Friday, November 30, 2012

New-Age Typewriters And The Music They Make

Watching another person's creativity being poured onto my TV screen through the words and actions of actors at 5AM and I'm alone, thinking about all the times that I wasn't, remembering feelings that make me so vulnerable and small that I could be cracked apart by whisper, easily, like stained glass fated by gravity and someone's misled baseball

I hadn't written a word for so long that the number of days, the concept of the number of days it must have been, was not only unknown, but scary. When I lost the good fight to hold onto the things which made me happier than anything previously known I simultaneously grew a desire to scream about it to the world, as any human would do if they felt they were deprived of someone who cared to hear their story, to know them, and the written word was my scream, a death-cry really, mostly because I felt life had become such an unbelievably difficult thing to win at, but partly because I wasn't sure whether the fight was worth it, and strangely enough with all the cynicism of of a piano lover with Parkinson's disease I still yearned to play a word song across the keys of a de-tuned laptop at 5AM

Back then, I cared a lot less whether people liked it or not, a broken heart seeking the duct tape and model glue that is another's voice saying "I understand...", and somehow, on this chilly November morning, for a moment, I feel like that same piano player who is experiencing a calm moment, a clarity and emotional state usually reserved for people who I always assumed were far more connected to it all than I, and in this moment I almost feel normal, average, and I suddenly remember why I gave up the written word and how stupid a decision it was

Saturday, December 24, 2011

6AM Ramblings

The best time I ever had was with you
and lately I've been pretending it never happened,
in a way

Ignoring the realization that's never changed,
long ago I told myself that falling in love with an asshole
was the worst yet most meaningfully romantic gesture
I ever attempted to commit to, by the way
I jest with the gesture word

The happiest I've ever been is with a whore,
someone so broken that I felt superior or somewhat helpful,
or did I really love her, or was it her eyes, ass or the smile she carried,
who knows? I don't.

The worst part of my life, what defines who I truly am,
I've ignored it for too long, the gloves of my crimes grown over
with dust and regret, the best part of my life, the worst

I miss you, but I can't deal with letting you go again,
so I will acknowledge that you still are alive in me
so long as you stay out there, away from me

Monday, December 19, 2011

Back From The Not Quite Dead

I gave up a part of myself
threw it down like an angry man who opens a
cigarette pack only to find nothing but foil
and though it made me sad to do so I felt
that it had to be done, the words, I asked them to go

I ate pills and sat stunned in a delusional happiness
which was the exact thing I thought I needed, and maybe
it still is

The only remarkable thing I learned about myself while in that state
was that I could smile through a lot more heartbreaking events than I thought,
and that doesn't seem enough to continue another delusion

I sit without drive now, finding it hard to care about anything,
struggling half-heartedly for a reason that makes wanting to live justifiable
and I can't find one, not one that seems like anything but a lie

This is not a suicide note nor a cry for help,
it's not even a form of poetry that I thought, as I sat down here tonight
may be possible to roll from these fingertips,
it's thoughts put on a page lazily after midnight
and a confession of a man that has given up
for the most part,
except in those times when he tickles the words with pure truth
and can't for all the straining of his imagination bring himself to imagine a laugh,
like the ones I hear when I tell jokes and smile knowing I wish I were dead

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Putting on Old Gloves

I still come home to microwaved meals
the wait in front of the computer
while I sip soda at 4AM to the tune in my head titled
"What I'd rather come home to",
a daydream like any sane person has, I'm sure

I chew a cheap, mass-produced chocolate snack
and wash it down with more soda, more cigarette smoke,
I blow across my dinner and it steams like my
nearly extinguished cigarette,
a flash of some nipple I once tasted burns my eyes
and I shut them as if the sun was staring me down
remembering yet another chick who couldn't make the grade
and the teacher I thought I was when I believed in credentials

I'm around the corner and across the hall from a former monster,
but they all agree I should feel something positive,
or learn to forgive others or just shut the fuck up
when it comes to half the reason I'm here at all

I'm taking the pills,
I'm smiling a lot more than I have in some time,
and all I can think about is how full of shit I am
although I'm typing the truth, again, purposefully cryptic
because even if explained thoroughly in stunning detail
I feel we'd all still get it different, and I sit here
feeling crazy,
though I'd be on the side which would win.

I don't think winning is enough

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Rhyming Words About A Thought Not Dared

A kiss was the contract two fools wrote
and be grabbed her bottom to sign the note
with her hands clawing at his back, tongue twisted
he asked her if it were okay, and it was, she insisted
They fought through the concerns of love grown cold
kept closing their eyes to see the cards, conditioned to fold
a billion scenarios of people left hurting over this contract
and wondering whether they'd get away afterward with dignity intact
with some shedding, panting, entering and the dance around the sack
that ended too soon, too sadly, both knowing neither will ever get back
into that time, that comfortable history two sad, lonely fools shared
before they allowed a contract, a kiss that never should've been dared

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Releasing Pressure So Deep It Can Lay Waste To Cities And Daydreams

And like the crashing of a nearby and tragically deadly tidal wave her voice shoves itself through my feet on vibrations of deep, hollowed out like whispers through the tube of an empty paper towel roll gently pressed to her lips, just as gently to the side of my head like a rifle blasting sex, slow and smooth, then violent, as if it were shoved down my throat and into the base of my mind, she rested there, this image only described initially as beautiful by my thoughts, this construct hybrid of who she was by my perception, who she was by the general perceptions of she and I's loved ones, and I stare at her wondering if I should continue to continually birth such a creature into my consciousness, arguing with myself and others about whether or not any of our calculations were correct on the actual her and settling on what would it matter?

She's like a shitty thought from a beautiful voice, a salesman's pitch to the overly romantic hearts that want nothing more than to give someone everything they are and have them accept it when they haven't even accepted themselves, a shiny used sports car with parts held on my bubblegum, and I sit now with my right foot making motions like a depressed acceleration pedal, next to her, giggling like a doped up, retarded schoolgirl, my smile so wide my face seems about to break as I speed through yet another daydream that I fail to fully acknowledge could go bad any second, and like a baby being born while having a heart attack I snap back into feeling so damned fragile and small, helpless, stranded without that face that could make me laugh and feel okay as I lay in some terrible scenario of my death, and it's in these times I wonder if I'll hold her this way until just before they load my casket, or if someone else will fill the void that letting her go completely may create.

Monday, June 27, 2011

The Rules Of Getting Off And Getting on With It As You Stumble About The Gray Areas

I don't know if anyone has ever written about it,
or spoken, for the matter, out loud, if you will,
the thoughts behind eyes of a man,
or maybe some woman, somewhere,
who I have yet to meet,
someone who has realized
that nothing goes

Sure, lots of things turn on,
light switches, ovens, printers
that spit this shit onto blank pages
when somebody thinks:

"Hey! That might be worth publishing!"...

but we can't turn it on again
without first turning it

It's a law, of sorts,
and now, staring at these words,
thinking of what they may mean to the next person,
losing sight of why I do this at all anymore,
and repeating one thought in the cold background,
I continue to type.

on and on and on"

until it nearly drives me mad,
and, as we all probably know,
these things can be turned off,
just like I was before these thoughts
turned me on, wore me down, and turned me