the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...

we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.

I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...

and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.

the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

If I was the only reason for you to stay clean, what does that make me?

I feel like I was a rule you wanted to break. A chain for you to pull on.

I wish I could have been the difference I needed in you. But there's no reasonable way for me to hold myself responsible for your change.

Heaven and hell both know you would rather leave than be responsible for mine.

So in what fairness is it that I take charge of your life?

I cannot be the cure for your lifestyle. I cannot be held responsible for your sobriety and your relapse all wrapped up in one resentful package.

I wanted so badly for us to share our growth. But the expectation we both set for each other now seems like it was rooted in desperation and spite.

Wasted life like mine trying to be the splint you use to graft your life together and hold it fast while you grow, feels like a fence trying to stop a tree from expanding.
Stunting your growth and breaking me in the process, to no avail.

Bark engulfing my time-fragile frame of linked cage, hopelessly there to keep you safe. Your strong life breaking and bending my twisted metal body, determined to taste the poisoned stream on the other side of my weathered wire you see so clearly as prison bars. Awaiting my mistake as to justify a sip of the lethal spring so close to your roots.

I so desperately have tried to keep you safe from those toxic waters you are so dedicated to live by. I've tried, and I have failed, to be the source of your change.

My broken and mangled wire will lay to rust on the river bank, while I watch your roots soak up the volatile liquid you so desperately seek. Then shrivel up and rot while my brittle iron oxide body hopelessly decays and cries rust atop your dying trunk. Wishing something had been different.

You didn't choose to live so close to the water, but I chose to make one last stand surrounding your body like a prison of demands. It isn't your fault that your here, but it's my fault for thinking my life could stop you.

-RÆ

Dry skin,
like wine soaked paper evaporated.
Festering, tightly wound minds.
Failed attempts at human interaction,
we coexist like cars
cooperating without concern
yet never do we touch.
Coming to terms with my cold-hearted,
cynical
insensitive ways.
I am this way,
and I don't matter.

Don't test these waters,
I'm colder than poisoned ice cream. You may think I'm quiet or misunderstood,
But I'm just observant and there's nothing to miss,
You merely don't understand.
Standing by unnoticed, watching the clowns fool themselves into flaccid conversation and loud misinterpretation.
Sure I believe you,
But you don't believe in anything so why would I listen?
I may not be big,
but I'm heavier than you expect,
once you get me rolling,
no stick stone or concrete embankment can foil my momentum.
Be warned before you flip my lid that you can't flip it back.
It's a promise
a commitment to my affliction that I don't want you to forget.

Chemical dependency, with a side of intimate conductivity, followed by romantic conspiracy, turned to emotional connectivity.
without for-sought thought, proceed to three years of Hot Love turned to three months of Cold War.

Violent codependence, bandaged by hopeful commitments, failed by unchecked addictions, and annunciated by priceless resentments, punctuated by lost trust and an honest compassion.

Fight tooth and nail for higher ground, feeling faithless and unforeseen worthlessness.

Realized lack of influence, led by justified relapse, a broken heart or two and a few weeks later, loneliness earned and hopelessness learned.

Try to scramble back to the to the idea of the connection once perfect, now weathered and tired, filled with tired resentment, and unresolved disagreement.

Love & Lust, into Trustless Treason.

I will stand tall against the machine of time's toll on love, tears in my eyes and fear in my heart. Why should I back down.

And why should I not.

I would rather be trampled with suffering than choose one and regret either.

One lover's stand off.

One lover's lament.

Stuck in the middle of this heavily trafficked highway, feet shoulder width apart, stuck in concrete, committed to resistance.


-RÆ

Xitlali, el lucero,
me alumbra el sendero,
la luz del valle de Anáhuac emigra,
calmada Tenochtitlán.
El otro valle: Mictlán
por debajo vibra.

Writing myself encouraging notes for the morning, knowing I'll need them to get through the day;
Is it crazy to talk to yourself in 3rd person through means of ink?
I've been finding myself more neurotic than usual.
Lists and notes help.
I swear it's not a self esteem issue,
I assure you of my confidence,
But I just cannot seem to figure out why it is I've sparked interest in so many intricate and spectacular people.
I've come upon so many outstanding friendships.
Sometimes, I'll admit, I forget to remember the vast support system I've found myself immersed in.
I have the ability to soar through the day, wearing a crooked smile, my personal notes in pockets, and friendship in my heart.
I must only remember not to forget.

I hope it left a scar.
Like the metal gate on the farm to my left hand as I carelessly swung it open.
Like the hard dirt and rocks at my cabin to my knee as I came bellowing off a dirt bike when I was 9 years old.
Like the surgeon's knife to my upper lip in attempt to repair my birth-given defect,
no,
not that one,
that was to clean of a cut.
I hope it cut you deep,
and the wound was not properly cared for and got infected.
I hope you picked at it for weeks before you finally gave in and let it heal, and even then
I hope the scar of me will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Sparse is the lure of a bourgeois creature.
Give me a chance to show you,
I am
anything
but.