Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Let's Get Our Love On

Where does it all come from?
All this hate?
All this anger toward each
Don’t we have more important
things to do than to worry about
what that woman is wearing,
what that guy smells like,
who has what sex organs,
what God is THE God?

Why is it we have so much time
for hatred, but so little time for

I hate traffic, long lines, poor
communication, misunderstandings,
drippy food at a restaurant, broken
shoelaces, bad TV reception, running
out of beer, expensive cigarettes,
and being told what to do.

That’s the breadth of my hatred really,
I’m aware of its futility and sometimes
ridiculousness, I can laugh at myself for
my silly hatreds. They are the mild
annoyances of life that sometimes
deserve scorn, but are in no way destructive.

I just want to make time for love, in the
least beatnik, hippie-ish way possible.
More like, love is simply the way of the
world and the thing we as people all have
the most in common. Rather than hate.
I want to love you. I want you
to love me too.

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Never Trust A White Man In A Hawaiian Shirt

“Never trust a white man
in a Hawaiian shirt,” I said
to the nineteen year old Rapper
I happened to come across
during a Saturday night

“Huh,” he said to me.
I had wandered past
a bar with beats and
deep bass emanating from
inside. There was a crowd
outside, talking and laughing.

I stopped to light a smoke
and started a conversation with
a guy who happened to be the promoter of the event.
“This young rapper inside, he’s my new client,”
said the promoter,  “He’s good.”
The promoter told me to check it out.

I went into the bar, sticking out, in
a bright ocean blue Hawaiian shirt,
and an Irish face highlighted red with
drink.  I settled in by the pool table to
listen to the young rapper and his
throaty back-up.

I bobbed my head in time,
listened as best I could through the
thundering rhythm. I couldn’t quite
make out the words, but the young rapper
had talent, it seemed. The song ended.
I clapped with all the other patrons.

I thought I should get a drink at the bar,
so I could, you know, blend in. I couldn’t
make it though because right at that moment,
a young woman with her head buried in a smart
phone crossed my path, she was followed by
Lil Wayne, and then a huge body guard.

“Was that Lil Wayne,” I asked the
guy behind me. He nodded that it was.
Since the bartender was unreachable I decided
I’d go back outside, see that promoter,
and see if that was indeed Lil Wayne.
Because, hey, Lil Wayne.

I went outside and the promoter and
Lil Wayne were talking briefly and before
you could say “Cellphone Camera”, Lil Wayne
was in a luxury car and they vanished into the
night.  I looked at the promoter and I nodded.
He nodded back.

“I should have got a picture,” I said.
I’m not sure what the promoter thought
I said but he goes, “Hang on,” and went into
the bar and came outside with the young rapper.
“This guy wanted to meet you,” said the promoter
to the young rapper.

“Who are you,” said the young rapper.
“Me? I’m just a white guy in a Hawaiian shirt,” I said.
The promoter seemed to laugh.
“But I really enjoyed what you got going on in there
and I wish you nothing but success,” I said.
He looked at my curiously, eyebrows furrowed.

I laughed, explained how he should
never trust a white man in a Hawaiian shirt,
shook their hands and continued on my
Saturday night journey, feeling nostalgic
for the adventures, misadventures,
of my younger days.  

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

In Consideration of Dandelions

“My poetry of late has been rather flowery,” I said.
My shadow nodded.
“I mean, I almost wrote about dandelions. How
banal is that,” I asked.
My shadow shrugged.

“I want to write something of substance,
of meaning, filled with soulful revelations
and creative insight,” I said.
My shadow nodded emphatically.
“Okay then, here’s goes…,” I said.

My shadow sat motionless against the
wall. Slightly leaning forward, waiting,
“So… there’s these dandelions right…,” I said.
My Shadow threw his arms up in the air.

“Right, right. No freaking dandelions,” I said.
My shadow acquiesced with relish.
“How about sexy ladies? Should I write about
sexy ladies,” I asked.
A slow upward shrug from my shadow, palms up.

“Dear sexy ladies,” I said.
My shadow slapped himself in the forehead.
“What, you’re an art critic now,” I asked.
My shadow put his hands on his hips and
turned his head up toward the heavens.

“Fine. No sexy ladies or dandelions. Sheesh,” I said.
My shadow nodded.
“So what should I write about,” I asked.
My shadow curled his thumb and gestured
to himself.

“You? A shadow? What’s interesting about you,”
I asked.
My shadow froze for a long moment. I heard a foot
tapping somewhere.
“Fine. What’s on your mind?”

Friday, July 7, 2017

Road Work

A beetle crawled across the windshield of Dan’s beaten up old work truck. Dan eyed the beetle over the rim of his morning coffee with mild interest. The beetle seemed to be up awful early in Dan’s experience. Dan gently sipped the hot coffee from his cup.  He relished the mild burn of the black coffee as he planned his day.  The sun was just barely breaking the crease of the horizon and long morning shadows played across the old road.

                Dan’s road crew was hired to repave long stretches of ancient highway that were now sparsely used thanks to the newer interstate. It was finally his crew, his business and no one else could tell him how to do the job. It was a wonderful feeling. It was something he hadn’t felt in some time. Dan felt his opportunities were finally turning around after the divorce. Sandra had taken almost everything from him, although he did give most of it up willingly. He just wanted things in his life to get back to normal and leave all the craziness of Sandra and her various lovers behind. He still loved her. He could feel it stinging every time he looked at their old wedding photo he’d taped to the dashboard. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t just rip the photo off and toss it out the window as he sped past the Old Barrel Bar where he and Sandra met, wooed, married and fought for that last time. It seemed wrong to toss the photo aside just as carelessly as Sandra had tossed their relationship aside.  He considered that he might need the pain to fill the space left vacant by Sandra’s leaving.

                Dan took another sip from his coffee and sighed. The beetle on the windshield had stopped in its morning march and was flicking its rear legs back and forth. Dan leaned forward in his driver’s seat to look closer at the beetle. It was a thick little thing, black and lightly hairy; with hints of a reflective metallic sheen to its wings.   Dan watched the beetle do what it does. It paused every so often, antennae sniffing the air for whatever it is that beetle’s sniff for, and then it returned to its dutiful cleaning. He could hear the beetle’s legs clacking together through the windshield glass; a repetitive click and clack, in time with nature.
Morning birds were singing as the sun climbed and Dan was reminded of how he used to hate those birds and their chirping. He used to hate them because they reminded him of how he missed out on so many things. He used to work very late, third shift mostly, and he would never get home until the sun was up.   He’d pull into the driveway of the old house, the one with Sandra sleeping inside, and regret that he never got to spend any time with her. She worked during the day while he slept and she slept while he was working at night. They never seemed to even cross paths for a few years. The birds and their morning songs reminded him of how much he hated to miss time with her.  They were terribly loud and they compounded Dan’s loneliness for his wife; all those morning mating calls echoing across the fields behind the old house.  He understood them yet loathed them because of his understanding.

                The beetle, apparently satisfied with its morning cleaning ritual, started trekking across Dan’s windshield again. Dan sat back in his seat and turned his head to follow the beetle’s path. The beetle got to edge of the windshield where it met the frame of the pick-up truck. It unfurled its thin wings and buzzed off into the morning. Dan tried to watch it as it flew over the near-by field of tall grass but he quickly lost sight. He hoped the best for the beetle. He hoped it wouldn’t get eaten by some hungry early bird. He hoped it would find safety in its journey and he appreciated the short visit it had bestowed upon him.

                Dan checked the dashboard digital clock. His crew was still an hour away from joining him on the job site. He felt glad to have the time to himself, other than his beetle friend, to think and rest and plan. He knew the old highway spur very well. It used to be a well traveled road before the interstate moved the entrances and exits 30 miles away. It needed a fairly cursory repave to smooth over some of the more weathered and rough spots that still gave the locals trouble. It wouldn’t take more than a full day to fill and smooth. It was a good piece of work for honest pay and Dan felt honored to have received the contract. He felt some connection to the road; as if he’d always been on it, or part of it. He wanted to nurture it. 

  When Dan was a boy, he and his father used to take the old spur up toward Bell’s Lake for camping and nights out in the wilderness.  He remembered looking forward to it, for the most part, until his father finished off that sixth beer and things usually started veering into strange territory. His father, sitting on an old stump by the lake, would wax philosophic about love, sex, women, war, and Dan’s mother.  It wouldn’t be too soon afterwards that the woods and silence of the lake would be broken by the bear-like snores coming from his father’s tent. By then Dan was looking forward to the quiet ride back home in the morning with a far grumpier version of his father.

Dan looked out at the road as it was lit by the rising sun and saw the cracks, bumps, holes and weeds spotting its path. He wondered about the miles he, and the road, and the beetle might have shared or if they were ever connected in any way.  Dan took another sip of his cooling coffee and sighed. 

Friday, June 30, 2017

The Work of Liberty Never Stops

The Fireworks that
explode o’er head
are the eulogies of
those brave forbearers
who struggled and fought
for liberty and control
over their own destinies.

Liberty’s flames, fed by
martyrs and patriots,
bursting in the sky
to the crescendo of
“Ooh’s” and “Ahh’s”,
and the twinkle in the
eyes of a child, born free.

This celebration of our
nation, is our moment,
to reflect on the men and
women who gave their all
for an idea. An untested idea
for the time. An unheard of
theory of self government.

The booming thunder, shaking
the pillars of heaven are the voices
of the people, determined to carve
out a life for themselves in freedom,
with liberty and justice, for themselves and
more importantly, their

It is our duty…, nay, our debt to
them that we must pay, with our
vigilance, courage and sheer nerve.
We must keep the sacrifices they made
in our hearts and our heads, and use this
time of remembrance to continue to make
America worthy of the blood spilled.  We The People. 

Thursday, June 29, 2017

A Glittering Blob

Amorphous ambiguity,
coalescing coherently,
in a bubbling brew,
to cool on a sill,
eventually hardening,

A glittering blob, a glob,
a speck of a speck
of dust’s dust,
fluttering on a
summer wind,
over crashing seas named
Prologue and Epilogue.

Swirled about in whirls
with other parts of me,
undefined, immeasurable
and uncounted with delights
and disappointments,
all made for the me
I’m yet to be.

Raw and un-carved,
twitching sinew exposed,
to the heat, the coolness,
the joys of the winds and
the wrath of gray skies.
Yet to be mounted, drawn and
made whole by time.

A mass of matter, made to
matter, as a matter of course,
to be filled and unfilled, broken
and remade, in shards, in piles,
in landfills of experience,
born every day in the me-ness
of self.   

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Summer Solstice

“Hey Summer, where ya been?”
“South America mostly, Australia too,” said Summer.
“Oh, I thought you were, you know, like on vacation or something.”
“I don’t get a vacation. I am the vacation,” said Summer.
“Right, I mean, of course you are. How dumb of me.”
“Damn right it’s dumb of you,” said Summer as she gently nudged me in the ribs.

“So… any big plans now that you’re here?”
“Not really. I’ll just do the same things I normally do, maybe with some humidity, maybe not, maybe I’ll be dry. I don’t know. The possibilities are sort of endless really,” said Summer.
“Yeah, that’s cool. Really Cool.”
“How about you? Any plans,” asked Summer.
“I don’t know. I mean, I really don’t take any vacation so…,” I shrugged.

“So, it’s sort of my day so I better get going. Lots to do,” said Summer.
“Of course, right. I didn’t mean to hold you up. I just wanted to say hi and tell you that you looked nice is all.”
“You think I look nice? I don’t know. My hair is crazy frizzy and I haven’t really got a good tan and… well, it’s nice of you to say so,” said Summer.
“My pleasure. Really, and your hair looks great, honest.”
“Okay, well, I really should get going,” said Summer.

“Um, Summer? Do you maybe want to have dinner sometime with me?”
“Aw, you’re sweet. But I just don’t think I’ll have the time. But I really appreciate the offer,” said Summer.
“Okay. I get it. Thanks for at least considering it.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that. You know we’re just friends and that’s all,” said Summer.
“I know. I mean, I just thought, well… it might just be you know, the start of something.”
“It’s not that I don’t, you know, care about you, it’s just not in that way, plus, I mean, you’re just so pale. I mean, how would that even look,” asked Summer.

“No. I get it. I do really. It’s cool. So I’ll see you later then?”
“Of course you will,” said Summer.
“Okay. Cool. Or Hot! That’s Hot, I mean.”
“You’re so silly,” said Summer.

She tussled the hair on my head and stood up from our small table. She started West. 

Monday, June 19, 2017


There are times when I’m happy
to remember that we are very
small in a cosmic sort of way.
There’s really not much to
us at all.

A blue dot, in a vast
ocean of space, spinning
around a star, on a cycle
started eons ago, doing
our silly things.

It’s hard to remember at
times, that we’re small.
It’s hard to recognize how
tiny this world is.
How far we are from anything.

How far we seem to be from
each other. Our humanity seems
larger than the Sun, as if we’re
bigger than the cosmos that we
can see. Yet, I don’t know you.

I cry, you cry, we hurt,
we bleed, we laugh and smile,
on a rock hurtling through the cosmos,
at 67,000 miles per hour around the Sun,
and it seems huge.

We’re giants on our world,
beings of infinite wonder,
but smaller than the smallest
out there, in the void, between
starlight and nothing.

Our smallness should not
diminish us, define us or hold us
back; but it’s nice to remember it,
from time to time.

Monday, June 12, 2017

Monday Wants to Rock Your Face Off

“What are you working on,” asked Monday.
“Hm, oh, nothing really,” I replied.
“Looks important,” said Monday.
“It isn’t really, just some musings,” I said.
“Oh, well then, muse on,” said Monday.
“Thanks. I will,” I said.

“Do you mind if I set up some speakers,” asked Monday.
“Speakers,” I asked.
“Yeah, just a little background music,” said Monday.
“I guess. Sure. Okay,” I said.
“Thanks. As long as you’re okay with it,” said Monday.
“Sure,” I said.

Monday shuffled about, running cords all
around my feet, desk, chair, up the walls,
over the door, out a window, back in through
another window, up across the ceiling and
back down to the floor.
“Sure this isn’t a bother,” asked Monday.

“No, it’s fine. Do what you have to do,” I said.
“Okay. Thanks,” said Monday.
Monday wheeled in two giant speakers built
for Led Zeppelin 1974.
“Whoa,” I said.
“What,” asked Monday.

“I mean, those are pretty big,” I said.
“You said it was okay,” said Monday.
“I mean, I know I did, but…,” I said, motioning
to the size of the speakers Monday was
pushing toward the windows.
“What? You said I could and it wouldn’t bother you,” said Monday.

“I thought they’d be, you know, like, normal,” I said.
“These are normal,” said Monday.
I shook my head slowly and looked in Monday’s face.
“I don’t think these are, appropriate,” I said.
“Well, I mean, you said I could so…,” said Monday.
“Fine Monday, fine,” I said.  

Thursday, June 8, 2017

Tips for Writing Poetry

The important thing when starting
a poem is to have a strong
premise and then build upon it.
If you don’t have a strong premise then
your poem is all about nothing… like this one.

This poem is about nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
It’s not even a poem really,
It’s just stream of consciousness
dribbling out on this blank page.

Still, though, it’d be nice if it
were about something.
Something important, like, religion
or politics, sex and love, or drugs and
kittens, or  what shoes make me look thinner.

A poem about nothing.
nothing at all,
why are you still reading?
Don’t you have something better to do?
Shouldn’t you make better use of your time?

This is seriously about nothing.
I mean, zero substance here.
There’s no heart wrenching finale, some
catharsis or hallelujah chorus of angels.
It’s just words on a page lining up.

I could write about toe nail clippers,
or teeth whitening, maybe about
paperclips or what I had for lunch,
and it’d still be about nothing.
Nothing at all.  

I didn’t have a strong premise,
so it’s all about nothing.
maybe it’ll come to me later,
to write. 

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

Mind the Prom King's Crown

A Prom King’s tilted crown,
he’ll dance with anyone in town,
except her, in the wheel chair,
because, “should she even be there?”

A tilted crown on a big old head,
football star, filling nerds with dread,
he’ll pretend he’s cool in the front,
but behind their backs he calls ‘em all, “cunt.”

The spotlight on the Prom King,
he’ll wave his hands, flaunt a pinkie ring,
he got from his dad, who bought a wing,
for the school after a scandalous fling.

There was a Prom Queen,
we haven’t seen,
she might be held up by security at
the door.  She’s not from here it seems.

The Prom King’s first dance to his song,
a country tune to which he gets the words wrong,
in a circle by himself, surrounded by lackeys, slack-jaws
and  yokels, in rhythm with no one, harrumph and pshaws.

The DJ was wrong, the Prom King got the words right,
that DJ should be fired immediately and on sight.
How dare he disagree, he’s the Prom King with a decree,
“Everything I say is right, if you disagree, kiss my ass tonight!”

The Prom King’s tilted crown, lower on the brow,
confused by the unwillingness of people to kowtow,
to each crazy demand, statement or thought,
“Don’t they know how good they’ve got?”

The Prom King spits and froths near the end,
he wants a new limo, a new driver, a new friend,
he wants a new Queen (But we still haven’t seen her,
so there’s little drama to the scene.)

The Prom King’s crown tilted and cocked,
might not be the issue we thought to concoct,
It must be his head that’s so off center,
next Prom, I’m sure we’ll vote better.

The night is over, the dancing’s all done,
there’s no more spiked punch or fights to be won,
The Prom King, alone on the bleachers, he’ll fail this
year, because of the teachers.

“Don’t blame me, I was cool. They just hated me,
that stupid school,” he’ll be heard years later to say,
working at Dad’s office in real estate
and considering a role as a delegate.

Be careful who you elect as your Prom King,
he might be a bully, a brat or a ding-a-ling,
and he’ll grow up with that victory in mind,
classless, tasteless and unkind.

A Prom King’s tilted crown,
could become the bane of every town,
so smarten up, and listen,
we wouldn’t want this to come to fruition.   

Friday, June 2, 2017


If everybody is “everybody”,
and we are “we”,
and you are “you”,
and I am “me”,
but I’m in your shoes,
watching you as you
join my group of we
so we can get along with

who the hell is everyone?

A global family,
isolated in their

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

A Nation of Ideas (Or Oops, my patriotism is showing)

                When a nation such as ours is faced with the corrupting influence of stupidity it’s hard to keep quiet.  I try my best to put a good spin on the daily developments but it’s getting to the point where all the spinning is just making everyone dizzy.  I’m not sure anyone knows where up or down is anymore. I don’t like to get into one-sided political discussions. I think every American in the United States has the right to freely express their ideas and I can certainly afford them the general courtesy of hearing them out; even if their opinion comes from a place of incorrect information, fear, loathing, spite or ignorance. I can listen even if I disagree. In fact, I want them to persuade me to change my mind. I want to hear their words and believe they are indeed well thought out and coherent and built on tried and tested methods of logical thought. I’m not hearing a lot of that though; not at all.

                What I hear is lot of people that are simply afraid and unwilling to reach back into their shared history for examples, information and precedence. I hear reactionary rhetoric from both sides of the political landscape resulting in landslides of mis, dis, and non-information. I don’t hear anything of substance clearly presented or fully vetted by experienced peers. I just hear a lot of heads, on TV, talking and talking about one issue over and over again on hourly loops which never seem to go anywhere and then abandoned the second a new issue hits the presses. There is nothing resolved, solved, explained or even appropriately handled.

                It amazes me that a country built on the foundations of political discourse can be so easily led down the primrose path of simply failing to ask, “Why?” It is our duty to ask why. It is our mission as citizens to ask why and the duty of our elected representatives to provide the answers to those questions. We want to talk about it. We want to know why. They work for us. They should be able to provide us detailed answers.

Why as a citizen do you feel under represented? Why do you feel unsafe? What are you doing in your own community to help alleviate those feelings? Is what you’re doing negatively impacting those around you or are you doing something to help others? We’re a nation of communities, of close knit neighborhoods, and a generalized expectation of the goodness in our fellow citizens. Why are we so terrified all the time?

                I feel at times we’re like children, afraid of the dark and no one seems to be brave enough to get up and stumble through the darkness for a light. They’d rather sit in the dark, pissing themselves in terror than find a way to stop being afraid. The only thing they are afraid of is the unknown, “Fear itself”, as it were.  We don’t have to be afraid of knowledge. We don’t have to be afraid of intelligence. We don’t have to be afraid of emotional intelligence. We don’t have to be scared of empathy, of sympathy, or that people are, “out to get us”.

                We might be a little punch-drunk in all reality. We were effectively the Global Champions, a nation of immigrants and migrants that successfully built a country from disparate points of view, to stacking up political and military victories like some sort of Rocky Balboa. We took a lot of hits during that time though. We were unsuccessful on a few military fronts, we were held back by puritanical/segregated/populist beliefs at home, social and economic down swings and failed domestic policies. We’re still the best contender but we’re a little jangly in our form. We know what we want to say but we have a hard time articulating now, since we’ve taken so many blows to the head.  We’re a little more reactionary and put our foot in our mouths more often than we used to. Our intentions are good but our execution is somehow muddled due to the number or rounds we’ve been in.

                We’re a nation of amazing contradictions, double-standards, stupidity and sometimes insane points of view yet we persist in spite of ourselves. It has always been that way and it always takes an incredible effort of the people to change anything. This is a country of viewpoints, perspectives and ideals and is far greater than something drawn on a map. We have to remember that the United States of America isn’t a place really, but an idea.

                It is our duty to reinvigorate that idea though diligent exploration of ourselves, our collective desires as a nation and as a people.  We must not be led astray by populist zealots, by fear mongers, by war hawks, racial separatists, or those that seek personal power over the good of the people. We must not be suckered by those that wish to dilute the purpose of the United States of America by keeping us stupid or in the dark. We have to stay alert, sharp, and focused on the things that have made this experimental nation a success and avoid the policies of ignorance that have held us back.
We’re a nation of fighters, idealists, thinkers and innovators from all over the world, believing together in something unprecedented in human history; that a nation of ideas can be stronger than any nation of barriers. We will not let the corruption of stupidity take hold. 

Friday, May 26, 2017

The Story

I love the confidence in a good story.
There’s something so satisfying
watching, listening, to someone
tell a story about a memory or
their life; they’ve told it
a hundred times but have a
sure knowledge that the story
will kill every time they tell it.

It’s amazing to see their eyes
dance with such surety. The
disco-ball of confidence, twirling
in their iris as they get to the part that
always gets the laugh yet only begs
for more details. The part that leaves
the listener wanting more. That one,
awesome part that baits everyone’s attention.

It’s marvelous to watch.
Even better to be a part of it,
and even more wonderful to be
the one telling the story to that
small sea of faces, eagerly
anticipating each word, motion,
and epic sentence.  To see the
light, reflected, in their eyes.

A story told well has a million
lives. It’s re-told, embellished,
re-crafted, and embarks on new
journeys to new ears and eyes.
It’s no wonder we, as a species,
are so fascinated by a well told
story, tale, anecdote.  We love
them, we love the tellers.

Let me tell you about the time I…

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

A Cheer Up

                “Cheer up,” said the mouse.
                “No. I don’t want to,” said the man.
                “Aw, come on man. I’ll bring you some cheese if I can get a smile out of you,” said the mouse.
                “No. I don’t like cheese. I’m lactose intolerant,” said the man.
                “I don’t know what lactose intolerance is, but I’m pretty sure intolerance is bad,” said the mouse.

                The man sat against the wall. He rested his head on his arms folded over his knees. He felt his eyes watering with the tears that he was sure would come.

                “C’mon man, a nice golden piece of cheese always cheers up my friends,” said the mouse.
                “I told you. I can’t eat cheese. It makes me sick,” said the man.
                “What!?! Cheese makes you sick!?! That’s…just unheard of,” said the mouse.
                “Well, it’s true so just deal with it,” said the man.

                The mouse scratched at his whiskers and sniffed the air around the man. He scurried around the man’s feet, back and forth, testing the air and rubbing his whiskers with his paws.

                “You don’t smell sick,” said the mouse.
                “Well, it’s not a sickness you can smell,” said the man.
                “Us mice are really good at smelling things so, I’m pretty sure you’re fine,” said the mouse, “Plus my brother is a doctor, so I think I know what I’m talking about.”

                The man lifted his head to look at the small brown mouse now sitting between his feet. The mouse was staring back at the man with a hint of a smile on his little face.

                “A mouse doctor you say,” asked the man.
                “Absolutely,” said the mouse.
                “Where did he get his degree,” asked the man.
                “Mouse-ouri State,” said the mouse.

                The man smiled. A slight chuckle. A bigger smile. A belly laugh. The man remembered that sometimes, the little things aren’t as so awful as they might seem.

                “See, you like cheese after all,” said the mouse.
                “I guess I do. I guess I do,” smiled the man. 

Monday, May 22, 2017

It's Pretty Deep

Some days there’s a struggle going
on the deepest parts of my brain
between acceptance and denial
of what I have become and
how I got there.

Most of the struggles involve
run-on sentences and essay-like
tomes of nonsense, all cramming
into a clown car of thought, all
trying to be the one to yell, “First” and toot a horn.

It’s self important, it’s self-pity,
it’s  another day spent in personally
decreed silence because I don’t want to
talk to anyone but desperately want to
with someone special.

I make myself sick with worry about
being alone, being rejected, unaccepted,
shunned, avoided, demonized, hated, feared,
being made a fool of, being a fool,
consumed with anxiety and stillness.

Distracted by it, constantly taunted by
couples, canoodling, kissing, sharing, loving,
laughing, fighting, swearing, looking at each
other in that way that says they know everything
about each other and the comfort they take in it.

I’m ill with the obsessions over my seemingly
self imposed loneliness, because of anxiety,
depression and mediocre self confidence, I think
it’s all my fault, I’m some hideous monster of a guy
undeserving of any love from a gal.  It’s not true. It’s not true?

The burns suffered are deep, through the meat,
into the bone, charred, and I’m not sure when it’ll
heal, if it will heal, can it heal, who would want me if
it didn’t heal, how does it heal, why hasn’t it healed yet,
what’s taking so long, what’s taking so long, what’s taking so long…

The struggle goes on and on, over and over,
in sweeping cycles, like seasons, a season where
one’s fancy turns to spring, romance, love, and
something new, something special and deserving
of adoration and to be cherished.  Then dashed by winter.

Anxiety, depression, has an effect,
It’s like crushing a beautiful flower in the
palm of your hand. Something so lovely and tender,
yet you can’t stop, can’t control,  your hand from smashing it,
and smearing it on the walls.

You wonder if you deserved such a beautiful thing
and then you worry that you’ll never have such a beautiful thing
again, so you do silly or stupid things to try and find it again, but you can’t
find it, so you stop looking and hope the beauty will find
you, but that isn’t working, taking too long, too isolating, too terrifying…

And then, will you just smash it again, in your hand
as you are lost in the beauty of it? Is that what will happen,
is that the pattern? Is there any escape from the loop de loop
of the clown car of thought.  
How does it work? What does it take?

I’m not sure what it takes in this world, to
be deserving of love, to be loved, to have
someone there, waiting just to hear about how
your day was and you can’t wait to hear about
their day.  To look in your eyes and see the best of themselves.

It seems so simple and yet so impossible.
Like running under a starry sky, it seems like
it would be easy to grab the stars in your hands
and scoop them from the air,
but it’s impossible.

The uncertainty of the impossible, or
possible, has been wearing me down,
the edges are rougher with the shaving,
the patience is thinner, the time is
shorter. But it’s deep down there. 

Thursday, May 18, 2017

All Dancing Shadows

Dancing in a beach side cave,
back-lit by the bonfire,
casting shadows on the wall,
as the surf rolls in on the wave.

She shimmies, he shakes,
they embrace, they spin, they dip,
they sweat and jump like wild
natives as the ocean breaks.

The beat mixed with crackling flames,
the roaring foam, and their heels
pounding the sandy ground,
intensity without names.

They flicker in fire, projecting lust
onto the carved rock,
heavy breathing,
a conflagration of stardust.

The outside world faded away
in firelight, lost to a beach,
deepening night and thoughts
of soft kisses that seem to stay.

The shadows, existing only for them,
in lives of deceptive reflection,
warped and curved by the cave’s
rough surface, empty of mayhem.

Their bodies stretched up high,
lengthened in the licking light,
reaching for each other,
and the fire in their eye.

Dancing in a beach side cave,
back-lit by the bonfire,
casting shadows on the wall,
as the surf rolls in on the wave.