the coldest night of the year

I stumbled up the staircase
the perfect party entry
completely fucking the scene
kids who didn’t know how to live
but talked a lot
about their differences from square society
within the confines of tried-and-tired rebellion
gave their gang a name and wrote manifestos
because there’s safety in numbers

I was a fucking, fucking a
rockstar, revelling in taking a beating
crawling on ceilings, sprawling
loud and proud down unpleasant avenues
a stunning sight ’til I was
pulled aside and tricked into behaving
like an intellectual
someone who would probably see old age–
fuck that, I was outta there.

don’t go looking for a one-to-one
correlation
ships, they pass on nights like those
so they don’t crash and burn

now I’m told my lover lied
with someone in the back
bedroom, whisp’ring sweetie-baby,
love you so
just like now, with some minor adjustments
and mellowing with age, concentric-circling
around loneliness, despair, and the usual miseries
but I never went that far
people get angry when it isn’t them

don’t go looking for a one-on-one
affair, in time
we can admit nothing
nothing was there except our bodies
 
 
llh:gjp

Untitled

“I think I will have coffee.”
Well if I make it, it is a certainty.
“I think I’m going to have coffee.”
This shouldn’t come as a surprise.
“I think I’d like to have coffee.”
Don’t I know this?
“I should make some coffee.”
Like it’s a moral imperative.

I don’t know how this person got in my house, but there is his coffee spoon:
I look forward to letting someone else be greater than me
For I am accustomed to being small and unnoticeable.
It may be the only thing I ever really wanted.

Maybe I’m bitter, maybe I’m weak
“It’s perfect, really good.”
Little did they know.

sunshower

it is a cruel, most beautiful lie
observed in the darkest bedrooms
of perforated souls, straining,
screaming, begging for this
scripture: lover, return
design: get in close
and watch the stars rest their hopes
on the practised lips of tragedy;
what we have found
is that there is truth in this art
which shows us the fire of streetlights
gazing down in silence on the surface
of painted rivers without opinion;
regarding the scene
it is ideal, it has always been ideal,
waiting every morning for you
to put your arms around me, and me
to rest my head against your shoulder, and we
with our backs to the audience
fall to quiet understanding of a sunrise
just like those seen only in the old films;
we take our place,
directed by a vision of great romance
inspired by years and years of uninspired, uninspiring performances;
in the sun we become the most beautiful pair ever cast
the most passionate kiss, and embrace
built on the overflow of many smaller desperations;
in the sun we become,
and break out of our roles as born-losers.
and on that note, end on this note,
told by the tips of our tongues:
the past had a purpose
while the future longed for us patiently.
  
  
llh:gjp

untitled

I breathed deep with the rhythm of wheels on rainstormed roads
and wailed, how I wailed, with the waking of incurable loneliness
from sleep in which I dreamed of sleeping.

In Brooklyn

There was one time in my life
I could have stroked a cold stone
And regretted the surface wasn’t skin;
Its asperous head unable to shake
Sandy sentiments taken up in the wind
Once soft, so soft, through lustrous slough
We may now only kneel, helpless as then,
Easing your brow like a mother would:
You’ve gone grey after all, old man;
Touched with dry autumn fingers
Moved by whispers and neglect,
I would have lay down with you,
Pressing a broken ear firm to the earth,
Listening for life, making promises
But hearing only the breathing of leaves
And the beating of traffic and trains
Tangled within decades of weeping,
Delicate steps sneaking away
Because they had to–
To the nights alone
To the dearest departed
To the suicides
The rivers, the tides, and the sun
To a secret’s safekeeping, a toast, my friend
I missed you, that once
Some other time, Then.

it isnt, pt 2

it isn’t that there were other sets of eyes positioned such that they saw an event differently;
it is that there has been no time to have remembered a thing at all.

it isn’t that I couldn’t have done better;
it is that I could have done worse.

it isn’t that in isolation time has moved for me slowly;
it is that days disappear from me, and disappear from me.

it isn’t that,
it isn’t that.

it is that it never was,
same as it ever was,
same as it ever was,
same as it ever was.

well so the days go by
and we wonder why we cowered before cowards;
it isn’t that we were inexperienced,
it isn’t that we desired approval,
it isn’t that we were decorous sorts,
and it wasn’t this lifetime.
it was that is wasn’t happening to me.

it isn’t that someone remembers;
it is that they never forgot.
 
 
 
(For Monique, dear friend.)

why so quiet?

Because, for the first time in probably at least a decade, there has been a total and extended absence in my life of people telling me I’m not good enough. My personality-gyroscope could only find equilibrium when I took it away from people who seem to enjoy no activity more than shaking the shit out of it. Consequently, I have had nothing to prove or defend, and therefore little impulse to say anything to anyone.

Ironically, no less than five people ranging from a past extending as little as six months to as long ago as four or five years have in the last couple of months sent (all through safe, electronic means, of course, one a little bizarre) a variety of attempts to get back into my life. I have observed without reply these diverse methods of apologising, making amends, or otherwise communicating a desire to be near me again, and concluded that the writing of an apology letter is perhaps a lost art. Only one of these people spoke frankly and directly, demonstrated an (accurate) understanding of how their actions hurt me or were damaging to our relationship; they took responsibility for their actions without blaming any person or circumstance, and managed to explain themselves without making a single excuse for themselves. In fact, one of the things they said in conclusion was, “You were good to me. I have no excuse for treating you badly.” I appreciate that simplicity, and have chosen this one as the person with whom I will try to do my part in re-establishing a friendship. Of the others, one I let through the gate, but they can’t come into the courtyard; and the rest are too passive, or too passive-aggressive, to warrant any response from me whatsoever. I’ve decided I have the most respect for people who use the telephone (for calling– geez, that needs to be clarified nowadays, doesn’t it…); if something is worth saying, it should be worth saying.

In addition to having no desire or reason to interact with jerks, a lengthy period of computer dysfunction has made anything involving the internet a torturous experience, both because it is infuriating having to struggle for hours with a dumb machine to get anything posted anywhere, and because I have adopted a no-computer policy at least one day a week. Perhaps not so curiously, the variety of accomplishments and more enjoyable and productive activities of these days tends to spill over into wanting to continue such activity other days. Though most people seem cognizant of the frightening waste of human life and energy going on, only after being away for awhile from sites like facebook does one notice that almost all of it is gibberish. Sad, desperate gibberish. I see scores of people get excited and vocal about another adult’s ability to feed a housecat or make themselves soup for dinner. Tonight I saw a zip code get posted accidentally in someone’s status field, and receive more than twenty responses. Is it all in good fun? I think people are only becoming aware in a new way that they’re dying, alone. They’re mortal, and lonely, and are desperate to connect with others, even if that connection is cold and abstract. Or maybe it’s just a phase people are going through as we all age, and multiple-recipient texting from their deathbed doesn’t seem as far away as it used to. Former (non-virtual) friendships and relationships and the things they did to lose them needle their thoughts until it all reaches critical mass and I get an unprecedented rash of messages seeking my understanding, forgiveness, and/or company. I don’t see people having fun so much as I feel I’m witnessing a great deal of spiritual pain. Its depth makes me uncomfortable, its excess dulls my senses. More and more often while waiting for a webpage to load, I found myself thinking a standard question, “Would reading a book be more enjoyable right now? Yes.”, “Would doing the dishes be more enjoyable right now? Yes.” etc. When it got to the point where I thought, yes, it would be more enjoyable to sit on the couch and stare at the wall, I decided that’s it. I’m done with the digital world. I’m going analog– wind-up alarm clock, rotary phone, and a cabinet television that can’t receive anything but signals from aliens in outer space.

But then Joe sent me a new laptop.

So now I can be online and sit on the couch staring at the wall at the same time. And post observations which will no doubt arouse passionate discussion, such as, “I think it’s time to sweep the ceiling again.” Stay glued to your cell phone for up-to-the-minute reports including photos and video of everything that does or does not happen at 55414.

Highschool Hindsight

So if the metalheads were GAY because they had long hair, and the new-wavers were GAY because they wore eyeliner and pointy shoes, and the punks were GAY because they wore kilts, a lot of jewelry and used hairspray, and the nerds were GAY because they never had girlfriends, then I think that leaves the jocks as the only ones who were not GAY. What this should have meant to them is that they would have had all of the girls to themselves, and you really gotta wonder why they were so pissed off at everyone else about that.

My Value

Hair= > $2000.00
Brain= ~ $193,000.00
Eyes= > $1000.00
Nose= > $500.00
Ears= > $1500.00
Teeth= > $7000.00
Spine= > $2000.00
Musculature= > $4000.00
Thyroid Gland= > $3000.00
Lungs= ~ $260.00
Liver= ~ $5.00
Gall Bladder= ~ $500.00
Reproductive System= > $32,000.00
Heart = $0.00

Physical therapies and pharmaceutical medications, such as anti-depressants and pain-killers, may have been included in the investments made in the brain and musculature; bicycle purchases and maintenance, however, are not.

Costs and investments associated with the reproductive system fell to < $100.00 since the majority of costs and investments were incurred by the brain. As sociologists often remark, the most effective form of birth control is an education; women should be advised that the same effect can be achieved at a savings of > $175,000.00 by simply pouring caustic acid on their own faces.

It should be noted that while one needs regular nourishment to survive, it is impossible to calculate investments made which ultimately turned to shit.

By the same token, the total associated with the heart should not be misconstrued to mean that it is in any way “priceless.” Though a calculation could perhaps be made to include the costs of the broader, metaphorical functionings associated with the heart, because this would have resulted in a negative figure, the total for this line item was left to represent “without value.”

untitled

when you take a breath, how deep is it
and how slowly do you let it out;
and when a thought explodes like a firework
how bright is it, how wide, and how many points;
when you ask to be loved and accepted,
how deep is it, how wide, how bright
and how gently in your voice do I hear
how many points of sorrow and strength.

two tortoises

of two tortoises I shall not expound
upon the impenetrability of their external selves
in contrast to their vulnerable interiors.
that would be too obvious.
nor of these two shall I go into depth
about their woeful lot to live long and bloom late
in solitude, relative to other animals.
that also would be too obvious.
but of these two it might be worth noting
that it is not always apparent how quickly they move
in contrast to the forces that keep them slow and grounded
to their observers.

long the way

if you’ve walked as long as I have, you’d know:
your feet don’t hurt until you sit down;
your fingers do not sting from winter’s cold until you come to shelter;
you do not feel your skin has burned until you have found shade;
your muscles don’t tighten until you stop lifting;
your bones don’t ache until you lie prone;
your gut loses its hunger until you see food;
you don’t even know you’re poor until you’re in the presence of wealth–
so it is not until someone says they regret not being there
that you feel how alone you’ve really been left;
and it is not until someone says they are sad you did not have the life you should have
that you realise what a failure you are;
and it is not until someone remembers how great you once were
that you become aware of what a disappointment you must now surely be;
and it is not until someone feels sorrow for your sufferings
that you will think maybe they can be taken away
or should have never come to you at all;
it is not until someone feels helpless
that you notice how proud you’ve been
to adapt so well to pain;
and it was never a mistake to do so
until someone tries to love you;
for that is when your nerves reawaken
and you feel the damage been done to your soul ‘long the way.

—-
this was originally written 06. Jan. I thought to try and improve it, but I haven’t been able to do so– not because I believe it is good, but because it seems to insist upon being left ugly and plain.

a brief sensation of existence, pt 3

Holey moley, I guess I posted too soon– just 12 hours after a brief sensation, pt 2: Africa!

Though I won’t give up hoping a bored seismologist or even The Thing itself will visit from Antarctica, I expect having been seen by real human eyes on six of seven continents is the best I can do.

::waves to everyone out there::

a brief sensation of existence, pt 2

Current mood: five out of seven is pretty cool

One year after a brief sensation, pt 1, I have finally landed in South America. I’m still totally delighted by such things.

Finland and Poland, too– neat!

vanishing acts

It is always winter
It is always dark outside
I always dress by the light in the hall
I am always short of sleep
For I must wake at an hour I normally retire
I never have any sense of what I am really doing
But I always know why I am doing it
It has been this way since childhood
This morning the crows are cawing
And the wind hums warnings
Loud in the doorways
Of which there are many between here and there
Quieter nightmorning buses bring distant-eyed passengers
Knowing not what or why or how or whence about this
And brightly lit on display behind a wall of windows
A single silent worker slowly opens the cafe
As if he cannot be seen
These are the hours I take airplanes
These are the hours no one knows
What a remarkable thing I am about to do.