I.          Goats' Milk & Sheep Dip

 

Upon growing older, we are presented with the option of bettering ourselves, only by then we are so overwrought with baggage that the burden seems impossible and immense.  We reach a point of desiring a holy path, but remain at a loss as to its course.  The attempt comes in repentance and resolution, but rarely extends past that initial excitement.  Rather, the fires of longing are quickly squelched by reality, beaten down by the people we’ve become.  Apathy and long term depression result, although faintly amid the ruin lies a pulse.

 

 

Knowledge Of Good & Evil

 

In the garden, where

you first saw the light,

you took your liberties,

and brought eternal night

to all the children

you would never have to see;

you sentenced us to rot in our

allotment of depravity.

Your blessing is meaningless

when all you left is

this horrendous mess;

and heritage means less to me

when I find mine is

blasphemy and sin,

pulling me in.

 

 

Lost In The Storm

 

Anchors away;

you sail through the day

like a ship tossed around

by the wind.

Clouds hide the sun,

and you’re thrown, or you run;

feeling trapped under

fragments, you’re pinned.

 

Turbulent waters crash into

the bow with their wrath;

whirlpools making it hard

to continue your path.

Long for the fireside warmth;

you’re momentarily lost in the storm.

 

Down through the years,

the ocean of fears

fills itself with

delusions and lies.

So ends the wish,

like a half-eaten fish,

sinks down through

the water and dies.

 

Treading the waves just to

keep your head above the crest;

no one in range to hear you

cry out in distress.

Dream of the fireside warmth;

you’re momentarily lost in the storm.

 

Salt water seas, chilled by the breezes,

collide under dark shades of gray.

Earth spins around with a deafening sound,

throwing comets to children at play.

 

Blinded by flashes of light

from the gods up above,

the sea raises arms up to

strangle an overhead dove.

Reach for the fireside warmth;

you’re momentarily lost in the storm.

 

 

Dichotomy

 

There are two natures inside me,

one that’s chained down and one quite free;

one moment I can be astonishingly happy,

the next I’ll be weighed down by utter misery.

 

There are two spirits, dually employed,

one that creates and one that destroys;

spirit one with hope to spare, spirit two devoid,

one of them a hardened man, and one small boy.

 

And I try to find the fine line,

but I cross it every time;

I seek to speak redemptive words,

but curses redefine.

 

There are two loves sharing my heart,

one of graffiti and one the finer arts,

one should be ending soon, one should kick-start,

one should be mended and one torn apart.

 

There are two characters inside,

one that I show and one I try to hide,

one tells the truth, while the other of them lies,

one I’ve accepted and one I deny.

 

And I try to find the fine line,

but I lost it all to crime;

on my knees and weakened,

just a beacon to the blind.

 

I walk in two worlds that never meet;

weary eyelids close like folding sheets.

In defeat, I must concede that I’ve been beaten

by my own fleet, from my nosebleed seats.

 

There are two editors I write for,

one guardian angel and one washed-up whore,

one of them a prison and the other one a door,

one has had enough now, one insists on more.

 

There are ideas in my mind,

conflicting thoughts of several designs;

some are all-seeing and some black as night,

some ever present and some out of sight.

 

And I try to find the fine line,

but I toss it like a dime,

reach to please the Trinity,

and breach the reasoned rhyme.

 

I’m trying to live for God,

and I’m dying to live for good,

and I’m striving to live by faith,

but it’s so hard.

 

 

The Trauma Of Motherhood

 

Mother, I am feverish and cold

at the notion of growing so old.

Have I kicked apart the foothold,

been avalanched by mountains of snow?

Can you still wrap me in your throw?

 

Mother, I am going down again;

though from the shore you watch

me drown, you can’t jump in.

I have thrown myself below

sea level, choking on a whim; Mother,

you never taught me how to swim.

 

Mother, there’s a blade’s end

at my chest; did you really feel your

motherhood was blessed?

Words may go unpardoned now,

somehow devoid of rest; Mother,

do you feel it in your breast?

 

Mother, your corrections of my ways

have been haunting me

throughout my fruitless days.

I wish I’d given listen now to

stern rebukes and praise; Mother,

now what would you say?

 

Mother, there are warnings in your eyes;

I know you want to tell me what is wise.

But you refuse to interfere,

despite aquariums of tears;

“Good bye,” you cry, in one final reprise.

 

 

Dismal Baptismal

 

Lowering gently, descent from above,

fall from the heavens like targeted doves,

torn into pieces and ripped into shreds,

face down in the river and taken for dead,

adrift with the deadwood, away with the tide,

shot out of the air by the thorn in my side,

fading to darkness, warding off light,

straying from paths now obscured from sight,

crying out helplessly, curses and pleas,

sorrow infecting the cuts in my knees,

ghastly appearance, a wretched disgrace,

swollen glands haunting my miserable face,

frantically flailing and gasping for air,

swallowing gallons of scalding despair,

violently gagging on human remains,

spitting up mouthfuls of lament and pain,

slipping through fingers and failing the test,

striking the bottom and coming to rest.

 

 

Jeu Parti

 

Secrets—well, we all have regrets;

like nails across sharp slate,

bore pointed fingertips.

Friction—our affliction;

superstitious, mixed religious

fiction, false benediction.

 

End soon, this misfortune,

before life itself means nothing

else than weeping over you.

Forgive what has done me in;

I only kept those things, burnt

offerings you hated more than sin.

 

When the past catches up,

I hope I’m already long gone;

I don’t want to be around when

you decide you should move on.

The longer I stay, the further

I fall in jeopardy.

 

Stalemate, and a firm belief in fate;

all my undesirable traits

—I know you can’t relate.

Motionless, such a meaningless

request, petrified by fresh success,

a mesh of clouded interests.

 

When my promises catch up

to me and echo, torturous,

I hope my sudden flight won’t

startle you with too undue duress.

The longer I stay, the further

I fall in jeopardy.

 

When the flowers cover over me,

ten thorns to every stem,

and the petals, nettles, nestle,

beckon starling, crow, and wren;

then, my welcome outstayed,

I’ll wither and fade in jeopardy.

Your patience outweighed

my graciously jaded jeopardy.

 

 

Brother To A Black Sheep,  Parts I, II, & III

 

I

Growing up was never easy,

but thanks to you it, it sure was fun.

I can’t imagine life without you;

it’d be like taking out the sun.

I remember all the good times

in all the places we called home,

like having wars with plastic figures

and pillow fights with bits of foam.

 

Brother, you’ve always known how much I care.

Brother, I’m glad I had you there.

Brother, I thank my precious Lord that you’re

my brother; I hope you were aware.

 

No one said you had to like me

or take the time to be my friend;

I guess I could have been a hassle,

a little bugger to defend.

I know sometimes I was tough to love,

that I was stubborn and a pest,

so I thank you for not killing me;

you tried your very, very best.

 

Brother, I always knew that you were there.

Brother, I don’t know why you cared.

Brother, I don’t know what to say to you,

my brother… but I’m scared.

 

II

Turn your head the other way now,

I don’t want you to see what I have become.

Close the door behind—it’s getting cold outside.

But it’s too late, I’ve met my fate;

my heart is cold, my soul is numb.

 

III

As I sort through all the memories

of the fights and of the games,

I am overcome and colored by

my deep regret and shame.

You have turned out stronger

than I ever hope to be;

I cannot look at you in the

same godly way you look at me.

 

Brother, don’t be disappointed in me,

but I am not the man I ever thought I’d be.

I’m very, awfully sorry, and it

makes me want to scream,

but you will always be brother to a black sheep.

 

The years could not make up

their minds what to do with us;

they led to very different lives—

I don’t deserve your trust.

Don’t feel the need to fend for me,

I’m not a child now;

eventually, you will agree with

all these shearing sounds.

        

Brother, don’t be disappointed, but it’s true;

the things I hate seem near the only ones I do.

I’m awfully sorry, and I cut myself with glee,

but you will always be brother to a black sheep.

You have always been a brother to a black sheep.

 

 

Darker Than Sin

 

Cold sweeps the chill across your teeth,

like the wind through the wheat.

Your words mean nothing anymore;

I feel the draft beneath the door.

 

What’s coming over me?

What’s coming over me?

What’s coming over me?

 

Darker than sin rushes this depth;

I spiral down into your breath.

You lift your hand and turn away;

I grip your noose at the fray.

 

What’s coming over me?

What’s coming over me?

What’s coming over me?

 

 

You Can’t Know

 

In the morning, when you look to my

bloodshot eyes, through the blinking

and the shades, don’t be surprised;

you only see me under canopies of sun.

Don’t inquire as to last night’s fire in town,

don’t approach my emotional spiral down;

such taboo subjects are overdone.

 

You never hear me when

I’m screaming out at night;

forehead wet with insomnia,

crystallizing into fright.

 

You can’t know the thoughts that terrorize me,

harsher than your worst nightmares;

thumbtacks pinned to a police chief’s map.

At that, I wake up, gasping for air.

 

Another day lost, and time to retire;

excuse the smashed glass and the worn tire iron

—mixed emotions… time to go to sleep.

Mull over conversation and talk, get out of bed

twice to make sure the door is locked;

keep hearing stairs and floorboards creak.

 

You never heed me when

I’m freaking out and tight;

forehead wet with sweat, and

fretting, horrified by pitch’s bite.

 

You can’t know the thoughts that paralyze me,

these aren’t your common dreams;

afraid to sleep, awake for days,

recounting horrid themes.

 

A few too many drug induced novels;

grovel for the conjuring of medication bottles,

become the subject of a speculative hush.

Don’t ask for privileged information interviews,

you’ll hear reports on the ten o’clock news;

you’ll want to vomit at thoughts

that make me blush.

 

You’re never near me when

I’m creaming at the sight,

frothing at the corners of a

grin, at sinning—staged delight.

 

You can’t know the thoughts that petrify me,

straight from an asylum cell;

scrapes on the pavement guide me

to my own personal hell.

 

 

Fresh Blood

 

Fresh young spice on a

Friday night, pretty little face

so bashful, peach pit moan

with a beckoning sneer;

let your locks down the castle.

 

Princess, you’ll not

make it home tonight;

I have things in my mind

which you dare not fathom.

You will never see the day

the same way.

 

Sliding door through open

window, bedroom sanctuary,

walk in closet with

Venetian blinds,

drawn unripened berries.

 

Treasure, I’ll invade

your mysteries, pry into

the gateway of your knees, then

slip your bleeding lips around me.

 

Fresh blood screams,

“Please don’t do this!”

“God,” I think, “if only.”

Then a crack, a snap;

fresh blood gushes free.

 

Laundromat or the grocery store,

boyfriend at the jeweler,

foot in a nest

in an oak tree branch,

evening getting cooler.

 

Petite little cutie lets

a howl that shatters nerves,

day fades away with

an unprovoked shiver,

supple curves

slow motion and purr.

 

Fresh blood pleads,

“Don’t put me through this!”

“Dear, if it were only that pure.”

A sudden surge of rage,

a jolt of pain,

then nothing more.

 

Oh God! Oh God! May

the glass be sharp enough

to fix what I’ve done,

and may her tears fall from heaven

and cleanse this puddle of blood!

 

Half empty bottles

on a Chinese rug,

cats on broken rockers,

sleeping past noon

without calling in;

such is life for stalkers.

 

Puss, it wasn’t

anything you did;

I am living

consequences of my sins.

Now watch the years strangle you

with all you hate in me.

 

Fresh blood screeches,

“You can’t undo this!”

Now I see it all too clear;

fresh blood is the

focus of my fears.

 

Fresh blood screams,

“Please don’t do this!”

“Dear, it’s already done.”

A violent twist, sadistic kiss,

and fresh blood runs.

 

 

Bug Eye

 

Mesmerized, hypnotized—

read between the lines

and go crazy;

beat the bride, come inside—

ungodly hour of night

of self abasing.

 

Mercury melting me,

move on to another crime;

choose a view, lose a few,

looking through a hundred eyes.

Posing for no one and

posing as someone;

JESUS CHRIST had

something I can’t find.

 

Sanctified, justified

—everything at one time,

but now I’m going crazy;

terrified, bleary eyed

—morally declined,

arriving in a base heat.

 

Lead laden muses haven,

avalanche and landslide;

fortunate, distortion fit,

abortion, rape, and suicide.

Closing to everyone,

opposing the only son;

JESUS CHRIST, my

friend, I’m going blind!

 

Clip my wings,

do violent things;

he always brings

me back somehow.

Slam headfirst

—my God, it hurts!

Savior, can you

save me now?

 

 

Serial Killers Have Mothers Too

 

Mother dear, dearest Mother,

I don’t expect you to understand

how your boy could hurt another.

I have tried for so many years

to not turn out this way,

but Mother dear, it appears

your fears, Mother dear,

dear Mother, are known today.

 

Father, Father, sir,

I have bad news for you;

my name, the name you gave,

your name will soon be reviled.

I have done some awful,

some horrible, horrible things.

And some people you never met,

some family has been greatly defiled.

 

I’d protect you from the disgrace

this case will bring out in the courtrooms,

but the fact is, serial killers have mothers too.

 

Sister, dear Sister,

dear sister I never knew,

would anything have changed

if you’d explained that

your kind needs respect?

Would my path have been brighter

or am I truly an animal?

Sis, is there pity or compassion

outside this regret?

 

Brother, elder brother,

you will soon be outraged by my mistakes

and how I could be so heartless.

I have tried, with God as my witness,

not to become the shambles before you;

step over my open grave and just shove me in.

 

I’d take back all these things

I have hidden in places where darkness looms,

but the truth is, serial killers have mothers too.

 

I don’t deserve to live

—well, on that you and I agree;

but are you sure that it’s justice,

not jealousy causing you to persecute me?

There’s a family out there who

hates me for what I have done;

but that’s nothing to the self-loathing,

knowing that I was the one.

 

Everything they’ve been saying about me

is true; serial killers have mothers too.

 

I can see her face change as the waves of pain

shot through her once virgin frame,

and I still see the corpse,

all contorted and morbid and strange;

and it plagues me, a hideous apparition

—I’m going insane!  …oh, by the way,

what was her name?

 

I’m the vermin germ,

I’m the worm squirming dirt, I’m unglued;

and I’m sorry, but serial killers have mothers too.

 

 

Excuses For The Jest

 

What sort of mess am I in?

I confess, I’m distressed

by excess cardinal sins;

I guess I could best be

regressed while I’m pinned,

unless you’ve been dressed

up in bourbon and gin.

 

I don’t want excuses of genes

or abuses I’ve suffered before;

they won’t justify what I find

myself doing exceedingly more.

This subtle deterioration is

patiently waiting to kill;

divination and sheer speculation

bring nearer the day that it will.

 

You control your actions,

not the other way around;

you lose yourself,

not wanting to be found.

 

Into what sort of joke was I born?

I suppose it was chosen before I was formed;

choke on the hope of confusion and scorn,

and tighten the rope—without hope I’m adorned.

 

I don’t want excuses that razors

or nooses may promise to solve;

the redder the bleeding, the

darker the afterlife involved.

This growing depravity claims

there’s no way to be painlessly spared;

inane bouts of praying in vain say

the same as a world without care.

 

But you control reaction,

not the other way around;

you fuse yourself, not

wanting to be bound.

 

You bruise yourself, and

crumble to the ground.

 

 

Leaves Me Feelin’

 

Twelve fluid ounces of imported lager,

thin streams from what used to be a tea light.

Some rock star guitarist’s

warehouse clearance disc on spin,

awake tomorrow before tomorrow begins,

with the fan on, over a cool Christmas weekend,

 

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a junkie.

 

Girl, no matter how feminine framed,

doesn’t laugh at the TV or

the roommate playing video games.

One beer, stale pizza from boxes on the floor,

or resting under coffee pots

with a fourth cup left unpoured,

a few holiday greeting cards

with nothing personal except a name,

a quick succession of Special Light

cherries on my favorite vest,

and four corners, and one gaping window,

and a list of six bad memories,

and a backpack of ATM and gas receipts

            —doesn’t add up. . .

 

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…

leaves me feelin’ too much…

leaves me feelin’ nothing.

 

And tomorrow at two,

a photo shoot for promo fodder;

tonight my stomach is sick,

tomorrow morning I’ll want to die again;

I’ll take vitamins and Aspirin,

and force down torn off pesto bread,

and watch the sun dim these realities,

and teach myself to laugh again;

 

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like a…

leaves me feelin’… leaves me feelin’ like life.

 

 

The Whys

 

Now it appears I’m doomed

to despise my way of living,

to spend my days with you,

and yet confused by the misgiving;

your heart is so young, and my

emotions have grown so cold.

So now it seems that all my

dreams have been a sham,

and quite elusive,

I’ve stuck you in my joyless rut,

unfair—downright intrusive;

there’s no escape, it’s too late,

I throw my hands up

from your stranglehold.

 

And it will never change,

so just hold me ‘til I die;

there’s no answer to the whos,

whats, whens, wheres, and whys.

 

The little girl you were

lies in a gutter full of rain,

the bum who rules the slum you’re in

has caused you so much pain,

and there’s little indication

my inclinations will ever change.

I am a monster, abhorrent,

unfortunate, and dark;

I started on a different path,

but God, I missed the mark!

Now you look at me with pity,

and think, “Good Lord,

the man’s deranged!”

 

And it will never fail,

so just rail me ‘til I die;

there’s no answer to the whos,

whats, whens, wheres, and whys.

 

And it will never cease, so

please, beat and rob me blind;

there’s no answer to the whos,

whats, whens, wheres, and whys.

 

 

On My Disgrace

 

It will only be a matter of time

before they find me. I’ve been expecting it,

and I will offer no resistance when they come.

All these years of lies have finally

reached a head; I lie sprawled across the bed,

waiting out in this rotting old slum.

 

On my disgrace,

the world will soon have opinions;

I am the boy next door, a top story,

a deplorable beast.

Well, what sort did you think

could think up these things?

Like I haven’t been hinting for years.

You should have locked me up, arrested me

long before it reached the police.

 

2:15, long before the sun unblinks its eyes,

the rain dampens an eerie stillness,

heavy with an impending sting.

In a moment, I half expect the door

to be kicked open, and Feds to filter in.

I’ll just sit up and stare,

and acknowledge them with a drink.

 

On my disgrace,

the media will soon have dominion;

a tiny community will stir in a flurry of shock.

Well, what on earth did you expect

when you read my journals;

did you figure I was making it up?

You can’t imagine such things

without being this severely corrupt!

 

On my disgrace,

the court will soon make decisions;

as derision and curses emerge

from my once closest friends.

Are you really surprised

finding crime in my eyes?

Were my actions so far out of line?

I am truly guilty, but

you must have been truly blind.

 

 

Trembling

 

My trembling hand scratches

obscene letters into a paper cup.

My aching body longs for an ending

to erupt abruptly.

But I know all too well the hell I fell into—

it rises, swells, it swelters

at unfathomable temperatures,

measured out in screams and yells.

My trembling hand studies the blade,

runs its fingers up and down the sheen,

proceeds to make a clean cut,

and etch a bleeding analogy.

Then darkness ever more lumbers in….

 

Lies… my bleeding tongue declares its shame;

despise myself, with no end to the pain.

Dying, lying limp in pools of sin.

Trying, redoing makeup wearing thin.

Guilty, my heavy head dips in despair.

Kill me, ‘cause I’ve had my bloody share.

 

Convulsing and contorting

into terrifying shapes,

my back becomes a whipping post,

twisted, grated, scathed.

Never nearer what I want,

but closer what I don’t;

swearing that my life will change,

but knowing that it won’t.

 

My trembling, dripping hands

clasp in a last prayer….

 

 

Satan’s Silver Platter

 

Know you true what

my inclining may do?

Can you hate me near as

much as I would grate you?

Dare I share the barely

buried scare full glare?

Witness you unthinkable

embarrassment impaired?

 

Please, someone save me

from this sinking sensation;

link sin to human form

of great tribulation and scorn.

 

Release the beast and feast your

eyes on saving grace we crucify;

divide the healing robe, deprive

Messiah dignity and pride.

 

And as the stew, it simmers

with its seasoning of sinners,

the dinner party salivates and hungers,

and drools like Pavlov’s canine,

after fine wine and pearl shrines,

while the grapevine winds around

warmongers’ and criminals’ throats.

 

Spy you, wily spider, while

I try to siphon cider from

amassed, solid conglomerates

of granite, life, and pyrite.

Here within your hearing, smeared

by sneers and jeered, and reeling,

peel off feeling clear, revealing

leering fears, mixed, and congealing.

 

Please, someone lift me

from these dark surroundings;

uncage and resonate disturbing,

resounding discord.

 

Engage the staged and fading

guise of myths with burning

coals for eyes; disguise the dying

sacrifice, deny it ever was alive.

 

And as the stench, it lingers

on the bloody Roman fingers,

the sting of things forgiven ring

in thunder, and on the faces of

the innocent cross pain and death

and undue torment, racing in,

replacing the unblemished with

the punishment for all mankind.

 

 

Forgiveness

 

The elusive “it”… it’s a game

for which there are no fair rules;

I aim my disdain, the opponent

gains another move.

            I’m amused by forgiveness.

It’s become an awful habit

I may never hope to stop,

despite all my objections,

and despite my fruitless talk.

            I’m abused by forgiveness.

It’s become a nasty problem,

gotten well beyond control,

reached proportions never dreamed of,

and reversed my savior role.

            I’m accused by forgiveness.

It’s become a fight

that I know I can’t win;

there are too many times

now that I’ve given in.

            I’m diffused by forgiveness.

 

Resolutions cannot sway me now;

I’m set in my ways and that’s all I’m allowed.

If you think you can break me

from sin and despair,

you can try... but I really don’t care.

 

The “it” situation, I half understand;

I fail to ignore you and bloody my hands.

            I’m protected by forgiveness.

It’s become a second nature I cower to show;

I can’t hope to break free, it won’t let me go.

            I’m expected by forgiveness.

It’s become a disease for which there is no cure;

anesthesia amnesia is drug for the poor.

            I’m corrected by forgiveness.

It’s become a prison, infested with gall;

as another day passes, I scratch on the wall.

            I’m neglected by forgiveness.

 

Resolutions are under the plow;

I hiss in your presence and spit on my vows.

If you fancy you’ll save

me from wreck and despair,

you can try… but I wouldn’t dare.

 

It’s become a hatred, beyond my control,

where anger consumes me and burdens my soul.

            I’m impressed by forgiveness.

It’s become an example of what sin can do;

in all of this darkness, I’m losing you.

            I’m depressed by forgiveness.

It’s become a struggle where it’s all undefined;

I cannot go on this way, walking so blind.

            I’m addressed by forgiveness.

It’s become a sorrow in eyes underlined;

and all of these hardships are merely implied.

            I confess my forgiveness.

 

Resolutions intrude and devour

the zest for abusing the illusion of power.

If by some stretch you miss

that I’m flawed and impaired,

you should know that I’m choking on air.

 

 

Shorn

 

Lock, lock, lock, lock

the door, door, door;

on the other side,

immobilized on the floor,

twitches painfully a boy,

spoiled by perverse toys,

speaking with the devil

splendid noise.

 

Knock, knock, knock;

let me in, in, in,

or kick me out to run about

the inconspicuous without;

doubtful images occur,

blurred by certain things inferred,

heavy curtain drops across

the herds’ disturbed.

 

And the shearer takes the shape

of who we thought we could negate,

and he hates to leave discrepancy alone.

As he peels away the layers,

never ceasing at his trade,

he proceeds through skin

to shave away the bone.

 

Bleat, bleat, bleat, bleats

the flea-feast fleece,

still policed by hound

and fence, the single mass;

sweet, sweet meat, meet

the mean, gleaned sheen

of the least of these,

now slaughtered on the grass.

 

And the hearer makes a break

from whom he never could escape,

and the message takes

a meaning of its own.

As he heals from weight’s betrayal,

grazing thoughtless there in wait;

he feeds on truths he

never would have known.

 

 

Little Death

 

Give me full death… I’m open and I want it now.

“No,” you say, “you must die slowly every day.”

A small piece here, and a peace broken off

into a sea of jagged edges, where erosion is slow

and stability is nothing I know.

 

So a little death will suffice,

a slice and a fragment from a heart of ice;

how nice of you to stop in,

drop in for a taste of the afterlife.

 

I long to self destruct, am drawn to caving in

and being buried under layer upon layer of skin;

we talk all night of wallowing in sorrow,

until light creeps in across the early morning

shadow of a sick grin.

 

So just a little death will do for now,

as I cower through this darkest hour

or towering mountains, and fountains,

and wellsprings turned sour.

 

A little death and a little life,

a mix of breadth with a hint of Christ,

a guilty hand and a spotless knife,

left with presence, paying twice the full price.

 

Oh, the costly consequence of being human!

 

 

II.        Brittle, Baby, Brittle

 

That spark of adoration the child in us knew often leads down wrong paths.  Relationships emerge as the prominent measure of our spiritual lives, more often than not waning, more often than not diminishing, as we brace for the possibility that we may never find the love we have so long sought.  The complexities of interrelating take on a weight of their own when the focus shifts to external struggles—people equally as torn, clashing with our own protected and fragile egos.  We learn the meaning of growing apart.

 

 

Astray

 

I sit in your midst,

saying nothing;

I smile, but all the while

I’m feeling gray.

You barely comprehend

the hidden messages I send;

you break my heart

so many different ways.

 

But I’m not hurting anymore;

I’m past that point.

I save myself by staying away.

You ask me what’s wrong,

but you don’t care.

You’re pushing me,

I’m wandering astray.

 

 

Better Shoes

 

Honey, give me some money

if you insist on setting in comfortable ways.

I’m tired of running after every whim

with which you buckle and sway.

 

Got to get me some better shoes if you’re

going to keep leaving the way you do;

I’ve got bruises and calluses from following you,

ankles all swollen and purple hues.

 

Won’t you cut me some slack, dear lover,

And understand why I don’t want you

dancing with another?

My two left feet… have they defeated me at last?

You’ll give the next dance to the first jerk to ask.

 

Got to get me some stronger boots if I have

to keep kicking out strangers and fools.

I take a steel-tipped toe to the family jewels;

well, isn’t that some sort of gratitude?

 

Got to get me some better shoes;

my Achilles’ heal is open and falling through,

the tendons and nerves are all battered and blue,

and I can barely stand on such intense abuse.

 

Baby, give me the car keys, so I can

make a clean break from continual crime scenes.

For once, I’ll be taking the driver’s seat;

I won’t be dragged around the way I used to be.

 

Got to get me some better shoes if I’m

going to make a move and get away from you.

I’ve had bruises and calluses contributed to,

but now I’m going to get me some better shoes,

to better help me walk away

from you and your rules.

 

 

Talking Like A Maniac

 

It’s late at night,

I get a call;

you had a bad day.

There’s nothing

I can do at all

to make your

mood sway.

You’re drifting

on a sea of time,

you got your

feet wet;

I’m fishing through

the waterline

to find your secret.

 

If I thought that

I could possibly help,

I would be there.

 

You’re talking

like a maniac

(I’m so lenient).

Depressed

or just

a psychopath…

what’s more

convenient?

You roller coaster,

Ferris wheel with

your emotions;

you ram me like

I’m made of steel

and magic potions.

 

If I thought that I

could possibly help,

I would be there,

but all that I can say

is “you’re crazy,”

and pull out my hair.

 

 

I Want You (Only If You Want Me Back)

 

In truth, I must be honest here,

you mustn’t let me interfere;

you tear while cracking ear to ear,

and soon you’ve nearly disappeared.

Lips and fingers glazing black,

damsel tied to silent tracks;

lovers never knowing lack?

I need you only ‘til you turn your back.

 

I want you only if you want me back.

 

For now I must be civilized

and never let you see my eyes;

a heart this pierced must compromise

and hide behind horizon skies.

Polar opposites detract

from muddled lists of useless facts.

Limbs and chest and matter splat;

I’ll take you only if you take it back.

 

I want you only if you want me back.

 

Poison vapors, money stacks,

lax on the tobacco tax,

bad and worse prepackaged packs;

I love you only if it’s sealed in wax.

Reach completion, each with flak,

give you freedom to attack;

could you never love like that?

I only reach until you pull it back.

 

I want you only if you want me back.

 

But once you hack

[hack, hack, hack],

you can’t come back.

 

 

Apart From You

 

Hold me slightly tighter, brightness,

stay a clock whirl later,

bray, betray a growing kindness,

make my cake and cater.

 

Charmed becomes the focus

of the arms that fold forever,

heartache is the stake that wakes

the cunning and the clever.

 

Watch me crumble as I break apart from you.

 

Cruelty proceeds to drive

a wedge between the ledge and me,

meditation edges spreads

across the bed of rock beneath.

 

Harmed becomes the jargon

in the bargain bin of feelings,

marred becomes the harvest

of our vested interest dealings.

 

Watch me jettison, blood-let apart from you.

 

I, the clanking, loosened shutter,

flutter like a windsock,

stalks in fields of “talk in mutters”

sway with every insult.

 

Alarmed become the pardoned

that the gardens may be wilting,

varnished farms with empty barns,

and truckloads of quilting.

 

Watch me fast unravel, as apart from you.

 

 

Imperfect Love Song

 

Truth is, if I weren’t here

you would fall in love with someone else.

I could say, “It’s you and me, my dear,”

but I’d clearly be deluding myself.

Because I’ve seen in you the tendency

to separate and distance me from everything;

unfortunately, I no longer see the point in trying

to continue these pleasantries.

 

This is an imperfect love song

to my disturbed lover.

 

Truth is, if you hung your head,

we would stay in bed all day,

but if I did such—well, we expected as much;

I say a prayer as you buckle and sway.

While I was waiting to fall from your graces,

you dated a baited array of attacks;

I fell flat on my face,

you were thrown to your back.

 

I wrote an imperfect love song

to my impersonal lover.

 

And if you die, I’ll be right behind;

and if I pass away,

some vulture will swoop in,

and pick at its naive prey.

And if I cry, it’s at the thought

of another guy, his kiss at your lips,

and his too anxious hands on your hips.

 

Truth makes an imperfect love song

to an impassioned lover;

this is an imperfect love song

from an imperial blunder.

 

 

Wasted On The Likes

 

Heed my entreaty, tight

sweatered ball of yarn,

interlock fingers with the

prune hands of sweaty palms,

and in the autumn, we’ll take a fall,

scrape jack o’ lanterns clean

and eat the seeds with salt.

 

I’m wasted on the likes,

and you I favored even less,

but states away I masturbate,

and wait for a caress.

I am a wasted and untasted pâté.

 

Rash and unsettled,

planting weeds in flower beds,

coat with insecticide the blossom

-tipped, thorn laden stem; over the

blooming, a looming thunderhead

prepares a pelting for the

shelter-scrounging, scour fed.

 

I’m wasted on the likes,

and through the flavors in your dress,

the basted paste of aftertaste

defaces in the press.

I am a laced and marinated entrée.

 

You obviously can’t treat me

or digest what’s on your plate,

and it turns out you're the trayed

and waxed desserts for mere display,

and as my salivary stirring turns to

thirsting after cream, your sugary sweet

syrup drips like honey from a bee,

and my tongue hangs out of my

mouth for the fountain’s spout.

 

I’m wasted on the likes

of whose I’ve savored every slice;

the shavings on the icing raise

inflation in the price.

I am a patent saturation of whey.

 

 

Don’t Bother

 

Now you say that pretty soon you’ll start trying;

I might believe you if I didn’t know you’re lying, but I do.

 

You say the effort will come soon,

to which I reply, “Don’t bother;

I’ll be better off without you.”

You say, “God, I’ve got to change!”

But I seriously doubt that you ever will.

You reach for the phone—don’t bother.

 

You’ve hurt me more than anyone could;

I am a hardened man, it all worked out

for the good (in some very bad ways).

 

You’ve always said you would come back,

to which I now ask, “Don’t bother;

I am happier in sadness.

I can now relate to all the hate

and madness in the temporary heartache of life.”

You scratch a few lines—don’t bother.

 

Don’t disturb these unworthy

bones you buried in the earth,

you must really have some nerve

to show the face of you,

rebirthed after all these years;

your apology falls on deaf ears.

I know you’re sorry

—don’t bother saying it; just

let me continue missing you.

 

Don’t bother. Don’t bother me.

 

 

Let Me Fade

 

In this place again;

I need space again.

Every now and then

I get a little uptight;

you find too many flaws,

you drag me into the light.

If only you could see, it’s me.

 

Let me fade,

let me push you away,

let me phase into oblivion,

and never betray your love.

 

Let me cave,

let me break into flakes,

let me chafe and grate excessively,

and never retain your shoves.

 

On this roof again;

I need proof again.

Every other day

I find I’m aching in vain,

straining for no grain of hope,

but only for open flames.

If only you could say it’s okay.

 

Let me fade,

leave me shaken and spayed,

let me pray for grace eternally,

and always afraid of prying.

 

Let me waive,

let me waste every day,

paint me clinical and cynical

and critically acclaimed

and dying.

 

 

Suddenly, With Warning

 

I’m angry with you for driving me mad,

I want you to not make me want you so bad,

I’m sick of the cure in the illness I caught,

and cold at the notion of burning so hot.

 

I’m brash, distraught at your calming me down,

I beg you to leave when I plead, “Hang around.”

I’m tired of anxiously losing my sleep;

I wish I could lose what I wish I could keep.

 

I’m bursting with hunger and starved after feast;

I’m gentle and sensitive, and harsh as a beast.

Treading merciless waves to drown in the crest,

I bleed from where my heart would be

and salt the ordered mess.

 

The mire of your cleanliness inspires me to rot;

I want to be epitome of everything I’m not.

Intense speculation is certainly fact;

please, let’s leave the fiction of reality intact.

 

[Punctuation optional.]

 

Suddenly I looked and saw

my heart in several pieces of

a hole you’d long been hiding in

I’m morbidly residing in

a newfound sense of affluence

in ignorance I’d given

before driven out of sanity

by sin and hints of vanity

 

Suddenly my heart was broken,

so I gave you as a token

what I felt the sharpest part

of my newly broken heart.

 

Suddenly I found I couldn’t breathe

the ground had swallowed me alive

but only barely so I couldn’t

move or struggle over hours

and weeks of countless griefs

I drowned in what enveloped me

as subtly as thoughts perceived

you brought me weak to feeble knee

 

Suddenly my heart was shattered

by the only thing that mattered,

so I brought the shards to you

in hopes that you could find a use.

 

Suddenly life is an enigma

and I’m racked with futility

and it’s all because

because because

because because

of what you did to me

 

 

Remember

 

Remember when you said that

you would never make me cry?

Well, you did.

 

These are the dimmest places I have ever been.

These are the saddest things I have ever seen.

 

Remember when you said

you’d always love me?

Neither do I.

 

 

Humble

 

“I am ill with grief, my dear Moonbeam.  A slight of hand—a slightly underhanded carousel of nonexistent emotions—has catapulted me to a sideline dimension of delirious envy.  I am forest, engulfed in mockery and cruel injustice, while wiping away all traces of familiarity, and distancing myself once again from the all-encompassing idiosyncrasies of a questionable reality.  I am the laughing stock of my own intentions.”

 

Just days after I found you didn’t care,

I’m lying in a room—but not mine,

bitter sentiment in eyes that only stare,

silenced now, my inhumane whine,

dissociative, anti-social—what have I become?

Mired in a strait of despair,

isolated, quarantined, separated from,

tied up by a lock of your hair.

 

Look what it’s done to me…

I’m the laughing stock of my own intention.

 

Just miles further than where we started out,

I boomerang to where I began;

should have known this

is what would come about,

that romance wasn’t part of the plan.

I touched your fingers, your blood ran cold,

your lungs too frozen to call;

I couldn’t break your psychotic hold,

my knees shook, too nervous to crawl.

 

Look what it’s done to me…

I’m the laughing stock of my own intention.

 

 

I Could Just Die

 

You’re getting to me

in more ways than you know;

I could just lay down and die.

This is getting to be

more unbearable than I can show;

I should just stay down and hide.

                       

Dark side, underside,

beside the downslide;

it’s all mine, inside I cry,

terrified and teary eyed,

declining,

yet deciding not to try;

lie down with me.

I could just die.

 

[I would continue, but I haven’t the energy.]

 

 

Look Forward

 

I look forward to looking back

and forwarding your mail.

I look forward to getting no reply,

while I wile away days in my jail.

With a scratch on the wall,

I scrawl records of hours

that crawl through a scalding dissolve.

But most of all, I look forward to

...nothing at all.

 

Look forward to never looking

behind, while I’m reminded

of a thousand different times.

Look forward to lackluster

lashing brash lashes of eyes.

Look forward, and never

look back to see me cry.

 

I look forward to looking for words

to say what I desperately need to get out.

I look forward to four words that are

never conveyed—and they?  “I want it now!”

But I flake like a pastry baked, or dry

and aged paint, to favorite, ancient displays.

In layman’s terms, what I look

forward to is a blur of absurdities.

 

Look forward to never giving

a thought to diseases you’re rid of,

and I have only just caught.

Look forward to forewords

in volumes of familiar rhymes.

Just keep looking forward,

and never own up to your crimes.

 

Look forward to looking

back down on your friends,

while they nod their approval

and eat up the greetings you send.

Look forward to looking

in every wrong place for a dime.

Look forward, and don’t turn

around when you hear me cry.

 

 

But I Thought You Said...

 

I thought you said

not to worry,

not to dread,

that you’d take care of everything,

it wasn’t on my head.

But now I’m not so sure

you knew what you were looking for,

and I’m not sure you said anymore

what I thought you said;

I’ve been deceived,

I’ve been misled,

now everyone who knows

the truth is laughing.

You lied—my pride is dead,

you should have murdered me instead;

not everyone so close to you is smiling.

 

I was almost sure you spoke

a word of kindness once evoked;

I swear I heard a note

of sincerity in the approach.

At the very least I sensed a need

to use and beat and bury me;

for that, at least,

you owe an explanation,

why you said

what I thought you said.

Was I confused?

Did I forget?

How cruel of you

to know the truth

and keep it from me!

I cried—you lied again!

You brought my world to an end;

you vicious, vicious girl,

what possessed you?

 

 

Well, Shame On Me

 

Once again I’m in the way;

I believe every claim

your actions make.

Once again I feel beat;

you chisel tile out from

underneath my feet.

Once again you trounce my trust;

my self esteem returning,

turning back to dust.

 

Do I make you nervous

or fill you with fear?

Do you crouch in the corner?

Can you see through the tears?

Do I disappoint you?

Are you simply uninspired?

Am I not what you hoped for?

Are you weary and tired?

 

Once again it’s no surprise;

I wish I knew what it

is about me you despise.

Once again I was wrong;

you didn’t hesitate to

say I don’t belong.

Once again I feel faint;

the shades are all too

vivid and lively in

the truths you paint.

 

Do I annoy you?

Would you like me to go?

Are you just disenchanted,

or am I stealing the show?

Do I make you tremble,

recoil, or flea?

Would you rather be

anywhere than here?

Are you sick of me?

 

Don’t answer—I don’t

really want to know.

 

 

Take It All

 

Why not just take what little I have left?

All I have left is what little I have of my heart;

you’ll do well not to contemplate

what sort of anguish you cause.

 

Take it all, take it all,

take it all, take it all;

I don’t need it.

Take it all, take it all;

I don’t want it anymore.

Take it all, take it all,

take it all;

I’ll get on without it.

Take it all, take it all;

it’s nothing I’ve

not lost before.

 

Did God send you here to repay me

for something I’ve done?

Should I graphically detail what

an abomination I have become,

since you opened the wounds I was

nearly convinced had healed?

 

Take it all, take it all,

take it all, take it all;

I don’t need it.

Take it all, take it all;

I can’t use it anymore.

Take it all, take it all,

take it all;

I’ll be all right without it.

Take it all, take it all;

it’s all been taken before.

 

 

You Don’t Need Me

 

Can’t help but thinking

you would have survived;

would it make a difference

if I weren’t alive?

You’d get on without me

—you’ve done it before.

I’ve had quite enough already;

what am I still here for?

Did I make it interesting,

maybe sweeten the pot?

Am I even welcome here?

Please tell me if I’m not.

If I were to pack up and

leave tomorrow morning,

your life would go on;

I don’t want to overextend my

invitation where I don’t belong.

 

And when you hear me calling,

what do you want to say?

Do you mutter some obscenity?

Do you wish I’d go away?

Just be brutally honest,

do I get on your nerves?

I’m feeling very futile

and fragile at the moment;

I’m not what you deserve.

 

Admit it, you don’t need me.

 

Can’t help but thinking

it doesn’t matter,

‘cause you’re getting older

and I’m getting sadder.

I’m in it too deep now,

over my head;

do I read double meanings

or is that what you said?

I wonder if you’d miss me?

I wonder if you’d care?

Or if you’d even notice

if I wasn’t there?

If I happen to leave this world,

burn these words and

photographed frowns,

and anything else you

never cared about

that may remind you

I’m no longer around.

 

If I lived in tomorrow,

would you live in today?

And if you saw me walking,

would you walk the other way?

I’m half of what I should be,

I’m only a trace;

I’m feeling insignificant

and irrelevant today,

I’m only taking up

valuable space.

 

Admit it, you don’t need me.

 

 

Nothing,  Part I

 

I walk with my hands

in my pockets

along the ocean floor;

I mean nothing.

I mean nothing anymore.

 

Stand out on the roof

in the moonlight

above the glass door;

you mean nothing.

You can’t reach me anymore.

           

Blink

and think

and drink

and sink back into the earth’s core;

it means nothing…

nothing…

nothing.

 

 

Roll One For Me

 

I do believe you could have

your way with anything;

it’s easier for me to lie awake

and hate the way I sing

a thousand songs a night that

never reach the one I write them for,

before I clutch my leaking gut,

and sweetly bleed, and beat the floor.

 

The less I hear the more I see

the piece of you I want to be;

the more I taste the less I eat

from plates and goblets offered me.

So smoke the hope of antidotes and

choke out one more graceless note,

and once you find that

hint you’re nic-in’ for,

roll one for me.

 

I do believe you would

raise your glass to anything;

it’s easier on me to look away

from your disheartening

attempts to hedge a barrier

across the only entrance way,

maintaining all the while the

lack of style is from the Perrier.

 

The less I wash the more I’m clean

of raiding drugs and Listerine;

the more I sniff the less I breathe

polluted air of treachery.

So go on groping, poke of jokes,

slab to stab—you target throat;

and once you glimpse the

pimp you’re trickin’ for,

roll one for me.

 

 

Sarah West’s Recipe For Killing

 

The recipe for killing me is

one part your heart laughing as I bleed,

and two parts mine in self resign,

divining why you ever had to leave.

 

The best way to kill me is

certainly the hardest way to die;

the most painful way to torture me

is making me believe in you and I.

 

The recipe for ending me is

one cup time up, over and complete,

and two more me in self defeat,

completely free to plead insanity.

 

The best way to kill me is

really not the way I want to go;

I’d rather have my heart removed

than trampled on by pieces of your own.

 

The recipe to finish me is

one part my heart aching constantly,

and two parts yours as self assured,

colliding blindly with uncertainty.

 

The best way to kill me is

really not to kill me at all, but to

leave me in the stupor you’ve created,

insignificant and small.

 

The best way to kill me is

every bit as awful as the worst;

you leave me in a desert during famine,

drinking tears to quench my thirst.

 

To kill me, just keep

doing what you’re doing;

you’ve got it down to a fine art.

 

 

Why Shouldn’t I Be Happy?

 

Rather settled on a picket fence;

I’d rather be impaled,

wind rustled, your floral dress,

my skin torn by nails;

clouds drizzle and trickle down,

sterile dilution of tears,

collected watersheds,

submerging the drowned

under a volatile solution of fears.

 

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

Why shouldn’t I be held by

someone who cares?

Why couldn’t I get over you?

Why can’t you be replaced,

and the damage be repaired?

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

 

A fair suggestion, a fine idea,

a nice hypothesis to dream,

a lovely vision if it ever came to pass,

but alas, it is much harder than it seems.

I love you, I hate you, I need you,

I want to be alone… I can’t make up

my mind--you’ve made a mess of me;

I don’t know if I’ll make it on my own.

 

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

Why shouldn’t I be cherished

like someone worthwhile?

Why couldn’t I be deaf and blind and dumb?

Why can’t I stop living my life in denial?

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

 

I only wish I could sever myself

from you—it seems only fair,

my fresh deliverance would

spring from the wealth anew,

and these intrusions wouldn’t dare

show their prisoners, take refuge

in the splinters and the knots

on the floor, whittle totem poles

from oak branches, switches, and

the tap-conducive platform of boards.

 

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

Why should these words mean

anything to anyone but me?

Why shouldn’t my shoulder

be receptive to leaning?

Why should I be so whipped

that I couldn’t just leave?

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

 

I have only one more question,

and answer me straight:

Can I ever be complete,

or is it too late?

Why shouldn’t I be happy?

 

 

Don’t Go Without Saying Good-Bye

 

I realize it’s time. From now on

when you need to talk, it’s your dime.

I tried everything to keep you by my side.

Glad to know you; get out of my life.

 

Go, go… just go—I’ll be fine.

(But don’t go without saying good-bye.)

 

Just one kiss, it’s the only thing I’ll miss.

For all I really care, you could die.

Just one touch; I never liked you much.

This is one thing I am not affected by.

 

Everything’s all right; I refuse to cry.

(But don’t go without saying good-bye.)

 

 

Nothing,  Part II

 

I don’t exist to you…

that’s all I can say;

you half smile on turning away.

 

I can’t comprehend how these

words will translate:

            I’m nothing,

                        nonexistent,

                                    nothing.

 

[The music must cry for me…

I am expressionless.]

 

 

Your Love Came Too Late

 

Your love came too late; there is

nothing of my soul for you to take.

Your glances are wasted on me; I have

learned to live without that basic need.

 

I will nevermore be moved

to tears by saying good-bye.

I will never let you mean so much

that you could make me cry.

 

Your words don’t mean a thing;

I won’t open to that kind of suffering.

You must think I’m some kind of jerk; but

I know that kind of thing would never work.

 

I will nevermore be honest

with you, nevermore be sweet.

I’ve been broken far too many

times to fall down at your feet.

 

Your love came too late; I can

offer only bitterness and hate.

You may just as well be on your way;

I can’t be swayed by anything you say.

 

I will only take what innocence

you think you may have left,

and turn your insides sour

that you opened to the theft.

 

Your tears won’t change my mind;

my sincerity is too deep down to find.

Your smile only makes me sick; I will

never let myself fall for that trick.

 

I am past you ever finding

that my heart was ever warm;

there is no way I will ever

let you be so well informed.

 

You came along much too late.

Your love came too late…

too late.

 

 

To What End?

 

Don’t know what I expect,

dwelling like I do;

don’t even care if these words

find their way to you.

They’re just expressions of

another discontent;

you’re just a picture of

what I’ve come to resent.

 

What good are these words

if I don’t mean what I say?

They’ll never bring you back…

I write them anyway.

I lie awake at night lingering in you;

tell me, what good does it do?

 

Witness what I’ve become

overcoming me;

can't say I don’t enjoy

the miserable company.

You’re so far gone, removed

from every trace of living,

so unaware of all the poetry

you’re giving me still.

 

What good are these words,

formed from habit, indirectly

—words with no potency

or power to affect me?

I whine, but never really

crying over you; tell me,

what good does it do?

 

What good are these words

if I don’t mean what I say?

I only write because

you wouldn’t let me stay.

I lie awake at night,

embittered and confused;

tell me, what good does it do?

 

 

III.       Kookaburra Haunt

 

There comes a time when a wounded soldier must fall back into the mire of desolation and lament the loss of youth.  Every beginning has an end, every story has a close, and every relationship, it seems, is viewed in retrospect.  Marriage often seems a failed institution; so many run the same course and disjoin when adversity rears its head.  The dissolution cannot pass without mourning, without utter grief over a conclusion so soon reached.  Consequence takes its permanent, prevalent seat at an empty table.

 

 

Multi-Layered Dreamscape

 

You say come; I’m not so sure.

Some say run; I’ve run before.

I wish I could see you side

by side with my other choice;

I wish I could read your mind,

but I’m blind to your voice.

Where will you lead me,

darling, if I count on you?

 

Diaries burn from shame and sadness;

I tunnel, like the worm I am, into madness.

You offer your help,

but are you strong enough to lift me

out of this quicksand and onto dry ground,

or would I bring you down with me?

Where would I take you,

honey, if you relied on me?

 

I dreamt there were several layers of hell,

and as I hit them all I fell, fell, fell,

and at the very last one you extended your hand,

and we descended over grass and sky and sand.

I had another dream with a mansion so old,

and a hideaway section in the wooded cold.

And what I want, I can’t bring myself to decide;

pushing a boulder up a mountain would be

easier than making up my mind.

Where would you lead me,

darling, if I counted on you?

 

 

Thanks For Understanding

 

I haven’t time for this spinning,

sucking, swirl of whirls you impose;

there is a shockingly serious hurdle

at the side of the road.

I can meet you in an hour,

for five minutes in a coffee shop

—I’m running just a little bit late.

It’s a terrible, pressing mess of

urgency submerging my day.

 

Oh, a quick kiss barely on

the cheek, and I’ll call soon;

ah, a swift kick squarely on the beat

of a heart this confused.

But I really must go…

don’t ask me why,

because I really don’t know;

as soon as I figure it out,

I’ll leave you a note.

 

Whatever it is pulling me in, it can’t wait;

we desperately need the money, dear,

let’s get our priorities straight.

The kids can let themselves in,

they’re used to it by now;

thank God they don’t complain

(or if they do, I don’t hear it anyhow).

 

So a quick kiss rarely on

the lips, and page if you need;

I should be home about an hour late,

then we’ll watch TV.

But I’m off to do important things

—thanks for understanding….

 

[She’s left standing alone, with

no husband attached to the ring.]

 

 

Melancholy One

 

I’m pretending the one I’m with is you;

it’s horrible, I know, but it’s true.

And I’ll never tell you and you’ll never ask,

and if you did, I would lie to your face.

And I’ll never give in;

I’ll deny it to the death,

a secret I’ll take to the grave.

Just know it deep down,

that it’s you I’m doing all of this for;

and regardless of the life I choose,

know I always wanted you more.

But people such as you and I,

we take what makes us die inside,

then bottle up everything,

appearing all right;

and all the while becoming something

we never thought we could become.

Rest your pretty eyes on me for just

one second, melancholy one.

 

 

Silently By

 

Silently by, I stand and watch with

unbelieving eyes; how could I not see?

You definitely weren’t meant for me.

I only wish I had known that before

I pledged my love for all time;

and then that fateful day, the rains

came and left you paralyzed…

such a long, long, long while ago;

with so many more years yet to go.

 

I wish you would die!

I wish you would die!

I wish you would die,

so I could finally be free!

 

Faithfully by, I show only

compassion and patience;

isn’t there some award for enduring so much,

when you can’t even appreciate my touch?

I only wish I simply hadn’t met you;

oh, then I would be free!

But I promised I’d be with you

until the end… so die already!

Such a long, long, trying while to go;

so many awful, bitter years to go.

 

I wish you would die!

Why won’t you just die?

You would die if you really loved me,

or if you only knew….

 

 

Wanderer

 

Do I so sway that I may

leave everyone someday?

If I leave you, that’s just

my inclination I’m afraid.

Am I so bent that the heaven sent

may present themselves in turn?

And if they do, am I likely to

be not the least concerned?

 

I’m scared of my willingness to desert you;

how easily I sever every tie.

In practice I abandon every virtue;

how naturally does friendship all but die?

 

Do I detect some treachery,

aimed at you for accepting me?

Don’t expect an apology;

desertion is necessity.

 

On my behalf I only claim I’m a wanderer;

I never mean to break or make you cry,

but with a laugh, I’ll forget you in a seconds time;

you can’t unlearn the well trained,

wandering eye.

 

All my life is leaving

on a train bound for uncertainty;

all my life is leaving with me.

All my life is packing up

the stacks of all I ever knew;

all my life is leaving without you.

Detachment is all I’ve ever known,

and it’s time to go again.

 

 

When No One Is Looking

 

The light from your room

spreads across the hallway floor,

and I know that I’m invited

by the crack in your door,

but I sit here in my solitude

and long for you instead,

reject your sculpted shoulder

as the pillow of your bed.

As the darkness of the cold out-

side drips down with melting ice,

I warm myself with thoughts of

you—the visions rather nice;

but you and I both know that this

is wrong, and so we hide it well,

with every morning, secrets build

that neither speak and neither tell.

 

But true love, when no one

is looking, let’s share a smile.

 

I’m at the point where I

can understand affairs;

I’m to the point where I

could act, but wouldn’t dare.

The prospect pleases me

with fear and apprehension;

we feel a mutual agreement

not to mention.

And there’re few we know

who’d understand that

you’re a woman, I’m a man,

and few indeed who’d ever

stand to see us walking

hand in hand;

but every time I’m with you,

that’s the last thing on my mind.

Who’s to say or to explain

what are the ties that bind?

 

So true love, when no one

is looking, let’s share a wile.

 

My cheating heart was never

full until it latched itself to yours,

and now it beats incessantly

to rhythms it endures, in

hopes that it can find a way

to grab and pull you in; it

waits with patience, pining

for you, celibate ‘til then.

 

And true love, when no one is

looking, let’s bear a child.

Oh, my true love….

 

 

Stranger Thoughts

 

I’m terrified to confide this in you,

I’m really not sure what you’ll do,

so please, don’t speak ‘til I’m through.

I love you… God, you know how I do;

the thought of ever leaving

leaves me broken and confused;

but I’m a curious, dying cat,

and my humanity humiliates me

—will I stay true?

 

I’m scared,       

‘cause I love you with all of my heart,

but a stranger’s invading my thoughts.

I haven’t done anything yet,

but I’m afraid I may;

I’m just stupid that way.

 

I apologize for being so mucked up

—Lord, I must really be corrupt!

I know you deserve more.

Remember that letter you wrote?

It tore my chest open and poured

its contents down my funnel throat;

then it swelled up and welled up and fell

down my face, and you crossed it

like a wide, medieval moat.

 

And I’m scared,

‘cause I love you with all that I am,

but I am a rash and foolish man.

I’ve been known to throw myself into mistakes

and break some fragile hearts;

this time that’s not what I want.

But worry not… I’ve had stranger thoughts.

 

 

I May Be

 

I may be staring at her picture,

I may be smelling her perfume,

I may be writing her letters,

but I’m thinking of you.

I may have made her my angel,

I maybe long for her kiss,

I may be talking about her,

but it’s you that I miss.

I may admit I was shaken,

momentarily caught;

well, I may have left you,

but I never forgot.

I may be wildly jealous,

I may play all of your games,

I may act cold and indifferent,

but I’m feeling the same.

I may be holding a memory

—nights get entirely too long;

I may have thought that I could live

without you, but God, I was wrong!

 

 

The Death Of Another Great Title

 

Darling, I will set down my pen.

Darling, would you join me in the den?

Darling, I will sacrifice a night,

despite a hefty price;

to prove to you, my lover and my friend,

that you mean more to me than anything.

I hate to see you suffering;

I will not neglect you again.

 

Tonight the death of another great title

gives life to a friendship expressly more vital.

I find you too exciting for words;

I mind you, more inviting than verse.

 

 

My Way Of Apologizing

 

I know I don’t always say

just what you’d like to hear,

and sometimes when you talk

it slips right out the other ear;

I may not always seem like

I could be the least concerned,

but if I could make it up to you,

I’ll show you what I’ve learned…

 

If I kiss you once, that will mean

I’m dead in love with you;

if I wrap myself around you,

it means I have been a fool.

And if I get that look that looks

like pleading you to stay, I’m sorry,

I just don’t know what to say.

 

I guess I can understand

where you’re coming from;

how I’m a pig-faced imbecile,

and you are not yet numb.

You were right, I was wrong,

but are you so surprised?

I’m a jerk—I’ve proven it

a million different times.

 

So if I kiss you twice, that will

mean I see what I have done;

if I clean the house and give

you flowers, I’m the awful one.

And if I take you in my arms

and look a certain way, I’m sorry,

I just don’t know what to say.

 

I’m sorry I was such a pain today.

 

 

Fold

 

My perfect poker face

disgraced and feeling weak,

composure broken for the

weeks since we could speak,

submission granted that

my ego came unglued,

permission planted that

I’m ranting over you.

I am the gentleman with

every ace but one;

I end in suicide, and

you provide the gun.

 

I fold, I give in, I just

want to be friends again.

I quit, I digress, I want

to straighten out this mess.

If it takes taking the blame,

then I’ll take all the

blame there is to take.

 

I thought perhaps I’d make

you suffer for your crime;

I think perhaps I’m hurting

more than you this time.

What depth arises that these

eyes of mine behold?

This wretch devises schemes

to heat what he deems cold.

I am the jester dressed

in mockery and scorn;

I use what’s left to leave

my lover well adorned.

 

I yield, I give up, I take

a pill and self destruct.

I bow, I comply, I hang

my head and dangle high.

If it takes taking the blame,

then I’ll take all the

blame there is to take.

 

It was my mistake

I’ll never make again.

 

 

Are You With Me?

 

Darling lover, I don’t mean to make you sad,

but I just have to tell you why I hurt so bad;

we said that when we started

we would make it last,

but I can see you losing interest way too fast.

You told me that you loved me

and you always would, and when I said

the same I thought you understood;

I know I can’t give you much of anything,

but just how lightly do you take a wedding ring?

 

I don’t want to do this anymore;

tell me what it is you’re looking for?

I’ve been running scared and frightened,

but this time we can’t ignore;

are you with me, or are you out the door?

 

Bittersweet, I’ve walked these streets

a thousand times, verbalized expressions

in a pantomime; every time I tear at you,

I tear us apart, and drink the discon-

tentment from the shell of your heart.

I rarely even mean the

accusations I jab you with,

barely even mean the

aggravation I stab you with;

I’m broken and jagged,

and ragged and torn,

abusive through ignorance,

and baited with scorn.

 

But I don’t want to do this anymore;

lift me from the splinters of the floor.

I’ve been undermined, and heightened

to the fruitlessness of war;

are you with me, or are you out the door?

 

 

Where Are You Tonight?

 

Sitting at a table for two,

occupied by one too few,

candle sadly flickers into space,

off no soft-skinned companionship’s embrace;

unwelcome strangers don’t intrude,

I’m left to sink back in my

self-supposed solitude.

 

Where are you tonight?

Are you lit by someone else’s candlelight?

Where, where, where are you tonight?

I can’t reach you, after trying with all my might.

 

I look sometimes to see if you’re around,

but I know full well you’re nowhere to be found;

break a silent gesture with a curse,

scorch a page with coffee flavored verse.

“Waiter, I’m ready for the bill.

Thank you… now I’m off to write my will.”

 

Where are you tonight?

Are you dining with potential Mr. Right?

Why, why, why should I care?

Where are you tonight?

I went to Hell and you weren’t there.

 

Tonight, tonight, tonight,

I went to Hell and you weren’t there.

 

 

The Lies We Tell Ourselves

 

She must not be near a phone.

She’s probably at home alone.

She just running a little behind;

after all, this place is hard to find.

 

Truth is much too painful to see.

Truth is she doesn’t want to be with me.

Truth is she’d rather just be friends.

Truth is she never wants to see me again.

 

She’s probably having a miserable time—poor dear!

She wants to call me, but she hasn’t got a dime.

She’s probably thinking of me right now;

she wants to tell me, but she doesn’t know how.

 

Truth is she’s only being polite.

Truth is she just kissed someone else good night.

Truth is I keep getting in her way.

Truth is she doesn’t know what to say,

so she lies, and I lie and pretend she’s not a liar.

 

But the truth is,

the truth is...

 

she will not give me her heart,

she will not accept the part,

she will not stay through the end, as

she has not been from the start,

she will never come around,

she will never make a sound,

she will always be a stranger,

she will always let me down,

she will not knock on my door,

she will never ask for more,

she will not care, she will not be there,

I will always be ignored,

she won’t hear me when I cry,

she won’t care, she won’t ask why,

she will torture me repeatedly,

and grate that great big gape in my life.

 

 

There Are No Words

 

There are a million thoughts in my head,

several thousand of them involving you.

There are a million things I could say, but

nearly all of them would leave you confused.

There is no word for how I feel right now.

 

[Something entirely different.]

I’m dreading every sentence you speak,

afraid that it may be your last to me;

as well am I afraid of the silence we keep,

afraid that it soon may be dashed to pieces.

There are no words for how I feel right now.

 

How… how did we get here?

It was the last thing we wanted to do.

Yes, there is another,

but she’s afraid of losing someone too.

There are no words for how I feel right now.

And I’m sure you wouldn’t want

to hear them if there were.

 

 

Anything You Say

 

Long, cold receiver in the palm of sweaty hand,

over disconnected mileage, leaning sugar cane

he stands, biting nails and digging heels into a

crimson patch of heart, worn by tractor treads

and wheels that till the stillness before it starts.

Elsewhere, barely noticed, she rehearses the

words she will say; he’s expecting to be slighted

lightly, thrown like garbage by the way.

 

Anything you say will be fine;

I’ve grown accustomed to my blindness

interfering at inopportune times.

I would rather hear the truth from you than

whispered through the vines outside your door;

there is nothing you can tell me that I am not

prepared for,  so anything you say will be fine. *

 

 

*  There are no further lyrics to this song, due partly to the fact that I lost interest, and partly out of spite that there was no resolution in this particular instance.  Some things just aren’t neatly packaged.  I hope this irritates you.

 

 

The Apology Of An Insensitive Loser

 

I guess I’m not so much to

trust, and proving it again;

the guilt and hurt and sadness

—God!—could drive a guy insane.

I remember kicking dust in fields,

away from eyes of crowds,

watching you, with smeared

mascara, looking to the clouds.

I remember a frightening, penetrating

look that tore my hear in half;

I’d offer you the fraction if I

didn’t think you’d laugh.

 

I just hung up the phone,

never more alone than hearing

you’d be better off without me.

You said I made you cry;

“Good luck, good night... good bye.”

If it’s worth anything, I’m sorry.

 

 

But if I said “I’m sorry” a million

times, you’d never understand;

I never meant to let it get where you

could slip right through my hands.

And if I said “I love you” a million

times, and smothered you with tact,

and said, “I’ve never loved like this

before; I don’t know how to act,”

and “I was wrong”, now,

would you take me back?

 

Given yet another chance

to dash you into bits,

I’d stick my dagger into

every hole it didn’t fit.

I put off ‘til tomorrow what

I should explain today,

in hopes that recollection adds

a fondness to the pain.

I remember a terrible,

treacherous act,

attacking what was pure;

I’d claim it was a one-time thing,

though not completely sure.

 

I can’t believe the phone,

the hollow dial tone that says

you wish you’d never met me.

You said I made you weep;

you cry yourself to sleep.

If it means anything, I’m sorry.

 

But if I said “I’m sorry” a billion

times, would you try to understand?

My intentions weren’t to hurt you;

that was never what I’d planned.

I’ll say “I love you” one more time,

but doubt you’ll halt your tracks;

then you’ll notice sometime after that

my world has turned to black.

I was wrong—how about that?

 

 

Don’t Go

 

Don’t go.

There’s a place for you

here at my side;

be my treasure, my dear.

 

Don’t escape.

You fit wonderfully

into my life—fill the

void perfectly.

 

Don’t fade.

I will never forget

all that you’ve been;

I harbor no regrets.

 

Oh, please!

You can’t do this to me,

make me fall for you,

then leave!

 

 

At The Airport, Saying I Love You

 

At the airport, saying “I love you”

for the last time,

there is one final time to look

into your eyes.

 

There is that final time to look into

the eyes you soon find leaving you;

a wink, a blink, a click of the heels

…then gone.

Resentment hits like rigor mortis,

grips the limbs, digs in, and flashes over,

in one stinging line from a familiar song

(oh, that song!).

Stewardess, please get me

a drink of something strong.

 

At the airport, saying “I’ll write you”

—it should be crime;

you’ll never take the time to scratch

another line.

 

Suddenly, realize we both do, the futility

of going through so many nights preceding,

leaving cold the frozen snowball in the freezer.

Am I diseased, or just a tease,

or is there something more?

I don’t know, I don’t know,

I don’t know you well enough to say.

At any rate, you should be on your way.

 

At the airport, faking goodbyes

become standardized;

we sniff, and patronize each other’s

fine disguise.

Then at the airport,

watching the flight leave,

we let out a sigh as the airplane

falls from the sky.

 

 

My Bias

 

My first impression is… indulge inclination;

I’m so horribly inclined to dislike you.

For you’ve been telling things to she, about me,

who listens intently, so as only not to spite you.

But such horrendous accusations

lack substance or foundation, they

do little more than frighten and dismay

the one you claim to protect

by negating me with disrespect,

and painting me abasement with a chain.

Through undue nights of anxiously

obsessing to a loss of sleep,

you long to look into the bloodshot eyes

that prior only looked to me;

and you expect her gratitude?

I wish I could inflict a bit of gratitude,

but she doesn’t want me to.

 

And all these things

are troubling me greatly;

you mean to make her hate me

so you can fly in on your broomstick

and sweep her off the sick and tired

feet you’ve been stepping on,

and make her think she’s glad I’m gone,

by filling her with lies, deceit, and chilling kisses

that you hope will lead to something sicker

—you wait to take advantage of her….

 

And all the while,

all she sees is you and me,

and all the bitterness between;

she knows I’m biased,

but she’s no remote idea

nearly how severe.

 

 

I Know Where This Is Going

 

You’re so beautiful, and every

guy has his eye on you;

you’re so young yet that the words

on your tongue could not be true.

 

I’m going to lose you

—I know it, I feel it;

you’re going to fall in love with

someone who will use you like a toy.

He’s going to bruise you,

and nothing will heal it;

you’ll have wasted all your best,

and I’ll be utterly destroyed!

 

Of this I am afraid.

 

You’re not listening, you think

I speak on unfounded fears;

but I swear I’ve seen it all before,

and you have yet to taste such tears.

 

I try to steer you from

what I know will destroy you,

but innocence is ignorance,

deficient in the truth;

and what appears true, what

smears its vileness all over you,

is a brilliantly disguised lie

to rape you in your youth.

 

Of this I am afraid.

 

I only say this because I love you;

and it hurts so bad I wish I did not.

I only die because I know I can’t

protect you if that isn’t what you want.

I only say what really matters.

I only speak of what you need.

The more you kick, I’m that much sadder,

because without me you still breathe,

until they put things in your

heart that shouldn’t be there,

and they blind you more

and more to what is right,

until at last you find you’re

someone else entirely.  To me,

that would be the most painful sight.

 

Of this I am afraid.

 

I’m going to lose you

—I taste it, I hate it;

and there is nothing I can do

but sit and watch it come about.

It will abuse you, but you

saw fruit and you ate it;

I know where this is going,

but you make me wait it out.

 

And for this I am in pain.

 

 

Jealousy

 

I love you so much I would car crash.

I love you so much I would face smash.

I love you so much I would

poison my best friend.

I claim you, so much I will never bend.

I feel you so vividly shaking;

I kiss the glimmer in your shine.

I kneel on concrete, chipped and flaking,

my fist to simmer in the spine.

I say “goodbye” and drive behind you,

to lose horizon vanished hue.

I squeal the tires to remind you

of who decides on banished views.

 

I am jagged... I am ragged!

I am a staggering wreck!

I am implosive, vile, and corrosive,

and I am grossly lunatic!

I remember clearly, everything;

the embers merely feed my jealousy!

 

I hate him so much I could brake jam.

I hate him so much I could door slam.

I hate him so much I could...

(fill in the blank).

I hate him ever since his ship sank.

I see the lust that saturates them.

I follow shaping track stares.

I feel adjustments permeate them.

I swallow gaping black flares.

I sign “goodbye” and say, “I’ll see you.”

(I taste my bleeding bottom lip.)

I wave and dry what sockets seep through;

you waste my greedy, sodden trip.

 

I am fruitless... I am useless!

I am abusive, and a wretch!

I am no one... I am nothing!

I am leprosy to flesh!

I remember nearly everything;

dismembered seeds of greed and jealousy!

 

 

I’m Happy For You

 

Yes, Yes... I know I said

I wanted you both dead,

but does that mean you can’t

still mean the world to me?

I know I made a lot of nasty

claims—I just react that way.

They were true of course

(though even more obscene).

This whole stupid situation

has me scarring up my arms;

you suck his spit, I suck a cigarette.

 

I’m happy for you,

and your new boyfriend too,

although I never can see

him or you again.

No really, I’m happy for you

—that incident did not mean it’s

untrue; don’t misinterpret my

sudden move to Japan.

 

The hands that once ran

slowly up my back now wrap

and intertwine, and wind and

clasp, and tighten on my neck.

You choke what little life I cherished,

bearing down nightmarish;

and I’m scared, ‘cause this

is just what I’d expect.

This whole blasted complication

has me severing my skin;

you pin him—my imagination spins!

 

I’m happy for you,

and Mr. “No Character” too;

you’re still unhappy, but

at least you’re not with me.

I’m bloody thrilled for you,

I’m killed for you,

I’ll take another pill for you;

I’m so ecstatic I’ve forgotten

how to breathe.

 

 

Mosquito

 

There is no

natural beauty in this artificial world.

There is no romance anymore for my

superficial girl. And now I sit up here,

a battered mess, a shivering mosquito;

I’m sorry if I bugged you, but you didn’t

have to leave me in the shadow of another,

who could never love you more.

I sit and flicker with the candlelight,

and dim as the night closes in.

And there are no arms to fold around me,

no confounding sense of warmth;

there’s only silence, and a scathing wind

that whistles through a crack beneath the door

to where I’m told the human heart is to lie

(but I’ve been long enough across the earth

to question it). I don’t think you’d hear

if I continued to fly around your ears;

have I completely disappeared?

 

I shake off sleep like a bad habit, and trudge

through this mire; the serpent tail of telephone

cord lashes in the fire. And the blinking

and the flashing cast an eerie mesh of cover

over too familiar attributes of your forlorn,

former lover.  And you take these words

from my darkness to apply to your light,

and make the focus of my sorrows

that new-crowned prince of your life.

As I’m left crooning to impenetrable masks;

he does half the things I did for you,

and you don’t even ask him for more….

 

 

Amnesia Stricken You

 

The months from weeks from days

from hours have overstretched their bounds,

and become lifetimes longer than rehearsed;

and the person you once were to me

leans back on someone’s balcony,

while worlds away, I string another verse.

And he offers you a drink, and I know

just what he is thinking, ‘cause

I thought about it every night for years.

And you’ve forgotten that we met, while I

so clearly recollect the time we spent that

summer in Maine; and you no longer

remember that vacation in December,

when the embers of the fire were flamed.

You lie with him, denying how you likewise

pined for me; you great him tenderly

—I know the treatment well.

You hold him tight for the duration....

(At this point in the narration, I am sick...

and there is so much more to tell!)

I grasp at nothing, violently, in misery,

and silently arrive at what a closing it appears.

You’ve forgotten what you promised,

and I mix with dirt and vomit, and I’m ruined,

and you can’t remember why. Your thoughts

no longer stray to what were my happiest days;

you’re unamazed we so plainly said goodbye.

You do not recall the parking lot, your tears

falling down onto my shirt, or the hurt

in your eyes. And you would not remember

pulling me as close to you as tight can be

(you certainly would really be surprised).

It seems to me, you don’t remember anything

the waste you see has ever been, but I promise

every word I say is true. Just keep giving him

the living that was taken straight from me;

I’ll keep remembering amnesia stricken you.

 

 

I’ve Been Missing You For Years

 

I wonder at what point we really knew

that we were over? I wonder if the

hurt we feel means anything at all?

I wonder how much longer you and I

could have lasted before we beat each

other clean into these closing walls?

 

We were actors, we were liars,

we weren’t honest with our fears.

We were lovers turning enemies;

I couldn’t dry your tears.

 

I’ve been missing you for years; I don’t

feel like you’re standing here beside me.

I fell in love with someone long ago

who had a different personality.

But you were not who you appeared; I

don’t know why I let you peer inside me.

After all these wasted years,

we watch it end with such finality.

 

We probably shouldn’t say too much

before we turn away; communication

never was our style. Maybe once we’ve

settled down, after this separation, we

can meet for drinks once in a while.

 

We were friends once, now we’re nothing;

used to be I called you “Dear”.

Once I held you; now we’re running

to get anywhere but here.

 

I’ve been missing you for years; I

hardly feel you’re even nearly with me.

I’m sorry, but I need some space from

looking at the stranger’s face in front of me.

You are not so well endeared; I lost the love

I once revered. And after all these wasted

years, we let it end with such certainty.

 

I’ve been missing you, wishing you

would come back all these years.

 

 

Shanna Lost Your Number

 

Shanna lost your number;

to her it doesn’t matter that you

haven’t heard a word for many months.

Shanna lost your number,

with her a force of habit, that disgruntled

front of bluntness-clipping brunt.

Shanna lost your number;

she never will forgive you for caring,

and staying long enough to make her care.

Shanna lost your number,

ill-prepared for you to be so daring;

couldn’t bear to mirror stares—it’s so unfair.

 

And you owe it to yourself to

put her far out of your mind,

but you find it harder than

when you were friends; and

you would forfeit all your wealth

to leave her memory behind, but it

binds you to a pain that never ends.

 

Shanna lost your number,

and did so quite on purpose, for she

wasn’t quite as ready as she thought.

Shanna lost your number,

pretending not to notice, and is now

without the only attention she got.

God, you want to hear from her,

who went and lost your number—

not so much as intentionally misplaced.

Shanna’s number burned to ash

through nights of losing slumber;

the loss is firmly planted in your face.

 

And you owe it to yourself to

let her suffer on her own, but she’s

fallen into herbal lows and highs;

and it eats you up inside that she

would rather be alone, and it kills

her that she ever said good-bye.

 

 

Not The Only One

 

So many years and life is still strange;

we still make mistakes, you know?

We still haven’t changed.

So many years have made an appearance,

then cleared the stage after their cameo came.

 

You apologized for something

I can understand;

and you’re not the only one

—not the only one to blame.

 

So many sticklers to tend to your heart;

you have... whatever, and I have my art.

So many sickly unfit to distort;

you are my scarlet, but final resort.

 

You apologized for something

I can understand;

and you’re not the only one

—not the only one to blame.

 

You may have lied, but I

never let on that I knew,

you may have cheated on me,

but I was sneaking out too;

you’re not the only one.

 

So many chances to settle and scheme,

to laugh at the ash of a punctured regime;

too many postcards, and not enough ink

to snatch at the snapshots or bother to blink.

 

You apologized for something

I’d already planned;

and you’re not the only one

—not the only one to blame.

 

Not the only one.

Not the only one.

Take aim.

 

 

IV.       Deadications Gallery

 

In the aftermath of broken relationships, a road to healing must be found.  It is a road strewn with bodies and litter, with backed up sewers and shards of glass, but it is a road all the same.  We must accept loss and cope with heartache before light will ever illumine history.  We look back as we travel forward, slipping occasionally on patches of ice or tripping over our own unsure footing.  The scope of horizon narrows to only before and behind, while resolve gains stature and perceptions are re-evaluated.

 

 

Young & Single

 

Welcome to the bachelor pad,

where we overstock the Djarums,

and occasionally knock a few back.

Stop in, drop by anytime

—we never mind the company;

bring poetry, we’ll finish off a pack.

In the clearing of the frankincense,

we’ll blather insignificance,

and wax intellectual chat.

We’ll gather under Christmas lights,

exchanging stories late at night,

until I’m ill and nauseous at the thought

that this early on in my life,

I’ve screwed up, and it’s over;

the single most defining moment yet

was letting you go.

 

Several miles from here,

where there used to be hundreds,

and a quarter for what used to be a ten,

you give a second thought

and then decide you’d better not,

and so we wallow in indelible pen.

And on the other side, the gentry,

conversing rudimentary,

with novelty increasingly weak;

we suffer through the company

we’d sooner prefer never be,

and happiness and tragedy

are one and the same, knowing

that this early on in my life,

I’ve done something irreversible.

The single most disturbing motion yet

was letting you go.

 

I don’t want to die alone,

but I will if you want me to,

if you squeeze a little blood from

this stone beneath my ribs.

I know you think you’re nothing;

I’ve treated you that way for a reason.

I don’t want you to see the welling

eyes above my bleeding lip.

 

My single most significant regret

is letting you go. (Oh no!)

The single most disheartening

impression—that you wanted it so.

 

 

Ghost Of A Past

 

Stolen thoughts from my head,

configured aberrations for the never said;

I beckoned you near, now I’m still

standing where you stranded me here.

Like the muse for a crooning,

like a ghost of a past, you never men-

tioned your intentions, and I didn’t ask.

In a moment you’ll awake,

wipe the sleep from your sight;

and only then will you be greeted

by the melancholy sunlight.

 

There’s a void that must be filled,

there’s a current that can’t be stilled.

 

You’ve got the prettiest eyes,

so consuming a smile,

got your hair pulled back tightly

—you look wild!

You've got the softest expressions,

I'm clay in your hands,

so young an exterior;

I long to hear your voice again.

 

There’s a longing that can’t be satisfied,

there’s a wreck that can't be rectified,

there’s a tear in the fabric of my half-mast heart,

a glazed gaze on the face of a poison tipped dart,

there’s a gap in the lap of the sap filled hole,

and nothing can replace you,

and nothing can console, oh no!

 

There’s a void,

there’s a pain,

there’s an emptiness;

you’re the drain.

 

 

You’d Never Know It

 

You’d never know, seeing

how we are to each other,

the way we used to kiss.

You’d never know how she

used to lie in my arms,

‘cause she’ll never know

how she’s missed.

 

You’d never know from

asking her friends

that she could care less

if she sees me again.

From the looks of it now,

you’d never know how

different it was then.

 

You’d never know from

hearing her laughter

that I was ever in the scene.

You’d never know from

seeing that smile on her face

that she ever cried over me.

 

And you’d never know,

and who really cares

about the promises made

or the memories shared?

From the looks of it now,

you’d never know that

I was ever there.

 

 

Smile, You Say

 

Here I am now after

wasting so much time;

here am I now after

the clock’s final chime.

I sit lifeless and remember,

motionless, forget;

the years all run together

in a shifting silhouette.

And the past—it matters little,

and the future may not come;

meanwhile, this life is some-

thing I gain nothing from.

 

You say, “Smile,”

but I’m not happy,

tell me how wonderful it seems.

Well, sometimes things go well for me

(but only in my dreams).

“So smile,” you say.

I’d like to, but I can’t.

 

From the outside,

where you now reside,

I seem so in control,

but there’s a wound,

an ache inside me,