youthfully unabashed arrogance
and age in careful regret
the stony depreciation of virtue
by itself a form of hypocrisy
trying to figure out the dream
as it dreams the dreamer
nearer to thee than too far
far too far away from forever
a slow walk down – now through and through
rubbing your eyes
by the light of morning erasing the night
nothing left beyond this feeling
the impression left
a key without a lock
the quill without its ink
intentions without any means meaning nothing
youthful equation duly modified
the onset of the dependable virtue that once was
rationality something easily held at bay
this incongruity now a noble purpose
The desperation Of constant soreness that too often wracks the body. The area of your choosing. The days of distress dissolve into grains of sand. The fiends of Hollywood put ideas into your head. The voices emanating in this public space around you simply obsessed with the illusion of money being wealth. Garnering paper instead of material good and land. Some fish swim through the water in an assumed cloak of inky deception. Invisibility by obfuscating. I imagined anonymity and achieved it. It is called mediocrity. Terminally aware but blinded by coffee and indifferent experimental surroundings of the experiential mundane. Throw away impressions passing through the scattering device known as memory. Raucous disturbance by virtue of head injury. Too much in the way of apologies for wanting to be recognized as being larger than life. Reflections of a more generous era floating to the surface. Dreams popping tiny bubbles. Effervescence. You can spot unfulfilled desire by the expressions frozen upon their faces. The paper illusions of a dream. A carousel swung out of balance, out of focus, out of reach back into darkness. Too many educated beyond their means to comprehend.
Wake up in this hostile land of the too many perpetually mentally deficient. This New World order engines equally casting a perpetual gray overhead. Mood deficient ever offensive ‘weed‘ smelling dirty canvas soaked individuals blasting their presence all the way up from the back of the bus. De-evolved animal vision sick fucks uncaring in their habituation and particularly so. Every time you feel another thick black cock push its way harder up your chancre ridden asshole you can think of how you fucked up your own life by messing with the Proletariat for no good reason. Demoted now to just another worthless piece of shit. Would you really want your dreams to become reality? Or is that simply the main way of controlling those who irk those other that push the buttons and pull the levers?
Tall dehydrated ‘pickle‘ people. Some tall, and just in from Asia. International crowd, running suit proud. One becomes two. Two both passingly curious in a Japanese sort of way. Everything sort of perfect in a superficial sense. The streets outside are suddenly full of Asian faces. Inexplicable? The world is struck by silence. No talk zone declared beneath the blare of eighties hipster Negro beat speaker tones. The Barrista spills the ice. Water wiped upon the marble counter for the first time in ages in that consciously diffident Feminist backhanded sort of way. It hurts my eyes to look up at such closed minded people. It never fails that those bereft of proper parenting were missing a father. The ones that need to stabilize their fragile existence by routinely diminishing customer’s egos by enacting silent intimidation. If this world were to stand up to direct interrogation of, “Is there?“, versus, “Can you?“, then what? Women of unimaginable proportions who have lost their own sex somewhere along the way. Perhaps existing under rolls of fat covering the intransigence of their aprons! The intellectual mind sucking prune thing posing as the Dr. Phibes surrogate’s wife. The arrogant ‘lefty chink‘ over the left shoulder flexing her bum sticking it out suggesting the false possibility of a brilliant as fuck. Sodomy being the only possible converse that they seem to know. Available to any who might wish to tame her lifetime of regrets.
The playlist around the room a usual life experience for those addicted to opiates from the world’s foremost drug dealers. Centuries old poisons of misapprehensions taken for incontrovertible fact. A poising virus affecting mankind as a whole like lice. The plague of false ideas supported by nicotine, sugar, coffee, cocaine, opium, and all the big business mark down specials that your wasted pocketbook can possibly survive. The two zombies continue defying life before the picture window to the unceasing march of time outside. One the better of the two parasites feeding off the flagging life force of the other. The pretend male thing prancing about in his Spandex tights and a woolen shirt. The haphazard result of the interaction of two queens, one having slipped up and actually possessing a real vagina and womb. Young woman forward thinking Feminist guiding her male pet about. The constancy of his enforced silence a book end against being drawn into a larger unwanted discussion that might leave her the lessor. “Sic em boy!“. They are collectively terrorized at the prospect of their sole means of support in the basement of the very thing they espouse hatred for turning off the spigot of future finances. This invisible daddy resented by the playbook vagaries of contemporary Liberal lore.
The horseshit smell of misplaced poverty piss down the back of the pants shit stained male white homelessness. Piquant aroma of a really, not wanted to be breathed in, form of rare cheese. Do not even think of crackers! Society now tank on the guise of a demanding mistress that sorts people like a cardsharp putting ‘children‘ in their place. The tyranny of mother Medea. Man hating the prime directive as witnessed in smelly roached reprobates like him. Guys and gals that should have made it in happily continuing forth the race now cut off at the pass by the current doctrine of hate making them mortal enemies. Stale stink perfumes of unceasing echoes the rip tide. Existentialism now the seat of oblivion in this nightmare situation. People’s insides deposing gas from the persistent alleged Neanderthal ubiquity.
There she sat restless upon the surf bounding roughly by. Once a fine ship. An Indiaman. A once fine hulk, now with sinews de-masted and sails de-breasted by a foul wind off Madagascar. A squall by not some not underwhelming sense of mistaken reckoning. The fore deck in shambles and her hull breached. The three sat high up upon the amphitheater of piled stones that now served as her quay. Barely a spit of sand that her master had found by the grace of God before wind and sea and coral rock could have any further way with her. God and the Devil only, who could now tell if her stout oaken keel had succumbed to having its back broken grinding across same? The trio now shivering with impotent rage and trepidation at the slim prospects that the curse of unexpected bad weather had left them that now lay ahead.
A search of another craft far inland deposed a curious collection of ten disassociated items. Some as mundane as a raggedy doll and an old corroded brass plate watch and fob. The most disturbing find being a living thing whose shape held to no known convention strictly identifiable as a recognized species on this earth. A milky colored greenish cast to what appeared to be an uneasy combination of mushroom and asparagus. Something that lay there the similarity of lungs heaving lost in the conundrum of what for it might have been serving as same. Where it had come from was suggested by the broken frame of something disk-like and fractured. Silver metal of a sort that suggested no terrestrial equivalent. The occupant of same offering the most disturbing element of their immediate collection laying at the end of items so much more common to their sensibilities.
The lounge room of the apartment across the hall was full as he stood before the open closet doors in the bedroom. They seemed oblivious of his presence as he stared into the limbo of his own disconcerted thoughts. To his shock and surprise she stood beside him. Barbara. Her entrance as much a mystery as the fact of the appearance of her person. Only for an moment and then she left. Leaving her discontent to mingle with his disappointment to leave an inky film about the room of regret. Now he felt that eyes were prying at him studying his demeanor at her loss. Though unbearable to his sea of raging emotions within he kept up the fiction of remaining inert and unmoved. The sorrow filling him up so rapidly that it felt in a short span of time that it would overcome his neck and burst forth through every portal above. Still he carried on perusing the emptiness of the cubicle before him as if looking for his coat.
The top of the stairs just outside the apartment revealed that this location had been more appropriately a public venue held within what might have been architecturally intended as a hotel or meeting center. He collapsed down into sitting crouched upon the upper steps. Refraining from a swirling sense of spiritual vertigo that sought to whisper to him that he might consider hopping quickly into final flight over the railing just behind him. A just solution in so many ways to cure the guilt and stupidity of his former deeds. Why was he such an empty useless vessel of vacuous circumstantial emotions that like some rare vintage was never really shared? Why had he not shared his heart with her so long ago past when she had given him the opportunity? Was he such a perennial spoilt child that he could not help but further embarrassing the both of them by carrying on for days after in pressing a quest that had clearly demonstrated no intention on following up upon?
He swayed back and forth as the feelings seemed to build to suggest that he had indeed been in love with her. Even if he had not been in love with her enough to through all caution to the wind! The railing behind him waited with the promise of its flying lessons leading quickly to a final view and true oblivion. The presence of another interloper unexpectedly casting a shadow over him from behind. A man! A man dressed in suit and tie appropriate of some formal description of public trust spoke out gently to him as if he might need assistance. The official station suggested by his voice and his manner stopping all thoughts of unbearable loss and that ready antidote of immediate self-destruction. He put on a mask of complacence all the while knowing that his current performance was instrumental to his keeping his freedom. After a few moments interchange he felt that he had rounded the bend in some way. And the man walked off leaving what was for him a chilling promise of an imminent return. Gone for the moment this house genie had set his heart to beating at a furious pace. Escape was all he could think of as he tripped down the stairs as casually as his legs would allow.
To his horror he realized that he had not found his coat back int he closet of the suite now far above. Dare he return he thought to himself, the intercession of that official stranger would most assuredly preclude its use. He had no wish to become an inmate of some hospital! If indeed this is what this space that he had lost mental sight of had truly been all along from the start? He padded back down the main hallway imagining the cold Winter wind outside and what he would do without any appropriate covering containing wallet, cards, money and keys. The trail back led to a fork where the inference of an escalator peeked out to the one side and a low stair suggested further to the left. The notion that only the risk of returning the way he had just came into whatever was now waiting for him might be the only solution. How he hated this society for so easily casting him as a murderer in mentally alleging that he was so ready to frivolously take his own life. Who were these people that demanded entry to his thoughts and felt empowered to redirect the intentions of his should when he felt that he had reach that point that he had had enough? How terrible after all was this empty pursuit of finding that lost trail of one’s long lost fleeting love.
What would have been like to be in the arms of someone who loved you. Again? What! As if it had ever happened? Old memories buried in each other on a pile. A pyre. Locked in place and no longer available. But you’re here. Still? Aren’t ya! That’s it. Walking around like a ghost without a clue of what brought you to this haunt. What kind of love is that. Smelling the stains. Laying on an old broken down mattress. Pretending that you know something. Like something, someone knows you. Who is kidding who. Who has? Yourself. A thought after thought after thought after thought. Echo. Two mirrors! Someone’s truth lies between. Is it you. Your’s? You want her talk. Talk, talk, talk. You wanted them all to talk. Safe to talk. They did! Then they did! And it was all about something. Anything!Nothing. But not you! You couldn’t understand that. Not you. That you didn’t enter into the equation. You never did. Never! You were a ghost. A ghost of a dream. A ghost in a dream! Your dream. Never! Never, never, never. Neverland. You were a child tucked into pajamas. Not a man. No! Never. Sucking your thumb. Sucking their tits. Sucking and fucking. Fuck off! You might have felt their passing fury. Felt a tremble through their body. That tremble. Trembling? For a moment. For an instant? Never. But you were not available. Never were. That was you sin. The sin of self. You alone. The key that wouldn’t open any door. You were locked out. Out in the cold. Cold. Dead cold. Like dead. And so why? Why ask the questions. “Where’s my money?” Why ask. Why! You know the answer. Don’t you? You do! Now. Now is not the time. The time. No longer the time to ask.
Exquisite bits of pain
drift your glass across my heart
let the shards cut deep
let me melt
and know what it is to be alive again!
Watch it drift across the lane
lonely and low
lest it seek you out
lest it call your name
and know what it is to be alive again!
Step slow step along
upon the edge of teeter upon your long dried tears
lament your into knots
lament her as you had once known
and know what it is to be alive again!
Exquisite bits of perfidy known
that tails the lies that you dare not speak
lock tight your lips
lock off your heart
and know what it was to be alive again!
The world that one exists within eventually seems to become a place of never ending disappointment under the weight of the ever shifting controlled chaos of a fickle indifferent society. And as such it does often seem that as one grows up and eventually grows old there is little help for those that it abrades to regain a sense of lost innocence that was their initial state of being. The notion of same in practice as an adult considered a sign of simple-mindedness by the surrounding ill winds of decadent cynicism that pervades popular culture where being vulnerable in public eye is nearly an unpardonable sin. The invocation to those little aspiring mortals caught within what was once long ago a period of time known as childhood being to toughen up and be disciplined in the face of the domino-like gauntlet of one disappointment after another leading to an inexhaustible series of same. The semblance of appearing to win being more important than daring to ask for a uncompromising acceptance for what one is at their weakest moments. Perhaps one can know of how much one’s self has been corrupted over the years by their wonder at a tiny little untainted soul in distress and as such know what innocence truly is yet again?
The experience of supervising young children in the middle of the first decade of their earthly existence for an hour each day has taught this author as much about life as the proceeding decades of constant collision with the vagaries of existence in an urban realm. Those occasional moments when one is challenged to depart from the strict guidelines of professional indifference and lend a kindly ear with sympathy being a minefield for misunderstanding. As a an adult male caught within a much larger political battlefield it is taking a chance with ones career and nebulously ambivalent social standing to provide such a human gift. My present wonder at this is occasioned by a most recent experience where a tender young lady of between five and six and small in stature for her age. The first one to arrive generally having to apply almost all of her strength to pull aside the heavy hydraulic cylinder loaded doors. The ring of her childish vocal chords resounding in a nursery room cartoon impression of adulthood as she experiences it. Her encounter with the decorum of the classroom itinerary of the teacher necessarily forward as if by some internal undisclosed resource provided her as a young cub to survive the hostile world of older peers by this effort. The playing deck of varying childish rivals who demand attention from the one adult influence as the dealer of regulated progress in this classroom assembly for their own form of unstructured acting out within the context of the coming hour always in contest with those small and perceived as weak but ever resilient. Yet in my experience with children over the last year in considering what has been for me as a lonely bachelor verified by decades of solitary existence, as undeniably miraculous.
To see such a little soul unexpectedly demeaned to tears within this constant battle for hegemony in the ruthless pecking order of the patent meanness that those in the group casually deal is equally heartbreaking. One wanting deep down to violate the strict taboos of this workplace and simply offer the solace of a warm embrace to assure that the world they live in though so often mean in spirit is not without sympathy for their plight. The next best thing being offering a middle ground in engaging her in conversation in one’s supposed position as battled worn sage. Enlightening her as best one can by offering the notion that their mentor was once as young and vulnerable as she was. What a wonderful and terrible disclosure to find that the object of her pain is one of the other little boys that rage about the room in constant careless play. Equally innocent in his way despite him testing every rule to favor his experience of the world by ever testing its confining boundaries. The ghostly descendants of these same little demon spirits that once plagued one far ago in one’s own experience at five. The whispered secret as solution to the sorrowful tale pf woe that she relates in her version of unrequited desire for singular connection with this ruthless rapscallion being to reveal that his form of reaching forth to vie for her affection is to be ever annoying. The part that one necessarily leaving out that perhaps this same menace is just being annoying with no other underlying motive resting behind his perceived infamies as she suffers them.
How odd it then seems then to one so late in life to be aware as a bystander of this same old endless repetition of dissension imposed as d’rigor of common playground etiquette? The battering and bruises that these young untainted souls endure seemingly harmless to the outside view of adult sensibilities now long decades past. Yet realizing for the moment that these seemingly incidental scars too often are carried through an inadvertent pattern of behavior abstraction over the course of their future lives. To see this in such a way and offer one’s mercy to try to explain as best one can that all are equally likely beset along the way with the basic unfairness of misdirected emotions by others. Hoping that despite the futility of the situation and their lack of stature of the one in pain that it is not just childhood but the beginning experiences that they must fathom as part of the experience of life. The moral lesson in all this seemingly inferring that as members of that final constituency of those growing fatally old and near to an earthly passing we must return in one way or another to those days of childhood where it all began. How ironic that one who by the fact of their solitary existence of seven decades would be shown the world where life in general by virtue of connection by paring is renewed by the fresh experiences of the offspring that are produced. How even one whose own life having been cast at a distance from all this is renewed in some small way by contact with these initial petite dramas. It makes one feel that the universe around is not simply an empty vessel that can only be filled with regrets.
There is no greater wellspring of regret than in long lost desire for love once again reawakened. The rejection of that false promise that one has made a pact with to have one’s way or die. So who is pretentious now? The sore hollow fool that will follow through for a score of moments this scripted scenario of eternal failure? This game of finding regret by what one has not done rather than simply re-enacting the fable of what one should have known better so much longer than long ago? The accumulation of first impressions that still remain stacked up against one like a house of cards. If fools there be that run this world then you are both their dean and their teacher! To be mad in lust with someone so much so that you hate them for their sanity in staying clear. Volcanic soil undisturbed by soiled footprints of the commonality of reason in unconsciously recalling events locked within. Imprisoned in their own way that they never are allowed to become the primary cause of one’s own life of farce and folly. To sully the ivory and gold of what they once took in for a golden moment in ions long ago and try to pick away and chip the jewels from their mountings it like a thief. Boxcars undulating on steel rails overloaded moving ever slower now as the train nears the final station. So many players now long and permanently gone. Fallen away by the wayside into histories dust of what once was and never could have ever been. Overlapping dramas repetitively announcing that same old singular story of have and have not. How pathetically frail is one at their core to turn to lead every golden memory that one has touched. To make villains out of all those that one had once long ago had thought they had known. And then blame them for not one’s self having known better.