Another leaf I'm supposed to let float away...

 There is a pain being the one that survives.

When the character of your dreams, a fiction, in book or film form bows away

when the hero of your dark corner of the room takes their life.

When chosen family passes. 

 

    I often get hit with waves of what I can only describe as pain from the thought of outliving the people and things around me. "How dare I" is the tongue-in-cheek way I mask the actual wince of sincerity. 

    The thought, however, is completely genuine.  

     I'm supposed to acknowledge that it's a selfish thought; and that people would not only notice but be upset about some space I was once inhabiting; but I gotta say something from the hip- I really don't care all that much. 

     I'm supposed to talk about it being a cowardly thing, wanting to escape pain and obligation, but I keep coming back to the idea of peace. 

     There are a couple of things that set this off, (this time) and one is nothing short of silly.  

     I was getting tattooed yesterday,  the start to a 'black out' sleeve and, it occurred to me as it sometimes does while getting tattooed, that I was being forced into a sort of peace. No... it's not a whips and chains thing... its more having to do with the idea that I was in a great deal of physical pain and I was UTTERLY in the moment, no time to wander off into the normal alleyways of my depression or... well, obsess over my obsessive compulsive thoughts. I don't allow that sort of thing, if that's the right way to put that... or rather I don't feel like I can NOT think about several thoughts at once.

     In any given moment I'm thinking about outliving my father, failing at my career, disappointing myself or others, gaining weight, losing weight, if there will ever be a Rocketeer remake or WHY SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHY I'M NEVER GOING TO MEET ANTHONY BOURDAIN. (a sample plate)

    The other memento more I was smacked with was watching Vampire Diaries yet again in my life, (to be fair it's any bit of fiction that takes a little hand hold on me) but this one- it's a teenage show of love and loss... and curses and reanimation and revenge and then more love and loss... and bourbon. That's all besides the point, the point is that regardless of the fiction, if the character leaves or is otherwise done, like, done done... eg: no more Damon Salvatore... I lose my shit. 

     "Here's another thing that I'm outliving" ...that I have no business doing so. 

     It's an actual pain. Tear-wrenching pain. Pain pain. 

     I don't want to ride this anymore, but I don't know how to get off without causing more and more pain. 
 

 

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.

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. 

Meat Grinder

Does normalcy exist in the way you assumed it did?
what was it like?
what is the thing you want to return to?
is it a state of carefree?
a place where crime is low and people aren't in the streets?
a time where viruses and disease weren't rampant
was there food for everyone?
was there shelter for all?
and people didn't judge one another based on
skin
and gender
and sexuality
and education
and wealth?

Where was I?
Was this place available to me?

I don't believe you,
I believe if you looked hard enough that you would see
that the world was already on fire
but you didn't care.

You were wandering through,
BELIEVING
that you would make it to the next day because
you were too important
for issues to affect you,
ASSUMED that
you were immune to the disease

you had enough,
        certainly more than some people
you weren't racist
        you just didn't agree with some things they did
you didn't care that she was gay.
        you just didn't want to see it in a restaurant while you were trying to eat
you thought 'it's just fine if those people wanted to work those jobs'...
       but it's just too bad that they don't want to make more of themselves...
and it's so great that she wants to get her job back after kids
       it's just too bad that the kids won't be raised properly

But that was you existing
and not living.

That was you enjoying being part of a very old machine
a rusty, trusty meat grinder
and it's grinding to a halt.

Handy

There used to be more joy I think

In the fixing of things. 

Pride giving. 

A dangerous thing, pride, when en mass 

but

A “job well done”

Would be more than enough. 

“Look how it works, much better now”

Would send me over the moon. 

A helping hand would make me swoon. 

It all comes easily. After the years... A quick look, an “ah that must go there” a warmth when on the right track and the parts are coming together.

Better than new. That’s the goal.

Though going back and fixing mistakes...

That’s education too.

I don’t want to be this way. 

I want help. 

I want love. 

“I appreciate you”

I can’t fix that. I can’t make words happen or feelings occur. I can just hope in silence that the effort

...That I myself...

Will be noticed 

and maybe loved.

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?

Seed

A far off storm

ripples through the moist

night.

Laying there,

eyes moving beneath taught lids,

my muscles tense as

a stiffness spreads like moist cobwebs

just beneath my skin.

Then, just as

an anesthetic failure on the operating table-

my eyes peel wide with silent panic,

a warm tear falls down my temple;

my tongue is cotton, and

I cannot cry out.

It's not a masked

killer, or an oily, 

tentacled monster that chases me-

but the rotten seed of a plant

sewn from love and left to the frost,

many years before.

We are all each other's

nagging feelings.

They say our ears turn red 

when thoughtful people remember; but

cold fright is more accurate

tale as

a shadow slithers 

across my grave.

Long hours I've spent with ghosts;

judging, questioning,

continuing ill-fated affairs and

imagining unwritten romance.

All the grudges held 

out of unfounded, misplaced pride

and embittered in the fires of 

childish haste;

fall back, turning around

and sour only myself.

All of these things are chasing me

and every moment I lay calm,

resigned to deep dreams-

she finds me,

she hugs me,

and I wake 

screaming.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Untitiled

The mad ones

drink in dark, unmemorable bars

avoiding everyone

but secretly

hoping for their own reflections to walk out

from behind the frosted glass, behind

the liquor bottles and beer neon;

someone to talk to 

someone to hate

more than their last great love.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

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.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Smoking is Sexy

Lucky Strike promises.


Eternal health.


Masculine appeal.


Cowboys.


Motorcycles
and detectives in black and white.


Blues bars- formerly 
choking with atmosphere.
Cigarettes stuck in the strings of
Gibson
Gretch and
Fender.


Embers glowing in
Dylan's shades


Then there was disease-
black lungs in elementary school jars and
holes in the throats of 
ancient puffers speaking with
robotic tongues.


Denial 
Repression
what should be believed
what is inside them?
what is inside of us?
we know
we don't care
we should.


Bogart and Bacall
sharp eyes through hazy air


HS Thompson, pulling through a filter.


Dean eternal,
McQueen eternal-


cool.




Where is masculinity?
What is it?
Where has it gone?


Where is my pipe?
my violin?
my revolver?
or my faithful horse?


Gone they say;
consumed in 
a grey cloud of cancer.


Bitter betterment
at the hands of
lollypops
toothpicks
medicated patches
and electronic
handheld
flavored
fog machines.


Habits die hard
cultures die hard


Nothing for coffee but pastry
nothing for behind the wheel but the radio
nothing to make the throat singe after sex
nothing to complete the image.


ghost limbs
reaching out of celluloid
reaching out of every smoking area
reaching out of the back of your mind


ghost limbs of
identity

16 Watt

Calluses.


Fleshy shields
born from repetition,
born from overuse.


Lips never callus
and a heart,
while it may grow harder,
is always a sponge
sopping pain and
beating stories of
regret.
The realizations of the past
are recounted with each
thump, and
every pump is a step closer
to scarlet tears.


A slow burn.


The pain of living.

Bittersweet Resignation.

Sadness;
missing the things
that never were,
missing the things that
could have been, the things that
should have been.


Faded photos of you
your light, floral dress clinging to the
small of your clammy back;
photos of the old car-
looking out through the frosted
windows, out onto the cloudy bay of a northern coast;
super 8 films of children that were never conceived
children that never called out your name
endlessly bounding in silent pantomimes of unfamiliar
joy.


I miss all of this,
all that I have yet to know.


You don't remember me
we have never met
but I love you.


I love your red eyes glimmering through cigarette smoke,
I love the worn, scuffed white heels you wear with everything;
I miss the way you pick at your chipped fingernails
and the look of your dog as I walked in your back door.
I miss the Polaroids on the fridge- the
golden pictures of shared drugs and 
empty cans of mexican beer
cluttered amongst the splayed out books and
precarious piles of balancing vinyl records.
I will never again hear the thump of an albums end
while you slowly undress
I remember you there, dancing in the flickering light of
fading, burnt filament


but I will never remember your name


all this was lost to me


all this was taken from me


when I chose to step back.


All I have now is the sadness,
the shudder of memory
and the sweaty panic, when woken from a dream
of your embrace-
of your voice.


I don't know you and I will never
know you;


but perhaps I am better for it.

Venus de Milo

I'm never going to be in the band

I don't like wearing plaid

and I don't smoke anymore-

but you can stand there in the corner

blowing smoke rings

and listen to my guitar

making little rings in beer glasses

all over the porch of

this cabin surrounded

by trees.

I'm no Dylan

but at least I'm not Dylan

I've always been here

trying off and on to get your attention

then looking away the

moment

you turn your head.

You're the one for me

I think

the one that I admire

the one that I can see myself

without

like that statue

missing it's arms.

I'd climb a mountain for you

and not tell you about it;

but leave a little note at

the top under

a rock

telling you

about the climb.

I will always be here

I think

sitting in the corner,

looking away

when you turn,

making little rings

in your drink-

not totally

unlike

Dylan.

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.

To You.

I want to talk to you

I want to see you smile,

grimace

or cry;

but as it is

I'll never truly know

that you'll hear what I'm saying.

I'll never be able to see your face

sitting at this breakfast table

and there's not much chance

that our eyes will meet

through the dancing haze

of a bonfire.

I'll reach out

a little voice in the dark

a match thrown into the night sky

hoping to light the candle resting

in your cupped hands;

just enough light for you to take another step

just enough for you to take another breath

just enough.

My soul will forever be yours

and though my words may yellow on the page

and the epitaph above my grave

will succumb to the wind and rain,

I'll be as a light snowfall

clinging to your lashes

and you'll hear me as the fluttering pages

of an old book left open in a warm breeze.

I'll never feel your heartbeat

or see any joy in your smile

and you'll never watch my chest

rise and fall as I sleep

or see my eyes flutter open

when the morning trickles

through lace curtains

and warms my face-

but my hand will always be in yours

and my words will swirl through your mind;

each chord singing out

comforting as best they can

caressing as sweetly

and lighting another step-

always one more.

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.

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.

Papa

A little grimace

then a larger one.

Hard hands doing soft work

No punch clock,

no production line,

not the same kind of pain.

Love spreading frail roots

in the midst of a cratered countryside

the soil, like mist;

floating in front of the midday sun

and men, sweaty and tired,

fall to the ground unaware of the beauty-

save one.

A large groan,

a tug from a cold glass

and a clearing of the throat.

So much gore-

zeal for country followed by swift sentences-

an eye for an eye and all that;

but there was something beneath it all,

something overlooked,

sitting in the muddy trench

covered with the same dirt, sweat

and blood.

They were all moving forward

but there he was, unsure of his path-

his eyes open.

He sees the chaos,

the inches gained

and the flesh piling up on butcher's bill;

but through the fog

there is a figure-

his reason, duty be damned;

there was his peace.

The hard hands pause

knuckles crack, and wild eyes

stare out the window.

They see the sun,

they see the sky and clouds;

and when the weathered hands begin again

recounting the sunset with simple words on toothy paper

they write with love;

and we feel it.

Demain Matin

Treasures are nothing in the dark-

they are lumps of coal,

ridges on a distant mountain range;

they are shadows enveloped in the night.

Treasures locked in a glass case-

porcelain dolls never again to be held warmly by small hands,

teacups never again to adorn white lace tables;

they have lost their meaning

no longer coveted for purpose-

only finding small warmth in a cold,

passing gaze.

The treasures of dreams filed away-

thoughts of books set on distant shores;

sketches of paintings depicting truest love-

never to be penned,

never to adorn canvas.

Homes are turning into museums

graveyards for passing fancy-

what could have been

and what will never be.

You treasure the plaque on the wall

the china in its case

and the manuscript in the drawer

placed there years ago,

then you stare proudly while you yourself

gather dust.