Prose

Vows 

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

At The Speed Of Foreverness 

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 


							

		
	





				
					



	

	


		
		

			

				Tigers Or Table Scraps
			

		


					

				






The universe keeps trying to convince me that I’m mediocre, but I refuse to give in. All the greats have had to fight that urge to shrink and fit into normalcy. 





Crazy is better than normalcy, going mad is better than normalcy. Do something, do anything to prove that you’re still alive—-that you’re a worthy opponent. Release your bullshit on the world like a tiger ripping into a fallen gazelle.





 Kill or be killed—–most are already dead and feeding on table scraps. The true holy ones aren’t afraid to climb free solo—they know that no one is tethered to security. 





Make fear your best-friend and nothing will ever scare you again. 

							

		
	





				
					



	

	


		
		

			

				Fatally
			

		


					

				

Soundtrack by Mazzy Star.










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

							

		
	





				
					



	

	


		
		

			

				Progress
			

		


					

				






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.


























							

		
	





				
					



	

	


		
		

			

				Under California Skies
			

		


					

				
















Soundtrack “My Funny Valentine” by Chris Botti. 










Sitting here, waiting on the sky to snow





This town looks better dressed in white





Your footprints from my door to your car





I stare from my window





Red taillights fading into your city of gray





You said you couldn’t figure me out





I said, I know what you mean





Cause, I can’t figure me out either





Bless the losers and the beginners 





January’s the coldest month of winter





Don’t let the resolutions for the New Year fool you





I’m full of love and rage





Oh such a fine line





I’m in hate with myself 





Look what you’ve done to me





I want to find me a new city





Where winter never comes





Maybe go west under California skies





Sit on cliffs and feel the warmth of July’s sun





Bless the losers and the beginners 





January’s the coldest month of winter





Don’t let the resolutions for the New Year fool you

							

		
	





				
					



	

	


		
		

			

				Soundtrack Of You
			

		


					

				

Soundtrack “It’s Not Like You” by Paper Kites.





    




    




    




    We walked those old city streets like we owned them
    




    Warm breath turning into clouds of white
    




    Walking back to your tiny apartment
    




    Ellis street dark, we once found love here
    




    You take your coat off
    




    The sounds of the city, from open windows
    




    You ask if I wanna know you
    




    You play me your play list
    




    Every song reminds me of you
    




    Is this still the soundtrack of you
    




    I asked you to leave this town with me
    




    You stared out the window, into dying stars
    




    You say nothing, another silent no
    




    It’s so hard to move on, knowing you moved on
    




    I hate this city
    




    I’m so tired of everything
    




    That old apartment always drafty and cold
    




    Impatient traffic rolling off to distant places
    




    I now avoid Ellis street
    




    Strangers spying from broken blinds
    




    God, this is all killing me
    




    Do you ever think of Ellis street
    




    Was it a dream we once lived in
    




    I wish we’d moved out to the country
    




    In the past, there’s no new beginnings
    




    I’m homesick, wishing away my past
    




    You say nothing, another silent no
    




    It’s so hard to move on, knowing you moved on
    
							
    
		
	
    


    

				
					

    

	

	
    

		
		
    
			
    
				Static
			
    
		
    

					
    
				

    




    These times are strange, no they’re a mess. There’s this constant background hum coming up from my backside. I don’t know if it’s coming from inside my head or is it a demon creating this lingering static in the ether. There’s always been horrors, but today it grinds on and on through social media, newscasts and radio talkshows.  People are angry, living on the edge. We’ve become victims of a constant bombardment of bad news filtering into our psyche. People on the street wear the mask of emotional fatigue on their drawn faces. Where do we go from here? Everyone’s looking for a way to turn down the static. 
    




    This is what pushed the pioneers west, the thought that somewhere,, somehow, someplace—-things have got to be better than this—-All the same, we tote our clutter and emotional baggage along with us. No matter where we go——there we are. There’s no escaping this house of mirrors. There’s no out running our shadow, but we can always change the stories we tell ourselves. We’re the star of our own life, why not make it a comedy rather than a tragedy. There’s no better time than now, no better place than here. The static grows louder.  I swiftly turn around, but there’s no one there——-“Huuuuummmmmmm——“ 
    




    You’d think that after all the laws, politic’s and religion we’d be more civil and kinder to one another——-fat chance.  We have no choice but to seek solace in one another. We’re awful, deceitful, jealous and——-mean vermin. But at the end of the day, it’s too hard to go it alone. It’s only through tolerance and acceptance that we keep our companionships alive. We’re all uniquely the same——in irony there is truth.   
    




    One time strangers become our friends and lovers, but then they slip away becoming strangers once again.  The longer we know someone the harder it is to see them anew. The rags of our past distorts “what was” with “what is”. 
    




    I miss the peace that comes with silence.  It feels as though this static is growing louder——do you hear it too? “HUUUUMMMMMM——”  
    




    Turn the dial, change your frequency, adjust the station, fine tune your antenna away from the static——–and find your music. 
    
							
    
		
	
    


    

				
					

    

	

	
    

		
		
    
			
    
				Magic
			
    
		
    

					
    
				

    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??
    




    
							
    
		
	
    


    

				
					

    

	

	
    

		
		
    
			
    
				King Of Sorrow
			
    
		
    

					
    
				

    It’s mid October, the season that gives way to the beauty that comes with the death of a fading summer.  Leaves turn golden, red and purple before being swept away in the autumn winds. Outside its dark and cold, the sun surrenders its dominion over the sky earlier and earlier, this relieves me of the guilt of fixing myself a drink too early, but as we all know, there’s always an excuse for drinking. I hear the faint fizz of carbonation over ice cubes——my oh my, Jameson and Ginger-ale in my favorite tumbler.
    




    It’s the season of tangled sheets, as ghosts whisper under beds and the hellhounds bay up at an angry moon.  I swear I hear the footsteps of shadowy specters moving across the creaking hardwood floor.  The doorknob to my closet appears to be slowly turning. I foolishly decide to step deeper into this nocturnal quicksand. There’s something bittersweet about allowing my darker angels to run loose. I flip through my playlists and click on “Sade”. God almighty, her music always takes me there. It’s got that hypnotic groove that’s made for soul searching, lovemaking——it’s drenched in unrepentant sensuality. The beat pulls me into a grinding pocket. I feel like having a cigarette, but I had to give that up over a decade ago, it’s always the hardest thing to give up on something that you know you’ll remorselessly love forever——and she taught me——forever is a long time!
    




    Some woman know they have it from an early age and they carry it with them through old age.  She has it, she knows how to use it——-she exudes a steamy erotic energy. It affords her an unfair advantage. “It” has nothing to do with beauty or flash, it’’s in the way her body moves through space, it’s that certain look in her hungry eyes. Her heated body radiates the fragrance of lust. When her hand nonchalantly brushes up against my skin, it’s as if a million volts of electricity convulses through my body.  All those other bland pretty girls have no lightening in their soul; they leave no ache in those empty places, no burn in ones darkness. 
    




    The prisons and insane asylums are filled with men who’ve let this black magic rule them, clouding their better judgement and making them do the bad things they never thought they were capable of doing.  I search through a junk drawer and find a single crippled cigarette, I rip off the bent filter and take a deep drag and then slowly exhale the blue smoke. It hangs in the air, mysteriously taking the shape of a maligned dragon. I feel myself going back on things I swore I’d never do. I scroll through my phone contacts and wonder if her number is still the same. The thought of her warm damp voice invades my nervous system with a shot of adrenaline, causing my hands to tremble. I hesitate with my finger hovering over the green call button. “King Of Sorrow” begins to play on my mix.