'So It Begins...'

once upon a time
there was a girl
who always ran around in circles
figuratively, of course
not literally, because if she was literally always running in circles, she'd pretty soon be dead
but that's neither here nor there. back to the girl
she had no idea that she did this
but everyone around and about
was painfully aware of her issues
she was convinced that she was always coming up with new and exciting ideas
when really she just spent all her time recycling her own idiocy
and she became increasingly irate as all the things that she kept around
even though she would never admit that she intentionally kept them around
started to seem wrong
or used
or just completely foreign
until a magic prince
with a magic want
who totally dug the fact that this chick was entirely self obsessed and weird
and pretty much certifiable
snuck in the middle of the night
and robbed the ***** blind
however
because the guy took all her worthless
pointless
and in the end
meaningless baggage away with him
she replaced her former obsessions with stalking him
and he became her magic want
which he severely regretted soon enough
because with her circular habits
her stalking efforts were not unlike being relentlessly pursued
by a small
angry
but not entirely unaffectionate
chihuahua
he fully intended for her to stalk him from the beginning
but unfortunately
as he had been raised in a pseudo-feministic
yet highly romanticized society
he was under the false impression that once this chick started pursuing him
she would give in to her basest wants
and deep seated but repressed desires
that every girl has but doesn't admit
to ending up with a magic prince
he was wrong
there
was
no
fairytale
and once she caught up with him
the relationship that ensued
became a vicious cycle of marriage, divorce, and remarriage
because he had been ****** in
to her circularity.
the end

She moved with all the grace of a garbage truck
this is not to say she was graceless altogether
only that her movements were rollingly robotic
and she was prone to fits of repetitious arm-swings
with a physical presence neccesary
though sadly underappreciated

get your house in order
your things in order
your lies and loves in order
the end is nearly too near to ignore
we come so far, fight so hard
and still
what is left?

what is left is a rotten dream
that belongs in the past
a dream that no one has owned
for generations now
but we’re too afraid, too stricken to say
that no one wants our parents’ parents’ wants
what is left is a Frankenstein of a country-
a nation so gnarled and scarred
it is barely recognizable
as being created in
a free democratic image,
a re-creation so afraid of being burned
that it reacts violently
to the mere idea
of coming under fire

and still
we put up
shut up
and lock and load
bring home boatloads of black boxes
filled with the corpses of could-have-beens
tuck our valiant patriotic
flag- and country-loving
sons and daughters to sleep
through eternally wakeless nights
in the dirt of this land of lost promises
because the decision making machine
of false democracy
is nowhere near to closing the war factory

You throw around words
like "hopeful" and "dreams"
but I find myself doubting your certainty
of their meaning

Words full of such desire
might only be realised
by the down-trodden and brokenhearted
the ones left alone, behind,
or otherwise disenfranchised

You will truly know hope
when you feel there's none left
and your dreams
will become much more truthful
after unending nightmares
Just give it time.

i wish i could purge my heart
letter by letter
bleed my love out
through leeching keystrokes
find some kind of therapy to
release these good bad humours
or reach even further back into history
for truly archaic remedies
love is no great sin
so there’s no bread and salt
to feed the lepers, no coin to pay for the service
if only ridding myself
of this disease of devotion
to an unknowing you
were as simple as sleeping
with salted tomatoes
(love apples, as they were once known)
and pennies to press
into the palms of the loveless
who slip through the night
soaking up discarded emotion

You know nearly nothing of my life
beyond the few whens and hows
that have been told to you
small stories that sit comfortably
in the eye of a needle
plucked from the pincushion
of whole existances
you don't know where I come from-
only the stuffy history book pictures
and anecdotes
that have been outlived
you don't know these people
beyond the stacks of stereotypes
you shuffle us in to
And the culture, my culture-
Our beautiful contradictions
and spectacular calamities -
You believe you understand us
but what you know is so much less
than we ever have been

if we will meet
let us meet quickly
be friends before the introductions end
run our words, sentences, stories together
because we are the same
but not entirely

if we are attracted
one to the other
let it be flashy
a flash flood of emotions and pheremones
a flash fire from the second
we work up the courage
to brush carelessly against each other
to see where a brush fire leads

if you come with me
into my home
into my bed
accept the gives
and the here for the takings
enjoy enjoying each other

if you must leave
and you must
and we both know it
do not regret or dismiss
or expect movie-endings
or miracles

when you go
go with a kiss
and a smile
and you'll have your memories
and I'll keep mine
until and unless
we meet again

love songs
sugar tears
dried by handsome princes
traipsing merrily throught the daisies

the demon laughs
and gives the globe
another shake
as the dark sky
disintegrates around her

This is how it will be:
I will leave, because I have to
You will stay, because you can
We will talk- often enough;
exchange words, wishes
***** ideas
I will visit- more than I can afford to-
because your bed
feels more like home to me
than my entire house,
more than this town
where I go on doing
what is so cruelly called
'living'
You say you will visit
when you have the time and money.
You will never have that kind of time
or money.
We will talk, less frequently
You will keep me up to date
on your vibrant artistic endeavours
I will have mad fits of desire
brought on by a few words of yours
Time will pass.
We will talk, be frank and honest
Chat nimbly, later numbly
about meeting new people
These words will be the knives
that cut at the seams
we didn't have time
to stitch together tightly
I will clutch, then cling, then lose my grip
be dragged down
by the weight of holding you back
You will socialize and find solace
in others, face to face
and give up on what distance denied
You will let go and move on
I will wrap myself
around those few sweet,
slippery memories
of how it was.

And again
it is time for lies
small, careful constructs
delivered in the interest
of self-preservation
in hopes of mollification
of the claustrophobic inquiries
of dear, devoted friends

so it is once more
down the rabbit hole
escaping into a world
of misbelief
buffered in gentle,
worthless cloaks
of half-truths that provide
a deceptively soft
and comfortable place
to be silent and still
until honesty loses
some of its brutality

Where are the words
that search for me?
They are among me,
tugging at my fingertips
tumbling in my mind-
reckless, selfish children
playing hide and seek
while these grownup thoughts
and all the pains of adulthood
chase expression to no avail.
The words are not ready
to come out and play
so I am left restless
stumbling through
these thoughts without words

the war zone is open
a simple stumble
onto a carelessly unplanted landmine
the photographic proof
of the ones in the winning troops
a wire was tripped
my carefully grounded feet
now stumble sightlessly through
confused by combat
as the clouds of battle
brew and storm
mushroom around me
my soul is shattered
by the shrapnel of the relationships
that were never quite had
grenades packed with unbidden love
a thousand times stronger
than any known explosive
scar and pock my psyche
with their silent detonations
the rockets of unreason
guided by an unbalanced radar
pierce the pretend walls of armor
which were never successfully reinforced
this isn't the first or worst battle
know it won't be the last,
because
there is no safe zone
there is no ceasefire
there is only surrender
to the ceaseless uncertainty
a prisoner of my own
hostile forces

'Pets and Palates'

he had only two real loves
ducks and waffles
this was highly disconcerting
to his parents
who tried to distance their boy
from these strange affectations
by buying him a precious pet goose
named Berchunice
and putting him on a steady diet
of pancakes
and their various
international counterparts
needless to say
he didn't live to a great age
as a matter of fact
he died at twenty-two and a smidge
because while pets generally extend and enrich life
caring for a goose you despise
and dining on starchy carbs
seriously inhibits life expectancy

his passing was terribly unfortunate
as was the life his parents had forced upon him
if they hadn't forced these changes on him
had they merely accepted
perhaps
encouraged even
this love of ducks and waffles
their lovely lad
would have
efficiently and economically
solved global warming
in an effort to protect
the best interest
of his friends
the ducks
and in his downtime
he would have put
a major dent
in the world hunger problem
with a highly adaptable
waffle recipe
too bad.

he sipped his cigarettes
small, savoring drags
delicate but in no way effeminate
much as he sipped his whiskey
fully focused on each small intake
caressing, in his way,
the few things
he genuinely loved

'Consumption'

Once upon a time she believed in everything
Tried a little or a lot
of anything she was exposed to
Wrong didn’t exist
Some things were just unsuited
to her particular tastes
But faith and followership
are equally slippery slopes
and soon wrong wasn’t the issue,
because nothing was ever right.
Truth didn’t come in a bottle
or a box or a tin
it didn’t sit on a knife’s edge
or whisper from inky pages
or wobble in on shaky legs of sound
Right and wrong merged into
a mass of general indifference.
It began to seem that perhaps,
just perhaps
the very idea of truth
was mere fabrication
a carefully woven tapestry of entrapment
designed to subtly coerce the masses
into a single file line of submission
She was ashamed
because she was once a great consumer
of just those things
that now seemed so false
Reality was her defeat.
the end

If we could but die one million and one deaths
To be aware and assured one million new beginnings
To have the freedom to revel
in our failings and false starts
To have the time to be swallowed by our emotions-
to float serenely in pools of delight
when in those lives of joy,
to cast ourselves headlong down wells of sorrow
when in those lives of grief
A million lives to spend or waste
Infinite opportunities to grow and discover
No longer held to who we hurriedly decide we are
Driven instead by probabilities
hand in hand with impossibilities of
who we could be
Instead we struggle in the web
of this single life's imagined deadlines
unable to escape the one-lane
tunnel vision trajectory



this time.

interminably deserted
indelibly flawed
something's written all over this personality
in exposed invisible-to-me ink
and all the wanted ones
have the right glasses to read
the not-so-fine print
what switch is thrown
that makes them see
the next one will be a keeper
so passing over
or by way of me
dragging these wants
through their fly-by-night dust
to light on the one
that I was sure would've been me
is only the thing to do
no blames or games attached
but a heads up would be nice
a little rejection philanthropy
something, anything to fill me in
on what it is that's missing

'the tragic chapter'

she was a strange one
and that was probably the kindest thing
that was said about her
she had the kind of voice
that reminisced of old school
pre-Disneyfied hideously terrifyingly
mind-alteringly ugly witches
and her looks were not exactly top-shelf,
shall we say
but surely somehow she could have
some kind of productive fulfilling
if not altogether happy life
because everyone can have that
if they truly want it
or so we’re so often told
however
there was a problem
though this individual
held no false pretenses of siren’s voice or angel’s beauty
though she acknowledged and owned and satirized
her own plainness
she would never really be fulfilled or happy
because she had
a particularly devastating and incurable fatal flaw
you see, even though she was a perfectly capable girl 
with a good idea of what she found pleasing
materialistically and career-wise
her personal life was another story
even though she would
never dream of playing princess
she still believed herself
to be entitled to no less than
a handsome prince
or knight, or duke, or CEO even
job title wasn’t really the issue
this was due in no small part to that little life gem
we’re all given
that maxim of anyone being or doing or having anything
they ever desired
so long as they wanted and worked for it hard enough
and unfortunately
another of those few things
that could be said in her favor
was that she was nothing if not determined
to the point of obsession, as it were
it was this very determination to land the alpha male
she was never entitled to 
that would see through
to the very end of her tale
she knew what she wanted
and knew she would never have it
but the lack of having did nothing
to ease the wanting
so she wanted her way through an entire life
with a successful career
and her own home
and two cats
named Doppelganger and Die Fledermaus
and she spent her down time
in her house
with her cats
talking to her prince
that never was
because she was far too stubborn
to take any lesser offer
than the man of her dreams
but dreams aren’t real
and unfortunately
no one took the time to point that out to her
until in the end
when her cats were dead
and the few friends she had
got tired of listening to her
ramble through her fantasies
and gave up
and left
and she was alone
in her house
talking to her dreams
because those were really
all she ever had.
the end

Someday this will end
maybe tomorrow,
a month from tomorrow,
years and years from tomorrow

When this ends
I hope it is with a stop sign
and not a slow cautious yield
I wish for last moments
like the end of a film reel
the smallest flicker after the final frame
but no grand production-
none of the grasping, reaching,
begging for more
Just an end that ends, simply.

'A Story with an (im)Moral'
 
Once there was a boy
desperate to make some grand escape
not exactly sure what from
but determined by desperation nonetheless
he found his solution of choice to be running away,
in the elementary, running away from home sense
not to be confused with the running
of the 'Forrest Gump' specialty
so away he went
across all the boundaries he could find
city, state, nation, ocean
he crossed and crisscrossed them all
until the places he ended up running away from
brought him right back to the place
he thought he'd never return to again
normally at this juncture
he would meet up with a forgotten sweetheart
realize he'd only been running from himself
and settle quickly into a story book situation
of paper bliss and paste-flavored life
however, he had always been more
of an anti-hero kind of guy
so after a quick fling with that sweetheart
who, matter-of-factly, he had never even started to forget
he left her sobbing in a corner
over the should-have-been he robbed away from her
and proceeded to absolutely decimate
every tie he had left in that town
he had always doubted that saying about burning bridges
so he perpetrated a final crime as a lasting reminder
that he had told the whole town
to go **** themselves, in no uncertain terms
-and by **** he meant it-
he burned the only bridge out of town
along with an ex-buddy from high school's
pristine Camaro that turned out to be
just the ignition that bridge needed
it would be stock to tell you
that he learned some grand life lesson
and felt great remorse for his evil ways
no such scripted end, though
as he grinned into the wreckage
smoking in the stream at the bottom of the gulch
he was struck by a happy revelation
staying away is so much easier
when you physically can’t go back
and his only parting thought
was of how much time could have been saved
if he'd only burned that stupid bridge
the first time he left.

You come to me on the ends of thoughts
ones that have nothing to do with you
or so I so mistakenly believe
However, you were never that simple-
in looking at those dim times
the spectre of what you were then
intrudes on all the adjectives of my now
There is always something
some small, nearly senseless filament
of simile that leads back
and yet again am I tangled
breathlessly flailing through webs
of undesired reminisces
woven by the thready remainders of you

It astonishes me to consider
The thousand thousand trials and triumphs
that had to be part of our paths
To ensure we'd walk together
but the consideration is fleeting
As nothing in the past carries much relevance now
Scars have healed or been forgotten
Remembered slights and grudges have been summarily dismissed
Even the glow of nostalgia has been cooled to embers
All has been relinquished to the before times
Warranting only an occasional quick perusal
A momentary revisitation of prior life
Soon to be left in the past
Excepting the recognition that everything aligned
To lead my present tense to you

she carried the kind of
personal bearing
that screamed and shouted
"Take me!"
"Pick me!"
"Look, look at me!"

sadly enough,
her bearing
carried laryngitis
and was simply
too whispered to hear

the time has come for sleep
the time has come to stretch
and unfold,  and sink into rest
cocooned in the darkness, lulled
by the whispers of constant,
contenting fan blades
the time has come to give up
this day, fade for the night
and appear again tomorrow

I witnessed the death
of an echo today
watched it fall, muffled
by an unforgiving brick wall
before being swallowed up
in its entirety
by a howl of wind
and the grating teeth
of near silence

this unlikely termination
left a loss of words and feelings
because I couldn't be quite sure
if it had been an echo borne
of a scream or a laugh
a shout of joy
or a sob of heartbreak

with such vital information
now permanently undetermined,
who can say whether
there was ever really a death at all
perhaps more appropriately,
only an end
to a mere moment
in the unrelenting span
of  indistinct existences

tonight
she will fall into her bed
drunk and resplendant
perform a modern dance concert
writhing between the sheets
struggling to find a moment of perfection
in her otherwise
****** up life

I want a new face
I want to escape outside myself
find a new place to be
maybe a scene change would put a little polish
on a shady soul
I want to change dreams midstream
give up this steady trek for something unknown
forget family, friends, and failed lovers
forget what I am
and where I’m trying to fit
because it’s like this life
has lost its shine
and the straightjacket
of this straight-line trajectory
to some twisted success
is not what it should be
at least not what I think it should be
or how I thought it would feel
but what would I know
I’m just another young adult
who escaped the teenage wasteland
to find that it’s not much prettier
once you make it out the other side

Here's to life's forbidden fruit
and the passes we never make,
to the relationships lost before being gained
and the kisses we forget to taste

Here's to a glass not quite half empty
but a little less than half full,
to the voice that steals our confidence away
and the strings the puppeteers pull

Here's to the fun that will never be had
for the sake of being safe,
to a life meant to be lived to the fullest
that turns out to be a waste

And lastly, here's to all the tomorrows
that will never come to pass,
and to every promise of a forever
that never seems to last.

'The way it is'

she thrived on discord and imperfect ideals
or so she claimed to anyone who would listen
but in truth it was only the moments of near-discord
while she was still firmly in control
of the imperfections she most identified with-
those were her best times
the moment that control was lost-
which could be traced back, incidentally,
to a late winter late night
late in the week-
at that moment she actually listened
to someone else
and stopped living only by her own truths
she cracked
completely disintegrated into misery
and immediately gave in
upon the realization
that the world she loved
didn’t exist except to/for her
for a while it was bad
everyone around her
stood on a distant shore
watching her drown on dry land
with disturbingly dry eyes
I want to tell you
that she got better
but that would be a different story
the only thing that improved
was her ability to fake a life
she couldn’t even bother to live.
the end

mommies teach your baby boys

to smile at the teeth of the war machine

and not to cry when those teeth

grind them into bits

daddies tell your smart little sons

to go and fight for the cause

because, well just because

that’s what brave little boys do

do as you’re told and not as you think

forget what might be right and wrong

remember what keeps you alive

come back broken and different

and not the least bit yourself

but just tell yourself,

at least my parents are proud.

forgive her, Cupid
she knows not what she does
but doesn’t- hasn't
maybe never will
her focus is off
while she waits for yesterday
to roll back around
so she can take it on
with the wisdom of tomorrow
If this life’s just a circle
that one true chance
should come spiraling back
any time now.
And this time,
maybe the arrow will stick.

happiness is not inherent
nor inherited,
not passed on in a dusty family scrapbook
parents can't package it for children
wish though they might
can't slip it into a card,
like so many bills equating to birthdays
can't secret it into the corner of a care package
to arrive unbidden but enjoyed no less
friends can't pass it on
like a carefully folded grade-school note
or a free drink at the favorite watering hole
work can't substitute it, not forever
faith can play-act it, but not forever
it's left up to the one
most desperately searching to find
to find if it is
and if it is, what it is
and how to hold it
so that that unhappiness might live only
as a memory of a reminder
of a life less good

There was  a dark angel
waving me down
a pathway to Hell
but then I realized
the dark was light
Hell was Heaven
and everything was fine

I was just standing on my head.

'and she's off... '

once there was a girl
who carried silence as an abused weapon
she didn't use it often
but when she did
it was a silence that killed
or created, depending on the situation
she would talk and talk and talk
until most were convinced
she had nothing to say
and then she would stop
no explanations
no excuses
no anything
and then she would wait
impatiently
for the inquiries to start
was she angry
or sad or confused
what was she thinking
the simple truth of it all was
nothing
she wasn't contemplating the meaning of life
or the meaning of anything, for that matter
she was playing a game
a silly, childish game
of false mystery and pretense
because she was
at the end of it all
nothing more than an attention *****.
the end

maybe what’s been missing
has already been put to music
if I speak to you in song lyrics
will I finally have a chance?
tortured singers say it better
than I ever could
and I know that’s
a language you speak
could it be it’s just a matter
of changing tongues?

I knew
from the moment
I laid
eyes on you
that you were
just another apple
on my Eden tree.

I was in
one of those
blessed, beautiful,
as-close-to-perfect
pauses in life
Then you showed up
and I was defeated
for surely,
the serpent wasn't
far behind.

You're back again
now as before
when I had finally
given up, forgiven
all involved
you call again
and in the moment
nothing has changed
we are still ten years ago
sharing awkward humor
exchanging our newest ideas
and it is right
and everything works
and plans are made
until
the moment
we hang up
when it all
begins to fade
again

it’s back again
that quiver in the back of my mind
that sad little song of unnecessary self-pity
on an endless loop in the middle of my mind
i can’t seem to get away from it
especially around these times
when everything’s fine, just fine
thanks for asking
and i know if i could answer honestly
explain the nonsense ache that’s taking over
all over again
you wouldn’t repeat the mistake of that question
i promise, i’m never okay
it’s never as neutral as that

Everyone is sleeping
No prying eyes or jealous minds
About to crack wise
About why you wait
Til the midnight hour approaches
To drop in with a line
Check up on an ex
Too far away to pose any real threat
Too good to let go and get on with forgetting
She's still here, still not sleeping through the night
Still sure what's a good time and what must be done
Are poor bedfellows indeed
And a bedfellow is all you seek
Though your precious new light of your life
Might wonder why she's still second on your mind
If she knew the words you send to the former her
Around midnight, when everyone's sleeping.

Some days I have to remind myself
That it is hunger, not grief
Gnawing at the pit of my stomach
That my head aches from forgetting
To grab that bottle of water
When I woke late
Not from the million memories
Made and unmade
Of my little girl
who never took a breath
Outside my body
Of her sweet uncle
whose breath was
Crushed from his body
Three months to the hour
After my baby was born
eternally sleeping

These days
are so much longer now
Like their hours unlived
Have been folded into mine
Phantom hours that
make the minutes
drag on and on
Make me want
Just a few more hours sleep
Because six or eight or
twelve or fourteen
Is never enough
Leaving me wishing
That I could live
Forever with them
In my dreams

i am a blank page
not in the way
that means a new beginning
but in the way
that a scribbled note
disappears from the paper
through erasures and spills
that seep away the words
as if they never were