The final crossroad

Look behind you at all the occasions you had , moments of truth , and forgiveness the times you tarnished the innocence of an affection.
The lies , infidelity, and unenthusiastic attention to moments special.
And yet their was still a chance , a way forward , and outstretched hand, and open embrace.
Corners , crossroads, in our journey.
Streets where unconditional love, fidelity, respect awaited at every turn.
Yet you chose to pass buy , this last time ,The eleventh hour , our final hope , you've turned your back on us , and said goodbye to our forever , my road has its own corners now , and your road without me , as you have just said goodbye to our
" final crossroad "

Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?

Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten

with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction

and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,

1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?

...****, you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit

I tried making these
Carmel Apple Martinis
They ended up being these sort of milkshake type sickly drunk making frankendrinks
Which I suppose is appropriate for Halloween
My roommate and I walk around the neighborhood drinking
And checking out the kids in their costumes
We make self-aware ******* jokes
But we really just miss being kids

Our friend picks us up in her car
She is wearing a shirt with stars on it
She says she is dressed as space
My shirt is blue so I say I am a wave

We get to a mutual friend's apartment that he has decorated
Him and his not girlfriend anymore (are they *******?) are sitting
On the couch drinking *** and coke
And eating cookies
They offer us ****
I don't want any
My roommate eats an edible
I can't stop making jokes
I'm having a hard time
Entering into real conversation
His not girlfriend anymore (are they *******?) is dressed up like a unicorn
She is dressed up like a unicorn but looks like an eighties gym mom who farts streamers and found
A funny hat to show her unenthusiastic teenage son
I tell his not girlfriend anymore (are they *******?) this but
Although she laughs
I don't think she thinks
It
Or me
Is funny
She is probably a little hurt
In a childlike confused way
As if I reached into the secret womb
Where she hides her fetal self
And gave her the finger

We end up at this bar where my face drifts perilously close to this drunk girl i'd met before's face
This drunk girl I'd met before keeps showing everyone her right breast and giggling
But then she frowns and says her friends abandoned her and looks like she might cry
Then her face lights up and she says there's this special place she wants to take us
But I don't want to go and she frowns again and wonders how she is going to get home
I tell her that this is the second time I've met her and also the second time I've seen her ****
This drunk girl I'd met before doesn't seem to hear me and moves on to my friend's face

My roommate wants to leave because the edible he ate is making him pale
And afraid to talk to people
So we take a lift home and I'm vaguely annoyed with the evening
And I feel kind of sad like I'm missing something that I never really had
Or like there was a moment in my life once where I could've really been happy
And I was distracted or something and totally missed that opportunity
And I was never ever gonna get that chance again because everything had changed course now
And this feeling is nagging at me and my roommate isn't talking
He's just looking sad and scared out the window hoping he stops being high soon
Because he's got work in the morning
And I wanted to watch The Silence Of The Lambs when I got home but I'm starting to feel tired
And now I'm annoyed with myself for feeling ****** because I'd just been talking
The day before about how happy I'd become

It's 11:20am in OHare
and I'm here with Sam Adams'
cardboard cut-out,
sipping his hard work,
chasing my breakfast,
picking up where Starbucks left off.
But really, I'm avoiding the tired,
unenthusiastic bodies nesting at my gate,
with their dilapidated muzzles,
with their deadpan expressions,
with these head-and-shoulders of
malcontent- of brewing disappointment-
floating morosely above their respective
boarding passes, passports,
and food court receipts
clutched in cranky knuckles.

And so here I am, sitting at
Facade, raising a second glass
with cardboard Adams,
and I kinda have to ****
and I really have to ***,
but there's no way in hell
I'm joining the rest of my flight.

Drastic self-defence,
Drastic in my linguistic augments,
The evidence of my attempts at trying,
To see any future where I’m not dying,
And it makes no sense

Tactic for offense,
Offensive in sarcastic defiance,
Ambivalence on a course for further premonitions,
Static fragments of my continual refusal of any medicinal diminution,
Please help me make some sense

Psychopathic friends,
Systematic traffic hence,
Pensive head and that will drive you,
Insane and round the bend if only they all knew,
I can’t see any sense

Automatic ends,
Ammunition diplomatic,
Suspense in its unanimously tragic situation,
Fate’s unenthusiastic in its conflict upon two cognitive nations,
That makes no sense

Anatomically attic fenced,
Just a poetic way to represent,
One’s combative mental condition,
An addict and the opposite always on the right and the left warring in attrition,
If that makes any sense

Plastic ornaments,
Plastic bottles left to lament,
As the alcoholic labyrinth in my life that cannot be broken,
To help wash down writhing thoughts forced to remain unspoken,
And an I that makes no sense

Fix it no expense,
Fixed monthly recompense now,
I am a myth of someone, whom I do not know,
Sickly pretence took me down a road that I never wanted to go,
And now you say I’m finally making sense

Panic is absent,
Absent the magic,
In the pills that in basic blindness I routinely swallow,
Dynamic in the worn out tools that continue to carve once whole now hollow,
Does that make any sense?
Now I’m really not making sense, by finally making sense

Today while I was at work,
an elderly couple came through my line.
Their faces were heavily wrinkled,
aged over time.

The man greeted me kindly,
asking for paper and plastic.
His voice was rough, raspy, and weak,
and most certainly unenthusiastic.

As I bagged his groceries,
I watched as he talked with his wife.
The woman he had to chosen to be with,
for the rest of his life.

Once we were done ringing up his food,
he reached out to pay.
His hand trembled when he extended it,
as I continued to survey.

"Debit?" he quivered with uncertainty,
as the cashier kindly took his card.
"Just confirm and sign right there." she said,
as he concentrated very hard.

Bent over slightly, eyes squinted,
he shakily signed his name.
A receipt printed, and was handed to him,
"Alright, have a great day."

I turned to the man and his wife,
and smiled as they smiled back at me.
"Thanks kid, don't work too hard!",
he said to me gleefully.

I nodded and smiled as they slowly waddled away,
and headed out the door.
I watched as they left, out of my sight, and thought,
there has to be more.

There has to be more to this measly life,
than just what I can see.
There has to be more to this pathetic life,
which means nothing to me.

The thought of death, it scares me so,
and leaves me shaking in fear.
My mind is clouded, thoughts a blur,
nothing seems to be clear.

The thought that someday when I'm old,
I'll wake up and think to myself,
"Welp, this is the end of the line,"
is really something else.

Because to be quite honest, I don't want to have to think,
"this is the final stretch."
I would rather not have to confront,
such an evil as death.

I don't want to face a wrinkled face,
brittle bones and a deteriorated mind.
I don't want to grow old, or die alone,
or face the powerful Father Time.

But then I remember what I saw today,
and it makes me realize how I will survive.
The man had a love, his wife, his soul mate,
which kept him alive all along.

So I will face my wrinkled face,
and I will face brittle bones.
I will face my deteriorating mind,
and I won't face them alone.

I will love you all my life,
and I will make you my wife.
And we will fight Father Time,
together, side by side.

Words carried on ears in hearses
dead and deaf headless on the back of horses
carrying axes stalked by a lumbering mob armed with torches and pitchforks
hunting for sport. hiding among the herd different but not by much
reality and fiction blurring and becoming lucid leaving me clueless
It keeps coming down this way breaking over in intervals and phases
breaking like the waves of a tepid and unenthusiastic ocean droning
bloating and lurching then slinking and retreating,
bringing lost thoughts back to me caught in a fit
of Cognitive Dissonance
restless and oppressive
Spread and Sprawled out on the floor surrounded by animated bones
swirling through the night air and coalescing into skeletons
dancing through draculas dining hall
stalling my fall with wandering thoughts suspended in air by a fanciful imagination
fleeting as the floodgates open and it all comes back full circle again.....


I can't keep hiding behind my dreams like this anymore.. it's time to face the real world now.

She seems nice.
If you’re into one word responses,
and silent, bored stares.

She seems nice.
If you’re into lackluster smiles
and unenthusiastic vibes.

She seems nice.
If you’re into rants and complaints,
and acerbic comments.

She seems nice.
If you’re into rolled eyes,
and, “You’re not funny,” replies.

She seems nice.
If you’re into judgmental glances,
and not taking chances.

She seems nice.
If you’re into insecure hand holding,
and constant reinforcement.

She seems nice.
If you’re into that.

when i wake up from a nights typing i feel refreshed
as though i up-chucked for a few hours but brushed my teeth before
passing out for the night. i keep my eyes closed and often lose many sentences.
ones i rather enjoyed, too.

its a smelly pile or puddle on the floor,
usually near my bed or the garbage and i regard it as such,
however i do so often enjoy a little detective work
to see what didn't quite digest properly
and wonder if maybe i have irritable bowels;
or some kind of parasite.
the sour flavor tells me that even the mintiest
toothpaste sometimes a bit short of adequate
to relieve the eroded tender feeling on the backs of my teeth.
like maybe bile digests them away.

i often dream on writing nights
about how wonderful and wacky the world sometimes is.
but i usually wake up and in and unfriendly way,
remember what the score
is within just a few seconds.
the sensation of regaining consciousness and being uncertain
of your whereabouts is fleeting
but agreeable.
most times i dig that feeling;
though once aware i am generally unenthusiastic
or perhaps quite appalled by the surroundings
ive brought myself to endure.

even average mornings when the morning is the evening.
as i see it.
when there is nothing to do,
it does not particularly matter to anyone when you do it.
so long as it appears done or you believe it so.
maybe ill do something.
but as i plan it,
and cleverly smile to think i am so sharp, when perhaps someone arrives.

We stand in line for a delayed plane airport stale oxygen recycled through our mouths. This is work.
“It’s gonna be fun to watch.”
We’re popcorn on the sidelines. Your sorrow is our television and soon we will fly to vegas. Because our white ***** make us bulletproof. Make us able to say things like “It’s gonna be fun to watch.” Instead of saying things like “I’m scared.” And “I can’t believe this is happening.”
The conversation continues. This is work.
“Those females sure do have a way about them don’t they?”
I wonder myself a coward. Does the upstart stand over the 60 year old? He’s a short man.
“Did you see that one?”
They’re talking about *****.
“Oh how could I miss it? He’s helping me find my wife, you know?”
What is the proper response to a sexist wink? I awkwardly smile. This is work.
Plane boards.
Takeoff.
Landing.
Slot machines in the airports.
Lights.
Smoke.
Decadence. I’ve never been. The neon hits me like stargazing. Walking alone seems to be more palpable to my tastes than company. There’s strippers on the sidewalk. One tries to spank me. When you walk back to your Paris themed hotel at 2 in the morning, everyone wants you to go to the *******. My hotel room is spacious. ******* is odd when you’re surrounded by ***.

Time rolls into the work event I’m in Vegas for, like limousines and unenthusiastic drummers strapped to the backs of moving advertisements. It’s a social event. I’m supposed to play nice with my customers. Make them happy so they give me more money. I’m paraphrasing.
One of my customers is talking to one of his customers. The guy is around 85. He notes on how young I look. Says that I can use this to my advantage with the ladies. Oh sorry. I’m paraphrasing again. What he actually said was:
“Never get married. When I was 40 I caught ***** like you wouldn’t believe. I’d find a 23 year old and toss her away for someone younger.”
Time rolls into overpriced drinks walking hand in hand with gambling and stories of conquest
Testosterone
Unrest
Like champions of our pants we are gladiators in the absence of romance. The game of one-up-man-ship, each story told and stacked like the cards slapping down on the tables around us.

“There was a 99.9% chance I was going to bang this chick. She like, had her hand on my leg. I had my arm around her. And I was the hero of the night because I had gotten a bachelorette party over.”
“Oh yeah, she’s hot.” “ Your wife is ******* standing right there, dude.”
“You know if things are wrong at the house cause my wife keeps me up aaaaalllll night. Talk talk talk talk.”
He moves his hands like lobster claws to mimic his wife’s mouth.  I feel my awkward smile crack across my face again. I pay $10 for a watered down drink. I talk to a girl who doesn’t want to talk to me. She leaves.
“You strike out or something?”
When you walk back to your Paris themed hotel at 4 in the morning, everyone wants to ******* in exchange for your wallet.

“Where are you going? You ever had black *****?”

My hotel room is spacious.
It’s odd to feel alone when company can be paid for. And as I lie naked in my bed I wonder what it would be like to have *** with a *******. I feel failure creeping at the floor, climbing the sheets that tell me I’m in the city of sin, so why am I not sinning?
Winning.
“You strike out or something?”

As men we are taught to be strong and that we don’t need anyone
Wolves
This is work
(but I must have missed the ******* lesson)

Because it seems I need someone. More than the soft cheek kiss of innocence lost. I want the feeling of seeing old people hold hands. The hard glare of the no judgement mirror. It’s like *** over *******, but there is silence in the nothing and if you listen closely you can hear the screaming drool between each ***** syllable. I’m tired of – **** it.
Let’s keep this a secret. Don’t want my man card revoked.
Have you ever felt like you could die and no one would give a ****?
A hangover morning pours overpriced coffee into our stale eyes. It seems the strength has waned
Tunes have changed
And the act is becoming hard to keep up. If you look at the corners of their eyes you can see they miss their wives and warn of men like themselves to their daughters.
But that doesn’t make for good stories, does it?
“I’m ready to leave”
“I can’t say I’m a fan of Vegas”
“I hate this town.”
Even wolves travel in packs and I wonder if some consider the proper response to a sexist wink to be an awkward story.
A company too exhausted, from dripping money and LED seduction to wonder if society knows the size of all our tiny penises.
“I’m tired of people assuming that just because I make a decent amount of money that I’m a republican.”
What?
“Oh I hate Trump. He’s a monster.”
We’re getting somewhere.
“You ever motorboated *******?”
Aaaaaaaaaaaand we’re back.

doesn't anybody even look at the sky lately?

like there's nothing between
me and this screen
- nothing.
no purpose
no moment of wit
no urgent revisions of loyal commitment -
just forget it -
- in this odd object is the origin
and the horizon
- by the time you noticed
it was already over
overwhelmed
unenthusiastic
i guess when you've been through hell
you're okay just making it to the mattress -

      but maybe you don't know.
      maybe it's not so bad.
      maybe we can get together
      and share the laughs we used to have ----

- nah.
   she said.
i got things going on
   she said.
plus it's already been so long
we might as well keep going strong -
   she said.
jeez, i mean, i guess i agree.
but look at it like this
- we already have everything we'd need.
- it could be worse, you could fall out of a tree -
- plus it's already beginning to seem, not so bad.

      don't ask me why we relapse on a kiss of the past
      when there's a smorgasbord of other organs to explore?
      sure, we could share all the laughs we used to have
      and who knows, worst of all, we could make even more -

too deep and been here before
and i didn't wanna come back
i knew she'd be on the fence
i sat in the same awkward position
going through awful images and thoughts of vengeances
exacted, exactly - I wish we could say why
so no wonder we haven't the time
to eye the sky and imagine lives
where we're happy and calm and by each other sides
no wonder we didn't do this
or find the moment to do that
and we make excuses like
"i wish time didn't move so fast."

Never knew why I could not express my emotions;
could never show anger or excitement
unless I was really stimulated or wired.
I knew the emotions were running inside
as much as I really tried to project them
I just could not show them
people thought
I had something to hide
or just plain inconsiderate
if you knew me you would know
its the complete opposite
just not true about me
whether I sound unenthusiastic or visually somewhere
in a different state of mind:
I do care
and interested in what you are saying
there is something out there
trying to confuse the way I want to say things
or distracting me
wanted more than anything to show how I feel
to people so they couldn't accuse me of being false
or just a lifeless a robot;
i'ts frustrating
not everyone will always gets me
my tone of voice can fall flat
feel dead and lifeless
never changing my ****** expressions
its like having an constant botox
injection sealed to your mouth and eyes

Being autistic can be hard sometimes
not being able to control your
hand and body movements
it does this automatically for you.
Light and sound in a room
can really affect me too
everything is way too intense
sending me visually
out of focus, can't always
focus for long on other people
too without feeling nervous and uneasy  
I feel I'm not always in control
of what comes out my mouth
and feel like something is constantly
sabotaging my thoughts
everything is distorted jumbled and
sometimes comes out backwards
occasionally repeating
things I've said a hour a go.
I can't even always control my volume
of my voice its either too quiet
or becomes far too loud.

I kept thinking I really must be broken
Why can't I switch off
wish my brain would shut up
all I do is annoy
everyone in the room.

However I realise as frustrating living with autism
can be I'm not in fact completely broken
it does have its quirks
I found i'm very self absorbed
with time so always punctual.
Really creative and intelligent
especially with topics of my choice
I hyper focus I love to research
love to write and read
i'm a problem solver and try to
be logical look at things in another way
but never accuse me of having
no emotion as that is not true
can't always be the way
people expect me to be.

I make demands
Follow through halfway
And wonder if it will be a win
On this one important thing
That means something
To me
Maybe too much
But not enough
To give it up

When I become passive and unenthusiastic
And my already blackened soul darkens to an even darker shade of black;

When the unknown tears misrepresent my sorrows and my cold sweat is no longer a medal of effort and triumph

When my nails are basically non-existent from my fears eating them away and my hand gets the shake

When people start to have “sympathy” in me and try to understand my tears

When all forms of mental sanity has been terminated, my noggin inside my head but my mind outside my body

People will come and pay tribute to my empty shell, maybe shed a few meaningless tears,
Oh well, its too late now

I didn't have chains on myself
Free to move about a empty shelf
Free of brain free of wealth
Cleaned off in the rain was free of health
Till I got a job to be free of death

Boss told me "Fill the shelf"
And restocked my empty self

Filled it with Doritos and plastic
Try not to seem unenthusiastic
At lunch eat taquitos that taste toxic
Feel my chest melt, works so caustic

Chains on my body tied by checks
Money to tide me over till the next
Trade my time and self respect
For my chains and my checks

Do it to chain myself to safety I suspect

Unenthusiastic in the undertones, my lovely,
Couldn't find the overtures to make
Lost the thread of all the actualities, my sweet
****** if I can find the strength to take.

For once I loved a King who said I couldn't,
He stole the very focus of my dream,
Amputated all with intensity, entailed,
Said expediency would cauterize, the scheme.

Speechless, nay with outrage, I exfoliated bare
Extolled the very essence of my ire,
Screamed his traitorous intent rendered my belief, spent,
My constituents now caste on the pyre.

Treachery suffered is treachery sent
It slices the heart like a knife,
Expediency spent incurs such discontent
That all trust is severed...for life.

M.
Taranaki, NZ
Feb 12 2021

Coldish
Tepid
Slightly warmer than the fridge
Drinking from the garden tap back when we were kids
Can't have been much fun to have gained this world renowned name
For running my hand underneath the tap and pronouncing it all same
Don't touch my flannel and then onto face
Think you'd better call a plumber out if this is always the case
For its not quite hot
And it's not exactly cold
It's that kid who never done what he was told
Unenthusiastic
Indifferent
Slightly heated,
Just the way he was born
Warm
Luke Warm

JJB