My lip was split
And I walked with a limp
I wished I had one last cigarette
As I was looking for my truck
But I had lost them last night.
Damn that girl
Damn that fool
I didn't feel like fighting
But it's kind of hard not to
When you're tackled
I didn't want to hurt him
But should have
It would have been easier
And quicker
Then going to jail
Instead I got to watch him cry
Because he got arrested
When a few punches
Would have stopped it all
He would've still been crying
But neither of us would have been arrested
And the girl
Fuck her
Not literally
But let's just say
I'm only buying myself drinks
From now on
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
just a story
With 100 dollars left in my pocket, 50 went towards whiskey and the other 50 went towards a girl. It had been awhile since I’d been on a date, and I was in a good enough mood when I asked her, so I came off as charming for once.
Dancing was what she wanted, so we went to this place I’d heard about that day that played 80s music on Thursdays because I wasn’t much of a dancer, and nobody gave a damn to how you were dancing when it was 80s music.
She put one hand on either side of my face, said she liked me beard, and kissed me. Her kisses were like knives, and later that night one of them got stuck in my chest as she was looking up at me with that smile that hurt even worse. I could still feel it days later renewing that hole each time my heart beat against its tip.
I knew how it would end, it was always the same. I was too sensitive for the one night stands, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. She loved me for the night, and the morning after, that was what the whiskey was for. I poured myself a tall glass and contemplated the other side of the bed, that was now empty. That’s all I could manage, a night. The life of a nomad doesn’t lend itself to any sort of stability, especially among women. I drew them to me, those ones that were worse than I was. I would have taken them with me, if they stayed, but they never did, and I never had to live up to my promises, though once I’d like to try. So many people I know regretted their lives, but I didn’t regret anything, I just had little pains I carried with me like the many tattoos across my back. I told them how easy it was, to get away, but that wasn’t it. They were afraid. It takes a certain carelessness for that kind of life, and the people I talked to were too tied to their security to get away. They lived vicariously through me, but it was the same as watching TV, they were trying to escape their present lives by stories my own or those that lasted 30 minutes commercials included. Sure I didn’t own much more then you could put in a suitcase, I had no house, no steady career, no steady relationship, but my passport told a story most people had trouble even imagining, that was until someone stole it. If I ever found them, I’d cut their heart out because that was everything I owned in that bag, and they probably just traded it for drugs: passport laptop, journal, books and all. Damn junkies. It happened at the worst time it could happen, but it wasn’t the first time I had to start over again. Maybe it was a good excuse to start over again, get a new passport with fresh pages to stamp, write a new story that was unlike any of my other pieces, and just get the fuck out of here. It could happen easily, but still… if I found him or her. Yes, even if it was a woman I’d put my gentleman’s honor aside because if you’re low enough to steal someone’s life, then what else sacred won’t you tred on? My wallet was easier to forgive. I’d forgive someone if they were hungry, I’d been there many times, and I’d be there again soon, but this, was too much.
The whiskey tasted good, and I was glad I had splurged for once. It almost made me forget, almost. Friday morning late and the sun was coming in the motel room window making me think I should go outside. I thought I remembered seeing a park nearby as I drove into town. Looking in the mirror above the dresser, I remembered something she said. Fuck it. So I took out a bic razor and started to work on my cheeks. It took me about an hour because the damned thing kept clogging up because my beard was long and those bics even clogged with not much more than stubble. When I was done there was only a mustache and a soul patch left, and I felt much much better. Change like that is like shedding skin and slithering off somewhere else.
I had a plastic cup that didn’t look suspicious, so I filled it halfway and set off to find that park. I laid under a tree reading Kafka the grass feeling nice in the shade, and thought it funny that it happened to be Kafka. He always made me feel the world like a millstone, too heavy for me, but it was nice today. A weight dragging me down was better than the marks she had left. I could always get back up even from the lowest depth, and sometimes down there was a nice place to hide.
There must be something I can sell, I thought walking back. I needed just a little, enough to put gas in my truck to get me out of town, or maybe I could find out where the day laborers waited and see if anyone would take me on. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t because mostly they wanted Mexicans they could get away with paying next to nothing because they weren’t legal, but occasionally you would find someone who wanted to give a down-on-his-luck American a hand. At least that’s what I told them I was, and it made them feel better about themselves.
Back in my room I noticed I had gotten a little tan even though I had been in the shade the whole time. I never really burned unless I was on the equator, I guess it was the Cherokee in me, which was nice because I hated peeling. I didn’t really see anything but 2 books, a journal, and that bottle, so I headed out to test my luck, which I hoped was improving.
Dancing was what she wanted, so we went to this place I’d heard about that day that played 80s music on Thursdays because I wasn’t much of a dancer, and nobody gave a damn to how you were dancing when it was 80s music.
She put one hand on either side of my face, said she liked me beard, and kissed me. Her kisses were like knives, and later that night one of them got stuck in my chest as she was looking up at me with that smile that hurt even worse. I could still feel it days later renewing that hole each time my heart beat against its tip.
I knew how it would end, it was always the same. I was too sensitive for the one night stands, but somehow I couldn’t stop myself. She loved me for the night, and the morning after, that was what the whiskey was for. I poured myself a tall glass and contemplated the other side of the bed, that was now empty. That’s all I could manage, a night. The life of a nomad doesn’t lend itself to any sort of stability, especially among women. I drew them to me, those ones that were worse than I was. I would have taken them with me, if they stayed, but they never did, and I never had to live up to my promises, though once I’d like to try. So many people I know regretted their lives, but I didn’t regret anything, I just had little pains I carried with me like the many tattoos across my back. I told them how easy it was, to get away, but that wasn’t it. They were afraid. It takes a certain carelessness for that kind of life, and the people I talked to were too tied to their security to get away. They lived vicariously through me, but it was the same as watching TV, they were trying to escape their present lives by stories my own or those that lasted 30 minutes commercials included. Sure I didn’t own much more then you could put in a suitcase, I had no house, no steady career, no steady relationship, but my passport told a story most people had trouble even imagining, that was until someone stole it. If I ever found them, I’d cut their heart out because that was everything I owned in that bag, and they probably just traded it for drugs: passport laptop, journal, books and all. Damn junkies. It happened at the worst time it could happen, but it wasn’t the first time I had to start over again. Maybe it was a good excuse to start over again, get a new passport with fresh pages to stamp, write a new story that was unlike any of my other pieces, and just get the fuck out of here. It could happen easily, but still… if I found him or her. Yes, even if it was a woman I’d put my gentleman’s honor aside because if you’re low enough to steal someone’s life, then what else sacred won’t you tred on? My wallet was easier to forgive. I’d forgive someone if they were hungry, I’d been there many times, and I’d be there again soon, but this, was too much.
The whiskey tasted good, and I was glad I had splurged for once. It almost made me forget, almost. Friday morning late and the sun was coming in the motel room window making me think I should go outside. I thought I remembered seeing a park nearby as I drove into town. Looking in the mirror above the dresser, I remembered something she said. Fuck it. So I took out a bic razor and started to work on my cheeks. It took me about an hour because the damned thing kept clogging up because my beard was long and those bics even clogged with not much more than stubble. When I was done there was only a mustache and a soul patch left, and I felt much much better. Change like that is like shedding skin and slithering off somewhere else.
I had a plastic cup that didn’t look suspicious, so I filled it halfway and set off to find that park. I laid under a tree reading Kafka the grass feeling nice in the shade, and thought it funny that it happened to be Kafka. He always made me feel the world like a millstone, too heavy for me, but it was nice today. A weight dragging me down was better than the marks she had left. I could always get back up even from the lowest depth, and sometimes down there was a nice place to hide.
There must be something I can sell, I thought walking back. I needed just a little, enough to put gas in my truck to get me out of town, or maybe I could find out where the day laborers waited and see if anyone would take me on. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t because mostly they wanted Mexicans they could get away with paying next to nothing because they weren’t legal, but occasionally you would find someone who wanted to give a down-on-his-luck American a hand. At least that’s what I told them I was, and it made them feel better about themselves.
Back in my room I noticed I had gotten a little tan even though I had been in the shade the whole time. I never really burned unless I was on the equator, I guess it was the Cherokee in me, which was nice because I hated peeling. I didn’t really see anything but 2 books, a journal, and that bottle, so I headed out to test my luck, which I hoped was improving.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
A Leaf
I woke up in a shade of grey. In my dream I had been in love, and when I awoke, I was not. Last night I read again for the first time in months. I recovered some of my poems because a good friend had been safe guarding them. That was one small victory in a long string of defeats. It didn't make me feel the tide was turning, it just made the losses stand out sharp in contrast to that old battered folder. None of my other writing survived. Things can always get worse it seems. After losing my job, not recovering any back pay, and selling all of my books and camera, I thought nothing worse, but worse is always a possibility. Without the comfort of my books or anything else, I feel like a leaf blown around in the middle of the street with no where to go. Today is all about figuring out. Maybe I should let the wind take me where it will. Maybe I'll be gone tomorrow. Who knows? I'll send you a postcard if you like. Maybe it will reach you.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
written while driving
A super hero
Was what she was looking for
By some mistake
She found me
I’d left my super powers
The same place I did
My childhood
That dark closet
Back in Ohio
I couldn’t save her
I didn’t even try
Though I did run away
With her
Until she ran away
From me
Ran down completely
I heard
From someone
Who knew her
Longer than I had
Some nights
I wake up
Remembering her
And how
When I was on the edge
In the middle of the night
She would push me back
With those words
I believe
I believe in you
She was the only one
Back then
Not even myself
On most nights
Was what she was looking for
By some mistake
She found me
I’d left my super powers
The same place I did
My childhood
That dark closet
Back in Ohio
I couldn’t save her
I didn’t even try
Though I did run away
With her
Until she ran away
From me
Ran down completely
I heard
From someone
Who knew her
Longer than I had
Some nights
I wake up
Remembering her
And how
When I was on the edge
In the middle of the night
She would push me back
With those words
I believe
I believe in you
She was the only one
Back then
Not even myself
On most nights
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Who Knows?
There’s always some other girl waiting around the corner, but instead I walk straight listening to the wind in my ears thinking of turning the other way getting a beer, but damn I’m broke, and that bar would break me for the week. Instead I find my old truck missing the side mirror, and drive away to dinner at home, alone with a few beers that was all that was left in my fridge. Afterwards I feel like going out, but I pick up a book instead. I’m saving up, I’ll go out tomorrow night I tell myself, but in reality, I’ll probably be doing the same again. I don’t know where I should go anymore. Too many couples, and I’m not as good a third wheel as I used to be. I wonder where all those conversations went, that meant something, but it’s too late to start over with the same people, that only know me in a certain way.
Maybe I should go away. Find myself again, or stop pretending. I’m not entertaining anymore. My stories have dried up, and I don’t feel like talking to anyone, unless… but no he’s not here, and I may be gone before he resurfaces. If letting go were losing, than I’ve already lost it all, and there is no reason. I should be going. I always found a way, even when money just wasn’t there. But I don’t go, anywhere. I just sit here, retreating further into who I was, if I could get there again, but not that far back.
Maybe I should go away. Find myself again, or stop pretending. I’m not entertaining anymore. My stories have dried up, and I don’t feel like talking to anyone, unless… but no he’s not here, and I may be gone before he resurfaces. If letting go were losing, than I’ve already lost it all, and there is no reason. I should be going. I always found a way, even when money just wasn’t there. But I don’t go, anywhere. I just sit here, retreating further into who I was, if I could get there again, but not that far back.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
It's Not Midsummer Yet, So Why?
I wasn’t supposed to be in that town at that time, but I went looking for a certain girl. I stopped at her old landlord’s shop, and inquired about her. Being a pious person, he informed me that he had kicked her out since she had a child out of wedlock, but he knew where she was staying. And I was familiar with the address.
As I walked into the house where she was now living, since the door was wide open, I noticed a baby on the floor, which I assumed must be hers, though I was surprised to find a baby that didn’t look new born, but months old. I couldn’t quite tell since my experience with babies is limited, but it wasn’t pink but fat and sitting, which told me something. She came rushing into the room to greet me scooping up the fat baby as she did so. It had been awhile since I had seen her last, just under a year, and I wondered how she had had a baby without my knowing, and why she hadn’t told me, but I didn’t ask her just yet.
We talked of old times and such, where she kissed me on the shoulder, something she had never done before, and looked up at me with imploring eyes, though I couldn’t tell if she was imploring me for help or to come back. I asked what she was doing now, and she said she got fired from her job because of the baby, and was now cleaning houses; one of the lowest jobs you could get. I was surprised because when I had last seen her she had been working for the government and finishing on her degree at night. It struck me as very sad that someone who had such a promising future was now doing a job only uneducated people did.
As I was leaving, I asked about the child, and she said it was a year old. When was she free from working, so I could stop and visit? Every day but Wednesdays. That wasn’t enough work, I thought. She must be starving with her little one.
Now in the street, I started calculating. It had been over a year and a half since we had been dating, which meant that the child had been conceived while we were still dating, but it wasn’t mine. I knew that for certain. I had heard rumors during that time, but I never believed them, and now? I had confirmation. I stopped feeling sorry for her as I walked away.
Then I woke-up. I felt like calling her and asking her, but I felt even sillier for wanting to confirm that something wasn’t true, that I already knew wasn’t true, but still… Then I started going over it in my head. Why would I ever be there in June? Why would nobody have told me, especially her? That town was impossible to keep secrets in, even if you wanted to. And where was her mother, whom she had lived with?
While in the shower I was shaking my head at such dreams, and my dog scratched at the shower door, so I opened it and splashed her. Then got dressed, and went to work thinking I would need more coffee today than usual.
As I walked into the house where she was now living, since the door was wide open, I noticed a baby on the floor, which I assumed must be hers, though I was surprised to find a baby that didn’t look new born, but months old. I couldn’t quite tell since my experience with babies is limited, but it wasn’t pink but fat and sitting, which told me something. She came rushing into the room to greet me scooping up the fat baby as she did so. It had been awhile since I had seen her last, just under a year, and I wondered how she had had a baby without my knowing, and why she hadn’t told me, but I didn’t ask her just yet.
We talked of old times and such, where she kissed me on the shoulder, something she had never done before, and looked up at me with imploring eyes, though I couldn’t tell if she was imploring me for help or to come back. I asked what she was doing now, and she said she got fired from her job because of the baby, and was now cleaning houses; one of the lowest jobs you could get. I was surprised because when I had last seen her she had been working for the government and finishing on her degree at night. It struck me as very sad that someone who had such a promising future was now doing a job only uneducated people did.
As I was leaving, I asked about the child, and she said it was a year old. When was she free from working, so I could stop and visit? Every day but Wednesdays. That wasn’t enough work, I thought. She must be starving with her little one.
Now in the street, I started calculating. It had been over a year and a half since we had been dating, which meant that the child had been conceived while we were still dating, but it wasn’t mine. I knew that for certain. I had heard rumors during that time, but I never believed them, and now? I had confirmation. I stopped feeling sorry for her as I walked away.
Then I woke-up. I felt like calling her and asking her, but I felt even sillier for wanting to confirm that something wasn’t true, that I already knew wasn’t true, but still… Then I started going over it in my head. Why would I ever be there in June? Why would nobody have told me, especially her? That town was impossible to keep secrets in, even if you wanted to. And where was her mother, whom she had lived with?
While in the shower I was shaking my head at such dreams, and my dog scratched at the shower door, so I opened it and splashed her. Then got dressed, and went to work thinking I would need more coffee today than usual.
Friday, March 27, 2009
To a friend in a far off place.
If I found you again, there are so many things I like to tell you, but somehow I think you don’t want anyone to find you. Like how today all the names I’ve forgotten didn’t bother me, but those few names I remember are old wounds that I feel today because it’s cold, and one name in particular left a scar that hurts whenever someone accidentally bumps into it. I’ve been feeling alone lately. No one seems to know me anymore, maybe I don’t know them, or maybe I just don’t know. Even my muse is quiet, and I’ve been living in silence for weeks. For months I’ve been losing the war against myself even though I’ve tried every trick I know to win out. I stopped drinking so much, I started eating healthier, I started getting more sleep, and I started working out again. But still there are days I can’t look myself in the mirror, even though I look better than I have in awhile. Some people say I’m depressed, and that I should take some things for that, but they don’t know that I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember, except for flashes of childhood. So why would I want to change who I am just so that people could see me smile? I hate my smile anyway. I don’t think I have the kind of face that wears a smile well, and even though I’m not in the best of moods, I think that it’s right for today to be dark and cold because if it were warm and sunny, I don’t think I could have gone outside.
I feel like I should write today, but I can’t hear my muse. I’m thinking of going away, and not telling anyone. Maybe then I could find some peace, sleep through the night, and start to hear my muse again. I remember you telling me about a farm. I wonder if you’re still doing that and where. It’s funny in a sad way to think of how you among all of my friends, were able to understand me best, though we were always going in opposite directions. It’s starting to snow, though it’s almost April, which reminds me of being a child struggling to build a snowman when there really wasn’t enough snow. Back then I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know sadness yet. I just was, too deep I guess. Something got in, and I could never get it out. I put this letter out there knowing you won’t find it, but if you did, you’d understand.
I feel like I should write today, but I can’t hear my muse. I’m thinking of going away, and not telling anyone. Maybe then I could find some peace, sleep through the night, and start to hear my muse again. I remember you telling me about a farm. I wonder if you’re still doing that and where. It’s funny in a sad way to think of how you among all of my friends, were able to understand me best, though we were always going in opposite directions. It’s starting to snow, though it’s almost April, which reminds me of being a child struggling to build a snowman when there really wasn’t enough snow. Back then I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know sadness yet. I just was, too deep I guess. Something got in, and I could never get it out. I put this letter out there knowing you won’t find it, but if you did, you’d understand.
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