Endure, we’re all seeking to endure——-like a stationary pine tree trying to out run a forest-fire. It’s not fair that out of control forest fires are called wildfires and are measured by the acres of forest they feed on; but tree’s are measured by the rings that spiral our from their center. Tree’s don’t have a heart that beats, but they have sap for tears, slow motion tears dripping down their bark like skin.
I never really considered a tree being a tree, nothing more—- nothing less——-no different I suppose than you and I——nothing more, nothing less. I sat and stared at a tree today. It was windy out, and I watched as it swayed and danced in the breeze. I listened to the wind through its branches, and it sang a sweet song. I never consider the songs of a tree—-it made me smile. Native Americans believed that all things——-tree’s, boulders, bears, all have souls——-and maybe they’re right. One religion holds no moral high ground over any other religion. Praying, meditation, fasting, wind through a pine tree——-they’re all, more or less, the same.
I talk to tree’s, I listen to the secret language of rushing rivers, I thank the sun for her warmth, I let the stars guide me. Most call this crazy talk, but this comes from the ones handcuffed to their cell phones, imprisoned by made up virtual worlds——we’re all, more or less, crazy.
If Jesus could walk on water, then why is it strange to believe that trees can sing?
“Looking at life from a different perspective makes you realize that it’s not the deer that is crossing the road, rather it’s the road that is crossing the forest.” – Muhammad Ali
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.
I can’t go back in time so I keep moving. My movement isn’t always forward, sometimes it’s backwards, sometimes in a circle. Movement offers me a false sense of progress. This life seldom dispenses second chances, it offers up lessons. I keep moving, I keep reaching out.
It’s a lonely quest, scavenging through life in search of purpose, love and someone to relate to. To be understood is to be loved. To expect to be understood is “crazy”. If you want to be loved in spite of all your weird idiosyncrasies and foibles, adopt a rescue dog. If you want to be exploited and abused, allow a cat to adopt you…Relationships are built on such subtle differences. Friends will change without telling you, others may ghost you for unknown reasons and some pass away never to be seen again———at least not in this life.
I worry, “Did I let everyone I love know how much I appreciate them in my life (Note to self, tell everyone I appreciate them in my life, excluding those occasional assholes). I fret over the thought that perhaps I never let my parents know how much I respected and loved them. We become so accustom to our parents unconditional love, that it’s easy to take this gift for granted. My parents stuck by me, in-spite all my stupid life decisions. Time goes by quickly, words are free, don’t hold back——let those you care for, know how much you love them.
These days I lack a meaningful connections with others,…….Maybe I could better define this malady as a disassociation syndrome. In other words, so many things no longer fit together—My “Why’s” far out weigh my “How’s”……..The veneer of this thing called reality is wearing thin. Everything seems so unreal and strange to me. I stumble about thinking, “Is this the way things are supposed to be?” “Is this the way I supposed to be?” We all have our own brand of craziness, we just become comfortable by wrapping it in our own private shiny distractions. If you don’t know how the trick is done, then it’s magic——misdirection, sleight of hand, illusion, Love?? Life??
You’ve been asking for it, so I’m going to give it to you. Call it Karma, universal reciprocity, poetic justice, what goes around comes around———So, here ya go sucker; you ought to have been more careful with what you asked for, because now you’re getting it! So much, for your dime store prayers.
Look at what you’ve done to one another. You’ve let your anger, hatred and bad intentions rule your actions. You’re extremely adept at finding reasons to justify hurting, wounding, maiming and killing one another. I don’t know if it’s your anger, fear or ignorance that’s made you become so unkind and dispassionate towards one another. Deep down in your psyche you despise those different than you. You’ve turned your world into an “us against them proposition”——simplifying everything down to the self righteous creed, “We’re right—–you’re wrong”. When others think, look, act or believe in things different than you, then you are against them. You’ve defined those from a different country than yours as being “aliens”. Even though it’s just an arbitrary line drawn on a map separating “you” from “them”. You declare, “This is our country not your’s!” If someone worships a different god than you, then you call them a heathen. You define those that speak a different language, or march beneath a different flag, or have a different color skin as being inferior. You demand that they subjugate to your superiority. So much for wars and your prayers for victory over others.
You’re an ungrateful bunch of hooligans. You’ve fouled the air and polluted the oceans, turning your beautiful blue planet into a dying cesspool. The animals I’d given you dominion over you’ve abused and mistreated. It’s no wonder you’ve been evicted from the garden of Eden. So much, for your stewardship over nature.
I’ve watched you drop bombs on each other, gas one another, incinerate one another, slaughter one another, kill each other in senseless and endless wars. In the streets you’ve robbed, raped, beat, shot, strangled, kidnapped and murdered one another. When I created you I had such great hopes for your kind. But your god has become greed, addiction, lust, jealousy, fear, hate, anger, power, materialism, self righteousness and self centeredness. And so much, for breaking my heart.
Turn on your big screen TV’s and watch the the 24 hour news cycle as a pretty newscaster blandly reports that days dose of carnage and cruel brutality. When will it ever end? Insanity has become normalcy. Violence has replaced civility. Power has been substituted for empathy. Complacency and apathy has replaced compassion. Turn your fucking TV off, stop the madness, it’s poisoning your soul.
As I originally said, you’ve been asking for it, so as your creator I’m giving it to you. I’m bestowing upon your crazy ass race of people the Corona Virus. You’ve chosen to put wedges between one another, so I’ll make where you can no longer touch one another without fear of dying. You’ll no longer be able to breathe the same air in the fear that you might become infected. Hand shakes, hugs and togetherness will be outlawed. You’ll need to keep a distance between you and all other humans. Kissing will be banned. Because you’ve chosen angry words and sneers over cooperations and unity, you’ll now be forced to wear a mask to cover your spiteful mouths. Where there once was love there will now be loneliness, where there once was unity there will be solitude and where there once was hope there will only be despair. Between your rage and fear of self and others, there lies opportunity——opportunities to either nudge the human race towards good or evil.
“And God saw every thing that he had made, and, behold, it was no longer good. And on the eighth day God shook his head and let out a sigh as he muttered, “Back to the drawing board, back to the drawing board.” And so much, for the human race……..
The breath of early June is in the air, so sweet, so warm——-laced with the scent of lilacs.The evening breeze ruffled through my hair, for me, this is the fairest time of day.Thinking back, her face resembled someone with a hybrid pedigree, part French, part gypsy——-a precocious child of the Greek God Hedone.She hid unspoken promises and dirty secrets behind her waning smile.She must of thought I was a pervert because when she noticed me staring at her, she gave me the stink eye.
I liked the way she stroked a pool cue and the way her cleavage was exposed when bending over the perfectly lit pool table.She took her shot with blue cigarette smoke hallowed around her. She spoke softly with an exotic accent from an unknown foreign land. It didn’t even matter what she had to say, I just liked listening to her hypnotic voice.Then she screeched, “What are you looking at weird-o?” I knew right then and there, this was not going to have a 1940’s happily-ever after movie ending.But I was already in way too deep to back down now. The shot of tequila burned the back of my throat. I knew I wasn’t going home until either I made her, or she made a fool out of me.
She was like an old fashion vinyl record, something that needed to be treated with reverence and handled with sensitively——-to hurry and fumble with her would only leave an indelible scare on something of such perfection. She’s a song I’d never grow tired of.Pretty girls grow old, but good songs never do.She had me humming “Girl From The North Country”.
Her rose colored lipstick clung to an empty shot glass. She wasn’t one of those chardonnay sipping bores easily impressed with stock-market babel, she craved the excitement that came with jazz musicians, black magic dealers and men who knew what they wanted and how to get it. My palms were sweaty, my heart pounding as my libido pushed me forward.I prowled about in a circle at the edges of her perimeter.I threw back another shot and walked on over to her and with a pandering voice asked her to dance. She shook her head no.Shaken and perplexed I blurted out, “Okay, how bout an an arm wrestle?”She didn’t answer, she just spit on her palms, rubbed her hands together and then stretched out her small manicured fingers——-at least I was touching her flesh, even if it were in a contest of strength and courage. She dipped her head down and then locked her eyes on mine in an intimate manner. Neither one of us allowed ourselves to blink.
Her hand felt soft and warm.I applied pressure and she responded with a quiver in her grip.I felt the momentum moving in my favor as her forearm began to falter. From under the cocktail table she allowed her soft warm inner thigh to rub up against my knee. That poor cotton summer dress didn’t stand a chance, inching up closer and closer, slowly giving way.She looked up at me with those fucking eyes——she wasn’t playing fair, she played dirty——Goddamn, losing never felt so good. From the jukebox the song “Bitter Sweet Surrender” blared—–her leg began to mercilessly move in rhythm with the song. For God’s sake, she was taking advantage of me, breaking me down.
My forehead glistened with sweat, my bicep began to tremble——my trousers grew even tighter. She had me, she knew it——-She teased me——moving in a little——moving out a little—there was a wave of tension leading to a singe point of no return.She was unexpectedly much stronger than she first appeared to be—–isn’t that the way of all woman.
They tore down that old bar where we use to hangout. It was a place where we spent many a night laughing and getting drunk. I have a memory of us dancing beneath a streetlamp at two in the morning. She had the power to turn a dark dank alley into a place where broken glass, dumpsters and the sound of screeching car tires became a stage for danger and romance.—— Yes, I said romance, minus the stench of stale piss.