Plan A – Post Scripting

My New & Continuing Life

Lunch goes to conglomerates.

The camera focuses on

roughly 40-50 people standing.

Standing, waiting, ruled with

heavy-handed dictation by schedules

on the agendas of men who do nothing.

A shift in position later

everyone talks and

everyone spends money.

Dreams Have Betrayed Me

I thought I was dark then,

thought I spoke with a sharp pen,

but now I see it was nothing.

Sleep has betrayed me.

Delivered into the very arms

that wrapped from behind to snap my neck,

strangle any remnant of self respect

and admonish any undue sentiment,

sprung from an unholy bed.

I have overspent my resources,

trying in vain to claw out of this

dead letter office-bound package,

but the ceaseless parade of my funeral

procession stretches on.

I thought I was something once,

truly believed in my offerings,

but am faced now with the stark realization

that nobody needs anything.

You could certainly quote me

if I ever actually said anything,

but I’m afraid my greatest achievement

will be death.

St. Peter Cried

Said St. Peter when I reached the gate,

“What have you done with what you were entrusted?”

I said, “What in the world was I ever given?”

He looked through his books and said, “Oops,

it appears you were overlooked.”

I said, “No kidding, but my loneliness was both

my best asset and my greatest handicap.”

St. Peter cried, St. Peter cried,

“How could we have let this go so long?”

I said, “That was my question too….

That was my question too.”

Said the Christ when we met face to face,

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

I actually grinned and said, “Shouldn’t I be crying?”

He said, “Well, anyway, that was the precedent,

but you never really worked that way, did you?”

I said, “You would know….

Is everything you say rhetorical?”

And the Christ, he took a big old swig of his milk.

And St. Peter cried, but Jesus I could not be sure

of as he shifted in his seat and cracked his joints,

and said, “Have I got a surprise for you.

Have I got a sur-prise for you!”

Simple Gray

There is plenty to look at,

trucks backing to stages,

actors and security guards sitting alone

outside the cafeteria,

electric carts guided by facility workers,

lots of people in suits or free production jackets,

walking, walking, walking,

(There are many other words for it,

but that’s all they’re really doing.)

some people whose faces I might recognize

if I watched TV, occasionally accented by

a patch of meaningless conversation;

but the most interesting thing to look at

on the whole lot, the only thing that

doesn’t make me wince,

is the simple gray asphalt.

Or to look over it all to the hills.

Why Are You Still Here?

If I myself am bored with it,

if you are no longer floored with it,

if we can be ignored with it,

why are you still here?

If I have nothing new to say,

if you cannot be blown away,

if we have seen our better days,

why are you still here?

I wonder, yes I wonder,

what it feels like… thinking in there?

Is it nasty, is it ugly,

and why should I still care?

If I can not reiterate

things you no longer contemplate,

if none of this was worth the wait,

why are you still here?

If all of this was meaningless,

this treacherous impression of callousness,

if it clings to your body like a tight, wet dress,

why are you still here?

I wonder, still I wonder,

what we ever thought we saw?

If there were ever any other,

if we’d say to hell with it all?

If I can still not articulate

after thirty years of love and hate,

if the intensity is really not that great,

why are you still here?

If I just am not up for another encore

and the band hasn’t played what you were

waiting for, and I know you’ll be disappointed

as you walk out the door….

12-07-04

I actually wish

real city streets

were empty like the sets,

nothing in the windows,

no cars,

absolutely empty inside

behind false fronts,

the same occasional figures

walking slowly in twos,

someone from property

dressing a street lamp.

Again, as I shiver beneath

a light mist of L.A. winter,

passed by television actors,

someone drops a bag of

chips in my lap.

“You should eat.”

I guess I look like it.

Life is strange. Really, really strange.

12-08-04

I have seen at some point or another

an old man hit by a taxi,

car accidents,

an armed robbery,

viewings, funerals,

lots of other ordinary things,

the thrill of the naked female form

tight to the body and warm,

too many famous people

to be out of the ordinary,

and too many things that I never,

never want to see again.

I have settled into who I am,

as far as I can tell; this is it.

I understand age now.

I see everything for exactly what it is.

It isn’t hard for anyone who objectively looks.

And I certainly object.

Bats

2:17 PM, Friday.

What do I see?

Bats.

I No Longer Want For Anything

Hours I stand

not spending money,

looking at things that take up space,

ignoring people that take up space,

looking at the things with

stupidity in their eyes.

The special people are here

from special programs,

wearing sweatpants and looks that say,

“I would rather be home

eating cereal and watching cartoons.”

The store is dead and my

motivation for being here is dead,

and the door props itself open to dull routine

as people get louder.

Aprons & Plastic Gloves

When the faces look familiar,

I’m not sure if it’s because they make TV

or because they stand in line

every day with their $5.

I don’t know them and they don’t know me,

and I don’t care and they don’t care,

except for the workers I can relate to,

walking around in aprons and plastic gloves.

I wonder how many people can relate to this life?

Myself, and to some extent my wife, the perfume sprayer.

Other than that, it’s just a way to kill time.

I approach death slower each day,

and yet am that much closer.

Even here, people are not glamorous.

My Family In Particular

I started the day with a rare inclination to call up Faye, my grandmother, to commend her for being a strong woman. I thought a good while about the families I came from and decided she must have endured the most. My own mother is nearly dead prematurely, abused in so many ways by so many people that she no longer laughs, or stands except to carry service trays. I thought of my brothers and father over on the east coast and thought of all the things Shawn and my father hide behind, and thought of the hero warrior Jason who shouldn’t have to shoulder so much alone. I thought how significant it would be to call my family in particular, beginning with Faye, just to let them know that not everyone turned out badly, that there is still hope and goodness possible for whoever chooses it. I even prayed the sentiment would remain (as I was on my way to work and it was really not convenient) so I would follow through.

I can’t say I thought much about it through the day, as there was an endless chain of Christmas shoppers to maneuver around. Instead I found busy work, stocking and cleaning and note taking and spreadsheet adjustments—anything to pass the miserable and amusing hours. It occurred to me finally that my problem at work was that I was thinking retail, service and profit. But I work at a studio… it is only supposed to look like a store full of employees. The practicality and functioning are immaterial, and in fact discouraged. So we are all now, in my eyes, background, playing roles of workers without actually doing anything. That is what we were hired for, in which case the built-in management (with nothing to hope for) and the new hires (with nothing to look forward to) would all do well to sit back and enjoy the catering.

I am part of a team that I love, a group of individuals with lives and passion and external things to respond to, that the sluggish old figureheads do not understand and the fresh blood doesn’t fit into. The newest of the lot is most likely a skinhead, and will hate me for saying so, and will hate me even more for saying he will hate me for saying so. His life is settled in his head and his head will not turn toward voices, and he is proud of his bandaged wrist simply because the wound was unnecessary—and isn’t that tough!

I sigh again mildly and wish they would all just shut up. Every life is a disappointment. There is heartache in every meager voice. I hear only pain and choose to say nothing, because there is nothing pain wishes to hear. I do not care to be deep or literary, respected or even helpful. I wish to be a mirror because people need to cry. That is all.

I fell asleep finally from an emotionally exhausting week and was awakened a half-hour later by kisses across my arm. After sex my own wife cried again over finances—because, remember, I work at a pretend retail store—and said faintly, “I just want to know when things get easy.” I said nothing, of course, but thought of the Apostle Paul, and sorted through scripture in my head, then opened a beer as if to say, “I don’t think they do.”

My wife is now asleep, and I have been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’ll ever call Faye.

Again

Those things I say, I never realize the poison,

how with a word I can stir emotions deep.

I have always assumed I was complaining to no one.

I have never known why anyone would listen to me.

But I hurt you again, and I didn’t mean to again,

and again I am held accountable for my words.

And I am sorry again, or I am sorry still,

that I still never seem to learn.

It is a slow day and everyone seems introspective,

half expecting the world to come to its end.

Everything crumbles in silence and falls from perspective;

it keeps getting more and more pointless the more we pretend.

But I killed someone again, and I didn’t intend to again,

and again I have added fuel to flame.

And I am mortified again that I’ve destroyed someone again,

that everything I try turns out the same.

Impatience Has No Place On The Road

Still on an adrenaline rush from

the first person who almost hit me

—you honk!?

There’s a screwdriver in my bike pouch,

and I will not hesitate to embed it in you

for not wanting to wait at a RED light,

you motherfucking prick.

Why Is There So Much To Cry About?

The holiday displays in the storefronts

look perfectly primped behind glass.

It just makes me think of how people protect themselves,

sheltered from all who walk past.

The songs in the background, all carefully programmed,

and meant to provoke you to spend;

well, they used to mean something that really was touching

when people really listened to them.

Why is there so much to do without?

Why is it so out of reach?

Why is there so much to cry about?

I just want the world at peace.

Why is there so much hatred and doubt,

why so much pain to speak of?

Why is there so much to cry about?

I just want the world to see love.

I don’t mean to be so downhearted,

but they’ve left me with nothing to praise;

don’t try to tell me of love and acceptance

while trying to keep Jesus away.

Why is it so rare for good to play out?

Why can we not see the use?

Why is there so much to cry about?

I just want the world to know truth.

Why are there so many curses and shouts?

Why is that spectrum so broad?

Why is there so much to cry about?

I just want the world to know God.

Under The Overcast

No one on the lot, nothing in production,

no reason to be here.

I missed this morning the smell of the docks,

and am reminded now of New England or Nova Scotia,

winds pushing leaves around in circles, branches rustling

to the empty valleys of buildings under the overcast.

I miss the way of life there, envying the painter

and poet whose every breath reinforces quiet.

The Last I Heard

The last I heard she was somewhere in the Sunshine State.

The last I heard she had long since gotten over

all the mess I made.

I can only hope she’s somewhere living well

and living happy, never thinking of the past.

I can only hope that someday when she hears

my name and voice, she can smile at last.

“Isn’t that cool,” I hope she thinks to herself, “I’m glad

he finally made it with that girl at his side.”

I sincerely hope no jealousy or bitterness

will surface while she’s beaming with pride.

And if I ever come across her name or face

or address when I least expect,

I hope that I can say I’ve healed completely,

and I love her and I’ll never forget.

There is truly nothing missing, I am sure or am convinced;

there is no emptiness left for you to fill.

I really oughtn’t be concerned with the last I heard of you

or if you think of me still.

The last she knew I was somewhere in Tennessee.

I said that I was happy but I always had to wonder

if anyone quite believed me. Because everyone I loved,

I’m pretty sure I swore I would never forsake.

And sometimes it felt almost like betrayal

to go on living this way.

But daylight always comes, and all remorse is

long forgotten, and it nearly feels good to be alive.

And only part of me wants anything to do with this nostalgia,

so I store it where it cannot be revived.

The last thing I want is to rekindle an emotion

it took years to finally subdue;

if this is my fairy tale, the life I wrote those songs about,

my dreams have already come true.

There is truly nothing left of who you knew

or who deserted you; I have no soul yet to stir.

It’s better just to leave it how we left it where we left off,

keeping it the last we heard.

01-11-05

I need to go away. Not physically… I need to be vacant, dormant for a while. I’m depressed again. Not in the my-brother-the bi-polar way, not in the life-isn’t-what-I-thought-it-would-be way, but in the way where your entire perceivable world has to change, the memory of all that was completely wiped out. I don’t want to be me anymore. I want to die and live through everyone else. I want to be automatic, responsive, to no longer think consciously and to be washed clean of dreams. I want not to want, to not scheme digging myself out of this mudslide. I do not want to think about the leaking ceiling or the monthly $2000 I am short of meeting bills. I do not want to laugh or smile, or make people laugh or smile, or even make anyone confront their own wretchedness. I want to sink back into a coma and not worry and not be rewarded, and no longer endure and imagine merit where there is none. I want to be stripped and emptied and exist only in the presence of my wife, only at home or on holiday, with otherwise no indication.

Everything is horrible; all I bear, unbearable. It can no longer be redeemed, not arriving at the very gate of hell or threshold of heaven, not for all the success in history or yet to come.

I am dead. I am not here. I hand over all authority and charisma and diminish, falling into unmentionable bleakness until the day God sees fit to revive me, recreated and unrecognizable.

Coleridge was opiate-inspired. By contrast, I am simply dumbstruck, even by nothing.

Postscript

Before the hiatus,

seventeen entries in,

I realize that

Merv Griffin’s Beverly Hilton

had crappy pens.

They held about enough ink

for a signature.

And that is the last thing you should know

before I disappear and learn guitar.

Plan B - Blogging

Saturday, 02-05-05

Sitting out for a while….

My resources are tapped. I can do nothing else but wait. I no longer know what I'm supposed to do.

My books have produced nothing but despair. I will not write again until something breaks.

My wife deserves more than this miserable life.

Tuesday, 02-08-05

Adventures in bike riding.

Friday:

"Excuse me, have you seen a guy with no ears? He's got like a serious hearing problem." I would say so.

"I haven't seen anyone. I'll keep an eye out though." (Get it? No ears... eye out. I kill me.)

“Okay man, see you later."

Monday:

That's right, a cop pulled me over on my bike. "Is there a reason you don't have a brighter light?”

"I'm very poor."

"That's pretty dangerous. I didn't even see the light on your shirt until talking to you just now. Where are you coming from?"

"Burbank. Warner Bros."

"What do you do?"

"Coffee barista."

"Where are you trying to go?"

"Glendale."

"How long have you been riding your bike?"

"A year and a half."

"Do you have some ID?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever been arrested for anything?"

"No."
"Never ever?"

"Never ever."

"Okay, well I'll just run a quick check."

Maybe it's time to start driving.

Saturday, 02-12-05

Kill whatever is left.

I don't want to be rich. I want my ceiling to not leak when it rains.

I don't want a new job. I want to spend my days not utterly sick.

Thursday, 02-17-05

I had a dream, Nick… and Henry.

I dreamt last night that I was in another horrible Nick Cave video, and that the director was making it up as he went. Could be an analogy for life.

The bath drain is still clogged after three bottles of Draino. Our truck needs a new transmission. My aunt died last month and my brother is getting divorced. We'll be $500 short of bills this month. I applied to three more jobs today. My approach this week is, "I am not the ideal candidate... I have to work harder to earn my employers' trust and appreciation."

I haven't given up, Henry. I've not lost hope or confidence. Rather, I've gone a step beyond arrogance, as if to say, "Yes, the world needs my writing... but I decide when it deserves it again." Anyway, my cats have been quite productive lately, and I feel I should support them.

Saturday, 02-19-05

It’s raining, it’s pouring.

Watching the cracks in the ceiling worsen. Rain in the bedroom is not as romantic as it sounds.

Wednesday, 02-23-05

How many times can one quit?

I will absolutely leave L.A. if I do not get a reasonable job offer soon. It is not worth my wife crying every day.

Monday, 02-28-05

Out slipped a lyric.

My days now are full of absolutely nothing. (Except today the origami frogs, courtesy of Cricket, to whom I am indebted.) I create things for no one. My latest website will be another learning experience.

I am surrounded five days out of seven by actors and... oh, what shall I call them? .... let's say industrials--the poor imbeciles who believe in Hollywood. To them I am background, someone not to make eye contact with when passing. To me, they are the same. I don't care who they are, I care what they do.

I know I said I wasn't writing, but one has to have exceptions.

Saturday, 03-12-05

It’s coming, whatever it is….

Marci is at work. The cats are asleep. My voice is gone. The computer hurts my eyes. I can barely tolerate work anymore. I've been between this chair and my beds all day.

The new neighbor moved in next door. She's twenty-five and works for Disney. I got money and guitar strings in the mail yesterday from friends. The truck is fixed and it wasn't the transmission--$124 total. Marci has a few production jobs coming up.

Could this be the beginning of an upswing?

Tuesday, 03-22-05

Adventures in bike riding, Part II.

6:40 AM, Olive Ave., Burbank. On the overpass, a thirty-something just off the Metro holds up a finger as if to say, "One moment." Reminds me of Richard from LifeWay. I stop and lift an eyebrow. He looks around, "I have just one thing to say to you...." I raise the other brow. "You... are a cool biker." Pause. "I will never be that cool."

But you did make me smile. And threw me off a bit. "Thank you. Have a good day."

Three miles later I nod for the first time to the kid presumably walking to school, and he waves while clutching his backpack.

Tuesday, 03-29-05

Do the math.

If I counted right I've been alive 10,313 days. Every one of those I've wanted to cry--occasionally for something good. I can't remember well enough to know if it's worsening or consistent.

As usual, I'm overwhelmed.

Sunday, 04-10-05

Afraid to turn on lights.

Things I'm blowing off just today in favor of online tutorials: Nghia's "queer chink" play, Melissa's son Ryan's baptism, church with Heather and Jesse, and Safi's first ever stand-up gig at the Ice House.

Runs the gamut. What a good friend I am.

Wednesday, 04-13-05

Ryan, the office monkey.

My journal is back in my pocket, and pen clipped to my belt loop.

My responsibilities at work have shifted entirely from Starbucks barista to retail and office management--minus the title or pay. They have no idea what I do, just trust it to be done. There's a fantasy in my head where Morrissey hires me to be his personal assistant. Yeah, that's a good one... you have it too.

I'm missing a riding glove. I'm going to look retarded.

Saturday, 04-16-05

I wish I could afford to smoke again.

I would like a travel mug that works, one that does not leak from the sides if tilted to my mouth.

I am sick of the computer, sick of programs and tutorials, and quite sick of working for people with no humanity or sense. I am sick of my job, sick of Warner Bros., and sicker than ever of Union members, as I had to deal with them all week while relocating my boss's office. (Don't you dare talk to me about being underpaid, you selfish, lazy, ignorant fucks!) But all of that is an old tirade, and not worth the energy to address.

I felt peaceful when the week started. I was ready to call or write to everyone I knew and tell them that I loved them. But it's just too much effort to balance what I have to do with what I want to do, and on top of that to try and dig my way out of this hole. I just can't afford to live right now.

I interview myself every morning while riding to work, and it affords me the opportunity to articulate my philosophies. I finally concluded that life isn't supposed to be easier for me because I'm gifted--I should have to do more and try harder than everyone else. Some people aspire to nothing more than finding some great employer who will take care of them for the rest of their life. I'm better than that. I have more potential. I will end up being the employer Unions try to litigate and regulate. Sure, right now I can't afford to indulge myself with a pack of Shermans and a Smirnoff, but I have no doubt that if I continue to be faithful with my resources I will one day be able to create a better life for those in my care. I'll do it because it's right, for people who deserve it, not because I'm contractually obligated.

I can actually hear my cat snoring from the other room.

Saturday, 04-23-05

A terrible, tedious joke…

That's what life is. It's not meant to be taken seriously. I know the weight of taking on too much, and it's not worth it. Everything is horrible--okay, so why stress about it?

I am a fortunate man. Manic, perhaps, but fortunate. While everything around me falls apart, I have the solid foundation that everyone wants. I have love. I know love, every pure form of it. All of my darkness, all of my humor is tempered with it, saturated with its grace.

That is all that matters.

Saturday, 04-30-05

Another one gone.

I lost count of how many times I moved growing up. One of the places I lived in New Jersey was a German mission called Liebenzell, and my cousins Heather, Cynthia and Daniel lived on a farm just down the street. I remember playing out in a loft in one of the barns, and that you couldn't drink their tap water or close Daniel's door without it getting stuck. One day I came home from kindergarten and Heather bounded over to greet me so I wouldn't be scared of the firetrucks, because one of the cabins had caught fire while she was home sick from school.

Our fathers used to go bowling once a week, and that was the era we met the Jaegars, who became lifelong family friends. It's also when several of us were sexually abused. I couldn't identify it at the time, and I don't really remember the extent or necessarily who was involved in my own, but I know that's where my brother's life went sour. I lived mostly in my imagination.

The adults apparently didn't fare much better, because my uncle David, Heather's father, the one who bowled with my dad, tried a few times to kill himself—cutting his wrists being the one we remember most. He actually died years later of an infected dog bite, and his brother—my uncle Steve—married his wife Peggy (Heather, Cynthia and Daniel's mother), making Steve their uncle dad, effectively severing pre-existing family ties.

When my immediate family moved to Virginia, Heather and my brother used to write letters back and forth, because they were closest in age and I imagine had one of those youthful cousin crushes. Eventually distance lessened our contact with them and we all moved on to our own lives.

While David was still alive and married to Peggy, they were the first to relocate to Georgia, which ultimately drew our whole family south, so at least in my life, I'm able to see how all things truly do work together for good, because everything I have and am is a direct or indirect result of where and how my associations were formed. In Georgia we all lived close together again, this time focusing on the Murphy family, my other cousins, whom most of the deaths in the family hover around. We all grew up and branched out from there, all evolved (or mutated) into what we are now, and seem to be held together in a strange way by a mixture of tragedy, comfort, and connection to the past.

I live in L.A. now, far removed from my immediate and extended families, and haven't seen any of them for two years or so. I always imagine they carry on the way I do—working, living, laughing, struggling, crying occasionally, and every so often thinking about what we knew growing up. I know they love me and haven't forgotten about me, and I'm not worried about when I'll see them again. Every so often I get a phone call and someone gives me an update, and I hang up and nothing changes. I don't mind this.

My cousin Heather died yesterday. She was at home feeling a little off, went into her room, closed the door, and passed away. Her 11-year-old daughter found her. My mother called to tell me this. Heather was six years older than me. To write it out now, the next day, years after I last saw her—a completely different person leading a completely different life—it hurts. A lot. And I love her, and I miss her.

Monday, 05-02-05

I no longer care.

I just want to chain smoke and drink myself to sleep. The computer is not cooperating. Work is absurd. I no longer care about the web site. It may never be done.

I actually find great comfort in death, and look forward with anticipation to the day I can join the list. Perhaps then my writing will find its audience.

And this is only family....

~~Aunt Sheila~~

~~Grandad~~

~~Cousin Jonathan~~

~~Cousin Nikki~~

~~Uncle David~~

~~Aunt Carol~~

~~Cousin Heather~~

Me (It's only a matter of time....)

Forgive me if that seems irreverent. I would hate to think this mundane drudgery matters more than the memory will. Such is the nature of poetry.

I was also thinking it's interesting that schooling can make you, say, a doctor or a businessman, but it can't make you an artist.

Sunday, 05-15-05

Just kick me in the head.

Oh goody, my CPU is burning out.

I taught myself HTML, XML, CSS, and a little scripting in the past month or so just because I wanted a resource to give publishers and potential employers. I have no idea what my life is supposed to be. I just keep working and learning, learning and working, with no relief in sight, struggling vainly to find a skill that will pay off. The process never lets up. The projects never end. My poor wife never gets a light-hearted me.

I'm going to bed now, where Marci has already been asleep four hours without me. My writing hiatus is over. Aside from washing dishes, it's all I can control. You, my friends, have seen the fruits of my labor to this point, and your loyalty touches me. I just wish that paid the bills.

Our sixth anniversary is coming up in June, along with my 29th birthday. Twenty-nine years, and all I've given the world is more self-indulgent writing.

Saturday, 05-21-05

Blogs are no poetry, damn it!

For-fucking-get it! I'd just written a nice witty, eloquent blog about bike-riding cadence and love handles that would have been very entertaining for you, and just when I went to post, my computer cut out. Again. This is why we write first in leather-bound journals.

Plan C – Post Post Scripting

Horrible & Sick

You say “that’s horrible and sick!”

I guess it is, I must admit, but I get

crucified and kicked and spit on

every time I open up my mouth.

The Point

I was nostalgic before I was twenty.

At some point you stop looking back at birth

and start looking ahead to death.

My Lullaby

I do not envy the things you will learn in this life,

the intrusions, the illusions,

all the confusion that carries through time.

I am burdened by the urgency

of the disparity of the design.

I am gripped with the sickest impression

discretion will not leave my spirit alive.

My lullaby, this lullaby,

this twisted lullaby of mine.

Don’t be terrified by what I’m preoccupied with,

there is still hope for you if you try.

I can find no reaffirming words

to encourage your formative years.

There’s a quelling welling inside

from the depth of the swelling

brought out by tears.

My lullaby, this lullaby,

this conflicted lullaby of mine.

Don’t patronize me from your security;

I will in the end be vindicated of the crime.

We Are All Whores

Writing is sick, blogging sicker.

A new generation of wide-eyed imbeciles

posting littered ad space,

blind to their contribution to the refuse

and revival of imagined posthumous merit.

The astounding thing is that the poem

is not about the cow or other subject,

but what I think about the cow or other subject,

and in turn as you read about what you think

about what I think about the cow or other subject,

and how that reflects on each subsequent

pretentious idiot to pretend to be interested.

Somewhere in the process the whole thing

broke down and communication itself

became industrialized by strategic marketing.

My contribution’s relevance ends

the moment I conceive it,

penning, editing, and distributing it

is then too much. So the best thing I can do

is cover my head in daylight

and sleep until company arrives,

when the whole thing is mimicked

and acted out.

Found Out

I am waiting here to be discovered.

I hold words on the prongs of my tongue.

I have made myself completely accessible,

only to wait for that nothing to come.

I want to be found out.

I want to be totally exposed.

What has been bubbling up like magma,

I want the whole world to know.

I am silent in revelry

of the memory held to my lips,

just hoping the hint at the openness

may be enough to illumine the wish.

I want to be found out,

to be made a spectacle and a joke.

I want all of this turmoil to spurt out abruptly

and burden the earth with its heavy yoke.

I want to be found out.

Savor The Simplicity

My child, my baby, breathing so soundly, sleeping so peacefully,

I ache so profoundly, grieving over all the ugliness you will see.

Please know I would shelter you,

but I love you too much to hide the truth from you.

So sleep, sleep while you can.

Each girl and boy must grow up to be a resilient woman or man.

Savor the simplicity—

it will not last, it will not last.

I wish I could say differently.

Find favor with the God of eternity.

You'll return to him, you'll return to him.

I pray he takes you graciously.

My girl, my boy, my sweet bundle of joy,

if you hear me crying, please don't think it's anything you've done.

I may simply be overwhelmed that there must have been

a moment when everything went drastically wrong.

Please, please forgive the way I treat you.

It isn't you, it isn't you—I don't mean to take it out on you.

So believe in dreams while you can...

each dreamer has to realize that every new beginning has an end.

Savor the simplicity—

it will not last, it will not last;

it will end with such finality.

Find favor with the God of your ancestry.

He will call you home, he will call you home

—the world is such futility.

It leaves its mark indelibly.

The world was not made for you and me.

Hiatus

The era is over.

All eras have ended.

Significant people take hiatus,

apparently from being significant,

because that undoubtedly takes considerable energy.

Everyone left at the moment,

as I man the phones and smudge the counter,

could disappear without notice,

uninterested in and uncared for.

I have written for so long about coffee

that I no longer enjoy the taste of it,

written so faithfully about people,

with such attention to every sickening detail,

that I actually do enjoy the taste of them,

am rather excited to see one rolled over by a truck,

keeping that secret addiction to blood imperceptible

enough to appear mild mannered and well adjusted.

Welcome back to my old self. I’ve missed you.

Let’s have some fun at the stupid world’s expense.

There Are No Easy Answers

There are no easy answers

and the questions aren’t too clear.

It doesn’t help to see you just to

wonder why you’re here.

[This book is in the editing process….]