Snippet 2

She lays down on her side. She’s anxious again. The unknown reasons of this condition contribute to it’s bitter effects. She’s tired of sprinkling Zoloft into her meals. Co-dependence is never a co-incidence. “God Damn World” is the only thought that rides the loud breeze in her head.

Closer now to 40 than she is to 20, she longs for a carefree attitude. All the times she would go off into the night with only recklessness and men on her mind. It was like being strapped to a corkscrew roller coaster and only noticing when it stops. She wants to say that “those were the days”, but that just makes her feel older.

It may be a counter-evolution. There was a time in history were reaching 35 made you an elder. You were old. Then medicine made 30 nothing but a third. Now, in this time of stress and 70 miles per hour, 35 is the age of wear. She’s aware this may not be true for everyone. But for her it causes sleepless nights. It causes her ovaries to sing for worth. It causes dreams to become luxuries.

This should never be true for anyone.

Snippet 1

I wish I knew love like I know the concept. I wish love had touched me the way my pen had touched it. I wish it could stand before the world and describe my importance. It could explain how I am closer than I appear. It could martyr itself before me as I stand there like the disquished gent in a Jane Austen novel. Instead, I sit here more like Jane.

These are not proper thoughts for a man. Not in her time nor in mine. These are the mindlings of children. Love is not a character in a story. It is a reason for the page. It is the inevitable result of the ink on the page. It's much like a storm. It has its beauty. It has its destruction. It never tires.

Unlike myself. I have tired a thousand times over and still I sit a this desk, searching.

Thoughts on Topography

It was a delicious silence between each of her deep breaths. Her chest rose and fell in time, with tide on the beach. She was the same color as the sand. I almost couldn’t see her from where I was standing. The smell of the air was spoiled and salty, the sun was going down. The thought of what brought me here had been forgotten somewhere between here and wherever I was. Life was becoming hard.

I mean, I really didn’t know what was happening. My thoughts for this girl, my feelings for this girl, have become so thick I couldn’t see. It felt like a storm, a hurricane. Yet everything was still...completely still. Except for her chest. The topography of her torso would have made a lesser man cry.

In this stillness I could still hear the last song that had touched my ears. It was some kind of rock song that spoke on dissension amongst friends. I wish it would have been a happier tune. Because it really was a poor soundtrack to my current movie. I was becoming baffled by how little she moved.

I walked over to her side and looked down upon her. I wondered if she could feel my presence. I wondered if she wondered anything at all. I have seen vegetables that seemed more alive. But I stood there watching the sun’s shadows tick time across her body. I wasn’t really sure what I would say when she woke...if she woke. I just knew it was going to be new and fantastic. I knew it was....

Thinking Back on Contemplation

…but if it wasn’t for my head, I’d be all right. I got all these thoughts, you know? Thoughts of money. Thoughts of fame. Thoughts of pride, honor, titties…lots of thoughts. But they don’t ever take me in a straight line and it’s fucking annoying man.

I remember when I was a kid, playing with my toys, I used think how lame toys were. Yet, I had to have them. But kids are psychotic, so I let it go. But now I am older and still collecting toys. Transformers are now video games but hell, they’re still toys.

You want to know the stupid part? I sit in my house, alone, trying to figure out why I am alone. It’s almost like an out-of-body experience. I can sit and watch myself do this.

Hmmm.

I’ve had plenty of girls. I mean for a guy who has been overweight his whole life, I have had plenty of girls but I only ever got two to stick around. One was an innocent sunshine who burned out and became the darkness of infidelity. The other was (is) a beautiful creature. Together we made a creature. But seven weeks in, that creature decided it wasn’t ready for the world. Shortly after, we just became reminders to each other of the life that almost was. I don’t cry for her though. I don’t need too. We walked the entire road we had. We both took a turn and found we were no longer heading in the same direction. I have nothing but fond hopes and memories of her.

In the spaces between, in the times before and after, it has been all haste and temporary. I think it’s wrong to think I can change. I know there’s a girl who won’t expect me too. I have to rest my hopes on that. I mean, shit, my mind can speed up pretty fast in those times, when I am remembering, those times. Sleep, would be incredible.

Truth About Superhumans - Response to another story

He told you that being a superhero was so hard. You remember irritable bowel syndrome, migraines, eternal whiskey dick, boo-fucking-hoo. Being a superhero, and more specifically being eternal, is awesome. With every existence there are hardships, but this…this has all the workings of a dream come true.

Look, that whiny jackass has only been “eternal” for 80 years. That’s like a four year old complaining that Dad won’t borrow him the car. He just isn’t old enough to have earned the keys to this sweet ride. He’s not smart enough to chew gum and blink at the same time.

The life of the famed Dracula, bullshit as it was, was closer to what this life is like. There is always money. When I start to run out of it, I simply feast on some rich guy and suddenly what’s his is mine. Granted, credit cards are making this plan harder to accomplish. But, shit, I got forever to figure that out. For now, I am a LOT better off than I was in life.

When it comes to sex, well he’s right, we don’t get to have it. So what? Humans are food. I never stuck my dick in a hamburger when I was alive. A real Creature of the Night gets his kicks from the feast. So fuck a bunch of orgasms.

And this shit about irritable bowel syndrome? What kind of weird, fucking mutant is he that he ever has to take a shit? We’re Vampires, the Undead. That means we don’t HAVE to take a shit, not you don’t GET to.

I will give him this; however, the headaches are a real thing. If you think about it, nothing good is ever completely good. There is usually a price to any sort of bliss and the pain…well that is to remind that we are cursed. We are a…a blight. The feast is the only thing that numbs the pain. There is nothing that will ever relieve it.

Look, this life is going to be harder for some, than it is for others. This life is a never ending roller coaster and you got on, having to pee. A beautiful day becomes a completely different thing. It becomes a night of hunger and shadows. It becomes a life of a monster.

I’m going to let him complain because soon he’ll realize he’s a fucking idiot. He’s going to realize that he was lucky to have been bitten by a Slavic hooker and not some moron Goth shithead that had a boner for Vampires since he was 14. He says his life is hell? What ever. I have to go eat. The pain is starting to roll back in and soon it will make my sight a foggy hell.

Will you do me a favor? Will you tell that crabby son-of-a-bitch, that if he doesn’t like this life, then just go chop your head right off and shut-the-hell-up?

The Scents of Time

…the sunlight burns my skin. This darkened room is bright with noise and smells. I can catch the scent of ecstasy every time I lower my head to my pillow. Even if I turn my head left and look right out the window, I no longer feel as though there is a world outside. I’ve lost touch.

Arrrrgh! I want to be touched! My whole life I spent believing in Karma, the golden rule, all that shit. Do on to others and what not. I have helped old people cross the street. I gave money to the poor. And the crème’ de la crème’, I took a fucking chance on you.

Oh, with your emerald eyes that cried long after the tears have dried. Your fantastic hair and your mango smell. I would just sit and try to sense what you would need next. I was very proactive in all this. Your only proactive stance was too leave me.

I’d call you a bitch but even the dog is still here. I just wanted to be able to turn to you at any given time, and ask you to hand me the paper. Or watch T.V., as I gently rubbed the back of your head. Instead I torture myself on my hours off of work. The golden rule being forgotten now, because I can’t do this onto others. I’ll get fucking arrested.

So now as I sit in this darkened space, reading to the light of the fire that keeps raging. I let my thoughts wander in to the caverns of my mind. I let my situation define me. I hate. It takes so much energy to hate. Baby? Do you hear me? I’m tired from hating you. Maybe if I work out, I’ll bring a new bitterness to my vinegar. A new life to my rage.

The Desert

…sitting, staring out over the desert. I think to myself that it would be so cool if cacti were actually animals. Ones that would slowly wander the desert. They would tend to the thirsty and the hungry, giving themselves up for other people. Ah! A stupid fantasy.

The heat of the day seems to be baking the reality right out me. “I want a new vision,” I yell to the heavens. Suddenly the there is a black spot on the horizon. As it comes closer I can hear drumming. Every inch the blackness moves, the drums become louder.

Is it? I start to think it might be cacti. One cactus after another marching to the drumming. Meanwhile, in the center of it all, the blackness grows. It has waves behind it like an ebony veil.

Suddenly I can see what the blackness surrounds. It’s a woman. It’s…my new vision. And that she is. She has a body the curves like a mountain road. Her eyes are the kind of green you can only see when you’re hallucinating. Her dress is a fabric that I have never seen and does not seem to be serving much of a purpose. Her hair is black as night. At least until she stops. She is inches from my face. I suddenly feel cold. A closer look now. Her hair is a fiery red. I am not speaking in metaphors. As a strand fell from her shoulder and brush my face, I felt the burn. I heard a sizzle.

“I told you not to call me here,” she says as she sits in a chair unseen. The drumming has dimmed down to a muffled thud but still constant. It makes thinking, almost hard.

What was she talking about? I didn’t care her, it, whatever the hell this is. “Lady, I do not know you. I did not call you.” Suddenly, my chest felt tight and I couldn’t breath. She has not moved.

“Do not tell me things that are not true,” she said as the cacti slowly surround me.

At that moment, I remembered the old saying about being careful what you wished for. But that still doesn’t explain her. I felt like I was dying. My chest was tight but I couldn’t breathe. I raised my hand in a plea to release me. Slowly my chest loosened.

“I only asked for a new vision. You are definitely that. But I am quickly realizing is that this is miscommunication, not misinformation.”

That Woman is Amazing

…this maze I can’t figure out. When every turn is reciprocated with a similar view and every wall seems higher than the last. Oh, I have been walking for days. I keep asking myself all these questions. “What is your purpose?”, “What is hers?”, “When will we get there?” Every answer is the same…just keep moving.

I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for pride. I told her I could solve this thing. Said, I would do it faster, BETTER, than anyone before. Now the circles I wander in, mirror the thoughts in my mind. She’s foreboding soul. You can’t just let her challenge you and then step down. She’ll lose interest. Or worse yet, she’ll lose faith.

But I’m an idiot, none-the-less. It finally becomes important and I decide to do a maze in pen. Well, in manner of speaking, anyway. Full bore into my final destination because I can’t say no to that woman.

You want to know the weird thing? I walk. I stumbled over debris and vines, and small walls. Walk around the big ones. Plenty of barricades but no shade from the sun. I do all of this and truth of the matter is, she never actually asked me to. She just looked at me. Look at me with eyes of confusion and distance and said…

Statuesque Strength

...if it wasn’t for the wind she’d feel calm. She stands there anyway. Remembering when the love and happiness was enough. Remembering what it felt like to be surrounded by blue sky and sunshine. Now everything has the harsh dullness of gray and the wind is always just a little on the cold side.

Her days lately have her searching. She has wandered the far corners of her mind as well as her land. All of these journeys have turned up fruitless. So today, just another day, a Wednesday I think, she has stopped walking. Now she stands.

If she listened to the voices she would have sliced her self up by now. No, she fancies herself better than that. Smarter than that. Instead she has decided to fight. She often wonders about her strength level but none-the-less, she will fight.

It’s not quite darkness, but the gray lacks light. She can feel it attempt to consumer her. She can feel its icy fingers crawl under her clothes, under her skin. Her drives are all starting to shut down. Hunger, has faded to a slight thirst. Sex has faded to a longing to be held, even just a slight brush of her hair. Motivation has lessened to a slight inkling to see what’s next. She’s outnumbered in this and she knows it.

Yet she stands. The wind in all its might and flexibility cannot move her. The perfect picture of human dominance. The perfect picture of light being created within, slow as that process may be. The perfect picture of divinity on earth.

Sometimes Love is Twisted

It was cold outside. The kind of cold that makes your nose quit working. The kind of cold that makes icicles on your eyelashes. The kind of cold that humans were never designed for. And yet she stands there in the snow, naked as the day she was born, and cries. The funny thing is, that it was normal fight until I called her crazy. Now I am forcing myself to stand outside with her. Her beauty is only clouded by the misty phantoms that rise with every breath.

I tell her to come inside but she wants an apology. I tell that I’m sorry it’s so cold and ask if she’ll come in now. As with every sarcastic remark in the last 10 minutes, it was quickly followed by a snowball to the face. I could of moved but what’s the point? At least it isn’t knives, right?

She starts to disappear because the blue of her skin is match that of the sky and run out to her. She threatens to scream, but I beat to the punch. I yell out that my crazy girlfriend thinks I’ll be embarrassed by her screaming on the lawn in the middle of winter. She cowers and falls to the snow, sobbing. I pick her up and bring her inside. I set the shivering ball down next to the heating grate.

As I wrap a blanket gently around her, I start to hum her favorite song. You could feel the energy of her anger leave the room, with every bar of music.

She’s not bad or crazy. She’s sorry. She’s sorry for the pain others made her believe was her own. She’s sorry for the bitter words she always tosses at the sunshine. She’s sorry that love burns her skin like acid. She's sorry I had to see this.

I smile. All I ever wanted was an apology.

Running From Her Shadow

…but it was her shadow. She was standing just around the corner. She didn’t know that I had stopped running. I have even had time to catch my breath.

It’s funny because 20 years ago, I ran too this woman. I ran after this woman. I caught up to her just before she got on the bus. She was wearing nice clothes, her hair was done up, she was all class. And yet the contrast was unbelievable against the lackluster bus. I almost couldn’t take it. I ran up to her and grabbed her hand. As she fell from the bus, into my arms, a smile came across her face.

Now she is death to me. I could get away. I could I out run that frail, smoker of a woman any day. Something drives me to stay just out of reach. Her wrath would run wild on the world if were to ever be diverted from me. Not to mention, I might hurt her. Again.

I am 40 years old. This girl had eyes that were carved opals set in fine dark chocolate. She had hands with out wrinkles. Christ, she thought I was smart. It was an evil thing. Everything about it hurt everyone involved. The pleasure was stale and coated in guilt. Like using pepper to help the medicine go down. And now is judgment day.

She comes and I will keep running with only a narrow margin of error behind me. I will run until her anger has worn off. I will run until the stench of lust has worn off. I will run until my feet break. Or I will run until she catches me.

Pretense of Hate

“...wish you could understand! You’re always so caught up in your Jack Daniels, that you forget this man in your life,” I said at the risk of being ignored. She sways like the wind trying hard to look me in the eyes. She scrunches up here face in ways that demonstrates thoughts are difficult to gather.

She wasn’t always this way. We used to just pretend we hated each other. Secretly kissing in doorways as we made our way to the bars. She was a delicious beauty that would tell me that she loved me. In fact she told me in many ways, many languages.

Now she stands there, barely on her feet. Her hair mangled and strap of her dress is hugging her arm. Why do I pity this woman? Why do I care? She has darkness written all over her and yet I still love her.

Suddenly the bottle flies past my head and crashes into the wall. Literally, it’s stuck there. I thought to myself, cheap, f-ing apartments. She straightens and fixes her strap. She walks over to me and wraps her arm around my neck.

She whispers, “I am a superhero. I saved your life and I would do it again. I drink to control my power. I drink to sedate the demons that give me strength.” Suddenly, she falls.

“You’re demons are your strength you ignorant woman,” I say as I step over her to grab my coat. “Someday you’ll wake up and realize that. Then the next day, you wont wake up.”

I put on my hat and coat slowly. I bend down and kiss her on the forehead. Then I walked out the door.

Nothing So Rich as Freedom

If I hear that voice one more time, I think my misty thoughts might cloud again. I have always wanted to be a free man. One who could breathe the air without the permission of another. I was finding out slowly that destination has not been reached. That disposition will be delayed.

I grew up believing that the trees were the tallest things on the planet. I, later, found out it was her. Her personality, like her defenses, could not be breached. Yet, her eyes were ever watchful. I would often think she couldn't be real. Now I have come to realize that she too obscure to be fiction and far too thick to ever disappear.

I often find myself trying to discover ways of escaping. There was a time when I thought of poisoning her drink. She consumes whiskey more often than air. I thought it a perfect mechanism for my liberation. Unfortunately, her clarity as a drunk could rival a prophet. Also, the poison was not a thing I could come by without the plot being uncovered.

Then there was the time I scavenged for something as sharp and piercing as her gaze. This fruitless search only got me beaten for wondering. It's like she could read my intention. Such insight into my motives is more than disturbing. It's cleansing.

Now, I stew in my hold. The morsels of food that are sent to me are often more grand then her villany. They often have such rich flavor that the thought of finishing, angers my stomach. No, my quarrel is not with my surroundings. It's my inability to change them. I only want freedom. You can't be man like this. Canine thoughts are all I feel.

She will not falter, however. She will continue on like the desert and produce as much thirst. She'll burn for this. I may never touch that fire, but she'll definitely succumb to the flame.

Not Exactly What I Had Planned

...and I can't remember what this hole in my chest is from. I am pretty sure I am dead, though. I look around and it looks like I am still in my living room but everything is fuzzy and bright like when you wear those crazy, raver glasses. You know the ones that make every light look like the Star of Bethlehem. Anyway, I am pretty sure she shot me. Crazy bitch.

Look I call her crazy but I could just as easily be talking to myself. I mean, who punches a girl in the stomach? Not me. She just kept asking me to do it, though. We did this dance about how I wasn't going to hit her so she pulled out a shotgun. Damn! It was better when I didn't remember what happened to my chest. Now I am going to be locked up in her craziness for all eternity.

She was never a sweet girl. She used ask nerds out, at school, and then when they tried to sit next to her she would make a scene about how gross they were. Then in college she would continually stand up her dates. Or you might find her making out with a guy other than the one she brought to the party. She was a real piece of work. I can't believe she shot me though.

Well, I can't sit in my living room, standing over my body, forever. DAMN! I was sure there was a heaven. I prayed. I confessed. All for what? So that I could die and go to my living room. Sure the lighting is cooler, but come on! This is what I get for looking into her eyes. This is what I get for believing her mind will catch up with her emotions. A hole in my chest that's not even a metaphor. Shit!

No Clarity in the Rain

I often find myself hoping for rain now. I blame her. Hmmph, I say "her" like I'm sure she was a person. But whenever it rains I plaster myself to the window like a little kid. The sound equals comfort to me when few other things do. I used to hate the rain. It was wet, and it was often accompanied by destruction. Destruction took on a new name when I met her.

I remember all of it, every second. Sitting on the couch, hating the rain, and there she was. She was standing in the wetness staring at me through the window. I should have been freaked out but she was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that makes you breed songs, poetry. Her hair was night and her skin was day. I felt the energy change as soon as I saw her. The rain was consuming her but she didn't ask to come in. She just looked at me. I think that's why I opened the door.

Steam rose from her skin as she entered. When she walked past me and I swore she was dry. The rain stop, the world was quiet. She only asked if I was ready. That was last time I was able to focus. The last time I would know anything as vivid. The last time I would really know myself.

My Love Waits

I mean, yeah, she doesn't talk to me as much I'd like, but it's got to be fucking hard to be that woman. Her world is mutating, changing, hell even falling down and I want her to take a minute and tell me that she misses me. It's absurd.

I am starting to realize that my idiocy is growing. I am treating my love like the proverbial carrot on a stick. I just keep dipping it down into her world without even asking if she even likes carrots anymore. Maybe she developed an allergy to orange phalluses and she doesn't have time in this storm to tell me about her reaction.

I wish I could wait patiently for it all to be over but my view of the situation is non-existent, so my over active mind keeps SCREAMING AT ME that I will miss it. I keeps telling me that if I become forgotten, even for a moment, her memory of me will evaporate with all rain that has fallen in this current storm.

I am sure I am more like that three year old who is tugging on her pant leg. You love that three year old to death, but you just wish it would shut up for five seconds, so you could think. You wish it would get distracted by some toy on the dollar rack, so that you both could be satisfied. If not just for a short time.

I am no fortune teller but I do know that I want to wait. I like this anticipation. Unless, the impossibility is made clear, I will be waiting here petting the heart on my sleeve. I will continue to remind her that love sits here with its book of opportunities. Whether or not she shows up here someday is not in question. It's whether or not she'll stay.

My 9 Year Old Bedroom

I stood on the dock trying to figure out the path I walked to get here. I zigged and zagged through old stories of childhood. Then I took a left at adolescence. I know I went to college and took a u-turn. All because I grew tired of long hair and alcoholic trips. I drove over the hills of my twenties and now I stand here, in Missouri, with strangers at my back.

The dock sways with the waves. Its, less than graceful, movement is more like an argument than a dance. The chain on the flag pole rattles as the various boards creek out their song to the water. The air is about the temperature of a March 15^th in Minnesota. Which is cold enough to need a coat but not chilly enough to go and get one. There’s a mixed drink of flattened soda and spiced rum in my hand and I’m not sure why I’m not drinking it. The various lights on the far shore resemble the Lite Brite game as they display on the hillside. It looks like a taxi cab or a yellow fish.

Sitting down, as the waves finally calm, I kick my last leg on to the lounge chair. I wish I had a book to read. I guess it’s all right that I don’t because the nearest light is somewhere near my coat. It’s too bad, really. I came to this lake, in these hills, trying to find some peace. Instead, I found pieces. Pieces of the stories that everyone is trying to write.

I want to not to be influenced or changed from my style. I find it to be a carefully crafted machine that only works in characters with ten minute lives. In my heart, I know there is probably more. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have listened. I would have just sat back in this chair and hoped the mole, that is inspiration, would just burrow itself into my mind. In my heart, I know that’s not how it works.

So as the darkness bends and creeps through the lighted ripples in the water, I start to remember innocence. I remember the many days that I came home without a single grass stain on my pants. I remember dancing around to “The Rhythm of the Night” at a 45 speed. The house was so small to me but my room always felt big.

I‘d intentionally let my room get messy for weeks. Then one day motivation would be served like breakfast in bed, and I would clean it. Top to bottom, I would clean it. I would dust the wood with furniture polish. I would vacuum exactly 15 minutes after I put the pungent powder on the carpet. Every toy would be matched up with its little plastic gun or trailer that carried a non-detachable boat. When I was done…when my 9 year old room looked like a chic hotel with bunk bed. I would stand in the doorway and think how absolutely huge my room was. It was the feeling of conquering a foe.

Now I am so jaded and alone. Happiness always comes at me sideways. It’s always late for an appointment and leaves on the same whim that blew it in. Some might find it good that happiness is so good to pop in on me as often as it does. However, I am a man of structure and of detail. I often like to know the road I am driving on; in this case, living on. I am like a fiend for this knowledge. I sit and tie the tourniquet with all the places I need to be and I slap arm with the times I need to be there. It’s a real addiction. So this whimsical delight is a little like cops coming to through the door.

Sadness isn’t a true definition of how I feel at the moment. It’s more of a perpetual annoyance at the slumber I seem to be jumping around in. This, at times, will squeeze a tear from eye. I guess I am feeling the feeling of sitting here, on this dock, waiting for a boat to arrive.

Mental Valley

I often wonder how you’d feel now. I mean, I’m relatively the same shape. You’re relatively the same shape. So this is something I wonder. But wonder puts a hurting back into my thought process. So many things I should have tried. A single time I should’ve cried.

Ah, it was a weird day. That conversation had so many twists and turns. I feel like puking just from thinking about it. But what I failed to realize were that these were twists and turns on small mountain roads that were completely free of guard rails. But, such was our relationship. And in a single moment, a solitary failure, I drove it right off the side. Killed it, baby. Dead.

But who am I kidding, it only matters because everything since has failed. Nothing but multiple night stands. Only because a lusty need, tends to get filled, until the cup runneth over. So, one night tends to miss the mark. I miss all of them though.

When I say I miss them all, I don’t mean the sex. Because honestly, that was all anxiety, bordering on angst. What I miss is that half hour or so before the sex. When you know you’re in. When you know you drank all your milk and now it’s time for all that chocolate syrup at the bottom. Oh, you live for that shit!

Now that my orgasms are www, this and dot com, that…I haven’t felt that in awhile. I haven’t felt the slow hand on my back or the sleep in my arm because I didn’t want to untangle myself from her.

But I digress. I am sorry my timing sucks and I didn’t cry until recently. I’m glad you’ve stayed on the road and now found the right road to your dreams. And as soon as I pull myself out of this valley, I’m hoping to have a chance with someone else. You know, one more chance to steer right.

Less Than the Moon

I sat wallowing in this day. As hot as it was, I should have melted. But the waxy layer of my skin has long been worn away by the wrinkles of time. So I wallow. Now that’s a word that I love so much I tend to linger on it. Almost drown in it. Which is somewhat ironic. I guess.

But the moon is making faces at me. I love its reflection in the lake. It’s good to know that I can look down on something that is hundreds of miles away. And yes, it’s weird that I can feel superior to what is essentially a floating rock. My standards are a bit…substandard.

What do I know about standards? It was this place…this lake…where I first took her hand. She had a sadness to the way she touched me. It was slow, drawn out…hmph…messy even. Even with all that being true, desire was instant. Infinite. It flowed like the sweat creeping down the small of my back.

I didn’t deserve her. That isn’t some kind of defeatist attitude about my life or my physical attributes. I mean that I treated her poorly up to this point. But being the superhero that she was, she saw through the thick layer of bullshit and touched my hand anyway. Right here. This very spot.

Now, like the moon, I stand alone. I only seem to shine at night and my light is not my own. Beyond that I have no other lunar power. I don’t move the tides. I don’t affect the female mood and it seems that the Earth is pushing me away, if anything.

Justice

It was a long drive to the coast, but the whiskey made it shorter. It also made it more like a ride than a drive. It was hard to think these days. My mind and my soul were constantly being bombarded by thoughts. Thoughts of playing again. Thoughts of weighing in at under 250. And of course thoughts of anger. But not just any anger. This is the kind of anger that make your breaths shorter. The kind of anger that takes a thought like serenity and crushes it.

I figured I had about an hour or so until I got there. With Nevada finally behind me, the thought of hookers might finally leave my mind. God damn women and their bodies. It’s weird how one thing can diffuse and fuel anger all at the same time. It’s like scarfing down your dessert during your colonic. What a completely ugly thought. The drink must be making its charge.

I can smell the salt now. Taste it too. It makes the whiskey better. It’s a funny thing. “Purple Rain” is playing on the radio. It’s a hell of time to hear the saddest song I know. And almost like a conversation I hear him say, “I never meant cause you any sorrow.” I smile and say, “Ah, that Prince. He’s a wise ass.” If driving down the freeway, with your gas tank and your whiskey bottle showing the same kind of empty, doesn’t make you crazy. Talking to the radio would surely secure you in that category.

I pull up to her house. I sit in the drive way and stare at the front door. I know in my heart what’s right and what’s wrong, but I can’t bring my mind to care. I have to do this. Certain actions require certain reactions. It’s almost like a rite of passage. It’s almost like justice.

Just a Kiss in Time

…not fair, stealing kisses in a motel room. She was head-to-toe a disaster. She didn’t eat right. She didn’t talk right. She didn’t behave right. But she kissed me perfectly. Her lips felt like…JESUS, I can’t explain. There was no awkwardness in her tongue. There was no mishap in her movement. It makes me cry just remembering it.

The funny thing about this moment, this fragment in time, is that it wasn’t lusty. I didn’t need to have her. I just wanted to feel her lips on mine. I wanted my nose to do the fine dance of staying out of the way of hers. I wanted to smell her breath as it mingled with mine. But sex would have been unreasonable.

All this was triggered by a “hi”. Not a HIGH…but a hi. A single word and I was so fuckin’ hers. Her eyes tell stories of pain, neglect, mistrust, and loneliness. Mine simply reflect the world back at people as they offer a comfortable place to stay. My chameleon eyes, that change color with my mood.

We danced the dance for a year before we finally kissed and when we did there was explosions. There were marching bands in my head playing a fight song. Followed by utter silence in the world.

Then the kiss faded and I wondered. Could I handle waiting another year? It was possible that I might have to. Could I do it? I tore her heart from her chest with one syllable. No. I answered no.

Now as she sits and thinks on that, she must sink. Just a little, into the sand with every nostalgic thought. I know, at times, I do.

It

....It's just that I remember how bad I wanted to see her naked. It was unfair. This red headed, "Amazonian", lovely, lovely lady was all I could think about. She always smelled like fruit and cigarettes. Which was almost a perfect metaphor for us. I love fruit but I just quit smoking. I feel like I didn't know anything about her. But I feared that if I dove deeper into her psyche, I would hate her. So I continued to stand on the surface.

There came a day where I called her and asked her to get up and see "Sideways". A movie about stupid love, stupider lust, and wine. Three things I wanted to share with this woman. At the movie I made a completely conscious decision not to touch her. I mean she blew into my world so suddenly. The movie ended and we made plans for the evening. The only thing that kept this moment from perfection, was the awkward thought I had on whether or not to hug her. Damn she was beautiful.

The evening came in and we went out. There was smoky bar of soul music that surrounded our conversation. The Undercurrent underlined her sad words with a perfect blue. She told me about the life she was trying to leave so she could start living. It was a little sad to me. But her eyes put such a smile on me, you wouldn't have known. The concert ends at one and we rise to leave. I place her coat on her shoulders and put on mine. We walk up the stairs from this underground establishment and into the street. There was one couple, then two and so on. The mood built with every passing lover. It was electricity. It almost hurt. Then as I turn towards her, I am being pinned in a doorway. She's kissing me. I couldn't think. It was awesome. It seemed an eternity until she pulled away. Her eyes burned me. I loved it. She is just stunning.

I manuever my car back to my home. She gets out but heads for my door, not her car. I could not contain my smile. She walked into my house. She looked at the stairway to my room and smiled. At that moment, reality chose a time to punch me in my mind. I wanted to see her naked. I've said that. But, I also want to see her again...

I Stole that Line

I am fascinated by the way your nipples peek at me through you blouse. I stole that line, but that doesn't make it less true. Especially in this environment. In this dark, hazy club, everybody looks good to me. But you are exceptional. You make me want find a shadowy corner to grind. I stole that line too.

So I am not a total pimp. Hell, I am not even charming, but I do have certain something about something, if you know what I'm saying. I have the amazing ability to get far too in to you and then brood about it later. The internet means that our story will have global saturation. What do you think of that? You ever been saturated...globally?

What about this belly on me, Sugar? I had one chick call it a speed bump. I think she was saying it was a good thing. You like good things. I can tell. If you didn't, you wouldn't be chewing on a cigarette, while part of every drink spills down and exposes more of the aforementioned nipples.

Did I mention I have a job? Hell yeah, for six years now. When's the last time your man had job? I mean one where he got a paycheck. Not one where he had to check some fool for his pay.

Here's the best part about me, Lady. I kiss like a superstar. I have too, because once start getting down, if you aren't totally into me, you drop it like it's hot. I stole that line too.

So what do say? When was the last time you too home something half-assed for some ass? For me, it's been at least 24 hours. Shit, that's like a whole day. You dig?

Hibernation

She sits alone, in a moment of silence from the chaos that is motherhood. She doesn’t remember the question but the answer has her secluded in this room. Feelings of confinement are the only thing that has kept her from floating away. It’s not that she doesn’t like being a mother. In fact, she loves it. It’s the closest she’ll ever get to religion. Because, based on her current situation, the concept of God doesn’t make a lot of sense.

A child calls for her in the distance and she stands. She walks to the door, of this small room, and sets her hand on thin door. Every time she turns this knob she hopes it will open to a new world. Her wrist turns slowly and the door opens. “Not this time,” she mutters and walks down the narrow hall of the “double-wide”.

She stops in front of a body-length mirror in the hallway. She looks her perfections that are paired with her imperfections. Both of which of long been forgotten by her husband. “Hmm, I was just too young,” she says quietly. Another call for mom comes from outside. She hates that the walls are so thin, you can’t tell if someone is outside or not from down the hall.

She gets to the door and her boy just wants to show her a toad he’s found. She gets real close to it like a scientist and studies. She whispers in too her son’s ear, “He looks like a fragile one. Make sure you’re very careful.” The boy replies, “Ok, mommy.” Then he runs off. “Damn, he looks like his father.”

Suddenly, she realizes that’s the second time she thought of her husband all day. She doesn’t think about him much anymore. Except in annoyance. He’s not cruel but he’s not loving either. She heard loving was good. She’s pretty sure she remembers the feeling, but she wouldn’t bet on it. “Do I miss it?” she asks the air where her son used to be. On one hand she does. With all the enthusiasm she can muster, she does. On the other hand she won’t find it here and she can’t imagine getting anywhere else.

Another man is like another country. In that same analogy, she hasn’t renewed that visa ever. She might meet carnal needs here and there, but she wants love. She needs love. These children aren’t being given all of her because part of her is not being fed. Therefore, it has retreated into hibernation.

She won’t let it die, though. Not yet. She just checks in on it from time to time. In that small room, in the back of the double-wide. Someday she’ll walk out of the room and the air will be different. He heart will beat a bit faster. She’ll walk past the mirror without a single thought. She’ll grab her suitcase and kids and travel “abroad”.

Feeling February

The snow is half melted on the grass. For some that means spring is coming. It means warm air…flowers. For me it’s just a weird February. It just gets warm enough to make the world ugly. You were my spring. You gave me sunshine and bright lights, trees…leaves. You gave me beauty. All I ever gave myself was February.

Remember I used to find you out on the porch, reading. I used to sit right next to you and not say word. I just felt your warmth and smiled. Then after awhile you would say something. You crack a joke about my hair. You would ask if I finished the dishes. You’d say I love you. Then you’d smile.

Now, I just sit and stare out the window at the sleeping grass and pray for a smile. In this place I can’t hear the birds. I can’t hear people talk. I just get stare and think about my present. I remember when thinking about my present had two meanings. But all these memories seem too perfect, you know? It seems like a movie script. The whole “perfect girl” scenario has just been done.

But being in here has been a form of torture. On one hand I can hear everyone around me talkin’ at and swattin’ at things that aren’t real. On the other hand I’m not sure I’m not doing the same thing. Stokin’ the flames hope the fire will get big enough that I can wrap my arms around it.

I don’t care if you were real to anyone else. I don’t care what went wrong. I don’t care if you can’t forgive me or trust me. Baby, I just want to hold you. I just want hear your voice again. I just want to make it to spring.

Distraction

...so she’s sits and honors me with her presence. She has the fruity, sort of perfumey smell that women know that men remember. The kind of scent that will stop you in your tracks if you smell it at store. All because some fantastic looking woman wore it in your presence. The concept is as amazing as she is. She’s a righty that writes like a lefty. She tends to look uncomfortable when the mood is relaxed. She's all contradiction and misplacement and I love her. She starts to talk about her day and I desperately try to pay attention. Her smile throws me in all kinds of directions. She tells me her philosophy paper is about common sense and it becomes official. I'm lost. I'm lost by her thoughts. I'm lost by her sitting there. And I am lost by her scent. Oh that smell. I take a deep breath that might be obnoxious but I don’t care. I am trying to fill myself with her. She continues on about how she's always late for her deadlines. Her professors have all flunked her once. I nod and wonder if they were straight males or vindictive females. Oh GOD! Has she given me such tunnel vision about her? Is it possible that said professors did not take into account the beauty of the Gods as it stood before them? I shake my head and ask what made her want to have the same professors again. The answer to my inquiry, again, I didn’t really hear. Then the torture begins. She looks me in my eyes. It probably was a second but, I felt older after it was done. She smiles and apologizes for controlling the conversation. Oh, I could have kissed her at that moment. She reaches across the table and snaps her fingers in front of my face. I've lost it. I have drowned in this woman. There’s no way I can ever NOT idolize the shit out of her. There’s no way I won't long for her to grab me by the back of my neck and pull me to her. She stands and looks down on me. I didn't know she was that tall. I feel like prey. Prey that has given in to its demise. She has not moved beyond the extension of her legs. I look up slightly and I see her shape now. I see the way her body twists and turns like a smooth mountain road. I love the way her red ribbed sweater perfectly matches her old blue jeans. She walks around behind me and I can't bring my eyes to follow. I just stare at the now damned air where she used to be. I think this might be the worst I have ever felt. Yet I am so incredibly interested in the next few moments of my life, the sickness is like a distant warning. She's close to me know because that scent of hers is making the air fruitastic. Jesus! That’s not even a word. Suddenly the whirlwind fire inside me stops. And my mind slowly gets down off its tippy toes. I lean back in my chair to find her chin resting on my shoulder. This is what it feels like. This is two years of wonder ending in an instant. I am now balance. Calm.

Death Defining

It’s a struggle in this world. To accept life. To accept love. It’s a monumental task to see beauty, in the languish that we feel on a continual basis. And she, this sorrowful soul of a girl, is not handling it well.

Her days are spent searching for distractions. From morning until night it’s too hard to breathe. She is slow to realize that it’s a vicious circle. She is only distracting herself from distractions. The root of the issue sits comfortably in a bubble of ignorance, rather avoidance.

You can’t blame her though. It should be impossible to watch someone deteriorate in front of your eyes. To watch the life drain slowly toward their eyes. All the while, knowing that you will one day peer into them and see the last flicker swirl down through the iris. It should be impossible, but people do it. Heroes…all of them.

I have yet to experience death to someone whose life is truly tangled into mine. My reaction now, from afar, is that of acceptance. But people who stand outside the circle are never truly part of the game. Therefore, their love and support is nice, but it is far from empathy. And even empathy is far from what you feel.

These are my assumptions. I will never truly put myself in her shoes. I will never truly understand why she holds me at a distance. All I can do is love and hope she finds some kind of shelter in that.

Bound to Rain

I don't know what happened. Solitude faded to chaos and now I stand her dissolving in my own storm. Melting, like wax in a cauldron. Frankly, I’m annoyed by it all. I shouldn't be surprised though. You can't spend your whole life working yourself into an emotional desert. I mean, its bound to rain. Right?

I wondered, many times, how things would turn out. I imagined so many different outcomes, yet nothing I could think of could have compared. Such a complex web, tangled in a storm of feelings. I got tired of waiting for the rainbows to shine. Tired of waiting for the sun to stop burning. So I walked on.

I got as far as the next village. The sun had just set, so I could see but every thing looked as though it was the same color. A monochromatic painting of the world that was trying to eat me. UGH! I have to escape these battering thoughts. But I feel drawn, absorbed and diluted. Part of everything and yet wanting to get away from it all. Swirling with the clouds like a Van Gogh sky, confused, enticed by a foolish sense of adventure.

But if that is true, and adventure is what I truly sought, then why has it brought me here. Nothing ever happens in this town. This is the one place, in three days ride, that has never had to hang anyone. Yet here I stand, sword in hand, thinking I will pounce on a dragon. Well, one thing I have learned, is to not turn away from destiny. I felt there was something there waiting for me. I could hear it resounding in my head. It was almost like a call, a strange feeling that pulled me towards it and I couldn't help it. As I entered the town, the eyes over me felt penetrating, filled with questions... more than I could answer.

I heard varying voices asking me to sheath my sword. The also screamed, "What is your quarrel, sir?" And, "I'm sure there is a more civil way to go about this!" I ignored them all. I simply walked slowly through town. My mind was on high alert for my unknown adversary. The sun succumbing to cloud cover, which was making it easier to think. It seemed inevitable, unavoidable, I couldn't escape, there was no reason to run away. My eyes reflected the coldness of an iceberg...the fire of a volcano. I was ready. Ready for whatever came my way.

As I reached the far end of the village, my thoughts started a conversation. What will this dance be like? Will it be the gentle waltz of a duel with a suitable opponent? Will it be the chaotic jig that a dragon battle can bring? Neither option is what I wanted to do today. Then, before me, it was there. The opponent, I sought. I whispered a quick prayer and then walked forward.

Suddenly everything around me disappeared, vanished... my enemy was all I could see.

Bonita Mente

She sits on a sandy shore in Jersey. Her hair is wild with wind and humidity. Hasn’t eaten today but her hunger stretches far beyond food. She’s flailing right now and she doesn’t like it. She doesn’t know her direction and doesn’t fully understand her desires. It was an average morning, until she got to the shore.

The ships on the horizon seem to be heading straight for each other. If there is to be a collision, she hopes the explosion will move her. She’s grows tired of the sand in her shoes.

She’s pulls out a guitar and starts to sing to the harbor, “¿Donde’ es el mar?”. It’s a song she wrote. It’s about how you don’t see the things right in front of you. She’s a bastion of obvious statements and paradoxical insights. This girl loves inside herself far too often.

Now the world is presenting her an opportunity. Love, outside her protective shell. A man that loves her mind, heritage, and to a certain degree, her accent. A man that drifts from one page to the next without any sort of satisfactory punctuation. The artist’s mind is something she shares. There is a laugh inside her but the world won’t get to see it right now.

“Oh,” she frets as she bags up her guitar and stands. She’s been everywhere. She’s met all kinds of people. Yet she has never felt more foreign, then she does right now. Love is another country. It has a language that is either understood or it's ignored completely. The pressure is that of a hundred questions. Love is river and she is not sure she is ready for the rapids. "They say it's quite rocky," she says as she turns and walks toward home.

But with all missiles that her mind’s been shooting at her, she knows she still must go. This city has lost its fervor. Her favor is heading north and she aims to follow.

© Timely Disposition 2006