Face Plant

How much of our lives
Will become simply archives
How many more times
Will I forfeit what’s mine
With every passing night
Feeling homesick at twilight
Being anxious and uptight
Can’t say or do anything right.
And the moments still tick by
We both curse the same night sky
Before one of us will recognize
All the ways we jeopardize
The shot we had to eternalize
Has lost the chance to materialize.
And I wish we could rewind
Go back and redefine
We both tow an identical line
Attached to an internal deadline
Born of a universal design
That will eventually unwind.

Surreality.

Every day I see people who knew you in life, sometimes running into them for the first time in decades; and, they inevitably ask about you as if they expect to find out that you’ve moved away to Canada, like you always threatened to do. The news of your short battle and premature death unfailingly drops jaws all the way around, and I regularly find myself in the position of having to firmly convince someone that you are dead and gone: a highly dissatisfying instance for me.
At least once a month I see a dress or a couch or a set of dishes that oozes your still lingering essence, and this essence permeates my existence for some time – maybe an hour; maybe a day…and as much as it stirs the burn of the embers inside the firepit called Pain, I greedily and secretly lean into the heat because it’s the only way I feel like I still know my Mom. Like I still have my Mom.
Every single night I walk my dog down the street your house is on. Although somebody else lives there and its appearance has been drastically altered since you died, I sometimes see your faint ghost on the front porch doing a crossword puzzle. I see your ghost watering the lawn too, or occasionally it even excitedly waves a hand at me from across Camden Avenue in the darkness.
I catch myself more frequently spitting out random statements and sayings that were always unique to you, alone.
Things like,

“In like Flynn.”

Or I sing stupid bits if stupid songs like,

“Here we come,
on the run,
like a hamburger on a bun.”
Or,
“Jonathan Joe had a mouth like an O”

I know its really you speaking in my voice, but I wonder what any of it means.

I often thank the Gods that you and I were able to at least scratch the surface of our reciprocal amendments to each other before you died so horribly fast and miserably. I’m continually thankful that I was able to thoroughly explain myself to you after all was said and done between us, but before your brain got so full of metastatic tumors that you were unable to comprehend me. I’m ever thankful that your passing wasn’t during any of our many former years apart, and that I was there to hold your hand when you asked me to be, because I can vividly remember that you were afraid, truly afraid. You never lost face though, you remain a bonebreakingly strong idol of my candlelit shrine. And no matter what else life throws at me, I will meet my last day on Earth with your smile on my face and your strength in my bloodstream. And, while your death killed off parts of me and stole any comfort I knew in the big, bad world, I haven’t let it burden me.
Though, I still bitterly wish we could have had Christmas in Sutter Creek, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Every single day passes with a strangling sense of your absence. And some days, I find you staring back at me from a mirror or the reflection from a storefront window as I pass. The tiniest and subtlest bits of your essence still trickle from the hole that losing you that way has left in my heart.

Inklings.

Don’t humor the inkling to test me,
Always searching for angles to best me,
Your presence must constantly tempt me,
daily fail on your part to preempt me,
Too pathetic to bend,
Bite at the bowl that’s empty.
bullshit side-stepping,
pathetic button pressing,
Get on track dead last,
Any shot you had to win has passed,
Neurotic tail chasing,
Your stupidy’s amazing
Go long, carry on,
its so entertaining,
Your need to bear teeth,
at absolutely nothing,
It’s so funny,
You humor me,
Not a soul cares,
If you never get out of here,
You made your bed and it’s filthy,
The stench of the things you can’t be,
So many piles of what’s needy,
You think your logic is stealthy,
But your face makes me angry,
I want to punch at you; God help me,
For striking a helpless puppy,
It made me.

Dearly.

The sun is burning
The life outta me
My hopes are turning
Into a dumb fantasy
My tongue is yearning
To set my feelings free
My bones are learning
The ache of maturity

What once was agreeable
Feels as off as it can be
The tragic unforeseeable
Seems more comfortable to me
Dreams once deemed unbeatable
Are dust beneath my feet
As I dig deep for the redeemable
Buried somewhere underneath

Thoughts like whispered voices
Fading into vague memory
Lots of different choices
Looked back on regrettably
A kaleidoscope of faces
Come and go while I’m asleep
My brain always erases
The things my heart loves most dearly

Mescalene.

Try I do, to do the right thing,
Suck it up and bite the bean,
Keep it honest, keep it clean,
Oil the gears in this here machine;
Profound lessons learned on mescalene,
While at school all they see are mass shootings,
A universe stealthily winding up to spring,
As we build bombs and don’t suspect a thing;
Life must take pleasure in shaping misery,
While mutated versions of my fellow human being,
Clueless and empty like a fuzzy TV screen,
Get go on thinking they got anything on me.

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Barbarian.

I can’t wash the blood from my hands,

The basin is stained with red that expands,

The mirror reflects a perfect barbarian,

As I desperately scrub off layers of skin.

The stars in the sky oddly cease to shine,

I gather up all of the lies that are mine,

Sewn into my mouth one last time,

To be spewed at someone down the line.

My feet refuse to step anew,

And the streetlights cast a yellow hue,

My mind is burning a hole right through,

To ease the pressure I’ve turned into.