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I think words can change things

but they can't

they are irrelevant

sad


prove me wrong

please

fucking, PLEASE

please, prove me wrong


I won't change you

you'll think you were moved

by my string of letters

but you are firmly in place


and it's why I hate you

and why I hate words

and why I hate every tick of this useless keyboard

tick tick tick fucking tick


perhaps my deep voice will move you?

no no no no fucking no

just noise


"oh, but I love your voice"

My voice?

My California voice?

no no no no fucking no


it is just me

and i won't change you

with the words on my page or the words

spit from my throat


tick tick tick fucking tick

tick tick tick fucking tick

blah blah blaghhhhh fucking god-damn fucking BLAH


I think words can change things

yes

yes


yes, I do.


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Motherfuckers in running shoes

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I've owned 3 pairs of running shoes. I still have 2 (the other pair rotted out in the back of my closet. I took black & white photos of them, then I tossed them into a large trash can behind the shed)

I often see people, running down the street. They pass me as I sit on a bench and look at the water. They pass me as I'm sitting in my car, stopped at a stop light. They pass me as I walk to the coffee shop. I think, "they'll live a few years longer than me. Some will be a few pounds lighter."

They own expensive running shoes and special lycra shorts with logos on them. They have bottles that they fill with water and special powders. They listen to "power" songs through headphones that they always seem to be fussing with

The girls legs are thin and tan and I think it would feel good to run my hands down those legs, but if they expect me to keep up with their long stride, they can fuck themselves

Which makes me wonder if runners only fuck other runners, but that thought passes quickly because I know that's not true

It's easy to convince myself that I'm fine here with my rum and coffee, watching them pass by

But perhaps

Tomorrow I'll dig out a pair of my special shoes with the bright contrasting stripes and join them.

Or perhaps

I'll sleep a few hours longer

While my running shoes (with patented gel inserts) rot in the back of my closet.

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Changed

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Change... change... I've changed

I didn't want to, didn't mean to. Had to. Had to.

Live... live, I gotta live...

with what I call art,

wrapped around my fucking heart.

The one that draws you to me, and kicks you to the ground.

And kicks me to the gutter.

Lower... lower... I can get lower.

Than you, than them. Had to. Had to.

Lie... Lie, I gotta lie...

about what I feel,

no big fucking deal

It's just what I do when I'm tired of being down.

When I long for the gutter.

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Cold

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It's never the cold.
Never the cold...
It's the wind that cuts through your jacket
And heart.

Nothing you can do
Zip, tie, pull the collar up to your chin
Still, it chills your skin
And breaks your heart

The warmth inside you
Leaves with every breath
And every thoughtful word meant
To break her heart

It's never the cold
Never the fucking cold
It's the wind, the words carried upon it
That crushes your delicate heart

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Line

I stood in line for a rock band. They sometimes soothe some of my pain and sometimes create

other pain.

In line I sometimes talk to people and they sometimes tell me about their pain. I don't talk about mine because I know that they care as little about it as I care about theirs. Sometimes I touch their shoulder as they talk and nod and look past them and wonder how I forgot my flask.

Several people in front of me saved too many spots for too many people. The line swells like a clogged vein, and I decide that I can't be next to them once we go inside the concert because they are fat women with hollow eyes who laugh too loud at things deserving of a chuckle. And they cut in line.

I decide I'll stand in the back once the vein spurts into the building.

I don't mind fat, and I'm sometimes horny for fat women, but the fat on these women isn't the fat of life, but the fat of

giving up.

I decide to focus fake hate upon the fat, and I glare... Hoping we'll make eye contact and they'll see that I know where their fat came from.

Another fat shows up and the vein gets thicker and closer to rupturing and I get more excited about my hate. She begins passing out name tags to her "Facebook" friends and it makes me sick but I'm glad I don't get one stuck to my black shirt even though I've made friends with a nice couple and they do get name tags.

I'm also aware that I WANT a name tag. I think I'd tell her my name is "fuck you, bitch." Or I might take it and write down my real name and be happy that she

included me.

My friends save my place and I go to a nearby hotel and throw down a double whiskey (though I make the bartender guess WHAT I want a double of). And the drink helps but also somehow fixes nothing. As I get back in line I notice the vein is slightly thinner and I wonder what to do with

my hate.

Then the line goes in and I end up far away from the fat and I'm happy and I stay up front. And the girl behind me has real eyes and real pain and I feel bad for us in the way that always turns into joy because, fuck... We feel.

She is tall and overweight and aware of it, and she's with a friend who is gorgeous and will never have to try to be.

I look at the tall girl and ask if she has ever tried to kill herself and she says, "yes" and I tell her I'm glad she failed. And I hope it was a better thing to ask her than, "what's your favorite song."

She won't remember me, but I think I want to hold her and kiss

her deeply.

Then the band plays and I heal a little and I slip a little more. And I might have

cried.

Maybe.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

30 feet

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Thirty feet
Or twenty more... from the walkway,
which sits ten feet above the level of the sea

Or ten feet... if one were to stand on the bridge,
twenty feet above the level of the sea

Or two hundred yards further for
those on the path
leading away from the shore

So he told me...

The man in the box

With the smooth voice

And the perfect hair

Just stand thirty feet above
Where the family was standing
As the ocean rushed forward
and swept them away

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Poem written on a plane

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Hate finds his path through the meadow

Love digs her toes into the deep warm sand
as she sits on a towel handed down by her sister Lust

All three dream of what the other has...
in fits and bursts of light and dark clouds

Hope and Want, distant cousins pull
at their hands as they visit from the hills where they live
and desperately long to return

But when at the shore and when in the meadow their bellies are soon filled with wonderful ice cream and guilt
made from the milk of happy and content cows

Until they are sleepy and easily persuaded to dig their toes
and walk the paths

Hand in hand

With Hate and Love and their beautiful sister Lust.

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Beverly Hills

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I'm at a coffee shop in Beverly Hills.

I don't like this place... so full of excess and fake people with fake passions. My daughter wanted to come here for her birthday to shop with two of her friends. She likes the excess, she likes the gloss. But I hope that she also sees the shallowness.

I don't know that she will. But I have to take the chance. I have to bring her here. Show her this.

I grew up surrounded by Hollywood and Beverly Hills and Los Angeles...I looked up to the people and their lives. How wonderful their environment was. How I admired their cars and toys and clothes.

Slowly, very slowly, the admiration turned to distrust, and later to hate.

Perhaps the hate is simply a protection from the discovery that I wouldn't be included in that dream. I didn't have the talent or luck, or tenacity to break down the right walls.

What in life is your environment? 

I was 10 when I realized it was impossible to feel any better than in Jessie's arms. As he held me I wondered why people feel the need to stretch that "environment" past those arms. Shall I push it out to include the carpet I was standing on? The quality of the paint on the walls? The size of the house that held those walls? The car in the driveway? The average annual earnings of the people who walked past the house, unaware of the color of the skin on the arms that held the child?

I don't know when I first recognized that it is up to me to find my own depth, and to recognize the facade of life. I also learned that the true way to fight it is not to tear it down, but rather to hold it up for inspection... LOOK at it, let it sicken me, let it try and destroy me.

Because in it's attempt, I find my strength... and that strength won't be used to destroy anymore.

But it will be used to wrap my thin arms around someone who needs the strength that all the love, and all the hate has given me.

So I walk these streets of excess, and I smile.

Smile with me.

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Cheerleaders

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In Junior High I rode my bike almost everywhere

That day I had a flat tire, and I was walking it home

I felt especially satisfied about this flat tire because

It wasn’t caused by a nail or a piece of glass

It was caused by the ground after I landed an especially large jump

Over an especially large hole

I was good

So good on that bike

(my fake dad Archie later called me the best in California 

To his entire real estate office

Which was not a reflection of his pride in me

But a chance to brag, and was also far from the truth)

I had made the jump, and immediately heard a hissssss of air 

As it moved quickly out of the rubber tube

And that was why I was walking and not riding

My red bike as I saw the two attractive Cheerleaders 

Strolling down the sidewalk toward me

Walking gave me enough time

To think that they might somehow know the origin of my flat tire

But not enough time to realize the folly of that same thought

So as I passed, filled with confidence 

I smiled

I was good

So good on that bike

I was surprised to find that both Cheerleaders

Pulled back their full lips

And smiled back

Revealing dimples

And white teeth

And perfect skin

And hope

I felt a skip coming and held it back til I passed

At which point I looked over my shoulder to see 

Red and white fabric

Hanging on perfect frames

Then

I saw them look at each other

Showing me their perfect profiles

And within a few steps

(Too close for them to think they’d be out of ear shot)

They began a cheer:

U. G…. 

U. G. L. Y!

You’re UGLY!

Yeah, YEAH…

You’re UGLY.

I don’t remember the rest of the cheer

But remember the way their beautiful backs looked 

as they laughed at me and sung

And walked toward whatever beautiful cheerleaders walk toward. 

I was 15

And

I was good

I was so fucking good

On that bike

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