... lest I cannot forgive.
I've been mistaken
to think I had a right to live
as though I were righteous
or
irreplaceable.
I wonder,
what is the culmination?
The end result?
For us?
For her?
Have the sins of the mother
tarnished her glory?
Have I paved
a way
for us
in Hell?

If it were easy,
it wouldn't be worth it.
If it were worth the pain,
there'd be sacrifice.
If...
above all else....
it is what you live for..
in the end..
it is what you die for.
And we cannot distract ourselves
one day
we cannot forget ourselves
stave off the hunger
for something felt
one day
judgement is inevitable...
one day
the offer is no good anymore.

This cigarette
we have met before
and I left you so long ago with that taste in my mouth.
This bourbon
sweet and hot..
we knew one another well once. I am revisiting your heart.
These words
we have fought a war
and I am coming home to fight no more
bruised but done bleeding
forever.
This empty bed
inviting and cold
our commitment is no longer foiled by loneliness.
This apartment
quiet and cool
we have seen the silent devastating fight.
This moment
surreal and full
and I am content to live in this reality
pain and fear and peace
finally.

It's been a few years
on this fool's road.
Its crooked way abandoning this and that
swallowing whole
intentions and reasons
leaving no meaning, purpose.
You've left a choice,
and to choose to be apart from
is truly a pain unsurpassed
once realized;
once surrendered, a peace.

Quiet.
It's something I thought I would never enjoy.
The lack of noise.
I couldn't stand the sound of the pounding of my heart.
Noise. Always noise.
Always boisterous boasting
cleverly roasting egos
(on more occasion than one, my own.)
Speaking, complaining
and
not necessarily
communicating.
But the hum of the fan just now...
I turned it down
to hear the quiet
not quite silence.
The hum of the city.
It makes me miss the still
absolute oblivion
that sometimes exists
in the country.
But, even then,
the time is thin
to sit undisturbed.
Three years is just long enough to learn
to love to learn...
and I have learned
how to be grateful
for more than just
quiet.

I mean,
I'm not terrible;
not too terribly timid or brash
sometimes I'm cruel
sometimes I'm rash
but I can be kind, and generous too.
It's just, horrible...
seems to be what I do.
It could be I'm just too bold
or in conversation, exceedingly cold.
I'll lift you up like a king with this mouth
just to ****** you down on your snout.
With one hand I've given my heart...
given compassion and hope and art...
with the other I've squandered my gifts like a like a gambler.
Sold myself as a rambler,
a free spirit itching to fly,
an unchained lover ready to die.
I gave all of what I wanted to be...
but never gave me.
And what good can one be
if one cannot give of the self... to the self... to the world... to a cause... to a God...
to something unselfish
to something un-self-ish....
But, you know,
like I said,
I'm kind of a horrible person.

Fissure
growing;
weather.. suspicious;
restless world;
the Horsemen
are coming.

My mother should have been
worried
when I brought home
Stranger in a Strange Land
but
her missed clues came earlier
and by the time
"free love"
entered the picture...
she would have been too late.
(Good thing I'm not a hippie.)
After just a few years
of addiction
alcoholism...
and the seeds,
implant-ations,
brainwashing
of what could be considered
rehabilitation,
I still write better
(or feel better writing)
when I'm drinking.
Am I delusional
or, more appropriately,
falsely comforted
by
Kerouac
Thompson
and Bukowski's
literary longevity?
As loss, pain and loneliness
are fellows to the drunkard
the malady
may be
the muse.
What more irony
than that
the human condition,
and the consequences
of the self-focused
would lead
to the prosperity
of posterity?

Why do you keep me around?
Because of a time we shared
getting better
and
getting worse?
All
Human
Relationships are condemning
corrupting
redeeming.
I don't get it.
Love, right?
Always... do out of love.
So... doing out of habit
or with lack of intention...
denotes lethargy.
But maybe
expresses a need
to be known
further from alone.
Pack rat
hoarder
addict
consumer....
lonely.

Let’s go knuckles.
Don’t you have anything in you?
Are you not able to
Fashion these thoughts
Coherently, conclusively
With style and poise ?
And can you not, vocabulary,
Keep your wits about you;
Turn these circumstances
Into lyrical dances?
Are your wordy recesses
Now void?

I’m writing a story about my life.
It’s funny
The way
I can’t turn 24 years
Into more than four pages
And the words
Emotionless
Forced
carry no weight.
I’m grasping at memories.
Wondering why
It felt like
I’d never forget.

Long nights and hard days
Scraping the last remnants of my self confidence
Hoping to cultivate them
At a sooner than later date

My heart has been super-glued over and over
and as much as I’d like to think it gets stronger
It feels more fragile every day
I have to be strong for her.
I have to be strong for him.
It seems, however, that I’ve just become
A crutch
Or a stand-in
Until something better comes along
He doesn’t want me
And she doesn’t know any better.
“This is your life and it’s ending one minute at  a time.”
10/20/09

my heart, imploding
watching clouds i am tranquil
praying for the rain

Too introspective
to write novels; pondering
self takes too much time.

These pipes are dowdy
weathered, worn,
but I still use them
(and abuse them.)
I miss that feeling
that my chords
would fly me away;
that freedom was a song you sang.
Today it's not the same.
Aching...
each note, it leaves me...
aching...
reaching, yearning
begging for a muse
to use me.
My gut is turning;
hands and cheeks, burning.
My mouth is open
and from my veins and capillaries,
almost as if necessary,
I am Bursting.
Inside out and all around me
the sound it speaks to me profoundly:
This is who you are.
Remember?

Come down from there;
I’m more than just a little angry!

I’ve lost the will to hold my tongue.

This wretched talk,
It drives me crazy.

Forget those words…
You didn’t mean it.
                                           This is far from hopeless.
            My throat is dry….            Please…   Catch the wind…
All this
it leave me breathless.

My eyes are coated
and shining.
And in yours,
the light is dimming.
I wonder which of us
           is more blind?
We are stumbling…
…. bumbling our way,
and it’s not that
I’m Disappointed
as much as
Disillusioned.
Home is the space between my ears these days.
It isn’t however
A …. safe harbor.
Forget a shining suit of armor.
… “impenetrable fortress”…
… And things aren’t any clearer in here
Than at this precipice.
Can our feet be sure?
Can our path hold true…
If our eyes deceive us?
Collect me…
Fetch me from this wishing well.
I can tell this dream is over.

Oh, my love, it seems we
...are at an impasse.
How has love been everything,
And, now,  not nearly enough?

I am worn thin
bracing the waves of your tepid ire.
I fear the hardened heart anger’s object often acquires
But I do not doubt it.

Where are we now
But blundering with half- baked intentions
And no concrete decisions?
The whole of my childhood dreams
Has mildewed and molded
And is rotting in my throat
While yours are atrophying around your arm bones.
This is the price of age.
(This is the punishment for destructive decisions.)

The wood of our bones my be distressed,
But our ship is strong.
There is always a way.

We have only to follow it.