Say Yes

remember what i put you through
and remember that i remember, too

say yes

like romeo and juliet
staring up at the moon's silhouette
they both knew it wasn't over yet

say yes

i'm selling the dream
to bankrupt eyes
painting a picture of things unseen
may seem unwise

say yes for those
who never walked in our shoes
say yes for those
who always lose

like the omnipotent cannibal and His only son
don't think too much
enjoy this communion

this is my body, this is my bread
the living flesh will never taste better dead

say yes

for the sun and the moon
who were once in love
now, they're billions of miles apart

you and i
we deserve a better fate
say yes from the heart

like romeo and juliet
caught between a spider's web
and a butterfly net
they both knew it wasn't over yet

say yes
love me more never love me less

remember what i put you through
and remember that i remember, too
then remember that i did confess

how i won't put myself through that again

say yes 

 

Iconic Image of Irony

I can't
Not anymore

Tell the pigeons I'm out of bread
Tell the man on the corner I am out of change
Tell the voices in my head
I can't
Not anymore

I'm standing on the moon
I'm wearing Saturn's ring around my finger

And I can't
Not anymore
Be your universe

Tell the pigeons I'm out of bread
Tell the disciples I have no wisdom to disperse

It's friday o'clock a half past noon
My lunar cycle is raging
And time is standing still
And the silence is exhilirating

But I can't
Not anymore

Tell Cupid he can have his arrow back
Tell Mother Nature I am off to bed
Tell Father Time I've been a good son
Tell the voices in my head

I can't
Not anymore

I'm surrendering to the French
I'm addicted to the irony

And I won't
Not anymore
Be your whipping boy

Tell the pigeons I am out of bread
Tell the gods I have spent their joy

And I can't
Not anymore
Be

the iconic image
of irony

Feeling Sunny

When I am feeling down, I find myself looking for a reason to go to my bank.

The branch for my local bank is located in a tiny suite in a large Business Center.  They have the same two tellers always working.  Both of whom, I swear have a crush on me.

Now, in reality, I realize they don’t have a crush on me but because I am a man and men tend to think every woman that smiles at them has a crush on them, I will just stick to my theory that they both want me.

But, I will pretend for now that their job is simply to be appear overly excited to see me and that I am their favorite customer.  But I know better.  They want me.  In fact, all women who smile at me are simply smiling at me because I turn them on.  And if a woman is rude to me or not smiling, she is obviously a lesbian.

Ironically, the woman who opened my account at my bank and is the teller I ALWAYS go to, is named Sunny.   It fits her perfectly.  Not only is she very attractive but this woman is always so happy; happy to see me.  As soon as I walk into this tiny branch, no matter if there is a line or not, Sunny always loudly says, “hi <First Name>, It’s great to see you.”

She knows my name.  Sunny knows my name.

She makes me feel important.  Significant.  She makes me feel good.

Whatever it is she has; it is contagious.  I walk into that bank feeling a little down and I walk out; feeling better.  Temporarily.

I suppose her parents knew something the day she was born.  Either Sunny had to live up to that name and she succeeded or she came out of the vagina laughing and smiling and her parents said, “let’s call her Sunny.”  Either way, Sunny does her name justice.

But I wonder about Sunny.  I wonder about a lot of people I know or meet.  Does Sunny turn off this happy disposition at 5:00 when she goes home?  Is she just doing her job and being overly friendly or is she like this at all times?

When we talk, I always look her straight into the eyes; looking for just a tiny glimpse of sadness or hurt.  I look for something that tells me that Sunny isn’t as sunny as she appears to be.  I have yet to crack the code.

I could never work at her bank.  I wear my emotions on my sleeve.  If I am angry, you know it.  If I think you are a giant douche, you know it.  If I am feeling down, it will be written on my face.  I can’t fake happy.

Maybe Sunny is exactly who she appears to be.  Maybe, she has an Arizona disposition while I have a Seattle one.  Maybe, she is one of those rare and genuine half glass full people; not the ones who fake it here on Facebook or those who walk around in the real world giving motivational speeches about how grand life is all the while, when they are home alone, they think of all the ways to off themselves.

Maybe, Sunny is genuinely excited about everything.  Especially me.

Either way, I find a temporary  ray of hope and sunlight when I walk into that bank.  That ray is named Sunny.

Maybe, all parents should name their child Sunny or Sonny, if it’s a boy.   We could all aim for a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Personally, I couldn’t handle too many Sunny’s in my life.  I have a need to fix people.  Obviously, I fail at it; but I have a need to be needed.  I suppose if I am needed by someone then I feel wanted.  And If I feel wanted, then I feel loved.

Need= Want= Love.

It’s a flawed equation.  But it’s an equation many of us believe.  But only some of us realize this.

I realize that love is not equal to being wanted or needed but I still strive to be needed and wanted in hopes that my reward is being loved. 

I can name every woman I have ever loved and tell you where I went wrong.  I could tell you how I have tried to fix many people and have failed every time.  But I never tried to fix them for them; I did it for me.  My self-worth.  Selfishness disguised as charity.

Over the last few years, I have learned how to love; how to give love without caring if I am rewarded.  I am trying to put aside expectations; trying to love first and let go of everything else.

Love= want= need

Life is one battle after another.  Too many of us try to do things alone.  Some of us try to fix everyone hoping to attain love.  Everything is backwards.

Every time I go to the bank, Sunny says, “Come back soon.”

I swear that woman loves me.

It helps me sleep better at night believing that.

Speak of the devil

Speak of the devil, here I am.  A state of contrition is where I've been.  You love me, you hate me.  Here, we go, again.  Robotic responses never seem genuine.  I'd rather you kill me than ignore me.  It seems silly; our story.  I'd rather die of this cancer than live with this medicine.  Speak of the devil, I'm not your friend.

Your god does not exist but mine does.  We both can speculate on who's wrong as we discuss what once was.  How we got here used to be unimaginable.  Can we remain amicable?  I'll even settle for civility.  Oh the humanity, speak of the devil. 

Give me a minute to play devil's advocate.  Your water to wine miracle is your apathy from passionate.  Even on this cross, I still feel inadequate.  And if you're expecting some second coming, I won't be around for it.  Speak of the devil, I'm just some televangelist.  I could cure you of this and cure you of that.  Like all those disciples, you're just a sycophant.  The end of our world is imminent.

Not once did I ever question your devotion.  Not until you began to go through the motions.  You speak of the devil as if you're some theologian.  When you and I both know that faith only belongs in the hands of the hopeful.  Maybe in the middle, there is some common ground.  Speak of the devil, I'm sorry to let you down.

God Beauty.  God Money.  God Celebrity.
Speak of the devil, I'm laughing hysterically.

Give me a minute to play devil's advocate and offer you some sympathy. 

Sorry to interrupt as you drink from the devil's cup.  The optimist says, it's half empty.  And no matter how much you drink, it will never be enough.

Your god does not exist but mine does.
He's the same as he ever was. 
And just to make myself clear
Speak of the devil and he will appear.

Losers

The loser in you speaks so eloquently.  What is deemed pathetic is only synthetic to the naked eye.  How could I and the loser in me argue with you so desperately?  I've got my hands in my pockets. You've got one chance to succeed before I rip out your heart just to watch you bleed.  What is deemed poetic is merely prophetic to the deaf ear.  The loser in you does not belong here.

Running scared.  Standing still.  It's the same destination.  We're all hostages to this cosmic free will.  What the universe won't tell you while God is on vacation is we've got to surrender without hesitation.  But the loser in you succumbs to the bastardization of some unspoken prayer.  And the loser in you is now a disciple of temptation while the loser in me is bound by limitation.  And I don't belong there.

When I debate with the loser in me, all truth is lost in its ambiguity.  The loser in you is welcome to enter the fray.  You're welcome anywhere as long as you stay.  No matter how pungent, the truth is always a bouquet. 

I think I'm ugly and verifiably weak, the loser in you dares not to speak.   I'll trade you my ego for your mystique.  What the universe won't tell you is this karmic curse is just a loser's winning streak. 

The loser in you is in love with the loser in me.  That loser will lose her eventually.  And we can exchange pleasantries and affectionate words but at the end of the day, we are merely left with the verbs.  


And I would think by now, we would know better.  But the losers in us will always stick together.

You speak so eloquently.  What is deemed pathetic is truly aesthetic.  Your words are music to me. 

Memoirss: Perspective

It was in the waiting area of one of those really cheap hair cutting places when I started to listen.  And I mean, really listen..

I was thumbing through a copy of Seventeen magazine; learning about periods and proms.  I said, This 13 year old girl wants to know if you can pregnant while having sex during menstruation.  Really, it wasn't that fascinating.  Meanwhile, he was talking about getting better.  How determined he was.  He mentioned death.  I talked about periods.  At some point, he asked, What do you want most from this life?
And I replied, I want you to stay.

At that exact moment, another patron walked through the salon door and the wind from outside blew the magazine out of my hands.  And the lady donning a beehive haircut called his name.

He chose to have his head completely shaved which I found wise; considering we were in a place where mediocrity is always the final result.  Maybe, he considered that a fresh start.

I picked up the Seventeen magazine and started reading about peer pressure.  Some predictable article; most likely written by some middle aged woman, lecturing kids about the dangers of allowing others to dictate your decisions.  I was killing time.

I was reading a letter to the editor regarding the suicide of some unnamed girl's 15 year old friend.  About three paragraphs were dedicated to the memory of this lost soul.  I could feel her anguish in every poorly constructed sentence.  And I admit, my eyes filled up. 

His haircut was done in about five minutes.  He walked to the waiting area, looked at me and questioned why a 30 year old man was reading something called Seventeen.  Dead man talking.  That is the best way I can describe that moment.

Stories are always better told backwards from the last page to the first.  If you want a guaranteed happy ending. 

I always feel a little guilty when I talk about him over and over and over and over and over again.  It doesn't even hurt anymore.  Well, I suppose it does a little.  It's just these random memories come flooding back to me; no matter how hard I've tried to build a dam to stop those waves from dragging me under.  

I never wanted anything from him.  I had no expectations or demands.  I didn't even care if he changed or evolved or grew up.  Really, I just wanted him to stay.


Now, that I'm older and considerable time has passed, I find blessings in things I once lamented.  For example, my father.  It's a good thing I never met him.  Kids really only have one expectation of their parents and it revolves around that word stay.   And that expectation goes on past our childhood.  My own mother still cries about her father who died at the age of 91. 


We are always given happy beginnings, happy middles but then the end, suddenly, our perspective changes.  Our dog dies.  A parent leaves us.  Our soul mate departs.  A friend exits life too early.   And we mourn for those losses.  And suddenly, the tone of our stories change

It's like we forget every moment that led us to the final page.  As if all the chapters before the last one meant nothing.   That's the paradox life presents.  We can't ache or mourn unless we've loved. 


I find myself staring at a blank screen so I clear my head.  I shut off the world and I let those inner voices or angels or demons of that moment guide my words as I type.  And I do this until I come to some conclusion or some type of momentary closure.  And more often than not, I find myself talking to the dead more so than I do to the living.  And sometimes, I am ashamed I share the final product with anyone.  And then I conclude that when my time is up; these words, these stories will be what remains of me. 

His last words were to me were I'll see you soon.

I hope he's right.

Monsters

I had just awoken from one of those deep sleeps; those types of sleep where you have three dreams, one right after the other.  Completely exhausted, I sat at the edge of my bed recalling each and every detail of those dreams. 

I have this weird feeling she doesn't love me anymore.

I laid my head back down onto the pillow; hoping to catch a wave to another dream; a better one.  Futility sinks in and I come to the realization it's time to get up.

Still without my equilibrium, I stumble into the kitchen.  I open the refrigerator door and just stare into its belly.  Nothing comforting stares back at me. 

I have this sick gnawing feeling that she doesn't love me anymore.

I drag my bare feet across the hall and wander into the bathroom.  I bend down, turn the shower on.  Hot.  Cold.  I can't find any middle ground this lonely September morning.  But it's okay.  I disrobe.  One foot after the other steps into the cold shower and I rush to finish.

It's going to be one of those days, I tell myself as I stare at the blank face in my mirror.  I'm not good at detaching myself from those I love. 

I find myself laughing aloud when I realize I am wandering around the house with nothing on.  I am not even sure what I am looking for but I just keep walking from one room to the next. 

I have this weird feeling that all this time, I was really alone.  Despite any words that have ever been said, no matter the degree of affection on a given day, it's become all too clear.  Maybe, I have this bad habit of making myself out to be a martyr.  It's easy to believe accusations thrown your way from someone who claims to know you. 

She doesn't know me.   I have this burning instinctive voice that tells me she never tried.

I find something practical to wear.  No need to look good for myself today.  I'm not going anywhere.

I've got some friends behind this 14 inch screen and I suppose today is the perfect day to hang out with them.  I am a god of this virtual world.  Well, we all are, I suppose. 

With a click of a button, another reality awaits.  It's this land of friendly faces and self-absorbed monsters.  I doubt these monsters exist in the real world.  Something about phony praise and extreme superlatives turn regular almost abnormal people into these over exaggerated versions of themselves.  Self esteem and self worth ride on a few disingenuous typed words. 

And I've witnessed it all in this surreal place.  Talent, creativity, beautiful, funny... these words have all been redefined.  And it makes me want to stay because the real world is a little more cruel.  Well, both worlds are cruel if I really think about it.

I have this weird feeling that she would love me again if she stepped foot into this other world.  I'm much more tolerable there.  And funnier.  And smarter.  Because they told me so.

Every monster has an ego.  The smaller the ego, the larger the monster.  Socially awkward introverts run from plain to plain waving their arms in the air and the rest of us, for some damned reason, keep feeding them.  And I suppose we, the judgmental ones, attempt a little balance.

Being a god in a virtual world is empowering.  I can silence anyone with the off button.  I can kill without committing a crime.  I can comfort with mere words without wasting an ounce of energy.  I can pick and choose which prayers to answer.  I can be worshiped by some and hated by others. 

Indifference is left on the outside by those who claim to love us.

And I have this sick gnawing feeling, I have become an after thought.  So, I thank the real God for this other world because it's there and only there, where I can make myself heard.  And felt.  And sympathized with.  And martyred.

I'll take a nap at some point today.  I have a few dreams I have yet to finish.

And I have this weird feeling that she loves me much more than she cares to admit.