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Monthly Archives: February 2011

Alone
In an empty bed
I dread
Passing minutes
Like this
In darkness…

No one to hold
Except myself
Against the cold,
The endless
Darkness
Wears as thin
As this blanket does.

And the minutes pass,
Relentless, regardless
Of the small outpost of pain
Lying alone once again
Wishing for oblivion:
To close my eyes
And never open them
Alone once more.

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Head hanging off the bed,
Hanging by a thread,
She grinds he thrusts,
She strains, she must
Reach her zenith
Holy summit while beneath
A lover of average skill
But tumescent girth
Who gives it all he’s worth,
But his rhythm isn’t with him.
Though his heart’s in the right place,
She lets her hips make the pace.
He loses himself in her embrace
As she takes her place
At olympus’ summit,
And he explodes within her from it.
Slick and hot but cooling slowly,
The rush the hum, love for her only
She’s out the door after a nap and cuddle.
Friends with bens, huh? Just dumb luck.
All you were to her was fun to fuck.

Lightning and distant thunder underpin this night.
Slowly the world collapses from our sight….

Alone in bed but in bed together,
She in her frumpy comfies,
Me in my altogether
Never able to rest,
Her back against my chest
My hands a-wandering
onto and into and beside–

Untied and pushed aside
So she may sit astride me
And ride boldly ride
To the edge of the abyss
And fall into an ocean of bliss
While I lay as willing captive
Audience participating
Waiting
For the rain to fall
Upon me warm and slick
From her sacred secret within–

A gasp, a clench and she falls
Into my waiting arms.
It’s hard but it’s softening
and all too often it’s
Not enough never enough
To have you like this,
Alone together in an ocean of bliss…

This morning
Was dominated by imposing shapes
And great vistas
Molded from pre-dawn clouds.
The great bulwark of heaven
Glowed to my right
Underlit by the sun.

Water vapor
In specific gravity over denser air
Looks like the basement ceiling of God’s house.
So says rational being
Wrapped round dreaming scheming child.

Idle thought amuses the muse this morning.

M​y first memories are of reading in front of some neighbors. I was maybe two or three.

All this context was given to me later. What I see in this dim recollection is a coffee table in front of me at near-shoulder level and two older people sitting on a couch smiling at me. I am holding something or looking at something in front of me (on the table?), and reading it.

T​he legend goes that I started reading when I was two.  T​his was apparently me doing the show for a couple of people, probably in Pratt, KS. And that is it as far as memories go. Beyond that are impressions perhaps–nothing substantial or verifiable.

S​o I have no memories of being the child of two, well, kids really (both my parents were 22 when I was born), one of whom came from a Catholic family who apparently weren’t too comfortable with their daughter getting knocked up by a Marine without being married. I have no memories of being shunned, apparently, by both sets of grandparents early on–apparently the embarrassment was complete. Who the fuck knows?

W​hat brings this up is a random message from my Dad the other night, recollecting with some venom how alone the three of us were–me, Mom and Dad. My sister came two years later, and had the good fortune I suppose of not being the unannounced guest at her parents’ wedding. See, Mom cut a slender figure as a teenager/young woman. Her wedding pictures show her with a lovely little bump in her sheer wedding dress.

I’m t​hat bump. Pleezter meetcher. 

I​ have wondered vaguely over the past few days why any of this matters to me. It clearly does, cuz here I am tappity tapping.  I​ grew up in a house of discomfort, of hidden tensions. This house was the model upon which my conception of relationships was forged and tempered, and boy is it ugly. No wonder I never spawned offspring.

Guns, blood, shattered glass and reading for the neighbors. My pre-kindergarten memories.

W​hy do I hang on to this old shit? That’s the real question of the hour.  I​ am 42 years old. The King died at 42 by the way. Anyhoo, I am old enough now to take responsibility for me and my actions. And I do of course without question. I am a grown-ass man after all. But some of my actions sometimes require after-the-fact deconstruction and understanding. Why am I such a petulant twat at times? Why do I want love so badly but push it away when offered? Why do I indulge in all the proven stupidities I do, even after all the trouble and pain it’s caused?

Why can’t I just let go and live, and continue to do so without such navel-gazing? I understand how best to go through life without being brooding or depressive. Figured that one out years ago. Now it’s just reminding myself everyday that dead car batteries and lonely moments and bills and such and all are ephemeral.

What the hell will any of this matter in a hundred years? And why must I remind myself that that is a happy thought? Happiest one of all in fact. Why stress and strain through your life to “make something” when all you will ever make, my friends, is a name etched in granite above your mouldering form? Unless of course you have the good taste and sense to have your body burned and your ashes scattered back to the world.

The point, sez Zen, is that there is no point. We made all this shit up that’s important to us, and that’s all well and good. But when this made-up shit begs to be taken so seriously you give yourself a heart attack, something has gone hilariously wrong.

Maybe you got something out of this interlude, maybe not. In any case, I thank you for coming this far with me. Write it out. Better than trying to drink it away.

I love you too.

 

I was churning through my Gmail inbox last night looking for an old e-mail from 2007. In the process, I found some interesting pictures, e-mails from old loves and old friends, and this poem which I’d completely forgotten about until I saw it. It dates from around April 2006. It might have made it to Turboblues, and thematically it fits. Anyways, here you go. <br/><br/>In case you’re curious, her name was Danielle and she was also a writer. 

Glowing text
On a screen.
Various commentary
Back and forth. 

Why do I feel like
scorched earth springing green?

It’s just me, I know.
Too hopeful a human,
I cannot be complete
Without being completed.

Be careful fool.
This heart is
Surprisingly resilient,
But it tires
Of turning the other cheek
As you continually
Slap yourself.

But lord,
She is beautiful.