The parties, the soirees
Moving the body
Socializing and mingling
Music and singing
I always wondered
What are they celebrating,
what am I missing,
why am I not relating?

Too high to be bothered
High on each other
Finding new lovers
Having *** with each other
To get over on one another
Ditching the former
Remembering never
that love lasts forever

My life was never easy
I'm a mess
I don't want to be seen
A life of sadness
Adversity at every turn
Weight of the world and stress
Yet I look at the foolish
How short-lived their happiness

There is nothing to say
to people such as these
No conversation to be had
They know nothing of worth
**** of the earth
Who don't think of tomorrow
When the party is over
their joy will be sorrow

Losing you
before you died
was almost as hard
as saying goodbye

almost

when logic & reason
slipped the knot
& your beautiful mind
was left to rot

the fading in
and fading out
your stellar confidence
now scattered with doubt

your light would flicker
a dwindling flame
deep blue eyes searching
but still losing my name

it went on like this
bleeding out hope each day
fleeting lucidity until
all bright faded away

your crystal blue eyes
still lovely but now dulled
death room waiting agony
as your life slowly annulled

I miss you still deeply
after all these years
& the pain you suffered
still draws gnarled tears

©J.C.

Night comes on like
an old hound lumbering
in from the field.
I don't fight it.
I'm getting too old.
I sit with pen in hand,
and wait for the
darkness to show
me something.

I think about vaginas and
Ireland and fish that
hunt a t night.
I think about
Bukowski and
Beethoven, and the
*******, and a kernel
of corn.
I think about my
life and this night, and
how it is better than
those near-death years of
caterwauling and chaos;
drunk by the river, lonely
as a glass snake.
I was living to drink, and
didn't give a **** about
anyone.
I was searching.
I found it
when the light came.

What could I do to take your pain away?
You counsel others, but it’s yourself you’re talking to.
I see you nervously fiddle with your wristband--
I’m pretty sure I know what you once tried to do.

I wish I could share my healing skills--
there’s no one whom I want to help more.
But we’re far apart. It’s me who is helped by you.
Someone else must unlock your secret door.

Freud once said: It is love that cures the patient.
But can we truly love at will?
Take the love that’s freely given,
and banish what has made you ill.

Leave your hair the way God made it.
Keep it natural. Why try to
Straighten, curl, dye, tint or fade it
As if your Lord were one to lie to—
While you copy that silly look
From someone else's beauty book.

If your tresses, dark by nature
You decide to bleach to gold,
Oh dear vain and fickle creature,
You've believed the lies you're sold.
Low on info, you lost the plot
By not esteeming what you've got.

Cut it any way you please to.
Braid it, if you're so inclined;
But do refrain from paying fees to
Color-tinters fit to blind:
Day-glo green, fake blonde, bright blues
Are strange and nauseating hues.

I'm going to write this.
I say that to myself, and
to you, the reader.
Every time I sit down to
work on poetry lately,
I'm overcome by lethargy.
I look at the whiteness
and go blank.
I thumb through notes,
nothing.

The thought of
lying down for
a nap rides by on
a tri-cycle in
my mind.
I hated naps as a
child, they interfered
with my plans to
conquer the world.
The coolness of the
sheets subdued me.

Instead of admitting
complete defeat,
I say to myself,
Maybe, I will wake
up refreshed and
inspired.
Perhaps, the muse will
visit in my slumber.

I retire to the bed,
Mojo, one of my cats,
Join me at the
foot.
She is soon
dreaming of catching
the elusive moth that
has been bothering
her for days.
And I will dream of
catching words like
butterflies with a big net.

My wife agreed to marriage counseling before the great divorce,
and of course, she picked the counselor.  This is it; one session, one shot at redemption.  I waited with bated breath for the day to arrive.
It did.  We met at his office, where hope was dashed to shreds like a ship
on a coral reef, like dreams of domestic bliss made of glass and shattered on the kitchen floor with no broom to sweep them up.
We shouldn't get lawyers and go to court.  We should have a funeral and sing, Rock of Ages, because divorce is the death of a family.

The room is nice and cold as ice, and he's friendly, boisterous, and bold, but here's the clincher, he wore an eye patch.  Maybe he had surgery or some type of injury, but everything he said was drowned out by the voice in my head that screamed, "He looks like a pirate, and no ******* pirate is going to tell me how I should have been a better husband."  I quickly scanned the room for a cage where he kept his parrot, which usually sat on his shoulder and sang old songs of the sea.  I glanced at his right hand, but conveniently it was hidden by the desk.  Now I was sure.  It wasn't a hand at all, but a hook, that he used to scratch his ***, or to spear the shreds of broken lives left over from a long day's work.  His hand was probably a casualty, lost on a voyage to a shark he tried to advise.

I leaned over and whispered in my wife's ear, "Where did you find this ******* nut. Long John Silvers?"  The humor eluded her like the sunken treasure did the old sea dog that sat across from me.  I swore if he said, "Aye aye matey."  I would smack him, and jack his ship, and maybe my wife and I would sail south to the Caribbean, not to the ride at Disneyland, Pirates of the Caribbean, but to the islands, where we would lie **** on the sandy beaches and drink Pina Coladas, or some other fruit-filled umbrella drink, until we were so drunk we couldn't see straight, and all our problems would sink like the setting sun into a brand new horizon.  But the old scalawag had no pirate lingo, so the hour came and went, our money was poorly spent, and it was lunchtime, and I was bent on seafood.