We must have a long talk on all these things, even though there is no answer at the end of the stammering and good intentioned pledges.  We’ll just walk and talk never knowing where it’s all leading. We’ll open up, share a laugh and resurrect our forlorn secrets about first loves, ——-lost loves—— and those forbidden loves that don’t stand a chance——-these loves are always the deepest of the deep. I put up with the day to day bullshit, with all its tedium and pain, if only to have another teaspoon of her. The kiss intended for her is now covered in dust. But, if that kiss were ever reclaimed from the janitors lost and found closet, it would be tainted with the taste of Lysol and Bleach. And perhaps that explains why the smell of cleansers make me horny.

I measure my worth by the longevity of my friendships, and you are unmistakably one of the remaining few. I scare most off with my “unconventional ways”——-which is a nice way of saying I’m “weird”—— too intense, awkward, strange, vulnerable, unpredictable, complex, infuriating, difficult, opinionated and hard to get close too. And my list of bad qualities is the flip side of societies constrained definition of normality. I’d rather be a freak—–instead of another sheep.

Let’s take a “trust walk” back to that street where we grew up, back to those hard learned lessons. Where we first discovered we were different from the rest. We told the bullies to fuck off, cause we’re proud motha-fuckas, not needing anyones approval or acceptance. Lonely people sacrifice their true identity to find companionship—-but I’ve never been lonely. In fact, being around people usually leaves me feeling fatigued and ironically alone. Hung across the door of my soul is a sign that reads “No Soliciting”. I observe, I wonder and then I write shit down. Fiction, non fiction, they’re just stories we tell ourselves. Fuck it! Smile for the camera. Perhaps, today will someday be our “good ole days?” Our “Camelot”. But for now, meaning is slippery, truth malleable and love overrated except for movies, songs and wet dreams. Forbidden fantasies is all that holds my evaporating life together.  

It’s another late afternoon, filled with a Sunday sadness, those long summer shadows overtaking my half written poems and one sided prayers. This time of day inspires nothing, but rather leaves me feeling all but forgotten, like a silent scream underwater. I want to light my words on fire, but my words like you, are out of reach——-as distant as dry lightening, like the space between what is, what use to be or what could have been?——- I’v grown weary of trying to bridge these ever expanding gaps. This life has become a Rubik’s cube in the hands of a blind man.

When does hope trade places with apathy and love become a panhandling beggar? I’m not sorry, if the things I say no longer reach you. My words like a dull blade run across your jugular, scarlet ribbons running down my hands….

Words, words, words——they twist and turn in the wind—-they can be so vague and misleading, but when used with skill and art-fullness, they can sing with such eloquence that they cut straight to the heart bypassing our clever minds. Some think in words, some feel in words——but words are flawed representations, sometimes it’s all cold left overs and truth scraps.

My love is like a mime, it requires no words.

Victor S. Uriz II