A very old post...

Thank you for removing the blog and adding me to the string of abusive ex-lovers that you drag behind you--the head of the tail is Rodrigo, but at least I come before Saskia and the impregnating bar owner. I wonder how many more lovers you'll add to that tail before you hold it in your hand and realize that my name shouldn't be on it...the failure of our relationship has been my greatest disappointment.

no one

What is it that makes me feel a lump in my throat when I'm sad--as if I've swallowed something that won't go down? Is it physical symbolism, my body playing an uncomfortable game of charades? Is it trying to make me see the pain as if I hadn't noticed it before? Look body, I get it, I'm not foolish and blind, just foolish. I think at times I'm invincible. I believe the lie I told myself as a child. I kid myself, revert back to the blanket sucking boy who could dissolve into the heavy pile carpet of his parents home, but I cant any more. I get it. I hurt. But let me ask you this, why can't I feel sorry for the man I am. I feel for others when they're sad. I care for them when they regret. Why do I feel like I'm about to leave this earth as a failure, and why won't this lump in my throat go away? I wish I had my kids with me tonight--small hands have a way with loosening the muscles in the throat.

Her

I'm not sure what she looks like or how her skin would feel against mine. I wouldn't know her voice if I heard it, and her hair, black, blonde, or brown, is nothing that I've ever touched or held against my face. I don't know her name, and her existence, if real, is beyond anything that I've ever seen in this world. Kindness, love, understanding, fidelity, all traits of her character, and before now, they were traits that I couldn't recognize if they'd lay naked beside me in bed. I needed to be trained, broken down, molded into a man that could appreciate a woman like her. I had to be coaxed, prodded by the words, the touch, the scent of those that sought to imitate. And thankfully I've caught glimpses, oh yes, goddess flashes darting around the flesh corners of human loves. Maybe someday she'll appear before me, consider me worthy of her flesh and her soul, and by finally acknowledging her, maybe she'll stay.

Some things are meant to be posted, and others...

It seems that if I profess my love, in not too vibrant of passage, the post is acceptable, endearing, and flattering to the object of my affection. If I dig deeper, explore the base instincts of a man lusting after a woman, and if I use words that our society has deemed vulgar, pornographic, and not meant for pleasant conversation, then I place myself as a rogue, a cad, a dishonorable man parading the descriptions of my affair like dirty magazines lined up on a squalid street corner newsstand. Either way, if it was myself, and my lover wrote how I traced the line of her back with a hand that was made to be held in prayer, how I kissed her with lips that had recently whispered the name of God, or how my eyes echoed and then cleansed the pain of her past mistakes, I would be just as flattered as if she said, "I've never been fucked like that before."

Blind

Stumbling east coast fingers run their way down the creases in her skirt. She leans back, mouth open, glasses sitting next to the bed. She doesn't taste like your last partner--for one, she's younger and not male, for two, she's unfaithful and unattractive. Maybe that's too harsh, everyone's loved by their mother. You knew that this is where you'd be, and your last distraction, the old cock near the beach, was nothing but a stopping point for you to be someone else for a bit. besides that, you needed a beard, an excuse to lay the turn of your sexuality on.

Peace

Before I went to bed I prayed for your welfare. I wished you happiness and peace. I'm not ready to reflect on the good times yet, but I made a solid heartfelt effort to let go, and this morning, when early I woke, I had a sad smile on my face. I don't know why you came into my life. I don't know why you acted the way you did, but I'm glad for the lessons I learned--even though they were hard. Pain is not my favorite--I'm a sissy and I can't stand being hurt. I do things some times that are harmful to others just so I can avoid it. And I'm sorry for the times that I hurt you, the times my fear of the pain led me to make decisions that harmed our union. One day I hope to be able to look back on the things we did together, the pictures, the videos, and I hope I can remember the love that I felt for you. You really are a wonderful person, and no actor alive could ever successfully convey the love that my eyes held when you were with me. If you ever doubt I cared, look to those films, and look to my face. I wish you nothing but love Kate. I hope you find what you're looking for. You deserve peace.

The Visitor

I'm not sure how he made his way through the front door, and the closets, they are also locked tight so he found no entry there. But the boy came in--crouched down, bony suntanned shoulders and blonde straggly hair. If I was to taste his skin I knew the flavor would be dried saltwater and formed plastic track. He crawled into the living room and sat Indian style on the long shag rug. I could hear him breathing, and then, the low sobs of the emotionally disturbed. I won't comfort him. I don't have what he wants. If I'm lucky he'll go in the back, jack-off, and fall asleep. Sometimes I hate myself for the self awakening that took place. He's a real fucker this kid, and he won't leave me alone.

Metaphysics

I thought I was uncomfortable before they left--sitting, holding forth in the large chair, masking the hollowness within by using my loud voice, but when the door closed and the last acquaintance had shuffled out, the apartment became large and bright. I was turned into a cockroach--skuttling from room to room seeking shelter from the vigilant eyes of my unknowing landlord, but, I also turned into the eye of the master, watching myself as my ego looked for a place to hide--"You're beautiful, intelligent, charming, loving and patient, but you're not for me." she said, "And you're not for you either, because to you you're invisible and no one can love what they can't see and don't know exists."

The Pot

I love how the pot calls the kettle black and how the drunken monkey yells at the idiot in the mirror. So I shine, and in my reflection you see your faults. Your deeds, black as pitch. Your politics are the politics of a thief or a despoiler of the people. And you, on your high social horse rally cries of "Monster" and "Liar" as I try to live as I've been taught.

Dream 18348

You looked much the same as the day I met you--worn levis hanging tight and low against your hips, a white t-shirt unsuccessfully hiding under a mohair sweater, faded beige topsiders, and a too-close-for-young-boys haircut. You were jumping over peat moss, leading me through the moors, towards a destination of safety that I was seeking somewhere up north. I'd abandoned the vehicle at a show. My ex-girlfriend was in prison visiting her on-again off-again romantic interest, and, for some reason I was scared; but you, you were laughing and following a road that you knew too well, laughing, and jumping, and holding out a hand, and you'd been dead for years.

Traitor

Oh, foul heart, you are nothing if not cowardly and full of spite for the very body you reside in. How dare you think of her? Have you felt no pain, no shame in how we grovelled as she left? And what of my cries and desolate nights, are you so detached from me as to shield yourself from my torment? Would it please you if I took a knife and tore you from my body? Would you still be so devoted as to beat out her name as you lay on the ground shivering between my feet? I suffer you to live only so I can one day watch you cleave to another, and then it will be my turn to delight.

Hmmmm

I don't hate you for what you've done--you're an animal, a beaten cur who knows nothing of kindness. How could I expect you to trust and be trustworthy when you've never walked on a rug that wasn't pulled from beneath your feet. I love you just as you are, but I think I might better appreciate the art that is you if I observed from afar--maybe I'll sign up for a tour of your life, a jungle tour, complete with a well armed guide and a porter with a stitch kit for broken hearts....

the flower

How come I never saw you as loud, as a disturbance in the garden?
I guess some flowers just want to be held. They don't see the line stretching through the meadow. and a hand, selfish as it may be, is still a hand, and the flower enjoys its touch, and can become lost in that spell.
But now that you're away.
I realize how empty the garden was with you there.
The line waiting it's turn to hold me was pushed back, and then, it was scattered by the amount of room you took.
There was a frightening moment, right after you'd left, when the garden was empty. When the loud heaviness of your presence was gone.
I was alone, wavering in a soft breeze of isolation.
but then, when the others knew that you werent returning, they came back.
a gentle paitent crowd of childlike admirers stood round, each taking their turn to hold me and to enjoy what they'd missed.

No name for this...

My room has turned upside down. The bed below me is now the eternity of a black-space sky and I have become a storm hanging beneath its indifference to the earth. Bold lightening flashes of anger spring from my limbs and roll heaving and burning towards her distance. If she could die, let her. Show that errant cunt that I control existence and flesh.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
A thousand jagged bolts tear from my eyes--and then,
as quickly as it began,
it ends.
The cheap plastic fan at the foot of my bed scatters my pain, and the wind tattered silk streamer of violence laps the room once and then settles down, an old man under the blankets.
I'm a desert now, waiting to explode again.
A blank canvas of unforgiveness that refuses to be touched by God's brush.

.

up

You warm the bed with your life, and I travel slowly over a heavy-eyed path to awakening. The television is the first thing I hear. Too loud for morning voices talking nonsense about suicides and 90 pounds gone. It's softer in the bed, and your voice remains quiet. My mind travels towards clear--a slow journey it doesn't look forward to, and i don't blame it, i also fight reality. The air conditioner, set below freezing, gives the room that sea foam chill that you like, a chill that pushes us closer together in a bed that a thousand have slept in before us, a thousand sleepy heads detesting rational thought. I pull the covers over my shoulder and roll in your direction. The turn somehow shaking and dispelling the night. Here is where I usually sit up and study you,push your hair back and make sure you're still mine, but not today, and not since last week or a hundred tomorrows, because you're gone, and your not coming back. I'm up now, and the clarity of my loss and your death is back on the menu.

attachment?

I reach for her, my daughter, flesh of my flesh, our lives intertwined since her first breath, and although I touch her skin and feel her sweet hands I can't connect. I've never been able to feel more than the flesh. A thin transparent sheet--a shroud really, is shrink wrapped around my soul. There is nothing that has ever been able to penetrate it, not even her.

A very cliche post.

If I said the window in my hotel room, which by the way looks out over a busy freeway, was dirty, would you find that cliche? What if I said my heart was broken--2000 miles away from home and without my love? Yes, you probably would find both of those lines worn and without flavor, so instead, I'm going to tell you that the window is without streak or smear. the freeway is a grey masters line slashed across the earths pride, and of a heart i have none, just a head filled with sad dreary thoughts that were transfered to a young boy who had no defense against the pumped in negativity and loss of those around him.

A very cliche post.

If I said the window in my hotel room, which by the way looks out over a busy freeway, was dirty, would you find that cliche? What if I said my heart was broken--2000 miles away from home and without my love? I think that maybe i'll tell you that the window is without streak or smear. the freeway is a grey masters line slashed across the earth, and my heart, of a heart i have none, just a head filled with thoughts transfered to a young boy who had no defense against the pumped in negativity and loss of those around him.

A Lot of Words About Nothing...

It could have been easier, or more successful, or less injurious, or more beneficial to both of us, if only we had handled ourselves by using skills that are outside the scope of our emotional experience. In other words, if we were two entirely different people we probably wouldn't be having these issues.

Your hands

Grasping, reaching towards the edges of the sofa as I push from behind. Gold sparkle tip nails leaving trails of ruffled feather suede. I love the shape of your hands my dear, and the way they telescope our lust into the stars.

Distractionary Device

I'm supposed to be writing, but off the page I run my tongue along your collar bone and trickle its pointy end up the length of your neck. My hand, not on the keys, is tangled in your hair pulling your head back exposing your throat. I can't work with you here. My concentration is shit. Couldn't we just make out?

1:22 Sunday

There's a car door gently closing in the street, an alarm single chirping your arrival. There's a hush, tsunami spreading up the staircase. There's a girl opening my door.

Frustrated

My daughter, acting more as mom than child today, has just informed me that my 'slacker' ways have infuriated her. It's nice to see that genetics involve perception and judgement.

Open

The coffee, as some describe bitter, does nothing to open my mind. It's a time for thinking, reflection, and yet the emptiness of contentment allows no passage for a thought. Is this what it is to be spiritual or am I devoid of spirit? Even this question holds no purchase over the day.

Evangelist

I've decided to comb my hair in a high pompadour. I'll get a Rolls and a tungsten statue of Jesus for the dashboard. If I'm lucky, I'll make enough money to realize that money isn't the answer--or the problem.

The gift

If I had to say anything, anything at all about her eyes, I'd say they were the moss' reflection in the lake. And as I stand on the bank dizzy under the quiet stream of her gaze, I know her father is waiting for us at home. I wonder, if pinned beneath a sheet of thin glass, would the color of her eyes and her lips stay true, like the monarch frozen forever in my study?

none

There has never been one day of peace. We are not at harmony with our lives. You've been violent, I've been hostile. We are not healed or equal. Our world is strife and loss.

All we are is love--a melody, sadly sweet with just the right touch of hope. You've been kind, caring, my lover and myself. We are together in all we walk through. Our world is love and abundance.

Together

We, meaning you and I, seem to have difficulty lining up. We say we want the same things--a bridge to each others heart, and yet we spend more time in dischord than harmony--will we ever align our wills under one flag, our roads under one direction, our gaze under one star?

A Very Slow Nothing

I'm up, but I ain't happy about it. It's 5 pm and I'm restless and bored. My situation is such that my options seem limited. If I was alone I'd probably head back to bed--if I had a bed, and if I was alone.

Accomplished

A box, probably 10 inches by 11, holds two copies of the first half of my life. It doesn't look necessarily evil from the outside, but then again, lots of naughty things come in boxes of that size.

Unsensaround

Imagine a maze around you, an intricate space of passages opening and closing, a thousand different walkways leading to millions of connections, a life after life after life, and you can't see it. Like a party, held by hostile strangers two floors above you, you're uninvited, and unwanted, but you have to come in--you're the guest of honor.

Still

As if the razor touched blood and the pain furrowed lines weren't enough, the stabbing pain in what some bad poets would call a heart convinces me of my failure to be less than human--less than a child.

Fade

It's not a bad thing to want solitude. To crave a door against my back, a lock between my sight. There's a universe to think about, a world of past to digest, a cool garden of life on this edge of regret. As soon as you walk away, I'll turn the lights off and fade into the carpeting.

Hardball

I'd been told before to never put down my batt, that hardball was a game rooted in my being, and I followed that advice. If I had an opinion I gave it--even if it was a 3 and 0 pitch that I should have ignored. But I've suffered for my love of that game, for deep down I'm a coward, a single A child fearful of the actions his outer adult takes, and I can't stop him from swinging for the fences every chance he gets.

Welcome Home

How lucky am I that a threatening grey sky awaits you at home, that a cold ocean breeze will offset the warmth of my arms? There is nothing better than the kiss of a late winters reluctant death for a man whose woman struggles to see the safety in his love.

Together

Eyes closed. Freeway close cars intimidating my vehicle to stay in lane. I imagined myself filling the inside of your body. Spirit meshed with spirit, encased within your shell. Your soft faith sprayed hand reaches down and lays on our thigh. A duo of narcissists making love to ourself.

Missing you?

Is our connection such that a scant 400 miles causes me pain, is that how weak our love is? My love for you is a universe and the edge of eternity is not further than your hand and your heart engulfed in mine.

A new slate that looks remarkably like the old one

It's not as if this day hasn't happened a trillion times before. "What is that you say? We're unique, we're growing, changing every second." No, really we're not. We have always been as we are, and as we will be.