Just Not...

I don't know if anyone is reading this.  I don't know if anyone is following my slow, steady decent into insanity.  I don't know if anyone else sees the fires at the corner of their vision, the light which recedes when you look straight at it.

I think this is all a farce.

I think I'm shouting my words out to eternity, or worse, to no one at all.

You ever feel that justice is just a word?  You ever worry, that something is slipping through?  You ever feel old and tired, and wonder if you really are the one who is supposed to "fix" what is wrong?

I keep glancing at what has past, and I wonder, why.  Was I supposed to fix this?  Am I the one?

It's hard when you look at the bottle and hope that what you swallow will give a moments escape.

I know, there is no escape.  I know that I am lost as the empty highways.  Please acknowledge.

Please....

Never mind...

Broken thought, broken dream.

All Pass...

Peace always...

Then, there is nothing...

I glanced along the causeway thinking of Billy Holloway painting portraits along the brick walls of his drunken, broken dreams.  I wanted to scream to the universe, to god, to the all, to the darkness.  This was all an empty waste.  The numbers rolled in my head, a cascade of meaningless digits.  The faces, Christ, the faces, slack and empty, leaked the fluids of life through eyes, nostrils and ears.  Such small faces.  The hungry feral cats and dogs watched, saliva dripping.  A wordless scream, I couldn't bite back, rose like bile to the top of my throat, then burst forth.  A meaningless cry of anguish that pierced my heart and mind, left me breathless and hobbled.

Memories I once thought chained and locked away, surfaced, scratching and biting at the meager defenses I had managed to construct.  Neither words, promises nor prayers halted the onslaught.  I trembled with a stomach churning anticipation.  Sweat formed, slick and pungent.



"S'cues me, I was drifting.  What did they say about the minimum wage?"

broken, screaming, blah, blah, blah...

Maybe I understand, regardless of what I swear to myself.  Black is white.  The sky is blue, the sea green.  We all kneel before that which we are weened from.

So why do I hurt.

She was one of them.  Look at the books she carried.  Smell the cleaner on her clothes.  Look at the fear in her eyes.  Christ, it's what we've been told forever.  Stay hard, accept no excuses, allow no derivation.  Be firm.  Your mother demands it.

They all shed tears.  Even you shed tears.  They all beg.  It doesn't grant them a pass.  C'mon, we prepared for this.  4AM, the fires, burning eyes, the promises.  The hectic, screaming dreams, all cascading down with the catechism.  Make the vow, allow none to hide, blind the heretic.

....


I dream of knitting needles.

No More...

No more reaching out..  No more trying to embrace a fickle past.  No more trying to dent the callused walls of the present.  No more sharing misspoken dreams of an uncertain future.

Done with the shadows that reach forward.  Done with the one soul with whom I thought I could always find home.  Desolate and empty, I turn from that illusion, casting it forever aside.

All practice, in fact all exercises grasp the solitary: If, What, All...  Maybe along the way, I will retake the vows.  Otherwise, I still can escape the redo...

Ciao

Ahem...01/13/14

We all come from nowhere and are now here.  Life is just an exercise in "spacing".  We will all soon be nowhere again.  I am not denying the posibility of life beyond life.  Nor am I questioning any particular diety.  Yet, I am saying no diety, nor god has more relavance than any other.  (Please check your' beliefs and all righteous anger.  Not needed here, nor useful anywhere.)

What fires you up?  What can't you ignore?  What pulls so hard upon you, that you would be willing to spend prison time for its sacredness?

There must be something.  C'mon, you can tell me.  I won't tell a soul.  Bull shit I'll scream it, if the opportunity presents itself.


You pretend to be human, and this is part of your masquarade.


When did you realize that you could not follow through?

myth and reason, or myth and reasoning? 04/90

I remembered the dream mostly from the smells it evoked.  The tang of ozone before a spring shower.  Bakery fresh bread on an early morning breeze.  Salt from the sea at high tide.  Camphor and incense from my great grandfather's wake.  All these things whispered through my mind as I awoke, and then were gone, a gentle kiss of silk on skin.  It was still dark outside, still night.  Tears fresh and warm upon my face gave light to the darkness I dreamt about.

Again, I saw her face, the blue eyes, the rose petal shaped birth mark on her left cheek. The casual wave as she stepped out into the street.  Then the taxi, the screech, the bang, the frozen moments of flight, the crunch of impact twice, first bone with metal, then bone with tarmac.  The howl ripped from my soul, then diaphragm, then lungs, then lips.  Then the grayness.  Then the white walls, and the coarse white sheets, sun glinting through a window, medicinal peace, thoughts drifting into waking dreams, and then into terror filled nights.  Again the howl from some unknown beast.  All things shifted two and a half inches to the left.  Then the blood tore free, creating concentric spatter patterns on the street and sidewalk.

A bell peeled sharply against the contrived silence of this place.  Restrained but drifting free, I saw the darkness beckoning to me from the corner.  Soft warm lips, slightly parted in greeting.  I let the emptiness take me again and again and again.

Why me and how?  Yet why not and now?  Desolate and irresolute, somehow broken but stitched together, my thoughts tried to coalesce, take cogent form.  But I fought and fought, for just one more moment of emptiness, then another and another.

So what do I do with her? 03/90

'Sposed to be easy as cake, no?  Drag her out from the darkness.  Expose her to the light, for just the briefest of moments.  Then send her off onto her destiny, eternity, nothingness, whatever.  Pull all of you in with bare traces of her history/her-story.  Show her weakness and a couple endearing short comings.  Reveal just enough of her dynamic drive, her better be damned resolve, her blatant sticktoitiveness. Get you interested, maybe to the point of wanting to take care of her.  In fact, make her seem like the main attraction, my center piece.  Leave the flow nice and accommodating, accessible, even soft, warm, friendly and comfortable.

And then...  Slough her off like intestinal lining in the midst of a hemorrhagic virus.

But no, some of you had to like her.  One even went as far as to say:  "it feels like, some grand event or thing is about to happen to her, and that she makes a perfect main character for a romantic/thriller/fantasy.  Another said, "he would feel cheated if he didn't find out more about her," though not in those words.

So.  What to do, what to do?

I have yet to name her.  She only revealed some "minor" incidents of her life.  I admit though, the events are quite telling.  They just explain a large part of how she perceives her life and the world around her.  (Nothing much)

What's worse?  I can begin to envision her.  Her slight, even diminutive build.  Her luminous porcelain pale skin.  Her deep set grey green eyes.  The violet bruises beneath both eyes.  Her slight, practically, none existent lips.  The left side of her mouth held in an apparent perpetual smirk. The scratch marks, ugly and puffy, running down the back of her neck, both sides of her vertebrae from around C3 and trailing off at some two/three inches below the angle of her scapulae.  Her whispy, whispery voice.  Her avoidence of too much light or too much noise.  Her...

You get the point.  I'm probably screwed.  Actually I'm properly screwed.

More to follow...

Just more ramblings and experiments with anger, confusion and rage..02/90

Every morning when I get up, I promise myself I will do, well, I will not do two things.  One of them is drink.  I am having some success with that.  The other is: I will not partake of the news, in any of its' forms, regardless, if it is TV, radio or print.  I'm having a bit of a problem with that one.  The main problem is my ego, but that is also my life's main issue.  (More on that later.)  The secondary problem is the news itself.  I, when watching, listening, reading, etc. tend to wallow in it.  I let it wash over me like the stinking foam found on a Jones Beach shore line after a distant storm.  All the shit, all the refuse, dredged up and fragrant as it defuses through the western Atlantic waters.  (Mme, tasty)  It pollutes my thoughts and moods.  And I gladly, willingly, ernestly allow it such hold.  I lose myself in its' pain, in its' blood, in its' tragedy.  I pretend to myself that I am moved to use the examples put forth and go out and change the world.  (When it see's me coming, man, it'll, the world will have to stand up and take notice, donate to the cause, cannonize me.  (Chuckle, maybe giggle, maybe not))  Then I spend time dwelling on just how effective, just how majestic I will be with "my solutions" to all of the world's ills.  I make Walter Mitty seem downright restrained, prompt, coherent, sober.  I go on to lose myself within the weave.  I waste my enery, ambition, drive.

Here and now...

Why again?  Why Sudan?  Why Genocide?  Why do we sit and watch TV?

I keep seeing Rowanda in my mind's eye.  And what I see I don't want to share.  (Did you bring enough for everyone?)  Do we really think that we are immune to the killing, the hatred, the pain?  Do we think that we can wrap it all up in a "Duck Dynasty" blanket?  Do we think that we can sit back and giggle along with this generation's Archie Bunker?  Are we that blind?  Are we that confused?  Are we sane?

I think we all need to be placed on a 72hour hold.  I think we need to be held responsible for our thoughts and words.  I think we need to realize that everyone else also matters.

I think I need to stop thinking, and listen to my heart...

Yet again...

What, and I'm doing here? Cool, and why? Why, does any of this matter? What, do, we, all see? Nothing... The dream that his knee, is broken and laid it out. Somehow all of this means more. The dream, Stern up a longing within his mind and heart. Yet, the smell of the city, remains strong upon his brow.

I would hope that somebody was reading my words. I would be glad to believe, that there was hope for my thoughts. I would think, that I actually am. Yet, I find no proof to what, or guarantee such. Where is this dream? Where, is this hope? Is any of this even real? My words fall from broken scarred lips and yet, I still scream them out into the darkness. I hope, for some sort of answer. But, I expect none. Whom would answer my indignities? Who would accept my questions? Oh, do I really think that I am? Life is just a broken dream. Time is just a broken go. Life streams behind us, like blood from a cut  vane trailing in the wind.

Is anybody really reading this? If so, could you please give me a shout out. Let me know, that I am not just screaming into the darkness.