One-Hundred Twenty Two

How many real beds have we slept in since Oct 4th? You know, sheets, pillowcases, mattress, and box-springs. I know there's been ours, but can you really count two foam pads on an office floor as a bed? Or, maybe a bed is just that, a place where you and I lay intertwined--your arms twisted around my body which is twisted around your body which is wrapped around mine. If thats the case--that a bed is where my heart lays, then since I've met you, I've been wrapped in silk sheets and Irises and I have never been without.

One-Hundred Twenty One

What's it been now three days? Three uninterrupted days of you realizing that I'm not going to hurt you--that you can be vulnerable and still be safe, that you can be loved and that you deserve it. If three days can be this wondrous, what do think a lifetime would look like.

One-Hundred Twenty

How far do you have to go before you're away?

A new name, the same face, but if I don't look in the mirror or run into anyone I know, I'm pretty sure I could pull it off. I'm going to die anyway--and the people that care will hurt, but what's the difference if I hurt them now, or later. I'll stage my death--car parked reckless along a beach road, a trail of clothes into the water, booze splashed all over the dashboard and the seats--foul smelling cheap whiskey. The police will say, "It looks like he got drunk and took a swim." My detractors will say "I always knew he was a fuck. Probably never was sober."

Meanwhile in a small restaurant bar, a man who looks and sounds like me gets a shit job bussing tables--at 48 the work sucks, but the restaurant overlooks the ocean cliffs, and the job comes with a small room in the back that he can sleep in rent free.

One-Hundred Nineteen

The biggest difference between you and I is not our age, you might think so, twenty-four years is quite a gap, but it's not. The biggest difference--and the hardest hurdle to overcome, is that you think life is a drawn out process of hurry up and wait, and I see it for what it really is; a fifteen second roller-coaster ride into the abyss. Don't waste my time, or yours--believe me, life is short.

One-Hundred Eighteen

"Pow! Crash! Bang!"

The knife slashes a wide smile across his face as he goes down--his hands clutching at the bloody canyon that used to be his cheek. I turn towards her. Her dress hiked up over her bare knees--more violence, more viciousness, more...

Why can't I be one of those guys that writes about butterflies and sea-horses?

One-Hundred Seventeen.Five

You couldn't have sent me a better picture--San Francisco bay before the bridge. You claim the city as your home--its steep concrete hills protecting you from assailants and outside forces, but I claim the world beside you--I'm fog drifting through the woods on Muir beach--tenuous grey sweeping emotions tangled in the upper boughs of the redwood trees. There's a huge expanse of dangerous cold water between us--swirling currents swallowing other suitors valiant reaches towards you. But I can cross as long as the sun remains hidden. It burns me when its awake. If you stand on your heights can you see me, working my way towards you--sliding over the bodies drowned in the bay. I hope they never finish that bridge, because at present I'm the only one that can hope to reach you, and when the road is finished it will be eight lanes into your heart.

One-Hundred Seventeen

"What we have here is a failure to communicate."

One-Hundred Sixteen

"Guess what baby?"

"What?"

"The other night while you were asleep, I leaned over and ran my hand down your bare back all the way to your..."

"...why didn't you wake me up?"

"Because, with you asleep, it felt like I was cheating, and it turned me on."

One-Hundred Fifteen

"So how creepy are you?"

"I don't know. How would you define creepy?"

"Are you lying to me?"

"No."

"Are you, cheating on me?"

"No."

"Are you running around naked at 2:00 am with a parasol and pink ribbons in your hair?"

"Could you repeat the last question?"

One-Hundred Fourteen

If you weren't so cute, it'd be easier to stay mad at you. It's frustrating really, how intoxicating you are. Even the sound of your voice is astounding in its ability to change my mood. You know, I actually tried completely blocking you out one day. I put wax in my ears, a blindfold over my eyes, and I stuffed toilet tissue paper in my nose. I didn't want to see, smell, or hear you. I'll be fucked, your shadow fell across my face and teased me back into bed.

One-Hundred Thirteen

If I could take a picture of my mind, an emotionalagraph of the energy flowing from my cerebral cortex you would see a hole. A large empty hole that those of us in this world of emotions call detachment. The edges around the hole still fight and cling to the founder of their feast-- a beautiful brown-eyed girl named Kate, but in the center, where it matters, the emotion attached to her name has been burned out, depleted, and destroyed.

The term 'emotionalagraph' and all concepts pertaining to are a registered trademark of Jack Grisham industries.

One-Hundred Twelve

What's it going to take before you shift from first to second? Uphill, downhill, your little fingernail bitten hands refuse to pull the lever. No small wonder that you've been in the shop so many times--mechanic after mechanic fumbling around under your hood. I hear you even brought in a foreign specialist and he couldn't fix it. Get a grip baby, when the motor revs, shift the fucker. Make a move and don't look back. Race car driver my ass...learn to put the hammer down. This relationship is Le Mans not Long Beach.

One-Hundred Eleven

It may not be the ideal romance, but then again it just might. Do I really want to involve myself in another's life just to feel comfortable and safe? Shit, I feel comfortable and safe all by myself--sitting before the fire in a soft old chair with a familiar book in my hand. Romance should be adventure. It should be trying and hard at times. It should be exciting and dangerous. I should at times feel threatened and challenged. I should at times feel loved and accepted. My love is a destination not a hiding place. Her skin is a map of the world, and my hands will journey recklessly over her. I hope I never feel comfortable in her presence.

One-Hundred Ten

This is how a brain refuses to work. Overload the motherfucker.

One-Hundred Nine

Contact. When everyone I know is against me, the likelihood of me being correct soars astronomically into my favor. I am the rocket, you are the sky.

One-Hundred Eight

No impulse control. It's kinda sexy if you think about it, she rolls in, hovers over my bed, and her lips and arms consume me without me having a thought to stop her.

One-Hundred Seven

Here it is...my reply to myself. " idiot"

One-Hundred Six.5

It hurts, and I hate to hurt.

Shit, starting out with a lie is impolite.

I love to hurt.

If I didn't, why the fuck would I pick the women I pick?

"Where's my fucking crown?"

"What are you talking about jack?"

"I'm talking about my fucking crown, where is it!!!!!"

One-Hundred Six

Indians and Eskimo's. A whole different subculture of hating Whitey. Luckily, I enjoy being looked on as the oppressor and enslaver of worlds. And my genetic make-up is such that with my olive skin, almond eyes and jet black hair I am sometimes mistaken for a team member.

(Standing in the market; Indian in front of me turns back to me and mutters)

"Fucking white bitch--they need a new cashier in this shit hole."

Hmmmm it's nice to feel part of.

One-Hundred Five

I'm questioning a universe that would only allow me to experience you from behind glass--I was given only so much.

"You can smell her hair, but not touch her lips. You can kiss her, but you can't hold her. You can hold her, but you can't communicate with her. You can love all of her, but she will not give herself to you."

I waited, thinking the partition must be dropped at some time, but it wasn't. And then the day came when the partition became obscure with fear and she told me, 'you've had enough.'

I was devastated.

I've been hurt before, but this was a cruel joke. The love of my life was, and is, a woman I can't have...I'm angry, and if God had an automobile, I'd put sugar in his gas tank.

One-Hundred Four

"How's it feel to be used? Does the heel mark in your heart still hurt, or does that purple colorization go nicely with your unused wedding suit?"

"But I loved her."

"You're an idiot, an old man in her world--an animal without feelings. You never should have loved her. And, don't forget, your the asshole in her eyes that's done nothing but hurt her."

"What are you talking about? I've loved and supported her. Done my best to be there for her."

"So what? That was your job-- to take the pain from her old hurts--let her work it out on you, and then get out of the way so she could move on to a healthier relationship. You were never meant to be hers."

"Why didn't you warn me?"

"We did, but you loved her too much to let go."

One-Hundred Three

I've heard it a thousand times; if I do this, I will get this, but after the one hundredth and seventeenth time I lost interest and the passage faded into the carpet of the hall--it was left to lie there, underneath the table, with coffee stains and donut crumbs. They read it again this morning, and as usual, I closed my mind and let it fall as I've done eight-hundred and eighty three times before. However, a woman whose husband is facing certain death picked it up and held it before my face. "Did you see this?" she asked. "This is where your focus should lay." And I looked, and I saw where she was right, and how I'd wasted so many days looking at what could be improved, rather than what was so perfect and beautiful.

One-Hundred Two

I've never been so eagerly willing to work on being a better man, but she deserves it. It's not as if the women before didn't, but this one is a flashing light that says 'Don't lose me.' She exudes the words 'love me' and 'be careful with my heart,' and it would be nothing short of brutal stupidity to drive over this one's love.

One-Hundred One

She's gone and the space that she filled is drawing the room and the city into its gap.

One-Hundred

I won't neglect you, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna give you all I have while my girlfriend is waiting to go beddy-bie.

Ninety-Nine

Watching, hovering over the valley of your despair, waiting for a tear to drop. Let it go. I know you're hurt, and no one is watching but me.

Ninety-Eight

The curb holding my ass up was cold as I sat and waited. The other children gleefully jumping into their parents idling vehicles. Didn't we just talk about this yesterday, respect, and love? Is this part of your sermon, teaching me to trust no one--especially my father?

Ninety-Seven

Hurry up and wait..........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................life is a series of quick bursts followed by a slow fizzle out....................

Ninety-Six

Is it really the absence of sugar and white flour that's doing this to me, or, is it something deeper, more sinister? I want to chop things up with a dull axe. I want to kick and stomp. I want to come up on your sandcastle and destroy your battlements with one vicious swipe of my giant foot. I want to make it rain on your fucking parade.

Ninety-Five

As I kissed you I was overwhelmed by connection--my lips against yours, my chest resting lightly above your heart, and my hands pulling you closer towards me. I wanted to make it official--although no verbal sentiment could express more than that kiss, so I did it, I asked if you would be bound to me..."Yes, my love, I will never leave you..."

Ninety-Four

I'm not taking a cut of this blame. You want to deal it out, fine, but if so, then deal yourself in as opponent/proponent--you're holding the cards and playing both hands. For now, I'm a spectator--trying to understand your slight-of-hand shuffle, but if, and when, I get bored, I'm going to wander off and watch another game.

Ninety-Three

Is this my body? My eyes are connected, my thoughts seem to be emanating from the same place, but it doesn't seem right. I'm out of breath, slow to move, thick under my shirt. I need something. Maybe, something in the realm of a carving knife and a fat render? Fuck. Does anyone know where I can get a quick fix, or an easy solution?

Ninety-Two

PNJ to DSK: Really Kate? Is that really okay?