You turned over to me
After you had got into bed.
We spoke a few words,
I smelled the toothpaste on your breath
And I wanted to lick it off your teeth.
But that is not normal;
I am not normal,
So I write about it instead.
After a few minutes,
You turned the other way.
In the past, I would have followed you
But that was then and this is now.
But what of tomorrow?
Hang on, I’m falling backwards,
Head over heels,
In love with you,
Every fiber of my body is on edge, seething with a burning urge to be alive.
More alive than this repetitive stasis that is Educational routine.
My blood thrums and sings with the desire and yearning for otherworldly adventures.
The uncontainable demanding within my soul that CRAVES more than a dull life set within the confines and standards of a society that has disbanded the thrill seeking pleasure that is and was the old world. Now we have to pay a small fortune in order to obtain a moment where we transcend grey and our colors blast and shoot through the spectrum in solar flare heartbeat pulses of excitement that dulls far too soon.
I want to taste sea salt and raindrops on my lips, grains of sand beneath my feet.
To feel every nerve in my body alight with the spark of something more.
To face the unknown, not in a city nor my home cowering for the remainder of my life.
But to claim my destiny with both hands, clutching my glaive firmly in battle stances while gazing unafraid into the eyes of my nemesis, my enemy. To duel it out on stormy seas, sails billowing, lifelines secured, braced upon the slick decks of pirate ships soaked with rain while torrents of wind lash at my body during a dangerous battle between lovers, demanding my downfall at the hands of nature but instead of falling to it I would prevail and arise. Where lightning cracks across the sky like a golden whip, where thunder roars in agony across the cosmos like Atlas holding up the weight of the sky.
Engaged in the throes of battle while the air is rich and pungent with the scent of steel and the satisfying clang of blades locked in combat. Sword against glaive, antagonist and protagonist.
To battle and seek, to pursue those who dare take whom and what I love. To become MORE. To transcend the fabric of dreams and turn all this into something tangible, to grasp it tight and shower the seeds of dreams into the soil of the real world, and to help it bloom into a reality I've wished for my whole life.
Instead of sitting around writing about how much more I long for. I don't want to be trapped in columns, in places at certain times.
To change the world, to alter my dull fate and the chance to make the stuff of my daydreams and night visions into more than just letters on a page. To whisper and weave the song of those worlds into the fabric of this twisted reality and watch as stardust mends the frayed edges.
Perhaps it is this fate, that my dreams never see the light of the midday sun
that there is not a strong enough conviction nor skilled weaver to bring about the change I long for.
We grow up in a world filled with fairy tales and books filled to the brim with stories to capture our imagination and you cant expect me to suddenly still be content and satisfied with the damnable grayness that is the black and white of our world that will never be filled with color.
And I will be doomed to write out worlds and cultures I can never touch and interact with, never will I be able to grasp the soil of the other worlds and exist within the places I make.
Never will we, of earth, trapped inside dull grey columns ever truly experience freedom.
Not even with our words for we cant even paint the sky a different color other than grey, and the ground beneath our feet will only ever be black. Despite the colors we think we see, they're not the colors we want. Just pale washed out shades of worlds we will never be a part of.
She walks in the door,
The chimes matching her steps-
Walks lightly to the counter
Where her fingers dance their reps.
She orders in a broken voice,
Raspy and rugged as hell,
Her cheeks are red with cold,
Her stoney eyes have tales to tell.
She sits at the corner table,
Wide eyes analyze the world;
She's listening in on other's words,
A quite peculiar girl.
She's only tables away,
Drinking her coffee void of cream,
Black as the paint that polished her nails;
Like a stranger from a dream.
She makes me lose my concentration;
I've stopped trying to look at my screen.
Everything she does intrigues me,
This severely different teen.
My desires fill my consciousness,
All I want is to say "hi",
But how she intimidates me so,
It would come out as but a cry.
Suddenly she rises to her feet,
Then slinks over to the door,
She stops and says she saw my stare,
And then she's gone forevermore.
what they call a heart, my every anchor chained
what the pages make my story, every loss explained
like words in letters, as if they retain it, like they make it better
as if the knowing of it loosed or broke these fetters
eight ways the shapes of my only alphabet spells s-u-r-v-i-v-o-r
infinitely too short a word and leaving me to wander again if I'm alive in her
they think it breeds strength to outlive the beatings
they think it makes a great chase never retreating in the pursuit of what's fleeting
just once couldn't I rest and feel safe like it could all get clearer?
in the haze of aging when I'm sure it isn't my real smile in any mirror
in the crowded, faceless streets of having to stand on my own two feet alone
with all the hurtful, hateful, squalls this living condones
everyone thinking they know me because they know my name
know the face that's a mask over what's hollowed out by the aches I don't explain
and someone asks me to come near, to be dear, to love again
and they give like gifts and they mend the rifts and they care and then
the cycle of costs begins again, the loss of the friends again breathes
and makes every swallowed wine taste less like escape and reminds that it never relieves
and every candle on a cake burns another year I waited to start over
and every green field yields beauty unnoticed in my frantic search for a lucky clover
the pages pile with words wasted on hoping for better
and my few days waste away with so much time lost in trying to understand "forever"
so if you think that you know what made me then you haven't been listening to the words I didn't say
and if you've ask me for love then you've never felt what I already gave away
so put the times you've felt greatness on one side and see if they outweigh the hurt
or if the scales tip in favor of the ways you've failed and it still hurts
and trudge the horrible roads to the edges of the maps and see if you outrun the hurt
and see if any hand held or risk taken or affection given dispels the way you hurt
all the slivered glass pieces of my heart just cut me to blood as I try to pick them up
and all that my view of what could have been does, is lend tears as I watch those doors shut
and all another line will explain
is how it will never be the last line if I'm trying to write out the pains
I can never explain the hurt
In ’68 Hutch and me,
Sitting at the bar drinking
Our third cold beer.
In a semi Fern Bar
In Laguna or Newport Beach
Which now, I’m not sure.
It was around eight or so,
A week day night,
The place more empty than not.
She came in alone, made
Entry like the dramatic host of
A TV show. As if she were the
Center piece on the worlds
Thanksgiving Dinner Table.
Over dressed to the nines,
Lots of color, heavy make up
She didn’t really need.
Her perfume scent hovered
Around her like a cloud of insects
On a hot summer night in a wet meadow.
Kind of made my eyes water up.
She perched daintily like a dancer,
Upon a bar stool,
Three empty stools down,
Nodded to the bartender her regular order.
A martini, a double it was,
With but a dab of vermouth.
One green olive on a stick.
The glass was pre-chilled as if
It had been waiting for her.
She pounded the first down,
Another stem glass appeared,
That one also quickly consumed.
Two bright red lipstick stains all that
Remained in or on the stemmed rim.
Her main task accomplished,
She audibly exhaled,
As if tired or relieved.
I could not tell which.
Turned around on her stool to face
Hutch sitting closest to her.
“You boys Marines.” She declared,
More than inquired.
Hutch just nodded, he never did say much.
A Sniper just back from Nam, a scary guy
Of few words.
She opened her fur trimmed coat and exposed
Two very nice stocking clad legs,
And just a quick flash of red underpants.
Rotating towards us so we got a better view.
She announced her name,
like we should know it.
Our blank stares informed her we didn’t.
Her face was to me, somewhat familiar.
From movies in the 40s or 50s.
We were early 20 guys, she much older,
Trying hard to look younger, not succeeding.
Soon she was sitting right next to Hutch,
Two more Martini stems had come and gone,
Her lipstick finger prints upon them.
And still Hutch had not spoken more than
Three or four words.
She bought us a pitcher of brew,
Hutch grunted a short bit of gratitude.
We did not have to say much, she was in charge.
It was all about her, she rambled on and on
Speaking volumes saying not much at all.
Beating back her crushing obscurity,
With flowery reminiscence recall,
Of glory days then long gone away.
Important for the moment, if only to her.
It was all; “me and I, I did this, I was that,
I slept with him,
And him and him”.
How about so and so? I asked,
“No Darling not him, he was gay!
It was not long and she was touching Hutch.
On the hand, the shoulder, she was working him
With languid hungry looks from her big blue eyes,
And the message could not have been plainer,
Had she held up a hand lettered sign.
I don’t believe she was a “Working Girl”,
Just someone very lonely seeking to find
Herself, and some company for the night,
All to prove that she was still alive.
Looking at her, I could only think,
How sad and pathetic she looked,
How desperate her plight.
To humble herself so,
In that dingy bar, among strangers,
She did not know, Acting yet, still
On the only stage she could find,
Staring in her own bad ‘B’ movie drama.
In that dingy smelly bar.
Hutch and her left after a hour or so,
He never told me much about it.
He was unofficially AWOL for three days.
I covered for him, kept his name off the
Missing Morning Formation Reports.
No one cared to check. Our unit made up
Of mostly guys back from the war,
A pretty loosie goosy outfit.
Once in a while I see an old movie,
most are Black and white, Film noir stuff,
And there she is, a much Younger her,
Looking pretty damn good,
Not real big roles,
Playing some damsel in distress,
A mobster’s gun moll,
Or unhappy Play Girl.
I guess it was type casting that done her in.
Or maybe she got a little too long in the tooth..
A sad ending to a short B movie career.
Life ain’t easy, even for a so called “movie star”.
Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be.
one or twice, looking for Hutch. He told us to tell her that he had been
Shipped Out, when he actually hadn't. She no doubt found someone
else to tell her story to.
I saw that woman the other day on TV, an old film on Turner Classic Movies
doing her thing. I sort of wonder what ever happened to her, but refuse to
Google it to find out. Some information you don't need or what to know.
It did inspire this little Poem Noir write however.
Got a letter from Hutch in '70, we were both out of the Corps. He was
headed to the Arabian Desert as a hired gun, to guard some pipe line
operation. Have no idea what became of him after that. Hutch was
a real hard case, I hope he made out all right.
The raw sunlight pounding on my neck
Throbbing air, painfully cloudy
Wooden lips that rip my tongue
Hands that grain pieces of deception
Clattering roots, with pounding bones
Polluted words giving me blisters in my head
A blind stillness, captured me
Portions of creations, harboring hate
Callous and raw fists fluttering
Eyes trembling into my skull
With a sadness that I shall not have at all
Because every little thing in my life reminds me of you. Everything. I see you in the books I read. And the songs I listen to. In the movies I watch. Every thought that goes through my head leads back to you. And I can’t help but think that you are the answer to my problems and the end to the pain. But thinking like this is a dangerous trap. Thinking like this gets me hurt. And I don’t think I can take any more hurt. Liking someone like you makes me realize that I will never be good enough. I will never be right and you will always deserve better. I know I can’t be that for you and I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I’m just a messed up, talentless, ADHD teenager who has no control over my feelings or words. I’m sorry that I’m not all you want, because that is all I want to be. But I know there’s no point because you’ll leave me anyway. Everyone does. Everyone just walks away with no goodbye. I am always the second choice, the back-up plan, the alternative until you find someone better. And I’m just tired you know? I’m tired of trying to put up with all this shit and telling myself that there are only 3 more years till I can leave this fucking state and leave all the pain behind. But a lot can happen in 3 years. And over any other emotion, I’m just scared and lonely in this nightmare that I call life.
Your words pierced through my heart like a knife
You really don't give two shits about me do you.
How stupid was I to be fooled.
I thought maybe you'd change.
Decided to let you back it.
But now you're just another mistake.
Stop I don't wanna hear you talk about this. I just wanna have some fun with you
How could I be so stupid to think you actually give a damn about me?
How could I be so stupid to trust you in again?!
I mean nothing to you
i learned the hard way that love
doesn’t mean staring down the barrel
of a loaded gun,
telling me it’s his way or no way at all.
no one can ever make me
compromise my values,
not even the sweetest face (you),
not even the smoothest talker (you),
not even the gentlest touch (you).
i see you in every landscape,
every arrangement of orange leaves
on the autumn trees,
the snowfall on the tall mountainsides,
and i feel you in the hot sun
that beats down on my skin,
but i can’t keep dancing around
the words on my tongue,
the ones that keep trying to
pry open my lips, gasping for air,
begging to be set free.
no one can recalibrate my mind
to suit his needs, his wants.
we promised love to each other,
but even that isn’t enough for me
when my concerns, my beliefs,
aren’t second to none.
She remained unspoken.
She believed her words were a waste of air.
She didn't like the sound of her voice.
She hated the words that were never heard.
She thought nobody would listen.
She was so caught up in her thought.
She didn't notice.
She was standing in front of someone who listened.
She was right in front of him.
She didn't say anything.
She just left, without saying goodbye.