Real and Imagined.

 

Better to break bones than to endure the loss of perceived love. 

Better to bleed internally to keep warm than to seek out comfort in another at the risk of feeling too vulnerable.

Better to die quickly than endure the memory of lost things.

What a way to live, to feel as though you should be gone already. 

Why am I taking up this space, rather than...

Why am I here when they are not?

Why was his voice, a voice of calm, clarity, vision, love, and compassion gone

and I'm still here. 

Why was his voice, one of crazed humor and fearless wit, gone from this world 

and I'm still here. 

Why will my family be taken from me slowly, in front of my eyes

and I will still be here to endure it ("if I'm lucky," they say...)

It's hard to be grateful for a time yet to be spent when all I can think of is the pain of future lashes.

I want to be grateful and present and standing in a glass pool with no ripples, 

but my mind is always far away and I am standing in the middle of an angry sea.

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?

The One

One line
one direction:
tequila to hangover,
cause and then on
to effect.


No time machines, and
not enough forgiveness
to go around.


We all miss what never was
though we're supposed to know
what perfection was-
even before it shines clear in the
rear view mirror.


The past was, and remains all smokey eyes
and cringe-worthy first time drinks-
there's always that one, blinking
almost, burnt out filament
in the nasty bathroom
where we questioned everything the first time.


It all looks so perfect now.


We hate ourselves often;
catholic guilt if we're catholic
regret if we fall under the banner of
'everyone else'.


Nothing can be said
nothing can be done
but hope,
hope
to bump gently
on the shoulder of the future,


smile,


and carry on, 
where we once were.

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Signs of Misuse

The cigarettes of my youth
are floating in the puddles of Los Angeles


They have long since been drained and yellowed.




Acid still creeps
and sleep never comes- no matter the pill.
It all builds against,
mocking the adult version of 
a once 'old-soul'
now just a commonplace fellow
brushing shoulders with
a world that is moving
entirely too fast.


An old clock radio clicks on,
the morning news plays
and dust dances in the first rays of the morning sun.


Books all feel old now


their pages are deteriorating
dog ears drooping ever further.


I remember when I hadn't muddied the waters
I remember tree houses floating above Siverlake
I remember,
I remember.


Orange trees crept in through security bars, glare through dirty windows
and bitter coffee; never a clean cup.


I miss the filth and unease, 
I miss the daring of it all.


I miss my legs.

Untitled

A light went out tonight

high above a street corner at

the intersection of two roads

you've never heard of.

You didn't notice it flicker like

a winded candle

then fade;

but the city was a bit darker

just the same.

In that same moment

a flashlight

turned on underneath

a fort of pillows and sheets

and Neverland was found again.

You didn't notice the light

trickling underneath

the bedroom door

but the world was a bit brighter

just the same.

Moist

Searching for an ever-changing lust

in a sickly,

humid

darkness.

Hope is left on the brighter side of the door

and the desire

for meaning beyond

was abandoned long ago;

you're looking for a glimmer of heavenly breath;

for a cool breeze on the back of a sweaty spine,

for salvation-

in a den of dripping honey, but

there is no choice now

there is no trickling light to follow to the surface

and no greater meaning will be revealed

only regret,

disappointment,

and detachment

don't think of the glimmer that might be

don't think of gentile wind

and smiles over checkered picnic cloth

take both feet off the floor

crawl deep into the moldy, musty sheets

and let the devils dripping tongue

lap you into the maw.