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.
I climb into my faithful old Tacoma pickup and head west. You can tell a lot about a man by the truck he drives. The cab smells of rag weed, muddy boots and fresh orange peels. I drive past the fields, the farms and the redundant strip malls. I eye pretty small town girls with odd names like Galenda or Karla. Their perfume scented skin I won’t stick around to touch. These places and girls belonged to other boys with their Friday night hot spots and their Sunday morning houses of worship,——— a community of suburban anchored hearts. I’ve tried to fit into such places, but never could.
I drive til I come to the ocean. I check into a cheap motel that wears the odors of mold and a thousand forgotten summer vacations. I wonder how many have made love on this tolerant mattress, or how many have cried themselves to sleep within the walls of this soul suffocating room. The walls are knotty pine with a bathroom sink that drip, drip, drips. Outside my gray skied window the pavement smells of early morning rain, the sun rises with a memory of how small her hands looked when she touched me. Once again I find myself at the edge of this sad stained continent. There’s a damp coldness blowing off the water that chills me to the bone. January is my favorite month to revisit this rundown seaside town. The boardwalk is empty and quiet except for the rusty Farris Wheel squeaking and moaning under the strain of a gusting wind. I pull my knit cap tightly over my numb ears.
All my once hip friends are now vengeful Republicans, need I say more? Out of nowhere I find myself singing “Into the Mystic”——I take a shot of Jameson with a beer back. “And when that fog horn blows you know I’ll be coming home——-I wanna hear it, I don’t have to fear it”.
The bed-stand clock glows with its red digital numbers, the sound from the dripping faucet warns me of time passing by. How do I carry on? Where do I go from here? Am I too old to start over again? Have I squandered too many chances. I’ve moved to new cites, I’ve found new jobs and I’ve broken promises to the few who might of cared for me. I’ve never been one to reinvent myself or attempt to tame my faults or bad habits——I’m all that’s left of my best mistakes.
I sit on a carved up and pigeon stained bench at the end of the pier. A wrinkled asian man is standing as still as a statue as he waits for a fish to bite his line——I suppose we’re all waiting at the other end of one kind of fishing line or another. A young kid with chin stubble and unkempt hair takes a seat next to me. He asks if I have a light. He helps me cup a flickering flame from my Bic lighter. He squints as he stares intensely out at the foggy horizon. I know that look, I know this kid. He speaks “You got a wife?” “Yeah, I’ve had a couple of them.” He continues his interrogation “You got a job?” “Yeah, I’ve had a few those too.” “Did you get everything you wanted?” “Like most, I suppose I got what I deserved and a few things I didn’t expect. Sometimes it isn’t what you get, but more importantly, it’s being happy with what you’ve been given——-gratitude is the scale on which to weigh a balanced life.”
An older me talking to a younger me, what a gift. “Take good care of yourself dude.” I grab his cigarette, then take a hit off it before stomping it out. “Look after your health kid, you’ll wish you did when you get older——-and yes, we all do get older, that is, if you’re lucky.” He pushes his shaggy hair back “Do you ever think about your parents?” “Everyday I do. You won’t understand the sacrifices your parents made for you until you become one yourself. You’ll look at your children and be amazed at how parts of you became their flesh and blood. The best of times will be the time spent with your kids. Remember to give your weary parents the love and respect they deserve. The kids grow up too fast and our parents grow old and frail too soon. Once they’ve passed on, they’re gone for good. Time moves in one direction, forward. Regret is the child of missed opportunities.”
“Many acquaintances will come and go, but few will be elevated to the position of trusted friend. Choose your friends carefully, because they’re the only ones who’ll enjoy your ridiculous humor, tolerate your irritating idiosyncrasies and stand up for you when this world leaves you feeling insignificant, irrelevant and unworthy of love. They’ll embark on crazy adventures with you and provide you with the sweetest of memories. Your friends and family are your tribe and their unconditional love is the only thing that will sustain you through the good times as well as the bad.”
“I know that at your age you won’t believe me, but this life is tragically short. Don’t squander the time you’ve been given being bored or angry. Monies a fleeting vapor, a job that doesn’t suite you is a snare, pleasure without sacrifice is quickly forgotten. Look for true love and nothing less. You’ll know it’s true love because she’ll bring out the best in you. She’ll make you feel things you never felt and it will cause you to do things like hold her hand when she’s frightened. She’ll bear your children and cook you your favorite meals. For her, you’ll fix the things that break, mow the lawn on hot July afternoons and snowplow the driveway on cold January mornings. All these seemingly insignificant small things will comprise a full life. Keep your priorities straight and you’ll enjoy each day as it unfolds.”
The kid offers up a grin. “When I grow up, I wanna be like you.” “Take your time kid, being an adult isn’t all it’s cracked up to being.” I climb in my truck and head back home as I give a glance in my rear view mirror.
He said he’s now a Christian Another poor excuse for me to scale He sent me a letter with biblical quotes Two thousand year old words laden with emotional quicksand Everything neatly arranged into his boxes of good and evil I wonder where I’d fit in—–these days
I miss that old friend, this new one no longer laughs at life’s foibles His company makes our past feel irrelevant, like noticing dings on my car door I’m reminded that time can be ruthless Isn’t that just like me, turning the past over and over in my hands Another shelf-life expired, I’m learning to throwout what’s soured And this relationship has devolved, leaving a bad taste in my mouth
It took me a long time to get to this place Sometimes it feels as though no “there” follows this “here” Old friend, more shadow than substance Everyone peddling their rendition of love As if such things came with instructions and warranties
I went back to my fathers house
With him no longer living
That house is just dust and empty rooms
Like leaving a voice message on a dead mans answering machine
Pick up, please pick up, only the mumblings of a disembodied voice
I had to lose my soul, my mind, my self,
I had to lose my everything
To find a voice
The price of loving someone
Is equal to the pain that comes with losing them
After a million miles It’s still running through you A blinding light deafening a sky of jealous stars We knew a round love in this world of flat earth-ers
Backyard tire swing, like a pendulum of gone by days
Pool chlorine mixed with honey suckles, the smell of summer
July laid out before us like a thousand unused Saturdays
Your cities are lonely A careless milky-way evicted from time and space Other people’s suns drenched in nothingness Other worlds out of reach Physics, another flawed human endeavor Didn’t you know that the numbers never added up
Where’s the revolutionaries
Where’s our freedom fighters
An entire population of fools staring at smartphones
A generation of selfies, ego sponges
Angry, ignorant tweets, dissonant wind chimes Where’s this generation’s John Lennon and George Carlin Who’ll shame these fuckers Hypocrisy is the breaking news Truth has become negotiable Climate change compromising happy endings
I’m the soundtrack of pissed off
Is everyone else drunk or high on recreational weed
Democracy a chess piece for the rich
Check mate, ponds against kings
Living in virtual bubbles No longer “We hold these truths to be self-evident” No more “We the people” Wall street thieves and politicians Who can tell the difference Divisiveness is the cost of doing business with the greedy
Your birth was not an accident Don’t let this one precious life play out like a sitcom laugh track Be angry, fight complacency, believe in your power To be about it, is the way
That night at the lake
scent of campfire in your cloths
That slipping fear
Of days gone forever
And it’s always the same
In my bed of memories
I close my eyes and see
A spiral of life descending
Sing past my window
In fishbowl lives
Leave a hole in July
Standing so close
I smell your pain
Eyes so brutal
I’ll never blink
Is this really me
Is this really you
With rags of rage
I’ll undress you
One lie at a time
One life at a time
You’ll see me
In your worn midnight
Dry lightening strikes
Set wildfires in burning beds
I don’t know where I’m going
I’ve forgot where I’ve been
on a twisted highway
Hear the sound of your own song
And you said, so cavalier Offer up gods will See things for what they are
Here’s to higher love
Are there scraps left for the likes of me
You’re the everything I wanted
Last thing that I needed
Did you know what you were doing Because what you were doing Caused me to choke on what’s never to be Eternally incomplete, somehow find me there
And for a brief moment You gave my madness worth Like making love in your empty bed
Soft sigh, damp breath
Undone reverie, wet flesh
I have no one to hide from
Your ghost looks over my shoulder
This house of fractured mirrors
Broken pieces of me, pieces of you
Oh my god, so much older we’ve become Sad in spirit, in this season of crucified saviors Early December, look at what we’ve become Hometown memories on faded polaroid holidays And only the virgin snow knows secrets of buried yesterdays When do old friends become strangers and ex-overs sad poems
This world will never tell us who to be
We’ll have to figure this out for ourselves
And then do our best to let go
All I wanted was to be understood, to once again lose myself in someone’s eyes, rather than being sucker punched in the heart. She said it’s hard to be understood when you don’t even understand yourself. I thought to myself “Yeah right, you never even took the time to try and know me, you were too busy trying to prove how you were right——-and how I was wrong.” One thing for certain, I was right about her being wrong for me. Love with all its inherent bad descions makes fools of us all. The more I tried to reach out the harder she pulled away. Maybe blindness is what love is. Maybe it’s tracing with my fingers what I can’t see with my eyes. She shoved my hand away, “Stop, you’re gonna smudge my make up”. Damn, she had all the romance of a cactus.
I’m a fool for girls with sexy eyes in lose fitting see through sundresses. I’ve bumped into a lot of people, but we collided and burst into an awkward erratic orbit—-pulling together then pulling apart. When I peered closer, I realize that I was never really in her eyes. But god, I remember how the sun shown through her cotton dress and how I mistook a body for a soul.
During the day it’s easy to believe in god, clocks and getting to work on time.When the sun is up I can find purpose in simple walks down by the river.I’m not shaken by the absurdity of remaining stopped at stale deserted red lights.But at night, the enormity and emptiness of the universe fills me with an uneasy feeling of insignificance.I toss and turn in my bed and then get up and stumble into the kitchen for my fourth glass of water.I’m stuck in a midnight cycle of drinking water to ease my dry mouth and then having to get back up and take a piss.She hollers from the bedroom.“What’s wrong with you? Why are you up.”I reply, “I can’t sleep, I’m worried about stuff.”Her voice is tired and cracks as she speaks, “Worried?Worried about what?”
“I’m worried about life and the inevitability of death and what’s it all for.I’m worried about things I should’ve said and done.I’m worried about pretending to be something or someone I’m not. I’m worried about my insecurities, my false intentions and my need to be validated——–by people I don’t give a shit about.I’m worried about our sun and how someday it’ll become a super nova and explode vaporizing our solar system and turn our planet into ash along with all it’s history, paintings, music, books and everything that makes up me and you.I’m worried about sick kids lying in hospital beds, scared and praying under their starched and stiff hospital sheets.I’m worried about lonely old people in rest-homes with nothing to do but watch gameshows and play bingo. I’m worried about never being able to write with the truthfulness and rawness as Bukowski, Steinbeck or Kerouac. I’m worried about roads not taken. I’m worried about why I no longer have friends who I can trust with my secrets.I worry about being misunderstood.I’m a hypochondriac so I worry about every phantom ache and pain. I’m worried and wonder where’s god in all this mess?” She gasps,”What the hell’s wrong with you?You make Woody Allen seem normal.Come back to bed.”I gulp down another huge swig of water and head to the bathroom to relieve myself——I swear, how is it possible to pee more liquid than I drink?I’ve grown weary of waiting on another tardy sun.
When I go back to my hometown I drive down my old street and park near my childhood house with it’s yellow nightlight burning on the porch.It’s just me and a moonless sky dipped in ink. Tonight I’m filled with melancholy as I creep along in the shadows of haunted streets. Maybe we all leave little pieces of ourselves in the places we once called home. I’ve come snooping for clues that will put “then and now” back together.
When I grew up I was in a hurry to get out of my hometown and escape this puny street that once comprised my world.But now I’m ironically drawn back to this tired old house on a dead end street. After everyone has gone to bed I buy myself a tallboy and park by the field that’s adjacent to the Catholic church and my childhood house. The cold air with its silent stars brings back the loneliness I knew as a child.Even then under that misty Milky Way galaxy I’d lose myself in the majesty and unreal-ness of it all.I think about my old friends and my family, I listen for voices and keep an eye out for falling stars or maybe a UFO. I haven’t come here to repeat the past nor exhume old ghosts, I’m in search of a lost innocence. Right now, all over town it’s autumn and the wind is creating mini tornados of yellow, red and purple leaves. The air is filled with the scent of burning wood streaming from brick chimneys. November is breathing its chill into the coming night.
This was the place where my father would come home wearing his weary work-face.I think back on all the sacrifices my folks made for me and my sisters. For my dad, everyday must’ve felt the same except for paydays.On paydays he’d come home late for dinner with beer on his breath and the smell of tobacco clinging to his work shirt. I remember how he’d wrap mom up in his arms and foxtrot her around the living room singing “I don’t get around much anymore”.Is that what life is, brief moments of joy surrounded by days of nihilistic sleepwalking? In spite of all the hardships we were a family fortified by love who found ways to share our tears and exploit life’s humor. Our house was filled with loud voices and much laughter. My folks did a good job making us a home and they were always there for me. There is still something calming about this funny little house with it’s sagging fence and unkempt gardens——it still defines home. Memories are my eternal path back home.
This is where my mother cooked our dinners and neatly ironed our clothes. Maybe I’m guided back here to try find pieces of me that I’d forgotten, or that I’d left behind. I can hear the voices and see the ghosts as I sit in my car with the heater on and the radio tuned to jazz. I sip off my beer and let the smell of fresh laundry and pot roast cooking in the oven bring me back to a simpler time.
I know now, that you can’t go back in time and fix things or make good on delinquent thank you’s.Things break, mistakes are made, we all say things we regret.And then there are those missed opportunities where kindness and patience would have played better than selfishness and unrealistic demands.I watch as we all age.There’s a feeling of solace that’s found in marching together through the passage of time.I search for myself with the eyes of days gone by. Buddha would say that attachments to the past is the cause of suffering, but for me there is such a sweet sorrow in these nocturnal sojourns. I feel a sense of belonging under these frigid autumn skies. We may all just be passing through, but my life is held together by the continuum of shared memories.
It takes space to give a person or a thing a fresh perspective.Time tastes like expensive bourbon—–at first a cozy burn in my belly, then a flushed buzz across my reddened face, followed by a grimace and a wince.Yesterday and tomorrow remain the same and open to interpretation. Everyone changes, some for the better, others for the worse.I’ve always contended that to be understood is to be loved.But, you can’t understand someone until you let go of your relationship with their relationship. There is often much truth in what appears to be a bizarre contraction.
People are complicated, relationships are messy, normality is a mirage—-we’re all blind to our disfunctions. One man’s crazy is another man’s fetish. I wonder what parts of me are living in you? And, what parts of you will always be withheld from me?Cause if I’m gonna love you, I gotta touch, taste and feel all of you. I’ve walked around in you, I awoke inside you; what a beautiful world. There’s much hidden in the fog of what we desire verses what we get and who we wanna be verses what we’ve become. I wonder how you’d privately describe me to your girlfriends. Woman talk about men as if they were capital. They estimate their earning power and their value on the free market. “He buys me whatever I want. You ought to see his portfolio.” Men talk about women as if they were property, as if they were a new sports car. “Look at what I own, look how shiney and pretty she is. She does whatever I ask her to do, and I mean anything.” I swear I’ve felt you walk through me, what a strange world in which to lose yourself. The record skips at the same old place every time, our steps go in circles, yet as hard as I try, I still step on your toes—–
Out of thin air we found one another, our chemistry volatile. Desire is like a rubber band.If never stretched it will become brittle and one day break when most needed.Or, if stretched beyond what it’s capable of handling, it will abruptly snap. What we expected isn’t what we hoped for. What we get is karma and karma reminds us of what we deserve—–So, you better stop.
I have this ex-lover I carry around with me like a faded legend. I have these movie reels of us taking up space in my head. In one we’re in a stark white room and we’re both wanting to be touched by the other, but instead we keep poking our fingers into one another’s soft spots.And then there’s the reel of us driving down a flat endless desert road and were fighting over the steering wheel.The brakes fail us as we careened out of control.The horizon becomes a cliff we fly over into oblivion. I’ve been told that oblivion is where new stars are born from the explosions within dying stars. Now, isn’t that the way of nature, creating beauty out of cruelty, birthing new beginnings from our finalities.
Laughter is the orgasm of the soul….God smiles knowing the punchline lies within us all………