Roach

Sitting in the same stupid chair at the same wooden desk, I thought I was done.

Nothing but air and words that formed nothing.

So I moved the chair outside. I walked.

It's hot out, and that brings the roaches. As I passed a deli I noticed a small grouping of them nestled in the cracks of the cement sidewalk.

I stood for minutes (hours) and watched the roaches on the sidewalk.

I found a roach that was completely still. That's the one. I'll watch and wait for some instinct to command him to move. And when he moves, so will I.

I put my hands in my pocket to stifle the temptation to prod him.

He was still.

I crouched down and cheated. I blew air on him.

He was still.

I tapped my foot.

He was still.

I turned and walked away. For all I know that roach is still there.

I'm not.

Come to me.

There is something.
Something coming.
A poem.
A story.
A phrase.
A word.

I didn't fight this hard.
This long.

To let it go.

I'll wait.
I'll long for it.
And it will be beautiful.

Come to me.

Piss

6th grade: My best friend warned me. 

He said, "I don't understand why he invited you to his birthday party."

It didn't matter to me. I WAS invited. I was going to Brian's birthday sleepover. 

Me? The loner from Lawndale? I was going to go to ASCOT to watch cars race around a track with the most popular kids in the class. I was going to eat cake at night and pancakes in the morning, and hang out all night with the kids I wanted to be like. 

Me. 

I was invited.

And I was going to go. 

And I went.

And later that night, I found out why I was invited. 

I was invited to be pissed on. 

Quite literally.

Held down, and pissed upon.

So… from 6th grade until I graduated, I was not Chris, I was the kid who got pissed on at Brian Grosse's  birthday party.

Ask me about it. I'll tell you what happened. And I'll try and tell you how it felt to feel my warm tears mix with warm piss. 

I'll try and tell you how I lied and told by best friend how much fun I had at the party. (all the while knowing that HE knew… everyone did).

I'll tell you about how I told my brother that I was crying all night because I missed my dad. Which I did, but I also was crying because I was the kid they picked to piss on.  (I don't remember if I ever told my brother about the party. I don't think I did, because he would have fucking killed them).

You should also know, Brian's mom cooked amazing pancakes that morning. I'm fairly sure none appreciated them as much as I did. The salt of the butter played off of the sweetness of the syrup so wonderfully. 

And I still love pancakes.

I love pancakes as much as I hate Brian.

And as much as I hate piss.

1,000 Years

Statues are still erected. Paintings still stain the floor. But nothing really breaks through. No, no nothing... Anymore. Heroes are still out there. For the weak and for the poor. But nothing tames the cynics. No, no nothing... Anymore. Art, it still surrounds us. It's in my eyes and in my ears. But does it really matter. When we've given in to fear? Tonight I made a promise. To myself, and to my kids. I will never let it break me. Not for one thousand years.

Poetry

So, here's the thing
With poetry
It no longer means that much to me.

Or is that the way
I want it to be?

I know it means less to you
You made it clear
I understood

You read

You read

You turned away

You read

And turned away

Life goes on

Fuck we're all so busy.

So fucking busy

Oh, that doesn't rhyme

It started so well

Turned to hell

(Fuck yes, I can rhyme)

Good Pussy

For most of my waking life I thought words had the power to change. I wrote poems and dropped them into the lockers of girls I had a crush on. I kept a journal about my dead step-father and thought it mattered.

I wrote a play and performed it in front of the entire 7th grade. I thought it would make me more popular than the jocks. 

The jocks liked my play, and took the girls home.

I quoted important lyrics, and thought it would get me laid.

When that didn't work, I quoted important authors and thought it would get me laid. 

Neither worked (the thing that worked was being stupid and confident, and I used that a lot).

Even the girls that said my words were beautiful never followed through. They still wanted me confident and fake and funny. (And I gave them that, because I like pussy).

I hope they understand. Good pussy is easier to find than good words.

Finally... I found the truth. 

"Good pussy is easier to find than good words."

And that is the quote I want on my grave.

I try.

I try to say I'm happy
but it always comes out wrong

I try to say I'm angry
and you fucking sing along

I try to say I'm lonely
and you cling to every word

I try to say I'm simply wrong
and you claim that I'm absurd


So I think I'll feign delight
while inside I'm crashing down

I think I'll say I'm feeling good
while the room spins round 'n round

I'm sure I've said I'm okay
which we all know is a lie

I'm sure you've said "you'll be there"
but you're never by my side


when things crash, bleed, cry, crush, destroy, die, hope, bleed, puss, drip, scar.

Live with less

I showed you a difference.

It wasn't enough.

I gave you my pain.

It wasn't enough.

I gave you something,
No man will ever give you again.

It wasn't enough.

So, live with less.

Live with less.

Live with less.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

The title of the poem is irrelevant.

This is the poem.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A word

Every single word, means every single thing
To me

For more than just the moment
You say that single word

A kiss is a promise
A touch is a word

And that word
Means every single thing

Every single thing

Every single thing

To me


Every single look, means every single thing
To me

For more than just lust
I said that single word

A kiss is a lie
A touch is a lie

And that lie...
...it is what I expect

Every single time

Every single time

EVERY single time.

Poetry

So, here's the thing
With poetry
It no longer means that much to me.

Or is that the way
I want it to be?

I know it means less to you
You made it clear
I understood

You read

You read

You turned away

You read

And turned away

Life goes on

Fuck we're all so busy.

So fucking busy

Too busy to care

Oh, that doesn't rhyme

I'm supposed to rhyme

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

It started so well

Turned to hell

(Fuck yes, I can rhyme. Any time. So fine. On time. Be mine. Bitch... It rhymes)



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Violence

I don't mind violence.
If there's a reason.

I don't mind pain.
If there's a goal.

I don't mind hope.
Unless it's foolish.

I don't mind prayer...
If there's a soul.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I never knew

One thing I never knew
is that I never needed you…
and, I kept that bottled up inside

The other thing I never knew
is that I never loved you…
I'm not even sorry that I lied

When I said you're everything
everything I'd ever need
Oh, you put up quite a fight

Remember when I said you're everything?
everything I'd ever need…
no, you're just another poem to write

For a time I let you touch
the scars I know you need so much
But, I was just filling in that hole

Because when I let you touch
those scars you know I need so much
I thought you also had a soul

lunging

---------------------------------

dreams have begun to connect

threads and themes that run through

from one night to another

between weeks and days


beautiful faces that influence my waking life

rather that the reverse


horrible events that affect me

more than the visible cuts in my skin


longing and lunging for sleep

from one dream to another

between weeks and days


lovers I cannot contact 

whom hurt and heal


villains I cannot fight

whom taunt and torture


come back to me

into my head

come back into my life

into my reality

come back into my bed

into my sleep


tonight


--------------------------------------

Kill myself

I knew... From the age of 12 how to kill myself.

I'm 47.

Drip

Just now
Just now, I walked out into the office
And I made them laugh

And I smiled
And I laughed

And they smiled
and they laughed

And when I couldn't take
Any more

I ran to the bathroom
I turned on the light
I looked into the mirror

I watched my smile drip off of my face
And into the sink
And down the drain

Where it belongs

Nigger

For 2 years I was his friend
He was mine
We talked of pain and happiness
I knew his mom's name, and the way his brother died
He knew that I was invited to a
Birthday party just to be pissed upon
He knew I had OD'd when I was in high school
I knew that I was his first white friend
One day I asked why his friends called him
"nigger"
But I could not?
He said... You "can" call me "nigger."
But it will change everything
I called him "nigger"
And I loved him, but I didn't understand.
And neither did he.

I miss him.

What I do Best

The thing I do best.

The thing I do best.

Is just lean against her forehead and look into her eyes.

The thing I do best.

Is try and get my lips as close to hers as possible without kissing.

Yes, yes...

THAT is the thing I do best.


The thing I do best.

The thing I do best.

Is to place my hand on the small of her back as we walk.

The thing I do best.

Is to let her know... that hand is the strongest and most gentle hand.

Yes, yes...

THAT is the thing I do best.


The thing I do best.

The thing I do best.

Is to put my thumb in her mouth as we kiss.

The thing I do best.

Is to never forget the taste of her mouth and her tongue.

Yes, yes...

THAT is the thing I do best.


The thing I do best.

The thing I do best...

Is to love her like no man has loved.

The thing I do best.

Is to write it in words, that I know, she never has heard.

Yes, yes...

THAT is the thing I do best.



But what is it that TRULY I do best?

HA!


The thing I do BEST....  is to push her away...

and let other men give her their best.

String

----------------------------

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.


------------------------------------

Motherfuckers in running shoes

-----------

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.

--------------------