1-4
This is how I will suffocate,
in your adoration.
Hands cover my mouth
while I keep my resolution.
I put my fingers in my ears,
and disappear
before you
tell me, tell me
you love me.
5
Desolate Bungalow
Gravity Paper
Ink Wired
Numb
Perpetual Absence
Unhinged Focus
Lost Wax
Done
6-9
Days, dry as dirt
kicked up in heels,
catch in my throat.
I want them back.
Tomorrow, better yet-
today, I will stop
rushing away. The distance
between here and the deserted
has been
forgotten.
Washed up,
I am ready to devour those days.
10-13
I am dead in a box in the center of the room talking to everyone or no one can hear me or they neglect to listen because I do not say what they want to hear or I make no sense to anyone but myself because I am only speaking to someone a million miles away from where I am at present they cannot hear me or I make no sense.
14-17
I am out of corks
with a barrel full of holes.
The relief will not stop;
resentment pouring and filling
the cracks in the walls,
plaster caked in puke green,
painted over in pink
for all the world to see.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Best Dressed Death
The Millers
I am reminded of the man at the bar
Who has forgotten who his kids are.
There, swallowing tequila straight
Same call as every night his fate.
To me, he blames it on the whore
Claims she pushed him out the door,
But he can’t provide the reason why.
And, I am certain she would deny
His musings to me this late hour.
They are causing my gut to sour.
But, that is how he believes it to be.
He says he won’t go back, you see
That he’s still in Rye, there living.
Only now, looking in me to find forgiving.
He says he’s certain they will find
She has lost her fucking mind.
And, it is only himself he’s hurting
While hiding behind his convertible curtain,
To save him from his mirrored face.
He won’t look across and find disgrace,
Instead sets his eyes on the last of the bottle.
All of his duplicitous life he’s set to throttle
In a dull thudded break of dawn.
His head heavy under his crown,
He buries each night, repeated.
The music, he says she cheated.
If only the radio had played that night,
There would be nothing, nothing right.
I am reminded of the man at the bar
Who has forgotten who his kids are.
There, swallowing tequila straight
Same call as every night his fate.
To me, he blames it on the whore
Claims she pushed him out the door,
But he can’t provide the reason why.
And, I am certain she would deny
His musings to me this late hour.
They are causing my gut to sour.
But, that is how he believes it to be.
He says he won’t go back, you see
That he’s still in Rye, there living.
Only now, looking in me to find forgiving.
He says he’s certain they will find
She has lost her fucking mind.
And, it is only himself he’s hurting
While hiding behind his convertible curtain,
To save him from his mirrored face.
He won’t look across and find disgrace,
Instead sets his eyes on the last of the bottle.
All of his duplicitous life he’s set to throttle
In a dull thudded break of dawn.
His head heavy under his crown,
He buries each night, repeated.
The music, he says she cheated.
If only the radio had played that night,
There would be nothing, nothing right.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Terminus
Seventeen years had passed since their admission, supine, hands clasped. The moment paused and rewound so many times it has begun to slip and slur. Yet it remains solid, holding down everything from that time, forward. It is the ground to which any path may be traced.
It is far from nothing.
They were alone, their easy banter quickly escalating to hysteria. It was cast. He pressed his words between their laughter, hoping that the weight of their meaning may be buoyed by the mirth of the spell. As he had hoped, they had caught her off guard. And, she swallowed her response, continuing to laugh as if what he said was part of the folly.
It is easier to disbelieve.
Then he turned to her and she found the truth in his eyes. He wanted to take it back; he did take it back. While she held her breath and hoped that she could find her words, and that they wouldn’t sound ridiculous in the wake of her stay, he had let his words disintegrate.
The moment was gone.
In an instant, fear can consume you. It can make you refrain from disclosure, from the truth. You may hold your tongue or reel in its wag. Once it is fixed, fear can thrive in you for years, feeding off of regret, recycling into a fierce energy…anger.
It can destroy.
Or you may gain experience, chalk it up to another missed cue. You can allow yourself to forgive, provide another the opportunity to atone. Understand that when acknowledged, fear can guide you. You can turn it around and fear can provide additional strength to push you beyond previous expectations, to rise above limitations.
What has become of them?
Over 2500 miles travelled between the lines, their lives. They both stand as a movable marker for a moment, a slide rule for a decision. They are not broken, but both are damaged. Each has a life filled with family, friends, knowledge, achievements, and failed attempts. Of course, there is a portion of their lives of which the other is aware, a fraction that they speculate. But, neither knows that the other will occasionally recall that moment, reflecting on, but never regretting, its purpose.
p.s. nemo.
It is far from nothing.
They were alone, their easy banter quickly escalating to hysteria. It was cast. He pressed his words between their laughter, hoping that the weight of their meaning may be buoyed by the mirth of the spell. As he had hoped, they had caught her off guard. And, she swallowed her response, continuing to laugh as if what he said was part of the folly.
It is easier to disbelieve.
Then he turned to her and she found the truth in his eyes. He wanted to take it back; he did take it back. While she held her breath and hoped that she could find her words, and that they wouldn’t sound ridiculous in the wake of her stay, he had let his words disintegrate.
The moment was gone.
In an instant, fear can consume you. It can make you refrain from disclosure, from the truth. You may hold your tongue or reel in its wag. Once it is fixed, fear can thrive in you for years, feeding off of regret, recycling into a fierce energy…anger.
It can destroy.
Or you may gain experience, chalk it up to another missed cue. You can allow yourself to forgive, provide another the opportunity to atone. Understand that when acknowledged, fear can guide you. You can turn it around and fear can provide additional strength to push you beyond previous expectations, to rise above limitations.
What has become of them?
Over 2500 miles travelled between the lines, their lives. They both stand as a movable marker for a moment, a slide rule for a decision. They are not broken, but both are damaged. Each has a life filled with family, friends, knowledge, achievements, and failed attempts. Of course, there is a portion of their lives of which the other is aware, a fraction that they speculate. But, neither knows that the other will occasionally recall that moment, reflecting on, but never regretting, its purpose.
p.s. nemo.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, August 28, 2009
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.
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.
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