, they wear me hard
And to the end, so I have become
Exhausted from the fight. I finally sleep.
Then Monday brings me back, slightly.
With a negligent handshake,
So that again Tuesday I am found,
Wringing dry, anticeptic hands.
I will not allow myself to open a door
I stay; refusal and restraint, withholding.







p.s. its got quite a grip.

Showered

Why are my fingers cold
When they trace the back
Of your neck and up under
Your hair? It is smooth and pitch
And I wish it were my own
To push behind my ears
Before falling over your eyes.
Willing, asking it to stay.
Where it stayed...
Your shoulder now holds the ends
Fresh from washing, shiny and wet.
I rest my palm there then drift
Down your arm to your elbow,
And pull you into me. To find a way
To warm my hands that you find
Already warm and willing to stay.







Moonlit Night
Tu Fu

Translated by David Hinton

Tonight at Fu-chou, this moon she watches
Alone in our room. And my little, far off
Children, too young to understand what keeps me
Away, or even remember Ch'ang-an. By now,

Her hair will be mist scented, her jade-white
Arms chilled in its clear light. When
Will it find us together again, drapes drawn
Open, light traced where it dries our tears?

tic-tac-toe

Nothing provokes me like someone trying to tell me what I can or can’t do. And I am not talking about “Eat your vegetables”, “Take out the trash”, "Don't run a red light", "Don't steal shit", or "Don't stick a knife in someone" (well maybe the red light thing, once). That stuff is important and I get that. What I mean is when someone is attempting to assert control over me, primarily for their own gains or because they consider my actions irrelevant, then I am full-on instigated.

In fact, I can be a bit immature when confronted with authority. A holdover from adolescence, I presume. For the most part, because I am an adult I am able to identify when the limitations being placed on me are legitimate and necessary. And I bite my tongue.

But, nothing pleases me more than to shove it in the face of whatever or whoever attempts to assert unnecessary control over me. Tell me I’m too old to do something, to act a certain way, then you can bet I’ll be first in line. Tell me what I say is irrelevant and I’ll carry on until I find an ear. Attempt to limit my behavior because you don’t consider me worthy and I’ll increase my efforts until you are red faced.

What amazes me is that they (those attempting control) do not understand that their assertions invariably expose their hot buttons. See, now I know what pisses you off and I can be an asshole, so there you go. But, like I said, I can be a bit immature.

Also, I find it unnecessary for someone to belittle a person because their opinion does not run parallel to their own. Typically, name calling will get you nowhere. We are each entitled to our own beliefs, and our opinions will undoubtedly run counter to other's. And if I don't agree, I'll let you know. I'll give you my point of view and perhaps some facts that I may have squirreled away for the occasion to back it up.

Usually this works and we can agree to disagree. But, if you are maliciously handing me my head over and over about whatever burns your ass, then I will most likely ignore you.

That works in two ways. First, I don't hear you any longer. I can continue my life knowing that I made an attempt to express my opinion. And hopefully you now realize you are not going to change mine. Second, I don't hear you any longer.

Then later, under my breath, I'll call you an idiot. And let's face it, if after all that you still think you can change my opinion...well now, we don't need to go there. Just for the record, I won't try to change yours, either. Your opinion, that is.

With all that being said, (and feel free to ignore any of it) please keep in mind that I am a bit of a smart ass. And I have been known to dish out a good natured hard-time. If you poke me, I'll poke you back...sometimes I poke first.

I think I read somewhere something along the lines of...we need to be able to best deal with those things that impact us emotionally, and we need to handle them ourselves. As individuals the decisions we make are what we can control. The rest is up to the rest.




p.s. ask yourself.

For old times sake...

Here is a little something I have learned. Or, perhaps it is inherent in my nature.

There is beauty in most every moment...life, and I mean all of it. Seriously, that is not to say that I can find a silver lining in the beating of an old man for his wallet, or the rape of a young girl. But, some of my more elegant words arrive from the ugliest of times, and I suppose the inverse is true, as well. Anyway, I think they are.




There was a ball, a strike, a kiss, and some much needed sleep.

We awoke to a quiet house that, after a few short hours, would be alarmed by uncertainty.

The phone call and waiting cleared my head. All I could consider was what I would miss if I was met with the loss of such a good friend. Those other things, my schedule, would wait. And, the wait was endless. I was anxious because I could not be there to hear firsthand the explanation, the reassurance. But I knew, I already knew why and how. What I needed to hear was that it had been fixed.

And it was. You are fine and I still have you to call when I need a laugh, to shoot the shit, or to find reason in things that make sense only to friends that have been there from the depths. We will have our once every chance we can get (which is not often enough) visits.

I will tell you again that you are my friend.

Still, I can’t let go of the feeling I had when I thought you were gone. In those few hours I was bombarded with memories built on some ten years time. I thought how fortunate I was to have had my life filled with your energy, your support, and all the trust I could ever imagine.

I paced while waiting to hear the news, and as I circled the floors over and again the strangest thought came to me; I would be okay. I have come a long way and I have you to thank for some of that. You give a good kick in the ass. And, there is something amazing in that.

Let's not forget the flood, the funk, the summers, and that high speed departure.




p.s. wherever he is, he’s all over the place.