all alone in a motel room in fucking Roseville, CA

and I’m feeling it, again…

switching channels

like

switching thoughts and

falling perilously close to

jagged memories that just

scar me

over and

over

again.

 

I’m wondering what tonight

might be like

in another script altogether

another scene where

there are new lines and

a different girl

and someone who knows

what the fuck they are doing

blocking my movement,

mapping it out on stage…

stand here,

cross there…

so I know when to move from a to b

and

don’t have to spend the next 8 months

second guessing why I’m

sleeping in the

wrong bed.

 

Ad libbing seems

almost cool

when I see

a pro doing it-

when it’s done well-

but when I’m in the midst of

blowing up a scene

I quickly realise

that this shit isn’t getting renewed

and just how many people

I’m putting out of a job

if their roles in this part of my story

depend on my performance,

or that I deliver

the right line

to the right girl

at the right time.

 

Mostly I’m spouting

free verse

about things I know little

to zilch

about

but playing it cool and

pretending

“I got this”-

if anyone would just stop

and think back to season two, episode 10

they’d figure out that this won’t end well

and I’m destined for

a series ending cliff hanger

that I still haven’t devised a plan

to write myself out of.

fugacious

in that first moment after waking,

post sleep

when the world has been

going about it’s business without me,

but for a moment

a split second, really,

nothing has settled back into my thoughts

from the outside…

I wonder when

at what point

-ground zero-

when the day’s first second

started belonging to her.

How many places

and times

and faces

have been wrapped up in the space

where sleep

and dreams

and the weariness of the world

all convene and

talk amongst themselves

about the direction my day

will set off on.

 

It’s understandable

I totally get how

at the end of the day,

long after life closes down

and the world seems like

it might just shut off

that suddenly,

out of nowhere,

my thoughts would settle on

her face

her laugh

just.

her.

The day gone,

my time spent

I’m long out of bread crumbs

and I don’t care if I ever find

my way back

from the swirl of thoughts

that have me wishing for things before

I’ve even rubbed the bottle…

 

here, though

first light.

as the sun strikes me

warms my eyelids

shakes me to wake me

and buries the dream,

I think

just for a moment

about all the things that

have been wedged in this space…

but I can’t remember

for the life of me

what I woke up to before

she settled in.

foudroyant

She certainly merits metaphors;

Beautiful words;

Analogies…

Poetry better than

Anything I’m going to write.

 

still,

it’s much simpler than all that.

 

there are a thousand ways I can

describe her smile

and what it does  to me;

the intoxicating smoke in her

voice that

lulls me into being some

blubbering idiot who,

high on the stardust she left in his eyes,

tries to sound remotely coherent

in spite of himself;

but in actuality

none of that would begin to

to approach the heart of the matter;

it overcomplicates the situation:

 

all I really want is to know

what her hair looks like

when she wakes up in the morning;

to know

the weight of her sadness

and fear;

to know

the urgency in picking up the pieces

that scatter when she’s broken;

to know,

whether her head

or her heart-

just to know

what it feels like

to be moving inside her.

oneiric

something as simple
and complex
as
her smile

no

the idea of her smile

no

the smile,
her smile..
the thought of her
smiling
at
me
or about
something I said…
and the way it wedges itself
deep
inside the
grey parts of my brain
takes root
digs deeper
and shows no intention of
ever letting go–
well.

I knew from that first syllable
that first laugh
that first time she said anything
or something
that vaguely resembled
my name…
her
saying
my name
on those lips…
with
that tongue…
and inside
that head…
I knew…
right then and there:
she was going
to hurt a lot more than most.

She’s a lot like sunshine
(heat.)
creeping up slowly
(bright.)
before a hostile takeover
that dominates
my entire day,
then
fading away too quickly
at that moment when
I’m longing for her most.

her thoughts.
her touch.
her…
just, every single bit of all of it.

it’s complicated when
we allow it to be more complicated
than it should be,
because nothing is simpler than
the ease at which she
turns my world
on
it’s
side
and annihilates every dream I’ve ever hoarded away
and replaces them
with something richer-
that means something, yes?
that an unexpected phone call
can make me tingle
in parts of my landscape that
had
long be condemned,
left for dead?
how long stretches of daytime
fold themselves over into
night and
leave me hoping for one more glimpse
into what she really is
and praying for enough
oxygen to
dream for another minute or two?
that this feeling
is something shared;
is as organic as it feels;
is so down to earth that
down to earth
stops being a euphemism for
something else entirely…

turbulance.

pursuit is frivolous

self centered

mean.

come to me,

let me

stop counting to 100

let me

stop chasing you around the backyard

let me

tag you before you reach base.

give to me a penance

your love

that once we shared but

now you hoard away:

water for the coming doom,

blankets on a cold winter’s night,

a fat kid’s candy.

I recognize so little

my blurry vision of what

once was crystal:

who you’ve become in

your effort to dissect

who I am;

cutting away the obvious flaws

and throwing

the rotten pieces

back in my face.

This was us-

you and me,

a joint endeavor,

or team work,

or an idea brainstormed

while high on

my words,

your dreams and

a couple of lines of whatever made you feel

this.

So it came as quite a shock

when the soft seductive call of

Sirens

convinced you to

lock your doors up tight,

let your demons

have free reign of the place

while I pounded on the gate

with bruised fists of desperation.

now, more than ever,

pursuit is frivolous

self centered

mean.

come

to

me;

let

me.

Finn

somewhere

well after I sold my soul

finagled my freedom

and drifted down the river;

burdened by regret as ill fitting as

the idea of what once was you and I

and as worn out as the souls (sic)

of our shoes-

as unlikely as it might seem,

I’m your man.

It matters little where the journey led to

before

this.very.second…

because the truth is

here I am

and like it or not

this is every bit the best it

could ever be,

as good as it gets.

Our past,

our history,

the way I see it

the way you tell it

the way we sell it

changes every time

I whisper your name.

Maybe that’s what love ultimately is:

a tall tale

burdened by distance

tinted in sepia overtones and

wishful thinking

and just a little bit of remorse.

In the end, it hardly seems fair that

while you authored the ending,

I’d be the narrator

when this has always been more about you than me

but I’ll speak the lines you gave me,

every last syllable

in hopes that someday

like me

you long to live the story all over again.

persiflage

when you sit on the phone with someone

listening to the nuances of their future

thinking fast!

thinking ahead to

what advice

you might throw in

front of them,

a stick to trip up their journey

but then you cant

bear to see them suffer

that trip and fall

(the one you suffered when

they pulled the table cloth from

the dinner table,

thinking they were a magician but

really just leaving you surrounded

by the mess they made of your life, err, dinner…)

when their safety,

their happiness

has become even more important

than your own:

you love.

It’s long been said,

and some asshole know-it-all will most likely

dare say it to me again:

“If you love something, set it free…etc, etc, etc…”

Fuck him (or her)

Whomever the optimist was that believed

she’d EVER come back,

or that the fact she didn’t means she

never was mine…

pfft.

Love isn’t always mutual,

and in my experience,

the truest love I’ve ever felt has been

unreciprocated…

others rarely care

what I want

or feel

or need and

that’s exactly how I know

it’s real.

 

 

cachinnate

It’s the kind of moment
when I feel this irresistible need
to just let the dogs out the front door,
the cats out the back,
and the cockatoo out its cage —
Freedom.
Expressed simply in the
lung capacity that I breathe in;
in the blueness of this sky that
nearly burns the eyes;
Her laughter, 
which,
if it weren’t for my memory,
might not even exist at all.

Adam and Steve

“in the garden of Eden, it was Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.” 

Love is a fickle thing
In ways rarely anticipated
He thought to himself as he
Straightened the bow tie…

How could he have guessed –
Who would have thought?
What with Roberts and Scalia,
Thomas
Oh, especially Thomas
That’s three…
Oh yeah,  Alito.
Surely Kennedy would remember his roots,
Who appointed him,
Where his loyalty should lie…

But here he was
About to become a punch line
As that infernal song began to play
Sneaking out the side door
So not even the minister would see
Was the only way to protect
His freedom and
Avoid this disaster
The government had done such
A good job of preventing
Up until yesterday.

inviolable

Life at sometime after
Two a.m. is
more something about
coffee and
cigarettes
and a presumption of
innocence long before
we start the love making with
our eyes.

Gloria,  the waitress who was
minutes from missing this altogether
may well have seen stranger sights than you and I;
most likely thought we’d drank our
dinner
drunk as we were on the company,
that glance we exchange that
rumbles and quakes and probably
parts a sea or two when needed.

There’s something so organic about
conversation and
sharing space
and this genuineness you haven’t felt
since your mother held you right after
First Breath.

Sometimes,  if you’re lucky,
life spits you out like a double entendre
while somewhere in the kitchen
Joe is brewing the
remnants of what
memories we will cling to
tomorrow.
And coffee.

For now it will have to suffice
but I can’t stress enough
that even as Gloria comes to the
end of her night,
ours is just beginning,  and even so
she is going home with
a little more hope;
reinforced that true love
might actually be tangible;
and crazy,
very possibly,
a virtue.