Truth Scraps

maxresdefault


soundtrack “Master and a Hound” by Gregory Alan Osakoy

everything and everyone is stupid
This life is stupid, death is stupid
Everything that happens between birth and death is stupid

Politics is a lie
Spirituality is a lie
Sex is a lie
money is a lie

Love is over-rated
Blockbusters are over-rated
New and improved is over-rated
Guaranteed is over-rated

promises are meaningless
careers are meaningless
getting from here to there is meaningless
staying here is meaningless

trying to become something is boring
losing ones self in becoming something is boring
holding back is boring
getting pissed off is boring

newspapers, magazines, the nightly news is repetitive
Putting one foot in front of the other is repetitive
waking and sleeping is repetitive
Everything between waking and sleeping is repetitive

Starting over again is a waste
Believing it matters is a waste
Holding on to things is a waste
Trying to make a difference is a waste

Addiction is deceptive
bargaining with addiction is deceptive
not knowing is deceptive
knowing is deceptive

But you my love, are like my beer and my coffee
You never demand nor disappoint

You lead me on with your truth scraps
You bared yourself naked with authenticity
You said my poetry was like cotton candy
all sugar with no substance
and I said
I didn’t realize that poetry needed to be nutritious
your “out of the blue” honesty sealed my fate
our ending was now beginning

I don’t stand a ghost of a prayer
All my wishful thinking has lost its sparkle
I rub my chin, readjust my drooping pants
The many things left undone——-unsaid
linger like a fill in the blank quiz
I was never good at tests

Did I ever mention, I thought you to be pretty

Father-Son-Mother —(A Letter To Me)

Soundtrack “Colors” by Amos Lee

I have few regrets, but I sometimes feel a sadness when I think how you and I were never able to connect or understand one-another.  Perhaps Freud was right, that we become who we are at a very early age and we find ourselves locked into a fixed script.  And sometimes this makes it difficult to express the things that go unsaid. So, I want to say this, having you as my son has been and always will be the finest of gifts.  My favorite memories is the time spent doing little everyday things with you and your sister.  It’s funny, how it’s all the small things that comprise a full life.  I try my best to remember this in each draining moment.

I see pieces of me in you and I wonder if you see parts of you in me.  These days, I just carry little pieces of you from a distant past.  There are memories of that little baby I once held.  Then there’s the little boy whose hand I’d hold on walks in the woods. I carry the memory of teaching you how to tie your shoes and how to ride a bicycle.  Summer drives in grandpa’s truck down country roads lined with peach tree’s and blossoming almond orchards. Sharing holiday dinners at Nana’s old wooden dinner table. Goofy face photographs. Days at the beach and neon lite nights at the boardwalk, the smell of fried corndogs and sticky cotton candy. Waking up to a snow day with no school and skiing on fresh powder. Hikes in the Sierras and the scent of campfire smoke, musty tents, penny ante poker, Monopoly and watching the family dog sleep next to you. And, then there was a teen boy in a hurry to go out and challenge the boundaries of his world. When I turn down all the outside noise, I find myself asking, where has all the time gone?

As hard as one may try, you can never bring your children home again.  They have their own dreams and troubles that they must navigate.  So, I fight the current of time and want to try to make right the things that I may have missed or failed to do.  The middle years of a man’s life can often times be wasted worrying about careers, bills and trying to make something of himself through hollow achievements. Such deceptive mirages we foolishly chase. 

It’s a strange thing, me and my dad never really saw eye to eye.  We were just different in ways neither could explain. But, I knew he loved me and would do anything for me.  He made sacrifices for me and my sisters that I never understood until I was much older.  In spite of it all, and buried beneath it all, we had a love that only a family can share.  I feel this love towards you and wanted you to know that.  And that’s the simple truth.

I remember when my mom passed away, and how at some weird level I was relieved.  This thought left me feeling guilty.  I vacillated between anger and a morose acquiescence as she became weak and frail. She never complained even though she was in a huge amount of pain and relying on morphine to stave off the misery.  I should have been braver and held her hand.  I should have told her how much I loved her and that she was the best mother I could ever of had.  I should have told her that if she needed to go, I understood and that she would always be missed.  I should have told her not to worry about me and that her family would be fine.  But I hid behind my fear, believing she must already know these things, pretending I’d still have time to say the things that needed to be said——-how fucking stupid was that.  

I apologize if this letter comes off awkward and overly forthright.  I suppose I wrote it as much for you, as for myself———You see, this letter is an exercise in trying to find ways to be more courageous with my love.  

“All go to the same place. All came from the dust and all return to the dust.” Ecclesiastes 3:20

What kind of holy book explains life and death in such a flippant manner? I don’t understand.


Fear and Dread

Soundtrack New Tattoo by Brian Duinne

Sharing thoughts, sharing feelings, sharing ideas is such a fine thing.  These connections are what friendships are built on, and if you can’t find friendship in another, then you’ll never find love there either.  People can let you down in a million different ways, but indifference, or disinterest in what makes you feel alive is the most painful.  Connection and trust is the tearing down of walls with a sledge hammer made of vulnerability

We are all so alone in this thing called life.  We need someone to hear us, to feel us, to hold us.  We need something deeper than skin and bone, we need someone so close that we share a common breath.  We carry around so much fear and dread. But please don’t let past faux pas keep you from reaching out.  I got my own funny ways, things that might scare another away. But, I’ll put it out there all the same.  There’s an art to everything, even the broken find refuge just outside the corners of loneliness.  Thanks for seeing through my bravado. Maybe you’re pretending too?

Make no mistake, life isn’t hard, nor is it easy——-it just is.  It’s what you mold it into or what you allow it to mold you into. Spin your heart and see if it lands on love. 

It’s my devils, demons and the holy ghost that fuel my powers.

I’m an old rusting train in a world now made for jet planes and freeways. Trains have a soul of their own as they rock and rumble along. I might be old fashioned and slow, but don’t doubt my veracity, cause I’ve got my sword, my shield, and my rebel wear. 

Rutabagas and Wall to Wall Mirrors

th

Do you ever just get tired of yourself?  I do.  I wake up sometimes and really want to make some radical changes in my life.  I want to be a better person. I want to start exercising, maybe even join a gym.  I hate gyms though, everyone there looks so fit and healthy.  When I exercise my hair looks like I just walked out of a tornado, the waistband on my sweatpants are all twisted and drooping revealing my boxer shorts.  My shirt is drenched in patches of sweat and I smell like an old wet dog.  The gym’s are narasitially plastered with wall to wall mirrors——Who’s that old guy stumbling about on the treadmill? Is that me? ——-Couldn’t be! ———Really? ———Pathetic!

And then I flirt with the idea of becoming a vegetarian.  It’ll be better for my over all health and I’d be reducing my carbon footprint by not eating flatulent cows.   There’s only one catch, I don’t care for most vegetables.  Whoever came up with the names for vegetables doesn’t understand the value of good packaging and marketing.  Who wants to eat something called a cumquat or a squash, or for that matter——-an eggplant? Eggplant is a misleading name, as there are no eggs to speak of in an eggplant.  I won’t even go into the name “arugula”.  It sounds like the name of a country in the middle east. At least put the product in a nice colorful box with a photo of the perfect veggie on the cover. Units that are not uniform in color, shape and size are to be summarily relegated to the dumpster. Stress the terms such as “natural”, “mother nature” and “pure”. Refrain from mentioning anything regarding pesticide residue, GMO’s, salmonella or chemicals used to create that shiny sheen on each unit.

Rebrand vegetables with new presentations and names.  How about renaming the “crooked neck squash” as the “Careening Yellow Swan”.  On the packaging include recipes such as “The Carmel Dipped Swan Of Paradise”.  I’d eat something like that.  But of course, I’d like to pair it with a glass of exotic red wine with a french name I can’t pronounce. 

Maybe it’s the change of season that’s got me in a funk.  The days are getting shorter and it’s rainy and gloomy out.  I wish I had a holy book to turn to when I’m feeling lost and alone.  Something like the Bible, the Koran, the Book of Mormon or even the goofy Scientology book.  None of them have brought me any solace or provided meaning to my life.  I’ve yet to find an owners manual or user’s guide to help me get my shit together.  I’m as lost and confused as I was at sixteen. At least then I had more time to figure things out. I still have no idea “What’s it all about?”.  I’ve pretty much given up on organized religion, political systems and the morning weatherman——-they’re all overrated propaganda.  I guess I’ll just have to get use to accepting the absurdity of life, death and all the B.S. that comes in-between the two.  

You probably have no idea what I’m ranting about, but that’s not your fault, I’m the confused crazed one.  You’re my surrogate friend with whom I share my secret fears and dark dreams. Hopefully I haven’t scared you off too.  Sometimes I feel like I’ve changed and grown a lot over the last fifty years, and then at other times I feel like I’m the same kid of sixteen waiting for my life to fall into place——it’s been a long wait and things tend to be spiraling towards entropy.  I’m somewhere between middle age and old and decrepit. I’m not sure what to do with the time I have left.  I do want to become a better person———compared to what or whom I’m not sure.  I suppose it’s the little things that help us all become more evolved human beings. Things like kindness, compassion and the capacity to laugh at oneself. Humor is nutrition for the soul. 

Here’s to carrots, treadmills and wall to wall mirrors.