Never fall in love with a girl in the checkout line. Actually, I’d fallen in love with her somewhere between the lentil beans and the egg noodles. I’d followed her down all the grocery isles from the bakery and deli case to the vegetable section. I knew it was creepy, but I just couldn’t stop myself as I watched her fondle the crooked neck squash and those fortunate cumquats.
Is it possible to fall for someone who buys tofu and then turns around and buys cheese whiz in the can——I can’t help but love a fellow conflicted soul. There was something irresistible in her smile, something undefinable about the way she moved——part graceful ballerina and part sensual pole dancer. Is it possible to fall in love with the way someone walks, their scent, the way they read the label on the box of Hamburger Helper? She elevated the rigors of shopping to a thing of eroticism. Oh my god, the way she sashayed behind that squeaky shopping cart was enough to make the bag boys split their sacks and spill their heavy cream.
I wanted to talk to her the way people talk in movies. I wanted to be funny and interesting, profound and witty—-but all that came out was some pathetic mumble about the weather. She responded with indifference, nonchalantly turning away to check her cell phone, a polite way of saying fuck off——- or code for “leave me alone you weirdo”.
I awkwardly looked down at my grocery cart with its random contents; two quarts of beer, generic toilet paper, a single banana and a can of refried beans,——my glum life summed up within a losers grocery list. I fidgeted for a minute, hoping to come up with a clever redemptive line——nope, not today. Feeling dejected, I exited the check outline and headed down the soup isle. In a world of grommet soup flavors, I felt like that dusty ole can of bland chicken stock. Now I know why they call it the “checkout” line.
So often we forget to live. Instead we carry on as if life were a drudgery, as if love were mundane, as if our time were infinite. That is the gravest of sins; to forget to be alive, to neglect the sensation that comes with breathing. Sometimes when I feel my life being siphoned away, I think of you. I force myself to think of the first time I kissed you. I think of how you tasted, the scent of your perfume and how your body fit so well into mine. I think about it in the most minuet detail, the way the morning sunlight fell upon your bare skin, the smell of ocean in your hair, the way your eyes locked into mine, your childlike smile. I stay in this place until it hurts, until I think I might lose myself in the undertow of your memory. It’s like that reoccurring dream I have where I’m trapped deep underwater and I’m struggling to reach the surface. I look up and can only make out what appears to be a distant blurry surface. And, I know you are there waiting for me. My lungs feel as if they might burst, my mind and body are starved for oxygen. Every cell in my body screams out for a sip of air. My legs and arms strain as I flail and kick upward towards the shimmering surface of you. Time passes agonizingly slow, I am stymied by fear and panic, and then suddenly, like the flick of a switch, I sit up in my bed and suck in a huge gasp of air—but you still aren’t there. I’ve forgotten how to pray, or how to be alive without you near me. I toss and turn in my bed, a stray dog incessantly barks against the night.
The soundtrack to this piece is “You & I” by One Direction. The post is to be read while listening to this tune.
Some will make you believe in love again, and cause you to hear bluebirds singing right outside your bedroom window and you’ll rise to crimson skies and smell the refreshing scent of lilacs floating on cool morning breezes. Love wakes you to life, and where there is love, there is no need for purpose, precautions or possessions, nor drama, pretense or pretending. When it makes no sense, that’s when it’s at its best. Give yourself to such moments, declare a union, commit to an alliance, scream it from behind your window blinds—-only fools limit themselves to those who are possessed by reason, logic and timid passions—— all their nothingness smothering their life force——what is love but the stepchild of fear—— a smoldering fuse waiting to ignite starbursts—-and if it should rain there will be rainbows, cause love is sappy and corny and ridiculous that way. It will cause you to use language in new ways, you will write love letters on unicorn stationary and sign off with X’s and O’s—— hearts——envelopes sealed with a kiss, embossed with burning red lipstick——dripping with honey…..
It’ll blind your eyes, like shiny shards of glass flashing and then suddenly exploding in tremendous balls of whiteness somewhere behind your eyes. I’m broken, I’m drained, but I’d know your face from past life dreams, a thousand lives deep, I wonder what’s beneath that skirt, cause I’m into that, I’d tell you lies if I thought they’d do the trick, to get you alone, to get you to discard your clothes and lay next to me, naked, damp and all a quiver—-and you’d only be wearing a perfect dirty smile—-
We won’t become like the rest of them. The ones bored to the touch of the other, forgetting how to hold, how to fall asleep in love and wake together in a tangle of sweat stained sheets.
This life is your story, nothing more, nothing less. Tell it with boldness, kiss no ones ass, go down swinging, don’t let anyone still your glory or run you ragged>>>>>>never waste time on the bland and the blind, cause you’ll never get that time back…..
Soundtrack “Fire”. Go to “View Original” and then press play before reading.
Trapped inside ourselves, this is it, the unsolved puzzle we must learn to live with, to struggle with and sometimes against, faith is encrypted with voodoo, the supernatural and magic are difficult to untwine, truth is temporary and dissolving, love like Atlantis lies hidden beneath myth and fantasy. Every love story is a ghost ship——a weary captain keeps night watch—–lost on rolling seas—-why do these tattered sails push us ever closer to the edge——towards oblivion. No matter how hard you may try, some worlds will always be flat.
All of that which is true, is what works for a moment, be it love, science or salvation. Allow love to find you——be in love with something or someone before you cease, before all that you are sails off the edge. That’s all I know, cause upon second glance everyone loses their battle with gravity.
So this is middle age, unexpected, unpredictable, with all those promised existential unanswered questions. With age has come the harsh realization that I will never fully know another, at least not in the way youth had once opened up friends and lovers to me. Does age make us cautious, suspicious——to many broken bones, careless wounds and loves left undone—-if she should read this, she’d hurt what I felt. She interpreted my words better than I, although the poetry came through me, it was born of her, such a mysterious muse, mi amore.
God plays tricks on us all, allowing the fictions of falling through time and occupying space, as we grapple with this thing called life. Come walk with me, and let us pretend our love goes on forever and ever——-beyond the map, and then together we’ll pass through to the other-side of oblivion*****
Soundtrack, These Days by Jackson Browne, go to “original post” press play and listen while reading—
Don’t ever let anyone tell you how to write poetry, not a teacher, not a book, a professor, a famous poet or some hip instructional manual touting “Poetry Made Easy”. Poetry is anything but easy, it’s floating to the surface in a bubble while praying that the pressure from the outside doesn’t become stronger than the pressure from within, it’s a tenuous balance——-in that stillness you’ll hear every creak and groan as you strain to hold yourself together….
There’s things deep down there that are bigger and wilder than you could ever possibly imagine. Its the stuff your conscious mind keeps chained and shackled and out of the reach of that prison we’ve come to accept as reality. There are frightening things down there—-bizarre things, sea monsters, demons, the eight armed Kracken reaching out for you, mountains of madness, deserts of despair, volcanoes spewing red rivers of woe. You may have convinced yourself that you’re in control, but mister let me tell ya, those reins are loose and easily snapped.
I dare ya to hold your breath and dive down into that murky deep. No one can stay down there for long—-some become entangled, confuse up with down—— they lose their way, they panic with eyes bulging, lungs bursting, blood streaming from ringing ears—- solitarily drowning in a sea of conceit. Down there you’ll come to know things that the faux world above could never teach you. But there’s a high price for trespassing into those depths——— “Enter at your own risk, Dangerous rip tides, No life guard on duty”.
Be advised: if ya poke around down there long enough you may bump into who you thought you were, maybe even a god or two—-and if you’r lucky, a kind familiar voice….These things that germinate in the dark are ironically impossible to see in the light—-it’s like the dark matter that comprises the majority of our universe—-these things are difficult to understand for simple creatures such as us, who are accustomed to composing reality from our puny five senses.
Some are contented to sit and stare at their reflection on the surface. But, if you’re a poet, then you need to take that perilous plunge. Leave behind your holy books, shots of whiskey, rosary, zen bells, mantras and slide rules, they have no power down here, in fact they’ll only camouflage your destiny.
Don’t let anyone tell you how to write poetry. Everyone has their own unique journey, you must find your own Dharma, your own Tao. The funny thing is—-as soon as you stop trying, it will flow through you——. Be still in that tiny bubble of yours, take the road less traveled, refuse to go gently into that dark night——find what you love and let it kill you, and burn, burn, burn, like a fabulous yellow roman candle that explodes like spiders across the stars———Pop*******
And so we give up on dreams—-and sometimes even on love—-just one trifling morsel at a time. We trade them away for security, so as to not appear the fool, to be accepted, to fit in. Love is not being accepted, nor is life about fitting in—no, it’s being drenched in petrel and then set afire.
As far as anyone knows, we are only given this one life—and that’s what makes it precious—–we are all perishable—- one moment at a time—- Keep this in mind, as I implore you to ignite your dreams and to set a hopeless love ablaze. Do this before it’s to late, do this before they suffocate beneath civil manners and polite obligations. Make no mistake, nothing is forever. There is no one here to protect us, but maybe the threadbare scraps of secondhand truths. I pray for faith,—-such a sublime oxymoron.
Oh my god, where does hope go, inspiration withers with age and now we find ourselves, no longer so very brave.
A belly laugh is better than an orgasm. I’m not talking about a giggle, a snicker, or a leisure guffaw—no I’m talking about a drop to your knees, fall on your back, tears streaming down your cheeks, face twisted into contortions, uncontrolled howling, floor pounding, rib splitting, muscle contracting hysteria. Although many of these physical gyrations are quiet similar to someone experiencing an orgasm, a belly laugh does not lead to accidental pregnancies, broken hearts or STD’s. If they could bottle the stuff, it would fly off the shelf like squirting flowers, exploding golf balls and handshake buzzers—–
What’s even better yet, is when you’re laughing so hard that you forget what you’re laughing about, and this causes you to laugh even harder about laughing at nothing. Or, how bout that little chortle that gets out of control at the most inappropriate time, such as a funeral, or a court appearance, or during an intimate moment. Unexpectedly, that innocent chuckle goes from being a suppressed snicker into a full blown crack up. Why fight it, go ahead and give into the pandemonium, it’s sure to break up the boredom. Come on, allow yourself to let go. Embrace the madness, the delirium and the ecstasy that comes with accepting the horror, humor and pointlessness of it all. Meaningless laughter is nirvana, its like watching god sit on a Whoopi cushion—-a holy Whoopi cushion—-ya-ought of seen the look on his face…
The joke is on you, it’s called life. It’s in the darkness, the light, the broken, the frozen, the holy men and hooligans, grifters, grafters, carnival barkers, bonkers, brokers, bankers, swindlers, smokers, jokers, jugglers and joggers (I was going for a little Dr Sues humor there, rim shot please!). Our only defense is to offer up a quick wit because funny is everywhere—that is, if you’re looking in the right places. To prove this point, I double dog dare ya to watch an episode of the Three Stooges, there’s just something hilarious about someone getting hit on the head with a hammer. Or, who could forget Jackie Gleason and the Honeymooners, “Bang zoom—-To the moon Alice”.
Humor is about letting go of control. It’s about going in for the kill, finding an opening and saying something everyone knows, but most are afraid to admit. Humor is based on stripping away all the crap we accept as normal and shining a light into the darkest corners of the psyche—this is where the clowns, jesters and harlequins live. Comedy comes to life when you drop all false pretenses and see things for what they are—-or for what they ain’t. Somewhere buried beneath our hidden flaws and secret doubts resides the absurdity of it all. Life is to short and uncertain to be glum and uptight. Jobs are stupid, sex is weird, marriage a joke, politics a circus, religion absurd, racism, sexism and biases make us out to be fools. We’re all just passing through—so I pray that in god’s good time all will be forgotten and forgiven—–in the meantime I choose laughter.
Life is a series of punchlines waiting to be delivered. It’s all about timing. Suddenly a door will open and you can drop that bomb that makes everyone see the insanity we are swimmin in e.g. What is the last thing a fish becomes aware of? Water. Remember this, if you have to explain a joke, then it’s not funny—if you have to justify your life, then you’re hanging around the wrong people—-”Laugh and world laughs with you, cry and”—-well you can see where I’m going with this line of reasoning. Find reasons to laugh—laugh at yourself—laugh at friends—laugh to keep from crying…..Open the door on that tiny clown car and watch all the funnyness come tumbling out.
Humor is life’s natural coping mechanism. It helps us through the loneliness, the fool heartedness and blatant futility of it all. Laughter levels the playing field, it reveals how we are all more alike than different, how we’re all fighting similar battles, fumbling towards love and companionship, bailing water from our sinking ships.
“Now, listen up ladies and germs.”
There’s many reasons to cross a road, but I’ll leave you with this one, “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
Please feel free to insert your own punch line here.
My answer—Because it’s funnier on the other side.Cluck Cluck—
Looking west from Carson Valley towards the east slope of the Sierra’s, First Day of spring, even winter is persuaded to change, listening to Pat Metheny–
Please, no snide comments about the “Nice Ass”——hahahah
Out here there’s a black and whiteness to it all. Slow gray clouds ponder their descension and final farewell to winter’s skies. They’ve come here to die, to rain down on the brownish sand and yellow sagebrush, because becoming a part of something new and different is the way of dyeing and rebirth. Being a part of everything, belonging to nothing—-I know how this feels. We don’t lose our way, we just move on to other things—a change in direction, a change in the relationship to other people, places and time. The sandstone cliffs look on with tired eyes, they conceal a millennium of wisdom stored in their souls. Even mute stones have souls that stir, and if you’d of taken the time to become aquatinted with them, you too might understand these most uncommon things.
Out here, is where I come to do my thinking, to be cut out of myself, to be torn up and pasted back together——and when the pieces no longer fit, it is then I know that I’m moving on, I am letting go of my cloud-ness. I never know what I may become out here, maybe a raven, a coyote or just alone—-With only myself watching myself, I have nothing here to hide….I can become whatever or whoever I choose—
To some I only exist in my relation to them. A brother, a father, a friend, a sinner—-a saint? And what am I to you? Being cast into your statue of stone is so limiting, so confining. These are the things I consider when I’m out here—-ya see, out here footprints turn into paw prints or vanish all together—-as if carried away on the wing of a hawk.
It’s going to be a long Friday, snowy and white, listening to my radio, drinking my coffee, carrying on conversations with myself, sharing stories with my Black Lab named Chase.
“Ya ever heard the one about the man who thought he could fly”—–And the dog said “No”.
I climb on his back as we take to the sky, letting the thermals carry us away….
My soul has grown to frayed and warn to carry me comfortably—-pieces of me seep from its cracked walls and leak onto the floor, I’d need a soul-horn to squeeze back into that old life—time moves us on—. With corpses come flowers, freshly cut and ready to die—. For some, love becomes only a word, four letters, uttered with the sincerity of a grocery clerks “have a nice day”. What a trite and meaningless salutation, What’s my other option?—Have a bad day? In-spite of my failing words and their treacherous rabbit holes, I do still love you—I have no other option====
I think the two of us should take the day off, walk around in faded wrinkled pajamas, sitting face to face, two miss matched coffee cups, all sheepish grins and tousled bed-heads, two unclaimed valentines, no return addresses, awkwardly belonging to one another, hearts locked on spin cycle, outcasts in a world consumed by trends and fads, our kind of love never pales or goes out of style, sitting beside one another watching the sky snow, taking it all in–holding hands in silence, best friends communicating with drowsy morning eyes-
We’ll watch “Harold and Maude” and dig Cat Stevens, we can bake hot gooey brownies and wiggle our toes as we wash-em down with ice cold milk, and then take a vanilla scented bubble bath—candles flicker, bubbles burst—-we’re the lucky ones—–knowing that nothing, or no one, can take these moments from us—all else is broken glass, flashing in the sun, glimmering and shattered, inconsequential-
My music and spoken work projects are available at cdbaby.com, Artist Victor Uriz My novel and book of prose are available at amazon.com, Author Victor Uriz
Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 