Fishing Boats.

I’ve never washed his laundry,

or tasted his sweat in the dark,

I don’t clear his dinner dishes,

he doesn’t fuck with my car,

he’s never seen me naked,

I’ve never whispered in his ear,

we live in different time zones,

yeah – he’s there and I am here;

We never watch movies together,

I don’t get to sleep beside him,

we have no friends in common,

no secret spot that we meet in,

we don’t see the same sunrise,

or the same one sink down at night,

our streets are lined by different trees,

we don’t observe the same wildlife;

it’s strange to know such vastness,

of space between, lined by surrealism,

space solidified by the grace of time,

passing in between me and him,

he never slowed in his loyalties,

and I never changed my mind,

any union between is cursed by the Gods,

through an invisible territorial line;

yet, somehow I know this man’s essence,

I hear the ticking of his heart,

mechanical and permanent,

fused with light from dusted stars,

in an abandoned office space,

the crime-scene of an epic opening,

bullet holes in the glass that separated,

this man from connecting with me.

Kentucky.

It’s been,
creeping in,
foreseen,
in dreams,
the planetary,
aligning again;
late in the year,
of twenty-something,
on the umpteenth,
at approximately,
three-forty-three,
a plane will land,
to force the hand,
and, I’ll be in Kentucky;
I’ll go beyond,
wherever I’m expected,
to have gone,
just to shine the light,
at the face that’s right,
the one who deserves,
to be shined upon,
for the many things,
that he both, has,
and hasn’t done.
Same ol’ owner,
of the same,
ol’ work-boots,
same steamy boxcar,
same dreams,
tried and true.

Notes to Self #445

Dear Self:
1) How many times have you actually carried the bag out your car before leaving, despite its precarious position on the inside of the door-knob to the front door? Time for a new reminder spot, dumbass…
2) While sleepwalking, try to somehow remember that you will be held accountable for the things you’re up to during the early morning hours in the man-cave, by the men who cave there…
3) Over dinner with the parents of a childhood friend (who is now, unfortunately, deceased), try to avoid talking about “death throes” – even in the intended context of the fish on your plate. Talk about awkward…
4) Not everyone feels the way that you feel about certain historical figures, including, but not limited to: Joan of Arc, Genghis Khan, Socrates, Moses and Josephus; sometimes it’s just best to let ignorance override a situation in order to avoid a five-hour marathon of “truth versus textbook”…
5) YOU ARE NO EXCEPTION…not to ANY rule, ANY time, or under ANY circumstances…
6) The VERY gradual tapering off of the use of the air horn you keep stashed under the passenger’s seat of your car DOES NOT truly count as “changing your ways” in regard to ‘Road Rage’…
7) Using only one hand to flip off the dude next you (who cut you off twice) instead of both doesn’t count, either…
8) Again, when you don’t pay your bills – you lose your shit…
9) “All-Day Wear Lipstick” should be illegal for what it ultimately does to your appearance, after only a partial day – you’d be better off smearing wild berry stain inside your mouth and all across your own front teeth…go back to Blistex…
10) Lastly, just because you’ve had luck in the past with training (notably trainable) finches, does not mean that you can start ‘Homing Pigeons’ in your spare time…

Fly.

After all,
so many times,
so much love,
lost on,
this heart of mine;
I’ve seen the light,
I’ve read the lines,
I’ve lost the hope,
I’ve gained insight;
nothing’s quite,
what it should’ve been,
what it was meant to be,
when your life began,
underneath,
the pretext of,
the tragic story,
of your mother’s love,
her broken heart,
her saddest song,
the hoarsened howl,
as it leaves my lungs,
listen,
this song’s for you;
these words written true,
by the mother of you,
the tail spinning blue,
nose-diving,
throttle my womb,
head-on collision,
ran straight into,
my very worst fears,
as each one comes true,
nothing for it,
can’t ignore it,
may as well,
dive willingly into:
the losing battlefield,
my life has come to,
can’t look back,
won’t turn around,
for one last look,
at who,
you’ve grown into,
I’ve primed your wings,
I’ve tried my best,
to maintain your roots;
I’ve stroked your ego,
I’ve broken my back,
I’ve jumped through,
every hoop;
fly, fly
little blue-bird,
fly away,
and don’t fly home,
until you’re true.

Fatmouth.

If a shooting star spent all of eternity
in being stricken across the night skies…
ever steady, blazing through the E-40
a distance, never closing –
between two massive, lying eyes…
the bell’s constant tolling –
a sound patterned to symbolize…
one of the fighters is face-down –
lights out, three – two – one
stars still twinkling,
sun still sinking –
along with the well-honed
bare-boned,
dramatic fireworks show,
I belatedly recognize…
the shooting star
fired from the smoking barrel
of Misery’s own Sig Sauer .45 –
no room to wiggle
no time to grow in size.