Anon

I don’t believe it.

I don’t believe in happiness. 

I want to-

I never said I didn’t want to 

but I just don’t see it.

Not for me.

The idea of its purity seems like a sick joke, a ruse to bring you in, but leave you in a self-made prison wanting something else but just making do with what you have. Silent suffering.

I’m not quite there. I’m not quite here either. 

I’m not quite, but always looking for something 

that I can’t describe in words. 

Something that feels like bathwater without the razor... something that feels like the pain was never there. Something that feels like privilege and comfort and softness of hands and hearts. 

I want to feel, for once, that I wasn’t hardened by a trial of childhood. I want to feel worth your time... anyone’s time... I want to feel like I was a priority. Not a lost cause. Not a lost and found teddy bear. 

I don’t want to be the last kid waiting outside for a parent that forgot he existed- too busy watching TV with a third bottle of wine to bother with him.

I want to feel fake thoughts of myself as a young boy. Memories of giggling and running and scrapes from park swings and backyard hide and go seek...Not the real and imagined scars of the actual reality of that young boy. Relied on for everything, for love and support and a whipping post for when things seemed out of control. I was silent and dutiful 

I don’t want to hurt anymore thinking about a past that's still mostly blank. I want to talk to myself, hold his hand, my hand, and tell him that it’s going to be alright; tell him that someday people would see him as useful... but that child would roll his eyes. 

That child was tougher than me. He was living every day. Fighting to stay safe. Taking scraps. Learning to survive. He made the best of it. 

He never hoped for too much. He knew disappointment and hollowness and fear, but still, he got to school on his own- maybe late, but there, red-eyed from no sleep and hungry and distracted and alone in another way but he was there. 

I don’t want all that. I’m tired of being “one of those” stories. I want normalcy. I’m so damn tired of being a story of partial resilience, a 

I want my reality to be blissfully unaware. 

Confident.

Loved. 

But I’m destined for pain, forged in fire. Self-doubt, self-hatred, and self-destruction folded into the steel of my soul. A smile without a soul. Bullshit up to my eyeballs. 

Pete Townsend’s most famous line. Knawing. 

Elephant Graveyard

When I was young, I learned that 

there is a place 

where elephants go to die.

As a boy 

I thought that this was sad;

but now, as welcome grey 

wanders around my ears,

I have realized-

I don't think that they went there

knowing 

that they would expire-

but more like that man 

who climbed a very high mountain-

he,

and they, 

went

to live.

Sometimes I forget why. 

Why I'm walking

stumbling,

clawing, and

dying for an idea that even I sometimes question.

I'm doing it to live

and that's enough for now.

--------------

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Afterthought

There is something irresistable

about loving an idea and only and idea.

We are captivated by the past 

and the paths that we never walked.

Sometimes, without knowing, head wins over heart

and we watch passively, as 

love fades 

and reality grows.

We will love as we are expected to 

we will think about the hard fought dreams

of our youth's persistence 

as if they were only the fanciful, 

flickering, frames 

of someone else's home movie.

We all sit in the dark sometimes,

contemplating the features within the shadow of a face 

not yet illuminated in our foyers mirror.

There,

below,

in a porcelain tray

are the keys to cars and 

houses, alongside

the invitations to relatives' weddings 

and birthday parties for neighbors' children-

a whole reality never once dreamt as a child,

an unwelcome truth,

a bitter pill tasting eerily similar to the taste in the back of our mouths

when the first step down the wrong avenue was taken

Staring back in every reflection is the dark outline 

of someone,

perhaps,

we should have been.

When did we lose ourselves 

to the other side of the mirror?

You Think You Saw But Did Not See

A small boy and a smaller dog

sitting on a curb, in the late afternoon.

A Rockwell painting; alive.

An image to conjure thoughts of our glorious age-

stirring pride

and warming hearts.

But the dog is tired and thin

and the boy's smudged face echos the pups hunger.

I suppose they're waiting for a parent

or a sibling who's running late,

but more likely

he and the dog will sit,

their shadows will draw longer

and the sun will fade to orange, then pink.

Advice For Writing

Avant Guard words

known or unknown-

the artistic twist;

that slight of hand

that transforms plain to lucrative

the standout from the chaff.

I suppose you don't actively do it

stumbling upon it-

a cinderella story;

working tirelessly

honing and perfecting

then you go around a curve

and the road is different.

What was once boring

is suddenly radical

and the playing field

is falling at your feet, all at once

bowing to your tongue.

There is nothing more to do

than to drive through thunderstorms-

listening to the wiper blades,

narrowing your eyes,

tightening your grip

and waiting for the road to disappear.

ee

There are no footprints here,

and I confess:

I do not know the way-

but the way knows me.

I'll walk a little while,

before butterflies wander

into my chest-

then I'll walk a little more.

There is no path you see.

For the seeker of new worlds

there are only magical strings

and a heart to follow their gentle tug.

Grotesqueish

Mortality as an art form-

exploring the art of death

as a memento moray

and as a curiosity.

Thoughts of jumping,

cutting,

swallowing

and letting light into one's own mind.

Bashing in the cats scull,

shooting a squirrel off of a fence or

flying through the guardrail

tires still spinning in the still air.

The dead are a touchy lot

their remnants always causing intrigue

but the living always take the blame for bad taste

Considering the beauty of the rosy still waters

surrounding Marat in his tub,

or the pickled shark of Mr. Hirst.

Morbid curiosity.

An artists folly.

A Simple Portrait

Cinnamon.

Dark chocolate.

The smell of rosemary in butter and lemon juice.

Steinbeck,

Hornby,

Gaiman,

Austen,

Thompson and

Kerouac.

Rainy days;

muggy nights.

Black and White Photos;

packages in the mail;

hand written letters.

High heels and lace;

Johnny Walker whiskey;

cash to burn.

Blue eyes.

Wavy Hair.

Warm Smiles.

The smell of a Hotel.

Being barefoot on carpet.

Boots on the Beach.

Love in my heart.

Tears on my cheeks.

Tired hands.

Dylan,

Cooke,

Johnson,

Baez and

Seeger.

St. Vincent Millay and

Collins.

Sanding wood;

brushing away sawdust with an old brush.

Smelling the nape of her neck;

the feeling before you've kissed for the first time.

Hands gliding like kites out of car windows

Hearts on Sleeves;

Squinted eyes to the sun.

A Forehead Pressed Against the Window

Content in always questioning

naive to some;

intelligent,

balanced to others.

Following a trail to enlightenment-

wandering off of the worn path;

searching for fancy-

a glint in an abandoned garden

a glimmer in a river's sandy bed.

Perspectives never intertwine

in the ways you expect-

never in the ways you want.

Desiring others not to ask too much of;

wanting the freedom to make mistakes

craving tears to come when you're all alone

heavy emotion only mattering to yourself.

Why is it that you can't sit

silently staring off by a glass pond

careful not to disturb its flesh with heavy breath

without others questioning motive?

They want chaos-

desiring turmoil for peace of mind

there is no sensation

there is no intrigue

there is only what your mind desires

Desiring silence,

stepping into the glass pond

sending out silent,

momentary ripples of presence

then floating in small,

slow circles.

There are heavy currents below

let them take you where they may

I will glide by with you

our eyes might meet

but we will not speak.

The Failure of Senses

The latch is broken, the window is never clear

but I can see beyond the hazy glass.

I see what it is and what it could be;

what I used to think I needed.

There is a figure there, near the glass

its breath rising and falling on the pane.

I want to write messages of love and joy,

hearts and initials in the condensation;

but the figure moves off again.

I place my hand against the cool surface

my forehead resting beside it.

My eyes are sore, tired of straining to see past the fog;

then,

for a moment,

I feel the warmth of another hand

and I look up to see the figure

reaching out, its hand pressed against the outline of mine.

So near.

I think there is a heart warming that hand

and a consciousness placing it there

but something in me is still wary;

could this thing

be the work of a candle's flickering light?

casting shadows?

forming false hopes?

The Wind in Her Hair and Something That Has Nothing to do with Cooking

1.

Her lipstick is gone

dotted on coffee cups and napkins

her mascara, eyeliner and shadow

worn in the wind, washed away.

Her skin stands bare

stripped from it, all the things that,

she would believe, would make her more beautiful;

only nature defines her now,

highlighting her cheeks with the rosiness only a cold wind can purvey

her eyes sprinkled with light freckles

and her brow kissed by the gentle sun

what remains now is a countenance

that would make my heart beat for the first time

again

she is living,

organic,

love.

2.

Dreaming of a meal,

wrapped in paper and string

waiting for the love and flame

that would come, once a familiar hand

pulls the door open and the light comes on.

Soon sweet smells of onion and olive oil,

butter and lemon dance together, dotting the air

just above the pan.

Diced this and that now enters,

bounding from the board to the steaming range

color and texture form

cream swirls and swoons

making potatoes soft and smooth;

rosemary and basil dot the milky white.

The dream progresses and the sounds of

clanking pans, and thumping, chopping, knives increase;

the hands are becoming frantic, frustrated

and the ingredients keep multiplying

it seems that too much has entered the pan

the potatoes boil over

and the steam becomes thick, black, smoke.

The sauce is breaking.

Swift footsteps approach from behind

and second set of hands dash from spoon to panhandle,

knife to ladle and the flames calm,

the potatoes reduce their froth

and the sauce renders

unscathed

The second pair of hands now come near,

covering the first, interlocking and stroking gently;

like the flames, the panic dies down

and the light turns off.

The dream ends, eyes flutter open

and the two pairs of hands lay between them

still interlocked.

The Corner Stool

1.
Unmistakable;
the business end
of a Lucky Strike
glowing from the back
of a hazy room.

Sitting before a ghost band
a hep beat floats back
entangled in the
musicians smoke

The music pauses
and the grey thickens
thoughts of the outside
the next step
an adult life

A hand shoots upward
and drinks are served
cool, fresh amnesia
ice cubes still clinking

The band resumes
it's set.

2.
Walking inside
the thick air hits you
like a hard kiss
a hiss
of steam
from your ears
bodies jiving
sliding as the cymbal
cries into the crowd
loud are the horns
calling the snare
to bear on your soul
sweat pours
their minds must be
lost
not
yours
cool drink sizzles
mingles with sweat
on your
lips
hips wander near
eyes like ice
twice cooling
your soul.

You emerge
changed.

3.
Walking along to the sound of a clarinet
skipping over the cracks
to the snare
heels, percussion
the wind whipping your coat
dancing in the air
fingers tapping at your sides
mirroring the gentile
flow of piano keys
then the whirlwind fades back
just the clarinet
a dragging match
a sizzle
and footsteps
echo
down
the
street.

Dreaming of My Shady Rock

1.
Searching a world
of advice;
throwing my arms up,
begging for clarity.
Guidance comes.
It flows uninterrupted
constantly luring me
in the wrong directions
buying and selling my
emotions on a public
market.
Fighting to put a
dollar sign
on my sanity.
Filth is all the response
that I receive.
But as I wrap my arms about me
and begin to weep;
the air whispers:
You
Will
Remain.

2.
Contemplating
the bones in one's head;
the skull as a whole
just underneath
moist tissue.
Always balancing
a fishbowl of brains
on your spine.
Beer, scotch and
the occasional tequila
sloshing about
the fatty mass.
Young mothers,
disgruntled ex's
and violent, pulsating music
batting it about.
Antiquated theories,
archaic practices,
and egotistical educators
trying to pry in.
You're hoping for the best
when walking down
a simple set of
stairs.

3.
Looking for gray
despising the signs of youth.
We all sit in the a hell
of assumption
uncultured
immature.
I can do nothing
but wait for time
and the wind
to break me down
till I resemble
the voice I emit.
I suppose then I can
find comfort
in being pegged
as
out of touch.

4.
I love the caress of changing shadows
wandering over my body
while this car drives down
a windy road.
Canyon after canyon,
a soft stream flowing beside
the hard black ground
reminding me of old movies.
I want to call this scene a wrap
and lay on the smooth stones
listening to the water
it's lazy trickle
lulling me to rest.
Then off again
out onto the open plains;
always dreaming
of my shady
rock.

5.
I hate hearing
that men
lack the ability to love

She told me that men
think that love is cute
and useless;
that sex is the only gain
we have in mind.
We are desperately clinging
to the playtime
of our youth
keeping
the same
destructive behaviors.
Blowing up
our sisters doll
and wondering why
she's crying.

I cry.
I cry when she's
not there.
I cry when her scent
walks by
years later.
I sob when her skin isn't
against mine;
and I break down
when I'm
assumed to be stone.

I love.
I will love.
I have loved.
I've given my soul
in search of
love.
It was
blown into shards.

and she wondered
why
I was crying.

Basics.

1.
Living your life to the fullest
will suck any thick skin off of your bones
but there is no life in avoiding broken glass.
Walk down the center of the road
skip, following the dashed line.
Hear the horns of the contented masses
cursing your radical behavior as they sit
fat and complacent;
safe in their cars.

2
A craft spent writing your heart on a wall
will leave you with no mystery
people will know who you are and what you are.
The greater damage though, is to lie
inflicting fiction upon someone;
telling them that you are a shining soul,
good at heart and smart as a whip.
I'm not that good,
I never was and I'm content with that.
I will never be what they want me to be,
I will be a window, a lens with no correction.
A man who writes to empty his heart of grief.

3
A whimsical umbrella saunters down the street
making a funny little void in the rain;
a heavy stream runs from a jagged tear.
Perfectly good I suppose; blocking the majority,
but a sad sight none-the-less.
Like a beaten old soul, still just getting by
it's held proudly; a possession of worth and use
but when the tear runs wider and the pride is lost
its usefulness will come to an end;
one day.

4.
Maturity never comes in handy.
always coming entirely too late
always showing up
after the fact.
We're always unprepared.
Constantly thinking of the past;
what could have been done.
Then you begin to realize
that not knowing,
is where you want to be.
living from moment to moment
floating through the haze
making the best of what you have.
It's been said I think,
You need to be lost
before you find yourself.

Spreading Ribs

1.
Cutting off a dead limb
saves the body.
Cutting out a dead heart
doesn't save the soul.
To live a life without a heart
is condemnation.
I have lived thorough love
and hidden my scars
but I cannot be afraid
of more spilled blood.

2.
Happiness is not unreachable,
love is not so high on its pillar;
but the ladder I carry is too short.
My life must be donated to that cause
I must grow, stretch and reach.
I must attain sanity,
or content in disillusionment.

3.
I was told that a writer needs moors
a place to go for inspiration
someplace with history, perhaps death.
That same person provided the inspiration
and the death of bits of my soul.
She is my moor, she is my cold wind
as romantic as she is desolate.
I don't need fog, I have her scorn.

4.
I want to fall in love
I want to look away from experience;
reminders of hate and anger.
It wont end in tears and headache.
I won’t have to slowly walk my things out of ‘our’ apartment
and I won’t leave my favorite chair behind.
Perhaps this time it will work
and we will share our hearts
coveting nothing but our time.

5.
I will remain open,
letting the daggers in.
I will not flinch when they come.
I will stand allowing the world
to wash over me.
If my eyes are closed nothing is gained,
I will hope for love;
I will accept pain.

A Night Spent Waiting.

1.
Alarm clocks shouldn't be trusted
once wound, programmed or called
they should be prompt
punctual,
and should never fail.
I will never trust them,
and have spent many nights awake
waiting for the day to begin;
content that I would not miss the sun,
at least not because of that...thing.
Is my mistrust misplaced?
Is it really me?
A heavy hand, or perhaps
a stubborn unconscious
not wanting to turn over the keys
just yet.
Why don't more of them
come with a taser attachment
or a bucket of water
on a string.
But then, I suppose,
we would be terrified
awake, with bloodshot eyes
watching the alarm clock
about to pounce.

2.
Stopped at a light,
wondering why.
There are no other cars,
there are no people;
its 3 o'clock in the a.m.
and ghosts are impeding me.
Where is modern technology?
and why the hell is my car
still on the ground?
I should be floating about
in a DeLorean type-job
streaking through the sky,
among the other spirits;
the ones not holding up traffic.

3.
Sitting, reading;
I need to piss.
Across the street
a sprinkler is broken,
a geyser on Scott Road.
This doesn't help.
It's too early for anyone but me
and my bladder
to notice.

4.
I'm thankful
when the past catches up.
When memories become current
and new ones are made.
I'm glad that resolution
can be found in remembrance.
It's not always the case;
and if you err
history will not happen upon you
it will hunt you.
It has found me
and I am hopeful.

5.
Hands waiving,
wildly gesticulating with silence.
What are all these god-damned spots?
I need coffee
coffee.
Panic ensues over sugar
rather, the lack thereof.
Confusion, no focus
lack of lens cleaner.
One cup trembles against my lip,
warmth runs down my throat;
addiction.

Cheeky

1.
Laying in the grass
staring up at the many constellations
named after glorious tales
goddesses, battles
and Native American rituals;
they are signs of fallen heroes
points of light that carried sailors home
and yet all I do is sit
thinking of the patterns of moles
on past lovers backs;
I feel a rain dance coming on.

2.
Solitude is not solace.
Solitude should be tolerated;
appreciated in small doses
and praised for its restful ways
but never accepted as the norm
never allowed to stay long
for to share one's thoughts is joy
to have them accepted and appreciated is love
and love is solace.

3.
The feeling of approaching sleep is comforting;
the confirmation that I'm still alive
and the realization of the stricken hour.
The air itself seems to become lazy
and despite the shielding of carved glass,
my eyes have been bombarded enough.
It is then, by way of shuffling feet
I find cool tiles, and introduce grinder to beans
and grounds to steaming water;
the smell of stimulant, fills the room.
Wide eyes and racing blood,
more confirmation of my humanity.

4.
A turntable moves my fingers better.
Television steals my gaze,
the radio asks for money
and people need too much attention.
The crackles of a record put me into a trance
sharpening my imagination
tuning out the vacuum.
Flipping the vinyl every few songs
is a necessary break;
a chance to stretch and pour a new cup.
Keeping all of my actions personal and tactile.
So there I sit,
listening,
typing,
turning,
pouring
and repeating.

5.
Poetry is nonsense
it's just a jumble;
some broken sentences
wandering about
a vague, florid mess.
Poetry is literary misdirection;
a word-smith's slight of hand.
Veiling a lack of structure
with pretty words;
there's never a point.
Moreover, you will be poor
and will have no following;
you're images are easily forgotten,
plagiarized in greater works
Write a novel they said,
people get novels.

A Brief Window.

Introverted thought
breeds hatred of self.
I care outwardly, internally;
and those that resent me
I pretend to disdain.
I will cry for them
and they will forget me.
I am words,
a curious bunch of thought
but as a doctor delivers news of death,
I am unfeeling
yet devastated.
I am conflict,
unresolved.

Downtown, then back home.

1.
A man on a crate
a weathered guitar
notes whining out.
There is beauty in his voice
not of a hardened soul
but of a man that will never suffer
the constraints
of another man's chains.
down the lane there are speakers
and crowds looming
around brightly dressed performers
screaming of love lost.
Here on the corner
the man sings
pure.

2.
Looking into an everyday portal,
parked on the side of the road,
wondering what could be
on the other side.
Glorious visions of luxury
a grandiose lifestyle;
or simply,
a life apart.
Beyond that reflection
lies a seat
empty
and cold.

3.
Glass, paper, metal and wood.
A collection of material things
close to my heart.
Silently stacked on shelves
a thousand eyes have moved over,
hands have held,
caressed and thumbed through.
Lips have touched some,
and hearts were made to flutter.
They do not define me
but they often comfort me
They will outlast me.

Love and Journalism

1.
Glimpses of love are better,
wandering in and out,
viewing from afar.
Hearing of romance
and genuine contentment.
Clumsy hands
don't work well with butterflies

2.
Watching joy wander about in a glass box
Slowly sucking in its last bits of life.
To break the glass would be selfish,
to watch it suffer is agonizing.
Someday the glass will melt on its own
and I will breathe the same air.

3.
A notion comes to the end and
slapping the platen back into place
I begin again.
I wish I could have heard
a press room full of sound,
a typewritten cacophony.
Watching the paper work its way out
looking like corn hurriedly eaten at a fair
moving steadily across the roller
and eventually hearing the intermittent bell
of a line completed.
The gentle click of keys in a coffee shop
is far from this delight;
an audible storm of words
whizzing about,
making their way onto a page.
Where has the romance of journalism gone?
Quiet writers exploiting from behind lattes,
outspoken ones splattered on television.
I wish I was there when papers landed on corners
wrapped in twine.
A frenzy of nickles flew from eager hands,
and people wept
until the next edition.