I resigned myself to the fact that life wasn’t going to be neither easy nor hard. Nature is indifferent to moods and emotions, everything is, as it is. Fill the emptiness with what you choose yourself to be.
With a tone of scorn and eyes conveying pity I’ve been called “sensitive”. I hate the term sensitive, it brings to mind weakness and vulnerability. To write a poem requires guts. To paint a picture requires vision. To play the blues is to open up ones soul and expose a heart callused and gnarled. To put pen to paper and write is fool hearted and as brave as taking off all your clothes and running down main street bare-ass naked. We’re all awkward and sensitive when naked. Most will point and snicker, but few will understand.
I suppose the opposite of sensitive would be insensitive, indifferent and selfish. Imagine being described as a sweet fellow——-but so terribly insensitive, indifferent and selfish. The worlds full of bleached out souls afraid to air their feelings. These are the ones who lean on trite “Hallmark Cards” to express their orphaned emotions.
I ain’t sensitive, I’m the underdog in a prize fight. I’m the guy that’s willing to take a hundred punches so I can get one in of my own. I’m not particularly fast or talented, but I can take a punch. I’ll weave and bob my way into the face of any dumb ass critique. I’ll shove them against the ropes and whisper in their ear “Is that all ya got?”. My eyes might be swollen shut and my nose may be bloodied, but you’ll have to take me out in a stretcher before I’ll give up. I’ve done my work in the gym. I’ve done my early morning roadwork. I’ve pounded that heavy bag until my fists bled. I’ve hit that speed bag until it became a blur. I’ve earned this chance. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited for my opening. I’m one dangerous motherfucker, I’m one of those with nothing left to lose. I’ll hit that son of a bitch right on the jaw with a right hook. I’ll watch him crumble like a sheet of bad poetry headed for the waste basket.
People don’t drown cause they can’t swim, they drown cause they can’t hold their breath long enough. And brother, I can go forever on one breath.
This one’s for all the old couples who stuck it out through the hard times.
I’m tired of you
Being tired of me
I’m tired of me
Being tired of you
You forgive me
I forgive you (2X)
Your my friend and lover
I’m your lover and friend
We’re still together
Cause we’ve learned how to bend
Wrote you a love song
Wrote me a letter
Some loves fall apart==but
We’re better off together
We can take bike
We can take a bus
Enjoy the ride
Don’t get in a rush
Come on to bed
Don’t make a fuss
Shut off those lights
I’m gonna make ya blush
I’ve been wrong
A few times right
You’ve been right
A few times wrong
After all our trials
Our loves like a sweet song
Playing on a country station (2x)
Gave me a kiss, and a hug
Gave ya a hug, and a kiss
Turn tears to laughter
Cause it’s better than being pissed
Doubts and questions
We’ve had a few
But, you still love me
And, I still love you
We can take a Harley
We can take a bus
Enjoy the ride
Don’t get in a rush
Come on to bed
Don’t make a fuss
Shut off those lights
We’ll polish off the dust
I’m gonna make ya blush
There should be a little bit of nothingness in all our lives I’m talking about the nothingness that my lazy ass cat shamelessly flaunts She could care less about worries, victories or life goals She’s at her best when doing absolutely nothing She sleeps when she wants to sleep She eats when she wants to eat She yawns, stretches, then takes another nap in a sunbeam What others may think of her, does not concern her If you get on her nerves she’ll put her ass up in your face To remind ya who’s the boss She squints her eyes like Clint Eastwood, as if to say “kiss my ass” Woman are like cats, fickle, complacent, impossible to figure out and even harder to please A pissed off woman is a frightening thing There’s “mean” and then there’s “woman mean” They’re more interested in being right, than being happy You’ll never out-talk or out-argue a woman They’ll always get the “last word” They’ll smirk, pout and then vindictively proclaim “I told ya so” They find contentment in the nothingness that fills their nothing-less day It’s all too much, causing a man to mutter, stammer and cus under their defeated breath——sheeeet! But when a man needs a woman, he’ll act a fool You’ll see him heel at her side like an obedient dog on a short leash She’ll yank on that choker-chain every now and again to keep him in his place Men will connive, lie and feign politeness in a futile attempt to get into a woman’s heart—or more importantly, their pants So, ya buy them jewelry, take them out to dinner, comment on how beautiful their eyes are, how stunning their dress is All the while, she'll absentmindedly stare into her compact mirror Women's personalities are hidden, just like their women parts Men don’t understand how a woman’s body works Everything about it is a mystery It looks like a gapping wound that sometimes bleeds Nipples, breasts, legs The softness of their ass Where to start? What to do? It’s all to much for a simple man to grasp But grasp, they shall try—-and try, AND TRY! Women don’t have time for a man’s bullshit They have more important things to do They construct purpose out of life’s nothing-less—ness They fill every moment, of every hour, of each day with endless busyness They fabricate grand schemes Things they're determined to make men orchestrate Life becomes one long laborious “To Do list” To women, everything means something, especially the insignificant petty shit Wipe your feet, take out the garbage, feed the cat, cut the lawn, bring me my tea, it’s too hot, it’s to cold—-did you hear me? They somehow make babies out of their own flesh and blood Their bellies swell up to accommodate a parasite living deep inside their womb—— Men only know about the fucking part of making babies Men are happy in their nothingness Men’s body parts, are like their personalities, right out there for the world to see, compare and giggle at They grab at it to show dominance They believe theirs is bigger and mightier than anyone else’s They expect it to be worshiped and fawned over In reality, it’s the goofiest looking thing you’ll ever see And if they can’t find anyone to grab on it, they’ll jerk on it themselves I guess this is the way god planned it And what a sick sense of humor he must have
One of life's greatest mistakes Expecting to be loved Expect is a word best not attached to love There’s many versions of love Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable Some covet it as if it were property Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries At times it’s confused with sex You can have sex without love And you can have love without sex After all the gyrations and moaning Even if she lets you put it where you want? You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night Humor is the best aphrodisiac Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants It's naively offered up with open arms Like a soon to be broken Vow Vows are for love-struck suckers It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops All noise and no melody Like a sympathy composed for the deaf Most want love to be soft and tender Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem But it's none of those things It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky Yet, there are those rare flashes of something Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all Where does it come from? Why does it go? Who knows? It's a vexing enigma It comes with no warranties, no guarantees It’s fragile, so handle it with care If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards Once the shelf-life has been reached You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out? Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour Salmonella is a bad way to go The trouble with love—-is It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments It has no soul or conscience No sense of right or wrong It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims
In spite of our long days and the swiftness of these passing years We’ve reluctantly grown old Old as in running out of time The potholed street of aging leads to a cul de sac of convalescence Age robs us of youths vanities It rubs our hair off, dulls our eyesight and deafens our hearing We slowly cave in on ourselves We can no longer get by on our sexiness or youthful bravado We’re left with a fading wit and the shreds of a once charmed personality This leaves some bitter, while others are liberated There’s nothing more attractive than someone who no longer gives a shit about what others think of them Shriveled skin, brittle bones, hemorrhoids and varicose veins ain’t so bad It’s the fading of memories and the onset of feeble mindedness that leaves us befuddled There’s that moment of confusion when we enter a room and forget what we needed there, or what we were looking for, or even why we came there in the first place??? But, I’ll fight like hell to forever remember your face
There’s no free lunch
There’s but one life lesson
I’m homesick for a time that no longer exists
Unfulfilled dreams from youths lost innocence
What happens to a love that no longer calls my name
She just stands there not even knowing how sexy she is to me
I want something back I’ve never had
She looks like a memory, lost
Dim the lights of truth
You’re that song that makes me miss you
I want you to find yourself inside me
I want me to ache inside of you——- too
Only the broken know how love is never eternal
Lonely inside, without you
Wanting you is unbearable, far beyond unbearable
Falling through ghosts of you, where angels and buzzards circle
Fatally falling asleep after hours of telling our biggest dreams and secrets to each other.
Such beautiful sadness in your eyes
I’m your night inside you
I shivered inside when our souls touched
The August sun traces the southern horizon as the silent tree’s cast long shadows over the lazy afternoon. There’s no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. It’s too goddamn hot to be ambitious. I pull my ball-cap off and let the cool breeze tousle though my sweaty hair.
I’m hiking through the Washoe Meadow. I imagine that the path I’m on is the same one that the Washoe Tribe followed on hunting expeditions. Their ways and traditions are no longer known. I’d give anything to know the things they knew, to see the things they saw. We’ve traded our place in nature for our love of power and progress——–Progress? Huh?
The trial turns and twists through Jeffery Pines. The sweet scent of Sage permeates my body. I take the fragrant air into my lungs and it becomes a part of me——maybe this is what they mean when they say “all things are connected”. I exhale my breath. It dissipates into the pine needles and becomes absorbed into the blueness of the out stretched skies. I feel bigger than my body.
A stellar jay sits atop a Spruce Tree and loudly scolds me, a chicory scampers across my path and from a distance a coyote keeps a weary eye on me. The coyote is my spirit animal. He’s a trickster, a loner and a little bit scruffy—-but most of all he’s a willful survivor. Yeah, we are a part of one another. The trail opens up to a huge meadow displaying purple lupin and yellow scrub grasses. It’s a pretty place, a calming place. It would be nice to share this with someone, but I’ve always been my own best friend, so I’m in good company. I take my boots off and rub my toes in a patch of cool green grass. I feel the sun on my face causing me to involuntarily smile to myself. A breeze blows across the meadow, it blows across the sweat on my body, it cools me down.
Life, a misunderstood word. All there is, is life, and then no life. People carry that word around like it’s a vessel of guarantee’s and entitlements. All that ever will be is life, and all that will never be—— is one of the tragedies of this life too. Life isn’t always a “Once upon a time” or a “Happily ever after”. I once had a best friend, he was there and then one day gone——-Time absorbs everyone and everything sooner or later.
And nobody knows where everything and everyone goes. Words are attached to emotions and emotions are attached to words. If there were no words, would there be no emotions? If that were true, I’d take a big eraser and delete the words, depression, sadness, loneliness, hate and anger from everyones vocabulary. I’d write love, peace and kindness in large bold font and add them to everyones lexicon.
Life is carried around like a banner that says love is true, life is fair and everything and everyone is infinite. Trust me, time is not an illusion, the hands of our clocks caress away immortality——-I try to remember this.
To some, life is a crisp, clean white piece of paper that they wad up into a wrinkled ball and toss into a waste ben. And, to a few, that same piece of virgin paper is something they neatly fold into an origami of a bird, a dragon or a frog. —–Hands.—The same hand that can reach out to comfort others can also be a weapon to repel everything and everyone. When I look closely at my hands I realize how odd and strange they are. One hand fits into another persons hand so naturally, so easily——but then again, it can also just as easily be drawn into a tight angry fist.
Live your best life, not a fraudulent life, not a half life, not a life that is guarded and protected in the hopes of not ever making any mistakes or being hurt. Embrace your mistakes, own your fuck ups, admit your naive follies, cause they are the best teachers——Even when it’s all bullshit, even when you’re buried beneath an avalanche of hurt, reach out for another’s hand. Someday they’ll be a “no life” for you and me, and no one will care what we won or what we gave up on——-it will all be lost in the litter of time——-only you can save yourself. Take a good look at your hands. What might you do with them?
Allow yourself to be shot out of a circus cannon, dance on the tight wire, be the painted faced clown, be vulnerable, it’s the only way to know yourself, there are no short cuts. We all have nothing to lose. Without vulnerability it’s a lifetime of pretending to be something you’re not. A good friend will help you summit all those mountains of worry and sadness.
Life is full of “I told you so’s”, insincere apologies, deferred honesty and love waisted on watered-down people. I wonder if the sun dreads the days end, like I do. The moon makes no promises of what the night may bring.