Old Man

Old Man

Loneliness is made of scented pine,
A penetrative depth that is never concealed,
By a glorious black dress, or a tinted suit,
Or a sweetened gesture; composed posture
Only a clean mind can truly be lonely,
A mind unaffected by the corruption,
Of man’s sensuous attachment to perfection

I watched a girl drop her empty glass of coffee,
With her momentous existence of a soul within it
As she suffered her way down the sidewalk,
In her needled heels that pierced the concrete street
I watched myself, clothed in tender grey,
Smelling like peach in the pale summer
Entirely sold to thieving dreams of ideality,
Dreams of a fine tomorrow,
That I seem to still believe,
Might be finer than today
You’ve got to wonder,
What a fool I am? Won’t you wonder?
Wonder for me, and for you.

The sun arose another Monday morning,
And we wasted 6:30 – 7:30 am,
Between the shrill annoyance,
Of four alarms, snoozed twice each
And 8:00 am taking us toward another charade,
Between the coffee shop and the office,
And the same old symphony of falsely exciting mundanity
I’ve always pondered, about the frequent visits of elder folk,
To the pews of tall churches,
And the circular centers,
Of dark-walled temples
I’m not surprised anymore; I’d be a fool if I was
Life eventually brings us to this strange place,
Where truth and absolute clarity don’t seem,
To hold such wonder anymore
There comes a time my love,
When all we seek, is comfort
Whether it be in the soft lies of a higher lord,
Or the deceitful embrace of an ancient holy book
There comes a time,
When the only truth in life,
Is peace; Any peace would do.
Such a strange narrative, aren’t it?

I slowly inch closer and closer,
To a place where the thick border,
Between truth and lies dissolves,
Into the heavy sweetness of my memory.
When all I seem to want,
Is to find the threads that make the remnants,
Of yesterday’s passing dreams,
And tomorrow’s lost hopes
So that I may continue to sew,
This fantastic epic of a drama,
That me and you, all those many years ago,
Decided to call a life
I’m inching there sweetheart,
Closer to that place.
When I will become the endless thing,
I never wanted to be.
Much closer. It isn’t quite the tragedy,
I might make it sound to be.
It’s just another page,
Amongst all those other pages,
Ah well, it just might be,
The last one.

It doesn’t take you fifty years to find,
The severe questions of old age.
Look at me, I’ve been here a quarter,
Of a hundred.
And I’m asking questions,
Even your granddaddy never dared ask.
People don’t grow old darling,
Humanity does. And we’ve gotten quite old,
Old enough,
To lay our dreams beneath the floor,
In the attic of our novels and paintings,
We’re old enough,
To waste away our youth,
With strange questions and cheap whisky,
We’re old enough,
To waste whatever we want.

I’ve told you my tale,
And it seems you’ve lived through it.
Get out now,
Go write your own story.

artwork: Alan Watts Quick Portrait – EightBitRemix 

Vanity Song

Vanity Song

 

It’s a sad song; do you really want to hear?

So many guitars weep,
When the moon decides to be clothed,
In her finest white,
As she steals the hearts of cowards like me,
When I’m not looking;
And instead, chasing, the last woman,
With clean lips and a soul mixed with chilled ice,
In the last remnants of yesteryear’s dreamed heaven

Lonely nights, by a fire, by a window, and now,
By a laptop;
Surfing the expansive frequencies of galactic connections,
Lost; this maze is too big to return sweetheart

What will you do to me, but sew my lips?
So that I may remain quiet
As you continue to dream,
Of perfect orgasms and a sparkling world,
With optimal amounts of chicken,
In your rice
And the right percents of fermentation,
In your wine; the accurate yellow,
In your whisky; such utopia;

Liars get tired of defining the world,
Words are all we have,
And words are pieces of injustice,
That create the falsity,
Of all that we determine real

It only gets shorter from here,
The verse, the pointless ramble
It only gets shorter.
Because words don’t live forever,
People don’t live forever.
Nothing lives forever.
Except the reality, that nothing does.
Dig it up. And you’ll see.

Netted

Netted

We’ve heard much; her hair,
Curled into a past filled with strong hatred,
Spice, ignored interest, and consensual harlotry
Aha! Well, she’s a maze,
Quite the intricate confusion that I desire
The broken piece of human cutlery,
That I prefer to shelve instead of dispose
She’s made of sharp pieces,
Of edges that will make you bleed
That look blunt in the dark,
And sparkle only in starlight
She’s broken, secretly; broken enough,
For me to want to fix her

Too much time sometimes, I conclude we spend,
In the treacherous abstractions of poetry,
In the brushstrokes of unseen colors,
And unread letters
Describing this tremendous woman,
Selling tiny crumbs of our souls,
To find words that penetrate,
The heart and mind of meaning
Sometimes, all it takes,
Is to look at her legs.
Netted in the finest black satin,
Calling out to the animal in you
To forget the mannerisms of polished etiquette,
And unleash the brokenness,
That wishes for nothing more,
Than to simply be heard

Instead of watching,
Her walk down that supermarket aisle,
Picking tomatoes, cilantro, and cooking oil
Staring like an otter in the middest moment of dawn,
At the appearing horizon
Go tell her, tell her about her netted towers,
Of the most artsy glory you’ve ever seen
Tell her how they torment you at 3 AM,
When all you can think about is her,
And how you’re human,
And weak,
And as honest as a summer sunrise

Sometimes, nothing matters,
Except those netted stockings,
That clothe the most glorious art ever seen,
Two legs, two towers, that breathe beauty,
That emanate the cleanest glow light can afford
Sometimes, some things need to be told,
Cause people aren’t erotic enough,
To embrace the sweet secrets of humanness,
That make living, worth living.

Itch

Itch

 

What makes you itch?
The fact that people know you,
Or spare a moment to bear thoughts of you,
Before they lay their lips to their pillows,
On nights when they meet loneliness,
In the middle of the road to optimal living?
Do you find the things that make your insides move,
In the twinkling of your neighbor’s eyes?
In the revelry of those falsely laughing other people,
In the craftily exposed exultation of your success?
What’s success? Hey, I don’t know.
What makes you itch?

Is it that a meager life, clouded in undirected misdemeanor,
Brings nothing but an allowance for soul corruption,
To your doorstep?
Corruption that you color with green and gold,
Drink and leaf, sweetness, mellow sour,
I know you; another escapist, dancing on the bottle rim
What makes you itch?
I know the work of your fingers,
The way they move, on paper, on women, on metal,
I know the cravings of their tips,
The little sips they take at subtle touch,
Drinking from the immortal ocean,
Of sensual feeling
But you haven’t listened to them, have you?
You were an artist. Now, you smell,
Of fraudulent indulgence and self-deceit
You broken child; you don’t smell too well

When we found our meetings too easy,
We took the long way home
So that we could meet the storm,
And dance with its tunes
We took the long way home

I’m lost now, and so are you,
What are we going to do?
Eat pickle and stew

What makes you itch?
Rock music, prostitution, delirious deductions,
Of decimal numbers and polarity
The sweet satin-clothed movement of milky skin,
On black-tiled dancefloors,
Or the cruel embezzlement of empathy and eroticism,
In the jailed gyms of our workplaces
What do you choose? What makes you itch?

I don’t know.
Do you?
Good night.