You’re Immortal Until I Forget You

I will write about you

until my fingers bleed,

worn from the experience of pressing

on the pen

gripping to keep you

and you were never there.

 

I am going to dream about you

until my eyes fill

with sand

arid after the drought,

but there are still

tears to cry,

pictures of us to imagine.

Memories that can be

manipulated

by the beautiful lies

my heart still believes.

 

I’ll still ache for you

until no one else

calls or comes by,

and I’m empty

from the bleeding

onto the floor

the bed

the page

over and over again,

where I smile at your memory

and briefly recall the pain

your absence left

in the physical world

but never

in words:

you’ll never again

be gone

from the blood

on my page

Good night, my darling boy.

Tomorrow, you’ll be one year older

Let the wisdom come

when it may

and wash over you

as you continue to make mistakes,

feel with your whole heart,

and paint with excruciating beauty.

 

We don’t have a lot of time

to fill our buckets with regret

or decide we have the stamina

to outrun our

accelerating fears.

It’s just now.

And you can wrap up the past

and put it on your back,

store it in

the recesses of your mind,

a tall building

with many rooms for

past times,

the good and the bad,

protected by your

optimism in earnest.

Opened in the middle of the night

by your disappointment,

a storm inside you

that only gathers enough

fuel to flood you

every once in a while.

 

I’ve always been here

secretly hoping

that you’d put me in one of the penthouses

above your memories,

take me with you

wherever you go.

Instead, I’ll know that one more year has gone by

and you’re farther away.

even our stars aren’t the same.

and I’ll wish on your candle

for next year to be prosperous

in your wallet and heart,

and for the wisdom,

after all this searching

to bring yourself home.

True North

I simply needed training

to build the muscles

and the stamina

to lift the anchor

weighing me down,

drowning me in the endless

tsunami of trauma,

despair, shame,  and sorrow

abandonment brings.

 

Now, toward the light,

strength forged from courage,

up up up.

Leaving the dark past to stagnate

at the bottom

of the century.

The power of forgiveness

fills the billowy sails

and finally,

lets me forge ahead.

 

 

You Have To Fight For What You Love

A lot of days, I feel like tea

seeping in nonsensical violence.

Either heartbroken at the kids and dads

who give their lives

upon the command

of some half-wit dictator

who manipulates them into thinking

it is for the greater good.

And it is.

The good of the pockets of those

who defend the righteousness of

cheap gas, corporate personhood, rampant consumerism,

and, I guess, the freedom to

run on that neverending wheel.

 

Or violence at grocery stores

and PTA meetings,

when someone cuts in line

or tells the children not to scream inside

or jump off the tables.

Words, anger, grudges ensue,

causing a bigger rift

between all of us broken humans,

distracted from the things

that are truly important.

Things which we truly love.

 

I wonder if I know

what I truly love anymore.

The kind of love that

I would really fight for,

that I would nobly die for.

The thing that makes this whole world

so beautifully illuminated

it would be worth

not seeing that world again.

Not marred by even subtle flaws

or logical loopholes.

I wonder if there is anything

in this world nowadays

or at my age

that has that kind of

compelling purity

beauty

meaning.

And introspectively,

I need to dive deep down

to discover

if I have the courage

to actually fight

for what I love (even if that means myself),

having looked on

so many times before

as it slowly, achingly

floated away.

 

 

 

Asking For A Friend

Do you ever have those days

where you sit inside and stare at the popcorn ceilings

even though

it’s a warm Tuesday morning?

Moondog comes on the radio,

and just maybe you’re rendered catatonic

thinking about how someone

who was blind, homeless, and definitely crazy,

or maybe he really was a Viking,

I guess God only knows,

stored such an infinite beauty

in his extraordinary mind.

 

Do you ever wonder

if you have all that genius inside,

or rage, or beauty, or whatever,

except that it’s buried

deep in your heart

at the bottom of your soul

or locked at the tip

of your tongue?

 

Is it possible

that there’s nothing special at all

about you

and the connections you try to make

with words, art, activities,

just keep slamming you

into the conclusion

that everyone is better and worthy,

and you’ll die, forgotten,

after having lived, forgettably?

 

Or do the voices in your head

keep urging you to succumb

to the crazy parts,

the Viking parts,

the parts that might not be polite

or comfortable for general population

but ooze art and madness,

spirit and soul,

the bare. naked. honest. you?

 

Is a pension and a mortgage

really worth the cost

of a life not fully,

vigorously,

painfully,

joyfully,

soul-baringly

lived?

 

I have a friend who was curious about these things.

 

 

 

Personal Ad

Seeking: the one person or few people, because they’re a dying breed,

who don’t need to fit in.

who eschew being the voluntary foie gras

of the media, the markets, the masses,

those desperate for dumbed down daily doses

of news fodder, like snacks, to ease the hunger

of real knowledge- frightening, unappetizing, titillating and dirty

though it may be.

 

Candidates should love books and history,

coffee from an actual mug,

Thelonius Monk,

engaging in conversation that has nothing to do with reality TV,

art of all kinds,

and will probably still be trying to figure out the meaning of it all.

 

Please no active social media owners,

competitive parents, whiners/complainers/victims,

unimaginative, apathetic citizens,

or the passionless automatons who strive only

to match the Jones’s debt.

 

Please respond if you are not looking for an escape,

but a friend, to enjoy rambling discourse

about how the good old days were better, but this present

parking lot of existence is cracked,

and flowers fight like champions

to thrive. As we must.

 

You can find me: in the actual library, in central park,

walking the exhibits at the art museum

like a reunion with dear, old friends. I can be found

roller skating with my favorite eleven year old,

or attempting the Times crossword puzzle,

on my fourth cup of coffee, Sunday all day.

On rare occasions, I shop for more records,  volunteer,

chat with old people and children,

sit, trancelike,  in a jazz club of my dreams,

wear unironic silly glasses,  or read during a party,

after having grown tired of the smalltalk.

 

You should: love those corduroy blazers with the patches on the elbows,

have a grasp of the obvious mistakes human kind keeps making

despite the clear patterns toward ultimate destruction,

be fueled with optimism that all we need is love and music

and passion and understanding to overcome those mistakes,

scorn popular music (of all genres),

probably have a cat or dog for those languid mornings spent alone thinking,

and be curious about how you don’t feel counter-cultural, but cannot stomach cultural norms.

 

Please send all replies via paper and pen.