Untitled

-

Every stroke of the brush
every word on the page
every touch of every inch of her skin

kills another demon
distroys more pain
gives depth to this dull world

paint to free my spirit
write without shame
touch with true passion


-

old man and a napkin

-
how many times had I seen him?
alone amongst the sweet smell of the decorated cupcakes and cinnamon twists

today with a napkin
and
a pen in his shaking hand
scrawled lines... placed perfectly on the small white napkin
by a hand, still shaking... a hand that has seen almost a century of life
forming an image
a farm house
a fence
mountains
beautiful mountains
eyes drawn to those mountains

he looks up, out the window
his glassy eyes searching for something
a faint smile and the pen begins again
guided by an expert hand
filling in...
thoughts?
memories?
dreams?

want to ask for it...
the art, the napkin, the story
want to tell him it touched me
wait for him to finish
he, unaware of my presence

he folds the napkin with care
and
of course!
it becomes a gift...
perhaps
for the attractive young cashier?
his care taker?

no
again it is
a napkin
used for small crumbs
a small spot of coffee absorbed in it's pores
then stuffed into an empty cup

he drops it into the trash
-

Sex

-
Guys talk.

They talk about sports, movies, making money, girls, cars and sex.

I know one of those things well: movies. I don't know shit about sports and cars because I don't care much about them. I don't know much about making money because it involves too many numbers and too much planning. I don't know much about girls because nobody does. I want to think I know about sex, but the second you think you DO know about it, you become one of those guys who thinks he knows about sex, and honestly, they never know much about sex.

I was hanging out with some guys a few years ago and we started trading stories about what the best sex we'd ever had was.

I sat and listened to stories about conquest and staying hard for days and how many times he or she came. ALL valid and amazing things in my book.

When it was my turn I thought, well, "what is great sex for me?" it's all those things, but it's something more, something no one talks about.

I told a story, the first one that popped into my head:

"I remember this girl, this amazing girl whom I met at a BMX track in which I used to go to on a weekly basis. Every Friday night me and my friend Mike would load up our bikes and drive his beat up Chevy Nova 45 minutes out of LA to race. And every Friday I would talk to her... well, I would look at her. I was too fucking shy to talk to her.

But I did talk to her brother.

One Friday after the race (I finished third. I always finished third), I was talking to her brother and out of the blue, he asked me why I hadn't hit on his sister?

"Well," I lied, "I just figured she was tired of every guy at the track hitting on her."

"Oh, well, I think she likes you," he said dismissively.

What is the sound heaven makes when the gates open? That humming, golden, chorale sound. That is the sound I heard.

It took me a few weeks but I DID finally talk to her. I'm pretty sure I said something really profound and flirty. Or I may have said, "hey," as I rode quickly past her. I'm not sure which.

Eventually I gathered the courage to say more than one word at a time to her and it got to the point that we would talk between races every Friday. After a few weeks I decided it was time to make my big move. I decided I would put my arm around her. I thought about when and how to do this all night. ALL fucking night: While I prepped my bike. While I raced. While I watched my friends race. While I picked up my 3rd place trophy. ALL FUCKING NIGHT I thought about how it would feel to put my arm around her. To touch her. What would her reaction be? Would she pull away. Would she put her arm around me?

The standard routine was that every week, after the races were over and most people had left, I would walk her to her brother's car and we would and talk and I would want so badly to kiss her or to just touch her hand but, of course, I wouldn't. THIS time during that walk I was going to do something. Anything. I WAS going to put my arm around her.

We started toward her car. I could see the it in the distance, daring me, taunting me. "Coward," it said. We got closer. "Come ON dude, most guys would be in her panties, you loser," it laughed.

Half way there.

"Come on Chris," I pleaded to myself.

"Now," I said. And... I mean, I think I actually said "now," aloud. She may have heard, but didn't show it.

Slowly, slowly, I slid my arm around her waist. I could feel her hair on my arm, and her warmth through her white nylon jacket. It was soft but I could feel the firmness of her back through it. I could feel her muscles moving... Propelling this beautiful creature forward.

We walked that way for what seemed like hours but was actually two steps. Exactly two steps. I felt so content. So god damned content. She didn't melt, or run screaming. In fact, she seemed to actually move closer to me. Our hips touched. I wanted so badly to look at her face, but I wanted to enjoy THIS MOMENT just a bit longer.

Two more steps and she was still there, still next to me.

Then, the most amazing thing happened... She put her arm around me. Her delicate and amazing arm. It, filled with blood from her heart and life from her soul. She put THAT arm around me. Her hand, with it's beautiful fingers. Fingers that had a life of living and touching ahead of them. Her fingers with her nails painted pink. I wondered when she painted them, if she did that for me. The gold ring that her mother gave her on her index finger.

All of that around me. And every ounce of my current existence around her.

It was in that manner that we walked the remaining distance to her car. I didn't kiss her that night, and I never did get in her panties.

But, it was great sex. It was AMAZING. It was real.

Perhaps even the best.
-

Worthless

-
I wanted to kill him.

The weak worthless price of shit.

I don't remember his name or the color of his shirt or what grade I was in. I don't remember why we were fighting. But I remember how my knuckles stung as they crushed his skin onto his skull.

I remember thinking the blood coming out of his face was too red. Fake.

I remember hating him but not knowing why I hated him. Knowing only that the hate felt good. As good as the sting of my knuckles. Better... the hate felt better. I remember wishing he would punch back as I sat on him and watched him cry like a fucking baby.

"Fight back!" I yelled, "I'll make you fight back!"

"Fuck you!!!" I screamed.

My brother pulled me off with what I had at the time, mistaken for a proud grin. After so many days of him seeing me come home bloody and holding back tears from a beating of my own he MUST have been proud.

As my brother and I walked home I could still hear the boy crying. Fading. Fading. It was like music. I wondered when his cries would give way to soft sobs. When the sobs would turn to sad, heavy breathing.

I wondered if the boy would be so ashamed that he would try and sneak into his house to clean the blood from his pale skin and change his clothes to remove any trace of the beating before his family got home.

What kind of a loser would do that?

I wondered if the boy's mom would comfort him, I wondered if his dad would teach him how to fight? Does he have a dad? A mom? A sister? Brothers?

Ha! Who cares?

The worthless fucking piece of shit.
-

sinking

want to be pushed down

hit, cut, live in pain

draining blood passion

drugs still there

don't need anything

just everything

sinking, sinking

as shallow as I feel the world is

still it drowns me

want to push down

hit, cut, cause you pain

money blood fashion

no one cares

need everything

meaningless nothing

weakening, weakening

as shallow as I feel the world is

deeper than me

contact

This is my voice
this is what I sound like
I hear your voice
and know it is yours alone
There is no other like me
there is no other like you
There is no place or time
there is now, there is here

Your hand, your skin
is your contact with the world
My hand, my skin
is my contact with you
My eyes see the world
differently than yours
My eyes see you
differently than the world

Let me see you
all of you

Dad,

Fuck you for leaving us. I didn't care until I was five. Then I did.

Fuck you for inviting me to your house to swim and letting me see your new child's toys but not letting me touch them.

Fuck your mom and dad who treated me differently. You let me call them them grandma and grandpa... fuck you for that.

Fuck you for not being there the first time I got beat-up at school, and for every time after that.

Dad, did you know that I never cried in front of them when they tripped me, when they shoved me head-first into a trash-can? When they tore my comic books up?

Did you know that I wanted Evil Knievil to be my dad... that I dreamed there was a mistake.

And fuck you for not being there to tell me that he was an even bigger asshole than you. I would not have cared because to a 10-year-old jumping over cars on a motorcycle holds a LOT of weight. But fuck you anyway.

When I came home from Brian Grosse's birthday party trying not to cry because of what they did to me, where were you?

Do you know I OD'd when I was 15?

Do you know if I believe in God?

Do you know the name of the first girl I kissed? The first girl I fucked? The first girl I loved?

Fuck you for not being there to watch my children grow up.

And dad, fuck you for NOT telling me that you aren't really my dad... for letting me find out from my brother... on the phone.

You now want a DNA test to prove I have none of your blood when you know that I don't care?

Fuck you Dad... for not being my dad.

Fuck you for making me feel unwanted. I never was wanted. Ever. You are a coward.

Still...

I love you Dad.


And fuck you for that.