untitled

Don't fuck this up.   Don't fuck this up.

I'm too old for this shit.   Funny at the time and the man with the mullet agreed.   Takes on a new meaning now.  

I always wonder how my mom made it to 75 with the last 35 years not even including a cup of coffee with a man.   At some point, it begins to feel like its a genetic thing.  And then you just accept your coffee alone from the drive thru.

I stopped being good to me.  Going through the motions of life.  I still love myself, I said silently.  I rejected grace and all of her follies.  Mercy is unconditional love, I read.   And I can't stop thinking about that.   So, here I am.   Because I won't fuck this up.   I won't fuck this up.

I stood outside, peering through the window of a dying man.   He hid in the closet; waiting for me to disappear.  I made the mistake and did just that.   I think about that all the time.   Kindness and cruelty are cousins, I thought.  I still do.

I want to ask forgiveness for everything.  Even when it't not called for.  I talk to you when you're not around.   I have for so long.   I don't yearn for people, usually, I convinced myself.    Just mercy.  I can't fuck this up.  I can't fuck this up.  

I run by mirrors.  I avoid first person personal pronouns if possible.   I find pleasure in really simple things.  Like alliteration.   And everyone moment with you.  Hope is a dangerous drug, I used to tell myself.   So, I would go cold turkey.   But I won't fuck this up.  I won't fuck this up.   

Every part of me knows this is right.   For the first time.   I don't use words and sentences lightly.  Even when I am wordy.   I love that you don't mind.   

That dying man sat with me in the lobby of a place we had our hair cut.  I was reading Seventeen magazine; learning about prom dresses and menstruation.  Twenty minutes earlier, he was hugging the staff at rehab and said, "goodbye".   I thought he simply meant he would never be back.   I learned a month later, he meant this life.

He leans into me as I am reading horrific tales of relationships from the Seventeen demographic and he says, "I will not fuck this up.   I will not fuck this up".

He did.

Mercy is unconditonal love.   And that includes being kind to ourselves.

I can't fuck this up.  

 

Atrial Fibrillation

 

Makes me sad sometimes
Frankly, it's depressing as fuck
I just call it bad luck
Makes me feel less fucked up
I'm expressing as much
Makes me mad sometimes
Repressing the thought of your touch
and suppressing this hunch
Won't be confessing too much
All these feelings do suck
depressing as fuck
And a blessing as much
Go ahead, be feckless as fuck
I'm reckless as fuck
They probably wouldn't respect us as much
and expect us to jump
Pathetic as fuck
the pandemic is up
and its depressing as fuck
Start over, self destruct
Made me sad sometimes
you'd fall down
I'd be holding you up
it was depressing as fuck
Addiction is relentless as fuck
Makes you defensive as fuck
Some treasures are junk
Rather be drunk, when these lessons get stuck
and you'd be covered in muck
Still would help you back up
Makes me ashamed sometimes
exhausted and drained as fuck
Lost it somewhat
Embarrassing as fuck
This place I've been stuck
I apparently fucked up
Don't know how you smile so much
Makes me sad sometimes
It's depressing as fuck
everything is mysterious as fuck
curious to touch
who needs experience to fuck
just love
still wouldn't just want to hook up
I'd spend the tribulation with you
and be needy as fuck
when you're sleepy as fuck
And hope you still need me when the sun comes up

And hope we're happy as fuck.

 

the therapist

 

There's a burden in being loved.  Sometimes, I know I say too much.  Overpromise.  Sometimes, I hold back.  Underwhelm.  I think she's the one.  Whispers in the back of my mind.  I don't think it would be fair to say this aloud.  I am not comfortable on this couch.

For what it's worth, I'm pathologically self aware to the point of paralysis.  I know it's love when it hurts.  Finding balance.  The worse part of talking with you is the silence.  Only because I hear how ridiculous I sound.   Like now.  Like every day, we talk.

There's a burden in feeling unlovable.  But I'm not unloved.  I want the best for her.   The hardest thing for an only child to come to terms with.  I won't cry over hypotheticals.  I am not comfortable on this couch looking up at you.

I get these dreams where I am transported back in time.   Doesn't feel like a mid life crisis.  I am comfortable at this stage of life.  Sometimes, I write down these thoughts.   Overthinking.  Sometimes, I let these words float around aimlessly.  Uncompromising.

In a perfect world.  I always stop myself there.  What's perfect for me is not necessarily perfect for her.  These dreams where I am transported back in time are cloaked in loneliness.  I was too busy to notice then.  And I still don't feel lonely.  I think she's the one.  Loneliness isn't why.  It's not fair to tell her.   I am uncomfortable on your couch.

For what it's worth, you and me.  

Therapy.

Things I'd never tell my therapist.  

  

the poets

 

Let the poets write, we lament.

Nails and thorns become a metaphor.  I've never really suffered, I admit quietly.  There's guilt in that admission.  

And guilt becomes suffering.

Those poets are never heard.  And we long to hear them.

So young, stupid and pretty.  So self-confident with the ability to say what needs to be heard.  So self aware to know too much is said.  So foolish to not realize tomorrow's memories are being made today. 

So intelligent, stubborn and enigmatic.  So proud of the unaccomplished, forgot to say it's not over.  So deluded to think everything will improve.   So ashamed that stage was absent of my words.

So unaffectionate, stoic and misunderstood.   So distant as she brings me dinner.  So loud nothing is heard.  So disconnected from that kind of love.

Sex and love become a proverb.   Discernment, a lost art, we lament.  And the artist stares calmly into the empty eyes of his muse.

Let the artist paint, we lament.

There's wisdom behind each stroke of the brush.

Kinda felt kind enough to not run past my reflection.  Into yours.  
Kinda felt anonymous isn't as safe as once thought.  Kinda felt safe inside your unspoken words.  Your implied feelings.   Kinda felt kind enough to accept them.

The poets know what I say.  They know what I think.

Let them write, we lament.

gasoline

 

as soon as i recognized i am not magnificent, everything beautiful looked different.  out with the old in with the obscene.  we keep pouring gasoline.  as soon as i learned i am not remarkable, everything beautiful became uncomfortable.  all my thoughts dangle on this guillotine.   as brilliant as i think i am, without wisdom, i'm just a simpleton.  as wasted as my life has become, someone else is more impotent.  we are marching to the same machine.  we keep pouring gasoline.  

when i realized i am not incredible. everything beautiful became unbearable.  turn the pages skip to the end.  this is one story i don't recommend.  dangling from your lips, the nicotine.  let me pour the gasoline.  i expect nothing less than mediocrity.  so i can disappoint you exceptionally.  intelligence leads to superiority.  my thoughts burn in gasoline. 

as soon as i admit i'm insignificant, everything beautiful will become magnificent.  out with the old let it burn to smithereens.  i keep drinking the gasoline.  i once believed i was impressive; impressively underwhelming.  exhausted from the same routine, pass me the gasoline.

when i noticed i am not notable, i considered myself disposable.  everything beautiful became unapproachable.  that's the aftermath of gasoline.  everything remarkable becomes obscene.  everything holy becomes unclean.  you were next to me, pouring the gasoline.  it was just one more wasted dream.  

i came to terms with my prominence; ordinary opulence.  the juxtaposition of in between.  start all over, pass the gasoline.

Ghosted

Ghosted in the autumn when silence was my thing.  Close up, upon further inspection; call it introspection and being self aware isn't the bliss I'd think.  And I wait.  Just in case, an explanation rewards my patience but who am I kidding?  I can be stubborn to my own demise and its no surprise I'm alone.  And the disguise is laughable when the loneliness is palpable.  And I wait.  Something better in me; a resurrection.  Give me three days to apologize.  Prop up my sincerity for the sake of perception.  If that's what it takes to reverse this hole you left as you slipped through the walls of my life.  And I wait.

Maybe it was one sided.  I'm okay with the self-absorbed.  Between the Hallejuahs and thank you Lords, the golden rule becomes double speak.  Things I love, like minds and mystique, become rest stops to some twisted kingdom I seek.  And I wait.  Just in case, you cared for me beyond the chicken soup I sometimes served.  The praying kind isn't always concerned.  Small talk was never our thing.  How's the weather, the banal think.  And I wait.  In banality.  

 

Highs and lows.  Some bi-polar parrot repeating my thoughts.  The autist in me still has undeclared wants.  Cocaine and narcolepsy.  I'm awake.  I'm asleep.  Silence was always my thing.  Hands like a fist, throwing hopes at the device I hold.  Words come to me on this inhumane screen.  Tell me where the ghost of autumn was last seen.  And I wait.  Just for noise.

Came to terms I am someone you don't want around.  Change the furniture to make room.  The flowers of December won't fully bloom.  Just in case, I wait.

Coming of Age

 

When the U-Haul truck slowly rolled out of the driveway in one final respectful goodbye to the home she grew up in, I wiped the lone tear from my eye.  It's awe inspiring to witness the death of innocence. 

It was one of those adolescent moments where I revel in the romanticism yet years later, cling to because it scarred me.   I loved her.   It said so on Page Three of the scantily clad handwritten note I left on the windshield of that large dream killing vehicle.

Out of the grip of love's bittersweet clenched fist, I can't help but rewind and see where I went wrong.  I mean, where I, as a human being, went astray.  Am I wired so imperfectly that this moment was inevitable? 

I was laying on a waterbed; caught between the curiosity of sex on this uncomfortable fad and the misery of knowing I will never be able to tell her how I feel... well, I knew one day I would tell her but by then, she would be married with 2 kids.   And I was right.   I stared at her pictures of then and her family portrait of now and I realized I am her dodged bullet. 

I defined those years by my anarchic teen spirit that was used to mask my profound sorrow.  She was my soulmate.  One of many to come.  All those anxieties provoked by my very own prosaic desires.  God is good, I said.

Thawing from a cold winter in the solitary of my own mind, I can't help but seek warmth in those moments where my silence gave me hope yet gave birth to regret later.  I find solace in their happiness.  I will find a small dose of peace in yours.   Dear friend, I am writing to you.  In my own way,.  I am a better person than you believe I am.  I am worse of a human being than I believe I am.  I am overstated and misunderstood.   Dear friend, I was coming of age.   And I froze right then.

I was the one who held his hand as his trembled.  I suppose I wanted to absorb his intelligence, his toughness and his mystique.  He was my brother.   As each day passed by, we watched his life slowly drip from his pores.  Man, we are old, I said.  He half smiled and punched me in the arm.  This time, it didn't hurt.  Years later, I cling to the failure of saving him.  It was my job.  As his brother. 

We accept the love we think we deserve.   Man, I wept when I heard those words.  Sure, I've heard them before but not in this state of mind.   You make me feel bad about myself.  Or maybe, you held up an inner mirror.  I don't like mirrors.  Never have.  It was never hyperbole.  Truth is the least obvious sometimes.

I went to a New Years Eve party.  Some asked if she was a model.  Man, she was tall.  Taller than me.  Beautiful and broken.  Beautifully broken.  I had better things to do 5 minutes after midnight.   I started off the new year being stupid.   She started off the new year being raped.   I should have stayed.  No one deserves to be left alone with strangers.

I stood in the rain under cover of a payphone.  It was a suicide, mother said.  I was drunk.  I knew in the morning, the world would be different.  And it was.   My new circle of friends had expanded.  Hers, diminished by one.  I am sorry, soulmate. 

I was coming of age and it was no different than you.  Or anyone.  Similar tales of angst, loss, joy, sorrow, and intensity.  They were better days.  And, it's hard to think they can be matched. 

I tried, dear friend.