Hollywood Ending?

 

Only a year like this,

could there be an ending

more apropos;

the swelling music,

a crescendo, cymbals clash,

lovers embracing amid a

swirling sea of people,

as the credits start to roll

on the year that was 2021.

 

But no,

the after credits scene is

all spoilers,

there was no embrace,

there was no sea of people;

it’s the Statute of Liberty,

protruding from the sandy

beaches of the old world.

 

“You blew it up! Ah, damn you!

God damn you all to hell!”

Is what we all shout in unison,

from our windows, through

our still masked faces.

Because this year, while deserving

a Hollywood ending, won’t get it.

 

It’s just another long year,

full of tribulations and trials

of the soul.

Souls weary from the experience,

and unsure of the wisdom they

may have received.

 

That popular band did the theme

song, but no one really will remember it,

it’s no View to a Kill or Skyfall or

Goldfinger, or other Bond song,

even though we’ve been living

through a very Bond Villain type year.

 

A virus unleashed upon the world,

and the only cure is total world

domination, sounds like a very

bad Bond movie if you ask me.

I mean the implications of actually

taking over the world seems far too…

daunting.

Like, even local, suburban or rural governments,

can hardly keep 40 people in a state of

agreement, how would a super villain

get like, even three people to agree to

his demands.

 

Like, what if all the virus deniers just

shrugged at the villain’s plan?

What would the villain do?

Just like, give up and return to

his volcanic lair? Sure.

 

2021 was a challenge for all of us,

a year of recovery has merely been

another year of surviving, of making

it. Which I can only hope will provide

us with the character and perseverance to

recognize we are the keys to our own

success and the grievances and grudges

of the past can fade.

 

We can all leave the theater in

agreement and say in one clear voice,

 “That movie was terrible.”

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

 

Happy New Years dear friends.  

 

I Left You a Christmas Message on Your Answering Machine

 

Merry Christmas, baby.

That was it.

That was all I wanted to say.

No need to say any more,

really.

 

Just Merry Christmas, baby.

Why the “baby” part?

I wanted it to seem intimate,

like, we had that sort of

special connection “baby” implies.

 

I wasn’t going to get into it.

Really.

I just like calling you “baby”,

or “babe” or “hot stuff”,

or “sugar booger”.

 

But you’ve got me off point,

Merry Christmas, baby, is all I wanted

to wish you. That simple.

Yup.

And maybe Happy Holidays too.

 

Okay to maybe not as simple

as all that but I think you get my

meaning about wanting to wish

you a Merry Christmas season,

or New Years if I don’t see you.

 

But I suppose I can do the New Years

thing next week, when it’s closer,

so as not to distract from the

Merry Christmas, baby, message

I’m trying to simply convey.

 

So anyway, yeah…

Did I tell you how pretty you are?

And so smart?

Well, if I didn’t, you know, you are

those things…

 

Riiiight…. so again,

just have a very Merry Christmas, sexy.

Or Baby. Or you, like, just regular Merry Christmas,

because maybe I’m seeing something that isn’t

really there, so like… yeah, Merry Christmas,

baby.

The Letter Line

 

                Greg held his letter to Santa with both mitten-ed hands.  The line to the mailbox for the North Pole was stretched around the corner.  Greg looked up at his father standing next to him in line. 

                “How long do you think it will be,” asked Greg.

                “Not too long,” said his father.

                 Greg sighed. He’d spent so much time on his letter to Santa that he felt like it was going to be late. He’d struggled over what to ask for. There had been so much sadness and misery in the world this year that he felt bad asking for the new Transformer or the remote-controlled Millennium Falcon. Although he really wanted both; but he also wanted Santa’s help to make the world a better place. He spent a long time making sure his letters were all written straight and he was clear in what he hoped Santa would bring. He was worried because it was only a few days before Christmas and he was only just mailing it now.  

                 “Dad,” asked Greg, “do you really think Santa will help? Do you think he’ll get my letter in time?”

                  Greg’s father looked down at his seven-year-old son and smiled. The puffball hat on Greg’s little head was cocked to the side and tufts of his shiny brown hair were poking out.

                 “I think Santa always wants to help. But I think he really wants us to try and help ourselves as best we can. And of course he’ll get your letter. The Post Office is very good at getting Santa his mail,” said Greg’s dad.

                “Oh,” said Greg.

                 The line took a few steps forward. Greg held his letter close to his jacketed chest. Greg saw a few kids from his school but he didn’t say hello. He’d only seen them through the computer screen really, and then only while wearing a mask while in class otherwise. He really didn’t know them well enough to say hi or run over to them. He wasn’t even really sure of some of their names.

                 “Dad, I know you said that Santa wants us to help ourselves, but if that’s so, why do we even have a Santa? And if he’s magic, how come he can’t do the magic to make the virus go away or stop all the bad men on TV,” asked Greg.

                 Greg’s dad leaned down towards Greg. He put a hand on Greg’s small shoulder and squatted next to his son.

                 “Santa’s magic only works when we help it work. We have to believe that he helps us to do the right things,” said Greg’s dad.

                “So… Santa is like Jesus,” asked Greg.

                 Greg’s dad smiled at his son.

                 “No Greg. Santa and Jesus are different. But the idea is the same I suppose. All either of them really wants is for there to be Peace on Earth and goodwill towards each other. So, they’re the same in that way, but they are very different. Santa is a saint… St. Nicholas, like St.  Peter or St. Michael. So he’s in the whole religious family, but he’s not Jesus,” said Greg’s dad.

                Greg scrunched his face up at his father and used his mitten to wipe his nose.

                 “I don’t understand,” said Greg, “but he’s magic. But the other saints aren’t magic? Jesus isn’t magic?”

                 “Santa Claus is a very different type of magic. He’s… whatever we believe him to be,” said Greg’s Dad.

                 “Oh,” said Greg. He sniffled a little and wiped his nose again.

                 “Are you too cold,” asked Greg’s Dad.

                Greg shook his head. He didn’t want to lose his spot in line.

                 “Okay, well let me know if you get cold. We’ll have to put your mask on when we get inside the post office and you don’t want your boogers all over your mask right,” kidded Greg’s Dad.

                 “I’m fine dad,” said Greg.

                 The line was moving up the steps at the post office very slowly. People with big boxes and carts with wrapped gifts. The dragon smoke in the cold air drifting up.  Greg looked at the faces of the people waiting. The faces were all so different; all different colors and shapes. He looked up at his dad’s bearded face. His Dad had rosy cheeks, just like he did, or that’s what his mother always said anyway. The thing Greg noticed though, although all the faces were different. they were all pretty much the same. He wondered about why everyone looked so the same but different. Kind of like how Santa and Jesus were kind of the same but different. Maybe people could be whatever we believed them to be.

                 “People are pretty much good, right,” asked Greg as he tugged slightly on his Father’s jacket.

                 Greg’s dad took a step forward up the first step and Greg followed.

                 “People are mostly good. Yes Greg. They are. At least I believe them to be. Sometimes I am disappointed in people, but in general and most of the time, people are really good,” said Greg’s Dad.

                 Greg thought about it for a moment. Scrunching his face and sniffing.

                 “Good. I’m glad people are mostly good. It’ll make Santa’s job easier,” said Greg.

                “I think it will my son,” said Greg’s Dad.

                 They got to the front door of the post office and both put on their masks. Greg was glad to be inside now. He felt like Santa would have his letter well before Christmas. He took his father’s hand and squeezed it.

 

The Nevermare

 

I was having a Nevermare

as I wrote this.

 

A Nevermare is like a

nightmare but far emptier and awake.

 

It’s a fear of the nothingness

that might be.

 

The fear of never being more

than.

 

Nevermares creep in during

those quiet hours.

 

The empty hours when the

the self-doubt machine ramps up.

 

Its pistons firing thoughts of

long, lonely hours of nothingness.

 

A Nevermare, scratching at the

remnants of your passions, love and joy.

 

Nevermares happen every so often,

mostly in the face of something unrequited.

 

A Nevermare is cruel, heartless and

hopeless.

 

But it isn’t real, like the Nightmares

as you sleep.

 

There’s no Nevermare boogeyman,

no slasher hiding in the shadows.

 

The Nevermare is all your doubts,

fears and insecurities, kicking you in the ribs.

 

As you roll on the sidewalk, tears in your eyes

and begging for it to stop pummeling you.

 

It’s harder to wake from a Nevermare,

but with a little compassion, it goes away for a while.

 

Fading like a nightmare, the Nevermare,

drifts into the mists of memory.

https://www.istockphoto.com/portfolio/DanielEskridge?mediatype=photography

Devotions

 

I wondered about my

devotions this morning on my drive to work,

what cause am I willing to put

my life on the line for,

what hill is my grave?

 

I couldn’t think of any.

Nothing good anyway.

It all sounded so bad to me.

So depressing. So empty,

a vacuum of joylessness.

 

Love? Meh.  I’ve been hurt too often.

Family? Not really a “cause”.

Morality? So Subjective.

Religion? Not a chance.

Poetry? It isn’t as real as I would like.

 

Our selected devotions,

the hills on which we die

are all inside our heads,

formless, yet obtuse,

ridged, but insufficiently carved.

 

I am devoted to sitting,

begging for sensual attention,

being awkward,

putting my needs before the needs of

others.

 

I am devoted to selfishness,

only doing what I want,

yet peaceably existing to the best

of my limited capabilities without

ruffling too many feathers.  

 

However, I crave devotion from others;

a devotion of attraction, of love, of encouragement,

of adoration both near and far, and the incorrigible

need to be happy with what I am without

judgment.

 

I am apparently devoted to being human.

With all its flaws. With all my flaws.

With flaws. I’m devoted to learning

how to be devoted to someone else.

And questioning my devotions less as I drive to work.

All a Fool Needs

 

Love, as they say, is all you

need, however I am hung up

on the whole concept.

 

What kind of love?

Who loves whom?

What if they love me more than

I love them, or vice-versa?

 

I want to be a loving man,

with a loving woman obviously,

but I’m terrified of being made out

to be a fool.

 

A sucker. A dope.

A duped idiot, conned by

exceptional beauty,

tender nothings and

my own desire to be loved.

 

The rational is needlessly

tormenting me when I’m sure

I should just focus on the moment

and exist in that loving state for

as long as it lasts.

 

But I’m addicted to loving.

A little taste of love, an appetizer,

and I want the whole buffet.

Served in gilded dishes by

the object of my affections

while she continues to seduce me

with her wiles.

 

Even self-perceived wiles,

like lingering eye contact,

a touch on the arm,

a smile,

a kiss on the cheek;

and I’m loving putty in her hands.

 

An amorous goo,

ready to be molded into

the shape she wants me,

until she doesn’t want me anymore.

 

And I return to my pre-gelatinous

state, jaded ever more by my

suspicions about love and

how it’s supposed to be all I

need.  

 

I’d rather be a loving fool,

than a fool for love.

 

The Streams

 

Let’s find those words,

the kind of words that flow together

in a nearly effortless stream,

conveying all the multiple

explosions of verbiage

needed to express

all the desires

in my

head.

 

Those words,

slippery little devils,

squirming away at the last moment

like eels in some greasy river

as you splash down into the brine

to reel one up by hand,

tricky and illusive,

and sometimes completely

wrong.

 

I was fishing for

gratitude and reeled up

envious tripe, which wriggled

and fought and so I gleefully

threw it back, knowing in this

mucky trickle there must be something

better to express my, my… words.

The words

in the muck.  

 

I want a partner to help me,

a confidant to let me know if

the word on the line is worth keeping

or if I should throw it back,

Love, or lust? Which should I keep?

Heartache or heart-break? Which do

I toss back?

Someone on the shore waiting for me,

as I wade knee deep in sucking mud.

 

Let’s find those words,

in this place, where they flow together,

and our bodies can mingle and linger,

like the water, on the shore,

on the bank, wrapped in the embrace of

love language and the gentle swirling

of understanding.

Clad only in…

… I need a nibble on this line.

 

 

 

 

 

More Searching for Meaning

 

                “So, that was it then,” asked Johnny. He looked up at the giant computer screen in front of his face, at the digital image of God who had just greeted Johnny and all the other dead.

                 “Please save your questions for the end of Orientation,” said the face on the giant screen, of whom Johnny was highly suspicious. Johnny was strapped into a roller coaster type harness and couldn’t really move.  He was able to bring his microphone up to his mouth.

                 “I’m sorry, I just can’t, like wait. We’ve been waiting a long time to get here I guess and I’m just instantly curious to know, if, you know…, all that life, all that living, pursuing, sex, working, loving, being sad, alone, joyful, loved, alone again, if that... if that was all there was,” asked Johnny.

                 “How did he get a microphone in here? Can someone see how he got his hands on that please,” said the image on the screen.

                 “Yeah, I actually had one in my hand when I died, so like, I just seemed to have it when I got here,” said Johnny.

                 “Okay, can we get technical support in here to get this microphone from this guy,” said the face on the screen. “Seriously, guys, we can’t have these kinds of things happening so often.”

                 “Hold on man, I’d like an answer,” said Johnny. Two winged figures descended from above the giant computer screen and appeared at Johnny’s sides. They took the microphone from him and then vanished.

                 “Aw, c’mon! Hey, give me that back! That’s mine. That’s from my last show. That’s important,” yelled Johnny. He had been singing on stage at The Risk Room with his long-time bandmates, The Rebel Revengers, when a bottle or a boot or a brick flew from the crowd and smashed him in the face. Then he was blinded by some bright light and could taste applesauce, then, he was in front of the giant screen face, who was welcoming him to heaven.

                 “Okay, okay, settle down,” said the screen voice, “Here’s the deal. Yes, all of you are dead. There’s not much else we can say about that. It’s just what it is. Some of you may have near-death experiences and be sent back, but most of you. You’re here for eternity. So, let’s get this orientation out of the way okay?”

                 There was a generalized agreeable sounding moan, but Johnny couldn’t see anyone else really, his head was being held in place, focused squarely on the giant computer screen face.

                 “Oy,” shouted Johnny, “No! I don’t agree to that at all buster! I lived an awesome rock and roll life, well mostly awesome, and I am not very happy with this predicament. I mean, come on, all that drug use didn’t kill me; the rehab, the relapses, more drugs, the unprotected sex didn’t make a mark but a boot to the head and Wham! Here I am in Valhalla. That’s shit. Total shit. What did it all mean you raggedy old deity?”

                 The voices of the other newly dead groaned. “C’mon buddy, let’s just get this over with,” and shouts of, “Shut your face idiot,” rang through the void.

                 “Nothing. It meant nothing. All your human struggles, meant nothing to me,” said the face on the screen. “I’m an omnipresent super being with a ceaseless lifespan stretching into the billions of your years, so no. Your lives meant nothing to me. Did it mean something to you?”

                 “Well, I mean, damn. I didn’t expect that. I thought you were some sort of loving God. Like, you were all about love and you loved humanity,” said Johnny.

                 “I love humanity like you love ants. I don’t go out of my way to protect you, but occasionally some get stepped on and then it’s like, oh my me. Then there’s the paperwork and the tears and the prayers and the whining which is like a mosquito zinging and buzzing in my ear, don’t even know why those were made,  and then I‘m like, Fine! Fine, build me a church, here’s some prophet, do with it as you will and leave me out of it,” said the face on the screen.

                 “What? You’re a dick,” said Johnny, “Like that’s a super dick thing to say. Like, I wouldn’t even say something like that to my 3^rd ex-wife, and she stabbed me in thigh once.”

                 “Okay, you’ve really gotten me off track here. I’m just going to move ahead with the orientation. So, now that you all are among the newly deceased, we have an extensive amenity program at the Heavenly spa and resort with access to all the boutiques and…,” said the giant computer face.

                 “Oy! Big face! Oy,” shouted Johnny, “Hey! What the hell!?! I’m not done with you!”

                 The face on the screen sighed.  Johnny’s seat began to vibrate. It launched up, or what Johnny perceived as up, with incredible velocity.   It travelled through the cosmos in a blink and Johnny saw himself looking in the very heart of the Universe and all creation. He couldn’t breathe. Until he felt something on his chest. A thumping. More thumping, harder. He felt like he was getting dizzy.

                 Johnny woke up in an ambulance. A bandage on his head, I.V.’s in his arm. A paramedic standing over him.

                 “We got him,” said the Paramedic, “we’ve got a pulse.” 

                 “Oh thank god,” said Johnny’s wife, Cassandra, as she rested her head against his face.

                 “Don’t thank that asshole,” said Johnny, “last time I ever die. Frigging rip off.”

Looking for Meaning on Thanksgiving

 

I don’t know what

Thanksgiving is, really.

It’s a Holiday.

For Americans.

Immigrants really.

 

Who came the New World,

to alter their lives and

the lives of everyone they

encountered.

Regardless of consequence.

 

Which I think we do,

still, to this day, all over the world,

in judgmental pogroms of

tribalism and collectivism,

each to our own detriment.

 

Home and abroad,

we push our ideals and beliefs

onto those that may not share them,

or even want to be a part of them,

yet we are relentless in our Manifest Destinies.

 

We push the borders of civility,

of moralism, of squeaky wheel sensitivity,

and badgering bullyish behavior,

wherever we seem to place our

Puritan buckled hat.   

 

I know Thanksgiving is about family,

a gathering of blood and non-blood relations,

to share a meal together and marvel in

our good fortunes individually and collectively;

and to make each other laugh.

 

Maybe conversations will be fiery,

hotter than the Turkey, saltier than

the beans, and tinged with enough

alcohol to illicit declarative statements

we’ll regret privately but never admit.

 

Maybe the true meaning of Thanksgiving

will reveal itself around a full table of laughter,

of love, in the quiet moments of peaceful collectivity,

in admiration of each other, without jealousy or

contempt, but with compassion and acceptance.

 

Thanksgiving might be about

the contemplation of each of the people

in our lives that have shown us the lessons

of peace and love that after all is said and done,

is the only consequence to be thankful for.

 

 

 

A Few Kind Words

 

I tell you about your beauty,

how you are a stunner, a gorgeous soul;

it’s not just a mindless waterfall

of compliments splashing on the rocks.

It’s all truth.

 

Earnest in my adoration,

clear in my praise,

honest in my admission,

and obviously lustily

longing for the same.

 

The eye of the beholder,

subjective as it is,

cannot deny how happy it makes me

to sugar you with heartfelt

pleasantries of excessive flirtations.

 

It is inappropriate.

It is not often said as

well as I would like,

but it is true,

a truth that burns my lips.

 

A stumblebum of the tongue,

prattling on about your

undeniable beauty while

constantly questioning my own

level of deserves.  

 

My enamored heart,

so taken with beauty,

is caged in ribs impervious,

it seems, to any reciprocal

expressions.

 

Eyes blinded by the finery

of physical perfection, coupled

with a full beating heart,

full of its own desires, wants,

and plans for the future.

 

Embarrassed by the flattery,

the beauty cowers in the dimness

of commonality, scared to provoke

any further feelings of untenable

desire.  

A New Place

 

The newest of sounds,

in the newest of places,

in unfamiliar creaks and

mysterious thuds.

 

A new place to call home,

to rest my head,

to put away the things

of troubled times.

 

A new canvass on which to

paint the very image of new

contentment, rather than the tired

Dorian Gray portrait of depression.

 

The relish of which I can now

traipse from room to room in unhindered

happiness, away from the noise and smells

of so many others, crammed in their own depressions.

 

Each noise is an adventure,

each morning a surprise,

each night an experiment,

each day something different.

 

A whole new place to

rest my tired head,

a space all of my own,

into a new stage of life I go.

 

The rush of a new floor underfoot,

the peace of a place in which

I am the director of destiny,

and unbeholden to any other whims.

 

Potentials present in every dream

of lazy summers in a yard hung hammock,

or cooling sitting in central cooled air,

or cooing coolly with a cool chickadee.

 

The newest of new,

all for me,

untapped, unseen,

in my new surrounds.

 

 

Happy Halloween!

 

On All Hallows Eve,

the blood will spill,

toes will curl and

screams for Candy will

punctuate the night.

 

Ghouls and monsters,

will harvest organs to

feast upon and Demons

will steal souls,

and maybe eat some candy corn.

 

An empty candy dish,

as horrific as the empty

eye sockets of shambling

zombie, in search of

delicious brains.

 

Halloween puns will

shock us, Shirley Temple of Doom

and Cereal Killers, One Night Stands,

and Nudists on Strike, will

haunt our perfect grammar dreams.

 

The sidewalks filled with

costumed horrors and

un-costumed terrors alike,

strolling about, seeking fulfillment

of their lust for sweets.

 

Nightmares spilled on

porches and steps,

up to doorways separating

the enchanted realms of realistic fantasy and

fantastical reality.

 

To be broken only by

a knocking spell and

the magic incantation of

“Trick or Treat”,

for something good to eat.

 

Happy Halloween!

May all your terrors be fun.

You’re Horrors genuine.

And the candy satisfying

the hole in your Boo-tiful soul.

 

The Wild Woods

 

The wild woods bristled

with ancient excitement,

as the trees settled into

their long silent slumber,

an Autumnal rest.

 

The roots, interconnected

across the forest floor,

sharing their slow dreams

of Springs and Summers

yet to come.

 

The trees skirted in

beautiful piles of orange,

yellows and burnt brown leaves,

in a ballroom of natural

delights.

 

The tree, bare,

stretching out knobby

tendrils towards the darkened

October sky. A teasing chill

blustering through the branches.   

 

The forest alive with color,

in the midst of hibernation,

electrifying imagination and

deathly allegories which humans are

so prone to entertain.

 

The trees only know,

in their secret language

what true horrors time

can cause. They know the

scent of impending terror.

 

An owl, hoots,

preparing for the night hunt,

in the empty limb of its treetop

abode, claws dug deep into the

bark.

 

A howling wind, rattling

the sleeping skeletons of the trees,

into the terrors of our own

limited imaginings and

pedantic paranoias.  

 

The woods,

wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Live!

 

The stairs creaked,

the floorboards groaned,

doors slammed,

windows rattled,

unknown footsteps in the attic.

 

Jumping at the gust of wind outside

as Autumn leaves rustled past in a swirling torrent

of Summer blasphemy.  

“Damn it,” Melvis shouts, as his nerves

are threadbare.

 

Flashlight beam quivering in

his shaking hand as he makes his

way through the old house.

He never should have bet those

other teenagers that he could spend

the night in the creepy Anderson place.

 

The decaying corpse of the famous

mansion, on the edge of town,

where old man Anderson killed his

family with a hatchet, as legend has it,

and hung them up in the wine cellar.

 

The house, amplifying his every footfall,

as he creeps through the house,

livestreaming on his phone,

trying to be cool, so his friends

don’t think he's afraid.

 

“Hey guys, it’s your boy, Melvis,” he says.

His voice, pretending to be brave, as he turns

the corner into the former music room,

where a rotting piano sits, ready for a

ghostly concerto to play.

 

A thud in the dark corner,

the dark, impossibly dark,

had there ever been such darkness,

“Yo, that’s really dark ya’ll,” he says,

as his livestream followers start

losing interest and start watching something else.

 

“Noooo,” screams Melvis, dropping top his knees.

But it’s too late.

No one cares. No one is watching.

The Horror.

The.

Horror.