Turbulent.

The shifty turbulence,
Cruel and purposeless,
A great big oozing lie,
Can’t look myself in the mirror,
At a lie so insincere,
A plight so insecure,
So unaware,
It’s clear.
Until I throw them up again,
The feathers of a friend,
I’ll be choking on what could’ve,
Would’ve, should’ve been,And my smile still represents,
A path of wild turbulence,
Nothing has a meaning,
The words make little sense,
The world oozes petulance,
A tilt that’s off by mere degrees,
Stirs up the fear, hate and cruelty,
It spins the tattered yarn of humanity,
It kills us when we’re feigning sleep,
And worsens the curse of the seed,
Lengthening the reach of power and greed,
It quickens the wound that perpetually bleeds,
It thickens our ties to the lies and deceit.

 

 

 

 

  

Padlocked.

You thought I wasn’t listening,

that your sentiment was lost on me,

you convinced yourself eventually,

that an evil lingered, baring teeth…

Didn’t you write mind blowing poetry?

And used for your muse, a snapshot of me?

Then my mind was confused immediately,

the flip to the switch that turns you on to me…

In no way did I anticipate,

To be smitten by you, for Chrissake,

to be bitten into, til my body shakes,

and left alone in an expanding space…

It’s a cosmically powered vacuum,

sucking the poetry away from we, two,

stealing the essence left that I cling to,

revealing rebellious dissent in high volume…

until the shine of the sun again forces ahead,

the steps of my feet through your head,

the lines in my cheeks as you blush me dark red,

your dreams are ever padlocked in a box under my bed.

Notes to Self: Note 325

Dear Self,

Yes, you are going to become one of “them”… you know who I refer to…you’re closer everyday to fitting the profile dashingly; just go out and get the 23 stray cats, already…get it over with.

Early morning, pre-coffee birthday wishes in the German language when you’ve forgotten it’s your birthday, as well as the fact that you live with a German, can be cause for it’s own follow-up therapy session; just sayin’.

The “word on the street” seems to be lazily conveying that it’s time to go home and put your jammies on.

“Going out” for your birthday isn’t supposed to entail a trip to CVS for laundry detergent.

Maybe this will be the year that you finally accept the reality that you don’t get carded anymore when you buy liquor or smokes.

Yes, you still live (and therefor, must drive) in the Silicon Valley; you can’t, or shouldn’t wonder why you always get home feeling like you just jumped out of a plane.

Try calming the fuck down, somehow – before your heart explodes; you’re not getting any younger.

Under Foot.

Temper-treated,

pressed ‘n pleated,

predisposed and superseded,

diagnosed,

poorly heeded,

over-psychiatrically,

pre-treated,

super-imposed,

pin-up prose,

cake-layer completed,

centrally distributed,

locally re-heated,

self-stimulated,

pseudo-violated,

over-chewed,

nearly spewed,

swallowed up,

oh Hell –

regurgitated,

won’t sit well,

if stacked up to,

the tried and true,

another epic fail,

shoddily fabricated,

horizontally situated,

systematically nauseated,

linguistically free,

tongue in cheek,

verbally inebriated,

an atrocity,

a featherless Crane,

singed into the brain,

of the Herring,

a forsaken queen,

been busy,

out bone-collecting,

well beyond her means,

never satiated,

by her plundering,

blindly placated,

by the obsolete,

of the broken-spirited,

broken down,

rotted through,

to an army paraded,

beneath the sole of my shoe.

Pocket-less.

When every single face becomes
just a reason to divert my eyes
and every carbon-based “human”
alerts my nerves to stand on high
when every time that I try to break ahead
just enough to finish this looking alive
a backpedal finds me a crack in my head
and then I stupidly struggle to survive
where progression is stunted by stagnancy
and my clothes are all pocket-less
the place between strength and subjectivity
where I stand without answers to this
And every day brings another slap to the face
every night finds me hollow and numb
each decision that I’m left unable to dominate
every turn of the screws in my thumbs
where I’m hungry often but hardly ever eat
and my shades stay drawn all year round
there’s no word for such charged irritability
every day becomes just a target to take down
I am overly tired and I am deeply annoyed
there is a train wreck surging through my veins
I’m living in the body of a fabricated android
being taunted by the distant cries of a runaway.

Notes to Self – Note # 41

Dear Self,
• How old are you, again?…
• Really, I mean c’mon…you:

a) behave like a two-year-old at an after-school daycare birthday party
b) be a bigger pothead than Spicoli ever was – and forget important shit
c) insist on impossible things – rendering yourself impossible to please

• If a guy has been in your company for 48 hours and only then says something along the lines of

“You know…? You’re fuckin’ hot…”

Time to go ahead and take another inventory of things
• If the same guy makes the seemingly random suggestion of “painting your bedroom” or “gardening” the instant he comes over for the first time, take another inventory of things
• If someone posing as a “poet” seems UNABLE to leave the topic of themselves for very long, they are likely full of horse shit
• When a man believes that he needs lifelong reaffirmation and/or reassurances as a result of being let down a few times by a parent, or being cheated on by his ex-wife – GAME OVER. GET OUT.
• The above described situation is what I refer to as a “Conflict of Reality”…nobody wins
• It’s really too bad it isn’t physically painful to be a fucking sniveler – I think there would be far fewer crybabies in the world, if it hurt
• Plotting to kill someone while you are doing yoga or jogging or swimming still totally counts as plotting to kill somebody; doing it while engaging in healthy activities DOES NOT change anything about that

A Different Line.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.” – William Shakespeare

While you can be fine

there are still words left

unsaid, of mine…

I can keep going

into a different sunset,

down a different line…

And I can be good

with so many nickels

made of wood…

I can just disappear

and let you be

like I probably should…

So you can be free

away from the fear

that’s made a hostage of me…

and I can believe

that you’re coming back

to find me, eventually…

Then, you can be strong

the way you’ve always

remained, all along…

while I can continue

to drunkenly scream

the same ol’ love song…

As you start to know

that I’m ever come –

and never go…

and I fail to realize

that my key no longer

fits in the door.