Our place and U

We drift
through a universe made of matter
that is perceptible because of its absence.

We understand
the scope of our love
once we've lost it.

Some of you
still exist in my heart,
in the rooms that will always be yours.

Most of you are gone
and I infer your absence
through drifting scents and echoes

and echoes
off echoes.

this is my velocity

a daily amping
as I wake late
and regret blurs

days mostly gone
nothing done

then the coming evening
as things

feel
finally
okay

(what is it about the the dark
that makes it all
all right)

planning tomorrow
listing
everything

giving it
order

number one
is a job

number two
is food

number three
is family

number four
is exercise

number five
is stay alive

(forget about
the knife
at my neck
that held prisoner
last night
the pills I had
for medical use
not self-medication
not for dreamless
endless
slumber)

this is my life
my day to day

fake
living

quiet
dusty
corners

too much thinking
looping back
to me

nothing
except believing

that thought
ain't the trap
it's the way

I will fight
myself
free

then
7:30 a.m.

not asleep
grinding teeth

sweating
rolling

the goddamn birds
singing

the fucking sun
rising

rapping my bones on these keys
hoping

a new way born
from doing

these same
goddamn
things

tut tut
woman

fucking
kiss me

Where did it begin?

2.
I admit
she frightened me

her red-hair and her daily fury
always in secret afternoons of terror

like with my father and my other lovers
I learned to wait

then explode

3.
all these pretty words are charms
salves for a filthy soul

not one of them reveals the real
beast that fuels these feelings

the anger and hate and lust
all bent towards ending

this humiliating existence
this whimper of being

4.
some I know
wander through rooms singing

and it makes being worthwhile
and breathing easy

some I know have belief
and no fear of dying

unlike me

5.
while tonight I write this
in my grey sweater and comfortable jeans
listening to the sound of old pipes and crawling things
the countdown and the ticking
afraid of loving

longing for one
to save me

Good night and forgot the blessing

in New York City,
she sang,
with ecstasy,

a song by a Southern boy
who grew up
near me.

loosely strumming an acoustic guitar,
a hint of Soul and honey
in her voice,

she usually tried to sing
like a diva
and it was good, if mannered,

but this Country twist to her City sound
made her
finally believable

and when she was done,
awkward wordsmith me...

left dumb

when I should have been worshiping
instead of silently sinking, thinking-

some artists have no sense of themselves,
some people lose themselves in artifice,
some art is worthwhile because it destroys,
sometimes time is suspended as truth unfolds.



the tick tock between us became unbearable
but this moment floats,
warm as fresh blood,
as I glance backward
and let go.

An incomplete thought

revolt as a participatory activity ended before the 80's,
replaced by a slowly gestating idea,
borne on the bad breath of Punk-

salvation is found in individuality,
Valhalla is reached by waging
a lonely war.

All of history,
cherry-picked for your vestments.

As the modern world marches forth and eliminates the native,
we form new tribes with ever evolving traditions.

4 years on

fake smile
hug
high pitched voice
hovering
Indiana
boyfriend

it has been four years
and I feel
like puking
but want to talk

he grabbed her
and she laughed
waved at the door
said it's okay
bye and see ya

I think of the quote form yesterday's blog
and ruefully write this
while feeling

it is
up
to
you.

see ya.

Too far

Getting older has meant
watching curtains unfold to reveal
another empty stage







"Whatever will you do 
when you end this underfed romance you have with your self? 

Will you stumble in the sun 
and mumble about the days when you knew? 

I'll bet you die without you to whip. 

You came in weak and you are gonna leave a whisper of a trail.

Good night and farewell."

the words used to feel like
fingers brushing the sky,
like touching fire.

they brought light
and heat.
even the ones that seemed the darkest.

now they sound like bones
rapping
on a dirt-lined coffin.

hope is a mile too far.

The end of something

does it make me attractive,
my drunken indifference?



well, she says she is over
whatever I have to say,



and she smells of chemical
cleaners that seem pink.

Train rides and school trips

he yells at the children
angry
old man
gets away with it

she rests her hand
on his
shoulder
trying to calm him

the kids are oblivious
focused
as kids are
hunting a gingerbread man

no magic left
hopeless
drifting
his brain dying

he talks of regrets
haunted
desires
he lashes himself

we took the train
downtown
ate and
left in confusion

12/12/11

I want to write
and say
what I think
but

it seems
a greasy thumbprint
on a dirty mirror

all use
and self-indulgence

"...not like all this simpleminded telegraphic shit that passes for communication among you banal brats today."

it looks a little blurry in here...

oh look,
I'm holding a tequila.

are you serious?
you have kids,
and you never sleep!

why are you awake every night
clad in Christmas colors
like
that will keep you warm?

"When you're on hydrochodone and you're watching 'Sister-Wives,' 
it makes a lot of sense."

and that house
is where I first saw
leather bound tits
mixed
with blood and death
and realized
before
my first orgasm
how mixed together
death and sex
are
and it scared me
as much as it nailed me
as much as it
haunted me
for years
I folded
both memories
into recesses of my brain
hoping to forget
or for salvation

"it was a mixture of squee and sigh when I saw he had the screen name 'gapinganus'"

sometimes
the shuffle is random
and sometimes
it illumines
the architecture of my mind

'Who was the Lilith of abortions
Touching the hair of your children
with tiger-painted nails?"

my brain is tired
from meaningful words tumbling
amongst conversations with dead men

it needs
shits and giggles
not conversations about dead wives

Does it ever go out or just get dark?

He sees sin in everything.

His hair hangs in strings.

His mouth hangs
between thoughts.

He wanders a lonely lane
of sidewalk

in the front yard,
forgetting

his questions; they subside,
reform, and become

avenues of regret.

He thinks Hell is assured
because he smokes.

He tells women
not to kiss him.

He destroys CDs.

He mentions his daughter,
and alludes to something sinister,
and her never coming home.

A Christian man and all his crosses
as his mind unwinds

at 64, and he
can't help himself.

Chain smoking, refusing
to brush his teeth and
negotiating bath days-

he smells worse
every time I see him,

and he knows,
and he asks if I notice,

and the trick is misdirection
or silence because

both still the waters,
until the next moment


is the only one he knows.

Lipstick stained and cheaply appraised

ain't it funny

how

we mock

what we want?

this one

with piercing hips

and lips that smack

my own,

to everyone else,

I mock her

while every night

we do not end alone.

then,

knowing,

touch and go,

no promises,

no surprises

assured,

the moment

matters,

shatters expectations.

truth

be told,

I want her

to grab hold

and

ride me home.

Scattered thoughts and hidden wares

"Now the diner, in the morning for a plate of eggs,

The waitress tries to give me change I say, "Nah, it's cool. Just keep it."

I read up on my news, I start thinking about her,

And I wonder if anybody here besides me has got any decent secrets..."

He believes himself to be aware of the ghosts.
They don't have shadows or much shape.
They whisper.

Once he saw half a face in the mirror,
just as shocked as his own.



she smiled as I tucked her in and I knew we would kiss
and more this evening after singing and hide-and-seek
and me trying to make her friend



She'll be wearing a black dress when we meet. 

Opal eyes and caramel skin and graceful shoulders and untamed hair.

She'll be fierce and stormy and a bit of calm to me. 

She will burn and I will smoulder and we will flame.

Ballerina. 

Brazen. 

She'll be a bare-knuckled lady with filigree features, 

a tumble of notes that turns time backwards.

Rose garden riders

I miss the alleyways
the trash talk
the cocaine
whiskey-fueled
bike rides
the flower pictures
and her secret smiles promising
knives in the bedroom

Crankpot

it's not as if my belly
ain't sliding towards indifference
my slouch is slipping that way too

Bad times

fall is the time for tragic love affairs,
right?
nights like this-

kissing,
my hand wandering in her autumn hair,
her gentle neck sloped,
eyes closed,
lovingly melting
into

this
moment...

beautiful
but,

man,
did we fuck up.

No title

she said that a mile
lasts a long while

when it's filled
with nothing.

she
was from the South

setting sun

she always smiles
somehow.

she randomly sleeps
somewhere.

she still
is

the one

I
think
of
every
day.

Not telling

"the commas were knives,
each period was a wound."

she says these funny things.
is she sincere or is she hemming?

there's no telling.

she texts at 3.
wants me to come over and bring
some wine or weed.

she's trouble.
she likes how we kiss.

she's sweet on me.
she's sweet on me.

she smiles secretly.
she sings

"one day 
you will be old,

but the thing is-
I love you now."

she says these funny things.
she says things that i ain't telling.

she always texts at 3.

We exchanged CDs

she kissed me
while the other women
were in the kitchen

on top of my lap
twice
before they re-entered

knock knock

Justin knocked
the first two times
we made out

she liked sex
in bathrooms
and public places

she was mad
at parents
who gave her everything

it was easy
but restrained
like short sharp breathing

my secret
my secret
my secret

is mostly
me

Mid-life blah blah

this year is tough like
all years
stiffer than most
maybe that's just 39
year old joints

who knows
who cares

you still have your
hair and a sense
of doom eclipsed
by nine after noon
when shadows and
the moon hedge bets

your head is wedged
in dreams
and in your room
you sit alone

and the doctor says
it's part of the illness
isolation comfort

amid row upon
row
of exes and bottles

like stones for drowning

but laugh
and the world
stares and wonders
where your brains have gone

for all your bravery you were just delaying
recognizing your life
as dust and bones

while waiting to buy a fast car
for fleeing faster
home

be my catcher in the rye?

cliff dancing
youngest child
expects a reprieve.

Late night, purple toothed

I read way more than talk to people

she said you talk like a novel
mind if I steal a few lines

bottle number three
purple teeth clang purple teeth

her serious eyes and curious hand
nail me

and all I can think of is a song

No one wants a diagnosis

the list contains things like

OTC/RX drugs?
misery?
joy?
drinking?
street drugs?

the downfalls and needs of your character
on a generic form. 

 

there it is.

 

pause.

life keeps me humble with highs

and lows.

Kitchen sinking drama

I told her that I wanted to live apart,
that way the loneliness that is like a lover,

close to my heart and ever present,

won't come between us.

she sadly reflected, eyes downward,
silently determined to change this.

swirling about us are the remains of promises
we each broke against the others face.

all those good devious intentions,

all for naught.



stones skip across water;
all fall.

Fingers feeling for fantasy

all these quiet years
the back pain reminds him

she thinks it funny and knows it's real
fingers feeling for fantasies

obscene she whispers
reeling from his lips and hers

crashing Saturday afternoons
ridiculous

Yonder

the three-quarters Moon was enough light
we felt inspired and wild
she said that this feels like real life
and the rest of the week
all those others besides you two
they sapped me
attacked me
this odd sideways Southern talking
hard to tell what people say
it saps me
it attacks from angles
fuck
aren't we adults
can't we just tell each other
what we need
what we mean



"To live in the South,
one has to be a scar lover."

Well, that ain't an answer to my friend's
struggle with reorienting-
it's the beginning of a new discussion.

Lucia said to me that she thought the South
should name its new museum

"Forgetting and re-imagining our racist fucking past"

which made me think a very Southern thing

"You ain't from around here,
are ya?"

Bitter corner

there was blood in my beard
near my lips right corner.

another blurry bland morning
spent in bed,
bleeding into the afternoon...

no boss I just forgot.
yes sir I'll do better.
all the usual.

this is proof of what?

what's the easy answer?

why can't I find that magic bullet?

stagger home uphill
alone
drunk and full of banter-

the messy sheets an uncomfortable coffin.

why the fuck must there be morning?

the night is much fucking better.

and the hoof in the snow...

I believe in
the mystery,

the quest,
the cloud of unknowing,
and the wisdom
we
already have.

I believe a kiss can start a war,
and end it.

I believe in leaving a place better than how it was found.

I believe it is important to be one of the good guys,
there's enough of the others.

I believe in redemption,
and second chances.
and the healing that only
love brings.

I believe in family.

I believe my family drives me crazy.

I believe success is mostly composed of showing up to do the work.

I believe deep truths are simple,
and hard to fully understand.

I believe boundaries should be understood-
some should be broached,
some should be respected.

I believe everyone should create his own religion.

The words are a gift.
My voice is melancholy.
I respect that. When I
started writing,
it was about death,
and sex,
and longing. Not much has
changed.



I love to listen
and I love your
silence.

NPR and Amendment One

I arrive at 6:47 P.M.
there's a vague line

I join and am approached
by a volunteer
who is tipped off-center
by my guest count
(having RSVP'd +2
I arrived +none)

enter
and easily find a seat
one over from a white haired gentleman

his wife
when she arrives
asks me why I am here

I say
to learn what others
have to say
she does not respond

pregnant pause
she shows me her stake
on her I-phone
a picture of her gay niece
her wife
the adopted daughter

I nod and smile and awkwardly
go silent
and start sizing up the crowd

who is for
who is against

the gum popping
high-collared white guys
and the ladies in frumpy
floral prints
I mentally mark as for

and most
since this is sponsored by an NPR station
I assume
are against

 

the stoop shouldered gentleman with the dolorous voice
introduces the panelists

people are buzzing and aligning themselves
the audience is acting

"he not busy being born
is dying"

the man for
wrote a book about it being Correct
not Politically Correct
cites statistics that show
marriage
between a man and woman
is the healthy foundation
of civilized society

the man against
a local law professor
thinks it is bad law

this
is
where we begin

even though
we all
know

this is about
gay
and straight

both men receive hisses and applauding
this polite NPR audience can't help themselves

the serpent's back is rising

the forceful voices without clarity speak
which is most of both sides

but really
I think

there just ain't a rational argument against
as
the language of bigotry is always the same

the core of the argument
is
why do they have to have what we have
can't it be
separate
but equal

civil unions not marriage




same old bullshit
is what I think

Sans surfing

she asked what do you do?
and I didn't list surfing the internet.
oops.

this one is a masseuse.
she excels with her feet.
it's not all pressure
like I expected.

we kissed.
it worked.
we kissed again.

we were both married.

she cried before she told me.

I thought it unfair.
But ain't we all imperfect
and sometimes all we need
is a kiss.

I get that.


I still want to kiss her.



she doodles chakras.

what does that mean?

Ebbing on

she frames moments
chapters her time
sunset to sunrise
numbers her options
predicts the outline

her eye seeks the framework
while she drifts through life




Let 'em in, let 'em in
if it's the angel band

Small sweaty stuff

I woke today at 8:45
like yesterday
and the day before that
and my family
is quite surprised
by this
after all these years of
cultivating sadness
and chaos
the smallest things
are making the difference
I eat breakfast
I wake at the same time
and I am not cured
or perfect
or any of that bullshit
but I am
currently
on a different path
vigilant
and caring
and careful
and encouraged
and after the last two years
of losing hope
and multiple implosions
and misplaced
love
I feel light
capable
humble
grateful
and present in my life
and in my family's

2012
the year of the dragon
a year
of transformation

Lord
I am grateful
for another
chance

The blond and the bluster

tall
thin
blond
pretty
pretentious
demanding
attention
she argues with my friend Cyndy
over business cards
and an afterparty
her gay
approaches Cyndy
to apologize
Cyndy blanches
claims
no worries
he walks away



Cyndy fumes
and the blond
makes a lot of noise
playing pool
behind us
knocking balls
as Cyndy admits she hates her
because
she is pretty
then Cyndy lets her thoughts
spiral
forgets why
she is upset
is instead looking for a reason
outside of her own
in something
the blond said
some weakness
of the pretty girl's
excuses
for being
insecure
something about a rich
drunk
infamous
father
on the front page
and the whispers
that followed
and the possession
by the blond
of personal
and
business cards
how pretentious
Cyndy says
as the blond is called to sing
and she stalks the floor
commanding
and demanding
everyone's attention
her gay by her side
while
Cyndy
remains
angry
alone
at the bar

Bloody lips and all

Synchronicity, letting go,
making positive choices,
helping others,
getting fatter,

my intentions for 2012.

I am trying not
to gulp the dark

with such
greedy swallows.

Seems simple,
but grace takes

constant care
and consideration

until it becomes
what you do,

and even then
you will
fall,

but,
fuck it,

chicks dig scars,
after all.

Snowed in

she thinks
she is more attractive
when she speaks.

her style,
her being,

caught shifting
in a half-realized
becoming.



I ask,

how do we let the world know
that inside
there are symphonies
films
novels
poems

entire other worlds of beauty

when our exterior
awkwardly
manifests?



or,
is your fire lost when exposed to the winds of others opinions?

she looks into her notebook
and laughs

as she slides down the bench
to be close
to another.

you look good
rotten
she informs him.

is it the cocaine
the sex
or your well-maintained lawn?

it's just the shape of my
bones,

no secrets
at home,

even this white chalky form
had to be born,

he says
as he rattles off.