Unfinished

I know my death is inevitable but it some ways it seems as if I might be able to postpone it, indefinitely, if I never complete anything. My life is a cluttered mess of unfinished stories, songs, and one-quarter-of-the-page-left relationships—everything dangling by an unfinished thread. Closure terrifies me.
Even this piece, this short companion piece to my life, I struggle over. Which word might finish this before I’m aware enough to stop it? Which thought will complete the communication, seal the deal with the reader, and end our discourse. I force myself to continue. Ever so often, I look up and weakly smile at the Indian businessman to my right. He can see the concern on my face and returns my troubled pleasantry in a polite way—I take a half glance at him and then turn away, leaving him with an uncompleted return smile. I won’t end it with him, and I won’t end it with

Departure

It’s hard to leave. I have to pull away from my body just to drive down the street. And yet, I dream of other places and my house wraps python tight around my chest if I stay there too long. I read a story once of a man who split in two—he became a traveler, and a teacher. The traveler ran to the stars, the teacher stayed wooden desk rooted to the earth. Sometimes I wish I were that man. I would send myself out to be a pirate. I would slash and burn, grog bury myself in the worst ports on earth and I would be an animal—a vicious rogue of the seas that attacked the land locked like a drunken typhoon. But I would also be a lover, a father, and an asset to those that live around me. I would plant and grow. I would create and shape a world of peace that at random times my other self could come ashore and destroy.

The Unclarity of Fought

I need better words, words that mean exactly what they say they are. For instance,I've told you to "fuck-off," in play, and I've said "goodbye," as you were heading out the door to the market, but I could have used both of those words at other times, times that weren't so fun. Maybe it's my fault, maybe I should reserve certain words for the exact moment and situation that I need them for,and just maybe I will keep the word I use for you, such as your name, separate from the word I use for a certain body part of yours that I at times enjoy.

Okay then...

It's simple really, destroying self so you can start a new life in the same body. Ask anybody, I'm sure they can share the secret of regeneration with you.

A Fall Day in Spring

Whether it's the grey misty morning, or the remnants of smoke-drifting beach fires following me down the highway, the air and the day, is definitely a time of Fall that mistakenly, or on purpose, stumbled into Spring. And I welcome it, the slow introduction to winter has always been my favorite, a time for meditation and walks alone, a time for healthy solitude. I plan on drifting towards the pier this morning, sitting alone on one of the cold cement benches that have been graciously planted there for this sort of thing, and I will reach down into the house of the spirit and pull forth whatever it offers me....

Country Rock Damage and Another Day

So, I've been listening obsessively to 'Hot Burrito #2' and I still hate Country Rock, but I love the melody to this song and nothing I've heard (including Dinosaur Jr's awful hipster rendition) comes close to how beautiful the original is. On another note, I'm on day three without sugar and I felt great this morning. I'm finally starting to really dig what the black militants have been saying for years, "Fuck the White Devil!"

From White, to Anger, to Confusion, to Hurt...

Once more I seek to separate you from my body, and even though I've failed so many times before, I need to start somewhere. A first day, right? I was angry this morning and I had no long fuse for the basic day-to-day bullshit that I can normally handle. And tonight? Well, tonight I'm just fucking confused and delirious. This shit should be outlawed, lynched, and its ashes scattered to the wind.I can't wait until the real White Devil is out for good...at least, I think I want that...don't I?

A Moment of Mine

I reached for my camera this morning--the sky, grey white blue smoke filled space. I put the view finder to my eye and was about to fire, when I realized the shot was weak, not enough, not conveying the true moment. How could I transfer what the wind felt like, the ground, the way the grey morning air smelled? It was impossible, and frustrating, but before I walked away, I stood immersed in it, in all of it, and I shared it with myself--the only person there who could appreciate and know what it was like to really be alone.

And if I act...

What madness is it to expect a man to trust and believe you when all you've ever done is lie? And when you have your partner swinging from the gibbet of your words can you possibly think he wouldn't try to claw and pull himself up as if to save his own life? And whether you had an ax, poison, or a gun behind your back,how can you fault the condemned man from desperately grabbing at the instrument of his destruction? And wait, here's were my confusion is at its greatest, did I hear you say,'you were assaulted,' when he fought to break free?

Searching for a title

Other than a way to find things later, or to locate humans that you wish to speak to, man's constant need for connection can be very tiring--everything needs a title, a label, a name, a humanness. And I know I'm not the first to complain or challenge this, look it up, people like me are usually filed under 'separation desirests'

“What is the name of that geranium on the window sill, please?”
“That’s the apple scented geranium.”
“Oh, I don’t mean that sort of a name. I mean just a name you gave it yourself. Didn’t you give it one then? May I call it–let me see–Bonny would do–may I call it Bonny while I’m here? Oh, do let me!”
“Goodness, I don’t care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a geranium?”
“Oh, I like things to have handles on them even if they are only geraniums. It makes them more like people.”
–L. M. Montgomery
Anne of Green Gables

On Strike

So, you're up but not out of bed. I'm at the computer but not writing. There's a pan sitting on the stove but it holds no simmering foods. What the fuck is going on? How often do the things that are supposed to do other things not do that for which they were intended. Oh my God, I think I just walked in on a strike, a strike of things going against the natural order of the world.

Remember

For some reason I'm still sitting here. I'm fed--maybe too well, and I'm living indoors. Has my worrying done a fucking thing to get me where I am now, or has it secretly been pulling days off my life while I was busy wondering how the fuck things were going to work out? When am I going to remember that I've always been taken care of, that the universe has been one sweet sugar-daddy with my hand deep in its pocket. I'm a kept man, I just gotta remember that.

reunited

It's been a while since I last put my fingers in you--caressed your pages with my prose. Thankfully, you're not a jealous or vindictive lover. You tolerate my fumbling attempts at getting back on track, and even though I misplace a comma or drop a letter here or there, you're still willing to passively lay there and let me have my way with you. Fuck, I'm fantasizing about you as a piece of parchment, instead of this behind the glass page, something solid to hold in my hands. Oh, if you were paper, I might tear your edges, crumple you, and bind you into a book...