She told me that she was "unconventional" in relationships.
She said, "I understand you not wanting a relationship, but wanting companionship."
"Don't say it," I responded.
My hands clammy.
Knuckles white.

When one man leaves, another comes.
It's selfish to wipe tears from your eyes,
when you still haven't wiped your lips.
Another man comes. Another man leaves.
Yet, you call me,
to talk.

You associate with men that give you oral,
and what you ask of me is voice.

You spoon feed me your words,
and I hear your voice shake.
I taste your vulnerability.
I rest my hand on your chest.
I feel your disillusionment.
I feel your heart,
beat.

Each of us: promiscuous persons;
I thought you would have been stronger.

I wanted to ****,
and you wanted to make love.
But I couldn't.
The only love making I knew,
came after a dial tone.
I left your call, waiting.
I've always had your number.

And now I can see your letter:
bold and scarlet.
And I still call you friend.
The "unconventional" harlot.

Once upon a time
There was a story never told
A soul that was unknown
A man who grew too old

Privacy was his game
This game he played so well
Secrets aren't of shame
In retrospect they were sometimes swell

Mr Hermet's shell grew too small
Enough to make him crabby
Too many objects to hold
The man looked surly and shaggy

Like a grape in the sun you find
All the years past weren't too kind
The texture soft and wrinkled
This man still undefined

The tears run like waterfalls
Too quick to slow down

Same as the time this man has left
Not enough to make amends
Maybe some to gain respect
If not, go ahead let the end commence
But all in all he did his best

I told her.

I told her,
I loved her.
I told her,
we couldn't
speak,
to
one another.

I watched her lips move.
As she told me she didn’t love me.
I watched each syllable leave her precious lips.
She looked into my eyes.
But…

But I kept my eyes glued to her lips.
I wanted to hang onto every word,
knowing that when her lips were not parted,
our fate was sealed.

Done…

Done, is the drink in his hand.

Done, dim are the lights,

last call.



As faces fade,

and the door opens,

lonely is the man,

that fails.



A shift in seat,

eyes wandering,

left to right.

While all the while,

he wrote;

he writes.



October air,

carries,

the man home,

to the streets.

Yuppie < Beatnik,

in public,

he speaks.



Parked,

in a bench,

his bed.

Words written, they

position his neck,

he rests his head.



Morning, glory!

Next day, reprieved!

and,

joints rustle,

as leaves are blown by the wind.

Away goes the old,

death is easily carried,

away.



This life,

his life,

carried away.

Not knowing,

that,

destruction is beautiful.

It only takes one’s self,

to realize.



To realize,

a beauty that:

Is not at the end of a bottle.

Is not an ashtray full of butts, or

of what ifs.

It’s not lights out.



It’s the glimmer in someone’s eye.

The morning dew,

that reveals,

the previous night.

It’s the ink, bleeding.

The newspaper that crumbles.

The makeshift home,

that conceals,

a lost soul.

Small specs of white scatter the night sky.
Each illumination is unfamiliar, and so distant.
The worst part: Looking up is looking at the past.
The scattered sky is littered with ancient visions; death has never been so apparent.

I stare above, watching the lights with an admiration.
My sub-conscious is as scattered as the surly sky.
My past is also the only light I see.

Everything I think is comparison in theory.
If I can't be certain I can't misconstrue an empty perception.
I stare above, deep in thought, my universe is speaking.
My intuition glows, as the North Star guides me.

Only when the leaves die…
Time changes; days shorten and nights lengthen.
I fall as the colors change.
I fall as the temperature changes.
This proverbial color wheel is always on time,
it happens every year, and yet my comfort stays the same.
There is no change, same expression, that of a surly disposition.
Not having the warmth of sunlight might be a factor, but
I need to learn how to change my schedule.

Like a monster peering at a full moon; the Harvest moon is gleaming at me, taunting.
I stare at my hands, which gradually turn red.
The weather has me feeling cold.
I’m cold.
Less time; less sunlight; less patience; more irrational thought to consume.

Orange rays of light turn to a dark sky with an orange orb.
A prophecy that is told light-years away; a lifetime away that’s not in reach.
I hold my red hands above my head as I try to grasp the orange glow.
And deep down I know that is the wheel turning; the color wheel turning counter clockwise.
My world is shattered while staring above.
Everything is going back, but not in time.
Time has slowed. My universe is spinning too fast.
I’m disoriented.

I suppose this is normal.
I should know this is a constant in our world.
Seasons will change.
Time will change.
People, places, things.
But, I’m at a loss for words.
I keep thinking of nouns, when I can’t place the right verb.

Hours will pass and the days will pass.
Days will turn into weeks.
It will become colder, and that is when warmth is needed.
I need body heat.
I need to be surrounded by loved ones, but…
But that also takes time.
It is a transitional period.
It is to a degree.
Or for a lack of better words: It’s adding wood to the fire.

Crying is pointless.
Tears turn to icicles in a matter of seconds.
Which is self-loathing frozen in time.
And as the months move by…
The sun shines brighter; melting my sorrows and eventually evaporating.
My fears and troubles rise above me.
They get lost in the clouds.
And those days when it rains,
when people feel uneasy.
I know it’s our troubles falling back down.

The temperature rises, and I am content.
I hold my hands above my head as I try to grasp the orange glow.
And it feels good…
It’s good.
Until, everything starts to change once again.
And then I fall into my yearly routine.
Only when the leaves die…

Passing by suburban street signs.

They have simple messages to follow,

which is quite nice when I think about it.

As opposed to my concrete jungle:

tow zone; no parking zone; drug free school zone...

yes zone, my city is zoned.

It’s a grid that has an agenda,

to separate by market value.

Homes side by side to show self-worth,

not unlike the suburban structures.

Pre-packaged balsa wood ready for new families,

as dad puts in the new mailbox,

with dollar sign next to the address.

Impeccable lawns; fresh paint; no furniture

yes empty, the houses are meaningless.

It’s a show for other homeowners.

Reality happens behind closed doors,

in cities and suburbs.

I’m just following the street signs,

maybe I can find one that is for the public,

symbols or words.

It doesn’t matter, just as long as it isn’t a facade,

or an endless journey; a mirage.