Words like Bohemian once meant: collectively or solitarily creating by any means affordable.
Bohemian once marked the artist and their instrument; maybe they had one good suit that they wore to every showing, reading, exhibit, gig, ect.
In the morning they returned to the life where normalcy lives.
In the morning they returned to their jobs they most likely despised and most likely only paid in perks; like being able to live upstairs in the attic/studio/ bungalow cheap or even free. The view of the city is perfect and the light is just right, or might be that sitting out there inspiration comes down like never before. The muse takes control of the hands and before long two maybe three books are done and number four will have to wait because some one is at the door.
Today, words like Bohemian is the name of the IKEAN furniture set that one can place in their trendy little apartment; in a trendy little neighborhood that going through the trendy little process of Gentrification.
Old homes demolished to make way for factories that are then turned into cheap office space to later be renovated in the form of living lofts or expensive studio apartments.
Today, words like Bohemian means having an air freshener in the shape of Buddha or Kali hanging from the rearview mirror of your hybrid, energy efficient, carbon foot print conscience vehicle. Making your way downtown fast to buy those jazz posters you saw at Target, it would go great for decorating the music area, but first you have to stop at the corporate own café and get your moca loca latte; which is made from environmentally friendly grown and fair trade beans with organic soy.
Today, words like Bohemian mean nothing more than Trendy, Chic, Modern.
Today, words like Bohemian have conformed to convention and are nothing more than a label for something opposite than what it use to mean.
Today, we use words like Bohemian because they are not Bohemian.
Where time and creation begins and ends your arms stretched out from the new, creating love, forming the first house of light, the first temple of truth.
Pure and untouched it was then, so shall it be in the end
The many words in the many books you’ve read. The lyrics you pour into your ears then repeat back slightly out of key. Sometimes a joke or two, or the smile they are meant to bring.
What are you hiding behind?
I use to use an intimidating face and muscles. I now use the very opposite, strangely it works just the same.
Some like the rain because it hides their tears.
For a while, a brief while, I was able to use money and the big home, but not the fancy car.
I personally hid a long time but now I’m open, now I’m naked.
It’s funny what you see when you realize you’re standing naked in a soul tundra with only a mirror as company
Did you see the scars on my head and face and want to cross the street?
Did you clutch your clutch just a little tighter?
I know you didn’t think I was cute or sexy. You might have a few years and pounds back.
Maybe you saw me that day and my clothes that were ragged and out of style and thought I was poor, or a crackhead, or something to that effect.
Maybe you wanted to laugh.
I warn you, I am no joke.
That day you came upon me laughing and smiling; being generally happy I could see in your eyes you thought,
“how unmanly, punkish even.”
I tell you how sorry I feel for you. While I continue to do and be me fully and completely what do you see?
When you look in the mirror what stares back at you?
When you put on the latest and buy the greatest I wonder if you ever wonder,
“why?”
When you spend extra for the super silky human hair, or make sure you’re the tips of your locks are the perfect red, or even spend thirty dollars on the perfect brush to make your waves come out just so. Do you ever wonder,
I never listened to it except for what I heard when flicking threw random radio stations trying to get to a particular one, or when it was in some movie sequence.
It was old people’s music and it put me to sleep as child so why bother.
It was not till I got a night job, downtown San Francisco, did the subtle tones of a muted trumpet or saxophone, or even the voice that was more like a dulcet whisper start to infect me.
Some how, all of it, the tunes, they got in my blood. I began to felt them where as before I only heard A, C, or E I now heard my soul speak.
When I got into deep passionate fights with my ex only to make up with even more passionate sex I understood why Billie Holiday moaned her notes instead of belting them out.
At night, when it began to drizzle and then lightly come down I started hearing Charlie’s piano as the rain drops captured the glow from the many headlights of the many cars and for the briefest of moments come to life, become visible. For the briefest of moments on was truly surrounded by falling stars.
Walking around the city on a cold winter night watching the steam rise from the sewer caps; listening to the people on the corner and even down in the BART station play what ever instrument they had in the way of the siren called jazz;
I was swayed and I was rocked till my being crashed into the shores.
My soul opened and the notes that Miles’ and John’s horns played turned to words. These words that I now could hear, but could not see like other words poured out of me and into me at the same time. These words only made sense to my third eye. These words only made sense to the depths of my heart.
One must experience love to know how it sounds.
One had to experience loss, death, even birth to know what key they are in.
This feeling that is jazz is a soundtrack to a life lived in touch with emotion, in tune with pain; a life that had joy, high and low.
This thing called Jazz carries spirits of lives lived and yet to be lived.
This thing called Jazz must be the sound of life in its entirety.
Jazz must be the sound of love.
Jazz must be the sound of time.
Jazz must be the sound of life in the process of living it.
A land of Monks and Holy men and women where war is never studied, rumors of deceit are derelict.
A Kingdom with no need of arms.
A Government ruled by compassion, laws born of vision and spirit.
Moral conduct based on acceptance not exclusion, thought not action.
A place where one is not greater than the whole and the whole is not more important than the one.
There is no place to be taught, given a skill, or even told a format, but many homes where one is helped to discover their own and then dared to locate, if any, and explore the limits of such.
Farmer Philosophers, Educator and Confectioner in one.
Poet fisherman, Holy men and women overseeing the keeping of the history.
As they grew one spoke very little but when she did her voice boomed. When she did speak her voice resonated in every corner and all that could hear heard; all that could feel felt their chest vibrate and their souls stood at attention from its harshness. Their souls stood from being convicted and chastised.
Her sister spoke quite often. Her voice was so soft and just as gentile as a whisper in the mid autumn breeze. Sweet was her tone; like baby laughter or lemonade in the hot summer sun. Not all heed her call but those that do rarely escape. You must choose to listen to her. You must decide if her pianississimo is worthy of your attention; deserving of your time.
At any given occasion they are around the other; in the others presence. You may never see them in the same place at the same time. There are other instances when it is most difficult for anyone to tell them apart; instances when ones voice is repeated over and over that it sounds like the others. Very quite often when one can not be heard it is because ears and hearts have been made deaf.
Most of the time when ears have not heard either; the fact of their twinship leads some directly to confusion and chaos; their mother and father.
I could say I didn’t know already even though I did. I chose to ignore the times before; disregard displays made plain as day.
Acceptance was total and whole; that is what you are supposed to do.
Confused by clarity Damascan eyes see.
While I gave a damn about you, so was it only.
It became clear; long as the benefit ultimately remained yours at days end things were fine, but if and when the light could not, would not, center you any longer that is when you are known to shatter.
Liken to a small branch you are; given a little pressure you break, or leaves blown left and right by the wind parallels your sway.
I had just come out of coffee shop with some Tea. The part of town I live and work in has never heard of such a thing as a Tea house; it could just be me, being picky and particular. I headed to my normal spot on the bench in the manicured, man made, open area park on the roof of the building I work at.
Today was different.
Today when the escalator brought me to the top floor (like it always does); I opened the door to the manicured, man made, open park area and inhaled the relatively fresh city air (like I always do) which is always better than the recycled air that circulates in my building.
Today was very different.
There was an old man flying a kite, or rather had already gotten the kite in the air and was now watching it glide, watching it’s tail whip and snap in the wind current. This old man was sitting down right in my spot. I made the decision to not care and to be happy anyway. I only get a half hour for my break and the majority of it I spend getting to the coffee shop and back. It only leaves me a few moments to drink my tea in peace, drink my tea and relax. It only leaves me a few happy moments during my busy day.
The old man said to me,
“Asking the question Why is part of being happy. Most people don’t live long enough to realize that to get to happiness you have to start with self, with I. They make it quite simple enough you know. They put it in the words; Happy ends with a Why, but to get Happiness you have to stop asking Why and realize I. Then you finally can get to the Ness the state of being. Realize I but first ask Why and it will lead you to that state of being. It’s different for everyone though. I think that confuses a lot of people too. They like to think that it’s the same for everyone and its not, but that’s part of realizing self, realizing I.”
The alarm on my cell phone went off letting me know that my break was over. I did not even get to drink any of my tea, but it was cold now so I gave it to the old man. The next day he did not come back, or even the day after that. In fact I never saw the old man after that, but I always ask myself and wonder what ever happen to him.
I don’t work in the building anymore but I still come back every now and then. Today I thought,
“What the hell”
and I brought a kite. I’ve never flown one before so why not today. I got it up really high I think for my first time. I sat down in my spot and tied the string to the bench.
This guy opened the door and looked at me as if I had said something foul to him but I did not care, my kite was high and had a steady wind. The guy looked so mad with his head phones on. I was not going to say anything to him but then I remembered the old man’s words and I though I would share them with him. They might have the same effect on him as they did on me. After I finished he grabbed his pocket and practically ran back out the door leading back into the building. He even left his drink.
I never went back to the building after that until they told me that they were going to get rid of the manicured, man made, open area park on the roof and put up cell phone towers. I made a promise that I would go back one more time before they tore it all up. The funny thing is I went back once a month with my kite, when it was not raining, and they never did, but the same guy whom always looked pissed did. He never spoke but I did. I told him the old mans words once more and what I personally learned as I applied them.
One day with my kite in hand I got off at my stop and saw that the whole building was gone. I’m going to miss that building and the manicured, man made, open area park. I’ll even miss the angry guy, but truth be told now that the building is gone it all really felt like de ja vu at times. Then again one of the things the old man said to me is that nothing at all is new under the sun, not even life its self so maybe I’ve done it all before and just don’t remember. Whatever the case may be I hope that angry man gets happy one day.
Embracing, caressing, stopping time, stopping motion.
A cold overcast sky is their backdrop so they emit their own sun. They generate their own heat.
Standing at the end of the dock they hold the other. Their lips mingle in their pursuit. Hands traveling from the back of the head to the checks, the neck, racing down to the small of the back; resting, abiding.
Ignoring the world with complete and total disregard they feast on the soul.
Embracing, caressing, stopping time, stopping motion.
They share such a simple small thing. They experience a moment, a single moment in the not so endless, not so infinite construct we call time. They give willingly to each other their most precious, their most sacred gift. They share their life; they share their souls in a simple kiss. They become a singularity.
Stopping time, stopping motion, while embracing, while caressing,
Three pigtails enclosed by three pink barrettes shined along side her finely brushed hair, same as the color of a moonless midnight sky. Not at the age of self-consciousness she smiles her snaggeled tooth smile in an attempt to rival the sun. The oshbgosh overalls matched her three pink barrettes exactly. Her shiny white Mary Jane’s complemented her undershirt with the ruffled sleeves.
She had been a good girl and had kept herself nice and clean all day, even with the chocolate ice cream.
She laughed and smiled all day, sometimes sticking her tongue out part way.
Skipping down the street with father in one hand and her bright red balloon in the other.
Her teeth disappeared and her laugh turned to tears as the balloon escaped her hand, slipping her grasp. Gently it climbed higher and higher as she looked on begging father to make it come down.
Father bent down kissing her forehead and whipping her tears he said,
“My sweet baby girl everything goes away one day.”
I had a dream about this old man. He had a seed in his hand; it couldn’t have been bigger than a poppy seed. I got so scared I ran. I ran so hard and fast but I could not get away. His hand just stretched out and grabbed my shoulder bringing me down to the ground. He held me down with his pinky finger while he put the seed in his mouth. He said something, kissed my ear and vanished.
I woke up got dressed and sat at the bus stop waiting for it to come like I always do. I looked up in the sky and watched the clouds pass by on their blue road and a lady bug landed on my shoulder.
Just then I remembered what the old man had said to me.
I got up and went back home. It was Sunday, my day off.
Unique as the distant fog blanketing the hills, bridges, and valleys while I stand in eighty degree dry heat.
Universal as the child reaching up, trying to grab the balloon that has fled from them.
What we discern as good or bad the sun shines and rain falls on all alike.
What would make them choose rain, cold, and fog over the sun and its warmth?
Is their heart so cold that the sun’s heat would melt it?
Is it that in the rain they can hide their tears in plain view instead of the dark?
Have their souls become so clouded by the hardships of life that the winter sky gives them solace in its similarity?
Schadenfreude I think it is; dancing, calling down thunder and lighting to interrupt the children playing in the park. Schadenfreude I think it is; delighting in old man winters bite, in his season of desolation and death, delighting in Demeter’s sadness where nothing new can be and all things old cease and deist. Schadenfreude I think it is; smiling with pleasure while those not equipped for cold try to bear, bundling and together to stay warm.
Maybe, just maybe that is the cause. Maybe, just maybe that is their only way. The simple need to be touched by another. The cold, the rain, the grey skies, only offers that one advantage. The warmth of those whom love blue sky, the sun and the heat is stored in their hearts and in their smiles. When the season of death and stillness comes they still remember the sun and people draw near to them and share in their touch, their warmth, their sun.
I feel, sometimes, like my body doesn't fit my soul. It’s too tight. I feel like its going to pop out my eyes or fall out of my mouth.
Gravity is the force that keeps our bodies on Earth with our souls trapped inside.
Twisting around my head then to my toes seeking solitude one moment then joyful companionship the next. Sometimes it leeks out with my tears. I felt it those times I shed blood.
There are times when I feel it pour and drip from my fingertips.
The other day I held my mothers hand in my own. It was the first time I noticed that they were the same.
“Pack it up and call it quits.” Or “Hang on, just for one more day.”
One more try maybe?
Does the promise of ten fold await or am I finally grasping my hallucinations of aspirations?
Dreams and delusions are the same; steam and smoke, nothing more than vapor of the mind. Which ones do I hold on to? Which ones do I let fade?
I’m lucky to be alive and that is the extent of it. If I knew that I sucked I’d be the first to admit it. Assholes and some random mutha fuckas I can’t really trust. While friends and family don’t say anything at all that my paranoid ears hear correctly.
Confusion.
I sigh and exhale still wondering, contemplating what is real or what it is that I want to be real. So many words in my head and I try to quicken my hand while placing them in some order that not only makes sense, but sounds to the ear like sweet tastes to the tongue.
Sometimes I believe it works sometimes I throw it all away knowing trash when I see it. Watching miracles happen around me I question,
Shadows surrounding me; surrounding us all; holding our mysteries, our secrets, and our lies.
We know they are there and we choose to push them to the left, push them to the right, just push them wherever we can not see them. The problem is that we just can not push hard enough to push them away.
They move when we move, stay when we are still.
Have you ever looked at your shadow? If it had eyes to look at, to stare and peer into deeply what would the soul of the shadow be like? What would it feel like?
The soul of the shadow; is that the place where those corners and recesses lie? The soul of the shadow; is that where those thoughts and urges hide? Those urges deep in the soul of the shadows heart, those ones that “normal”, “law abiding”, “respectable” people do not mention in public or polite and casual conversation.
I’ll share a secret, when I think people are lying to me or when I meet new people for the first time I look them directly and deeply in their eyes. There are things there that the soul says that the mouth won’t (or are not allowed too.)
What if shadows had eyes?
Would I want to see those things that people hide from other people, even from themselves? Would I want to see the things that even a person’s soul does not want to acknowledge?
I’ll tell you. When I met you and spoke your soul answered back.
When I stared into your eyes light not of this earth shone back. When I touched your hand a warmth not known to me emanated. When I come near you your child like innocence mixed with wisdom bestowed by time and error creates a feeling of relief and calm, as if your soul had thousands of arms and they all reach out to comfort me. When you smiled at me for the first time it was as if a butterfly had taken flight from a rose with the dawn’s light as motivation; to this day it remains the same.
You asked me,
“Why do you care?”
It’s simple, because you are you. These few words still do not compare to the feelings they are meant to describe.
When I was younger I believed in God, Love, and Magic.
When I grew older they told me not to believe in magic anymore, it was childish and silly. They finally said that it was witchcraft and against God.
When I was a child I believed that God never makes mistakes, that God loves everything great and small and in between. I use to sing songs about how Jesus loves the little children. When I became a “man” I was told that the wages of sin was death. If you live a godly life and where a good (Baptist, Pentecostal, Episcopal, Methodist, Seventh day Adventist, Mormon, Catholic, Lutheran, even Non-Denominational, whatever) and only a (Baptist, Pentecostal, Episcopal, Methodist, Seventh day Adventist, Mormon, Catholic, Lutheran, even Non-Denominational, whatever) then the kingdom heaven would be yours. I was told that sinners would all burn in hell and that to lay with a mans as one would a woman then it was an abomination.
Imagine my surprise to know that as a child my God loved me no matter what but as a “man” I disgust the creator of all things great and small and in between. I disgust the knower and founder of all knowledge. I disgust the omnipotent one because of something that I had no part in and no control over. As a man, somehow, it does not make since to me. It sounds more like something another man would think of instead of the God I use to know.
When I was a little child I believed that love (whatever that was) made the world go round and that what your heart was for. When I grew older I realized I’ve never known that type of love and have known it all too well. I’ve seen the very thing pass me and abide with me in my home as if majesty became mine. Then when the majesty became real it was gone like it was never there.
Why do I allow you to darken my doorstep; you, you old spirit.
I felt you around the corner and I saw you walk up the block, and I still let you in. I knew that letting you in you would only tear my house asunder leaving me to pick up the pieces. I’d make everything all nice and pretty only for you to destroy it again.
Why do I allow you to speak to me; you, you old spirit.
Without saying a word you lied to me. When you did speak you sanctified your bible of deception with even more lies. All of it, every syllable of every word of every sentence you’ve spoken before. All of it, time and time again your lies flowed from that abyss to the point where I could manuscript them without correction, yet I still gave you my ear. I still hang on to every lie as if not to drown knowing fully; without a shadow of question that not only do the lies let me drown but they are the cause. I still swim tirelessly with my ears heavy.
Why do I allow you to look at me; you, you old spirit.
Your icy gaze finds its way into my heart, my soul, my entire being. I feel your gawk mostly from your sisters’ younger disciples that can not tell the difference between the evil twins. There are times when it comes from the minds that your father whose only name we can pronounce as “time” has twisted into something sick and demented; something found in the bile of maggots and in the fluids of diseased rotting flesh. Then there are times when your gaze comes from those that know the difference between the two yet your sister has trained them well in her ways. They seem and maybe think they are of pure intentions, as pure and as precious as a rose in a garden of weeds. You have already doomed them as you have me. I know I should not turn to look upon you but I do, and it is still you. I see all of the things that you hold in your eyes even though I know they are all of the same things that were there before. The same things that were there when our eyes were first introduced.
Why do I allow you, you old spirit.
Why do I allow you to come near me? Why do I allow you to speak to me? Why do I allow you to look upon me? Why allow you, you old spirit?
I guess because you are the only one that has remained true. You have always been concrete in your lies, hurt, and pain. You have always been there when I did not need you and when I was at points where I would not open the door, even for you. When I would not listen to your lies; when I would not look upon your beautifully twisted face and stare deeply into those hollows you have as substitute for eyes, looking for a soul losing my own in the course. You took the extra time and effort to wait at the door so when I did let you in on the fiction that you would not wreck and ravage my house like you did the last time. When I would not listen to your deception you sung so wonderfully, you belted so beautifully anyone would have swore that you cold talk an angle down from heaven. No one would ever guess the angel would suffer a faith worse than Hitler in hell.
When I would not look you took a form so pleasing, so beautiful not even the first day would dare to compare. I knew beneath it all you were uglier than all foulness, all wrong.
I guess you, you old spirit, you being my only true enemy you have treated me better than any friend. You being the only thing that I ever truly desired I received only your truest detest.
You, you old spirit.
You love me enough to hate me. I allow you because I’d rather you hate me than nothing at all because that’s what we’re supposed to. I can find happiness in the pat on the back. That is before you stab me.
Why do I love you, you old spirit of love when you never have loved me?
Thank you Lord for breathing life into me for another day. Thank you lord for letting my eyes and letting them see all of the wondrous creations that you have made. Thank you lord for giving me a sound mind that is able to chose the right path and learn from the mistakes along the way.
Thank you Lord for giving me ears that hear laughter and ears that hear cries. Thank you Lord for my mouth that lets me praise your name, speak my mind, make a joyful noise (and some would call it that) speak out against wrong and voice how wrong I maybe.
Lord thank you for giving me a heart that pumps the blood through my veins and the emotions through my soul.
Thank you Lord for my legs that move me from here to there with the ability to walk or run and the feet they balance on even when they are sore and ache. Thank you so much lord for my hand and fingers that you have blessed with ability and with some call talent (others call novelty)Thank you Lord for my home that is mine and keeps me safe from the cold winter rain and shaded from the hot summer sun.
Thank you Lord for my life and not making me anyone else but me. Thank you for not giving me anyone else’s experiences but mine, not letting any others pain or pleasure or pain over my doorstep. Thank you for no one else’s riches, no one else’s misery.
Thank you Lord for you. I believe in you and I do not pressure other to because that is not what you asked me to do. I thank you Lord for you because for without you there would be nothing, I would be nothing. Without you lord there would be no sun, no moon, no pleasure, and no man that bring pain.
If I forget to say this on a daily basis then know that it is carved in stone signed and sealed with blood and implanted in my heart.
Your eyes ask me a question yet they tell me lies. Is it that you are high or drunk and do not realize what it is that you are doing, or is it that you are testing your powers of seduction and I am the sacrifice?
Whatever the case maybe you lie to me: your eyes, your gaze, even your body tells me a story of deceit, and only one thing dances on your mind.
What demon posses your heart? What has made one that was once trusted into someone whose eyes I can’t even gaze upon?
I don’t know you anymore.
“All things change including people.”
This I know, change is what makes us who we are. Change of the mind, and of the body is inevitable. Change is what has made us too successful masters of this earth it is who we are but the spirit stays the same.
Your spirit has been under attack for too long. We try to help but you turn us away.
The “You” that burned with the fury of the sun has been reduced to the flickering flame that stands before me. This person you are now is alien to me. You say things that you would never say, you do things you would never do, yet I take time and wonder what has made you this way. What has created this person whom I do not know, whom wears you as a shell?
I don’t know you anymore.
You say it is me that has changed and I agree. I have changed to grow; the mind must grow to hold more knowledge. The body must change to go with the change of the earth. You have become stagnate. You ferment, never expanding, if you do it is only because you absolutely must, or worse to stay the same.
I don’t even recognize your face. I don’t even recognize your voice. I only recognize your name. Your body posses the same features and your address is the same but
“Run, run, run, check all the e-mails, I have a thousand and five things to do and not enough time in the day to do them.”
I went to my desk and looked out the window and the sun was shining.
When it was time to clock out and was on my way home I for some reason always take notice; seeing all the hustle and bustle, people complaining and yelling on their cell phones, tapping and clicking away at their I phones, Blackberries or Laptops and mothers yelling at their children.
I looked out the window, up at the sky, and the sun was still shining.
True, I barged into your world without permission, yet you knew I was there. I saw what you saw, felt what you felt, heard what you heard. Then you shoved me out like a new born from the womb.
What is it that you don’t what to show?
What is it that I can not touch?
Is it you true desire or is it your most hurtful pain? I ask these questions not knowing if I really want to know the answers.
You are to the point of predictable. I see your true intentions in all the selfishness.
You manipulate with a chuckling smile, but never letting any too close.
They might find out that you only care about satisfying the need, feeding the hunger.
I often wonder if you even think about you.
You thought I was like you in passing, and maybe I am. I see invisible hands stretching out with my third eye. This lady said I was born with it open and that does explain a lot.
Misery is head over heels for company so you make rounds picking a new on each chance you get. Thinking, hoping, and praying that they are like you; thinking, hoping, and praying that another of similar like can justify and excuse you.
In the end you are your own shadow. You think you are less than a full and whole person so you attach and fit yourself onto and with others. You rid yourself of them as they turn the mirror on you.
You figure because you can function with a smile that there is no problem. What will happen when it cracks and someone, anyone, sees past you.
Do you know that it is more? More than a word, more than a feeling, more than what they sing songs about, more than what they write plays and film movies about.
You think you know, now that you have found someone and have spent a while with them that you can define every letter. You think because you have watched the sun kiss their brow and gently greet them to the new day that the two of you together are the full embodiment of the emotion?
Back rubs with hot oils, bubble baths and chocolate (or strawberry) syrup. Them just showing up on a random day at work in the middle of the day with roses; just for no reason at all.
Let me ask you.
How does it feel when you have come home to see that all their cloths are gone? What letter of the word expresses the look on your face at the very moment your heart processes that your suitcase is full?
What does it mean when you open your mouth to try and explain to your friends why you haven’t called in so long and your voice flees you; tears well up in your eyes and you hang up the phone. You tell yourself you will call them back but you don’t. You tell yourself you will go by but you never do.
What do you know about love?
What do you think you have come to comprehend about that word?
Let me ask you.
When your special day has become routine, the favorite dinner is now always left cold and untouched what is your plan?
What part of love explains why they all look like them when you look out the corner of your eye?
Have you comprehend why you still remember which side of the pillow their drool pools? Why you haven’t thrown away their favorite shirt and pants even though you have bleached, cut, and shredded them?
You and they sit on cloud nine not soiling thine feet with the filth of the earth. Love has lifted the two of you to peaks of mental and physical ecstasy that you think no other has known; no two other could grasp.
Agree to disagree. My right is your wrong. The purple sea and the brown sky does not exist in your universe but why?
Why are you trying to destroy mine?
You tell others of my abominable world and spread decadent lies that I could only wish.
I’ve seen your world and even though it filled my heart with sorrow, my mouth with disgust I let it be. It is yours not mine. I have no right, I have no say, but why?
Why have you said so many things true and untrue about me, about others like me? Why have you sought to destroy me and others like me when we have done you no harm?
In my world we agree to disagree. We let be as long as there is no harm done.
I want to call you friend but I think that this is the only thing we shall agree to disagree.
Down with the corporate pirates whom steal the common man’s hard earned pay. (And the pay from each other)
Down with the governments that support them. They that line their pockets with kickbacks while increasing the tax on the people that can barely pay what is.
Down with the people that support them and whom are blinded by their own ignorance. (Or maybe their intelligence) that they can not (or will not) see that what we speak is right and true.
We the people (really I and some others that represent the people) have spoken. With us is the only one right way of thinking; the one and only right way of being.
Down with those that stand in the way of the truth. (as we see and say it to be)
Down with those that stand in the way of freedom. (As we have defined)
It is time to lift up all things right. (As we have determined)
Down with evil, down with corruption, down with the old. (And maybe down with you.)
“We shall make man. Take the wool of the lamb and make his hair. Let it grow like the roots of the trees.
Take the edges of the swords that he shall make, mingle it with fire and lighting and create his eyes.
Carve from the rock of the earth his flesh; his skin shall be draped in the night sky. Virgin mink shall be the touch of one hand and diamond shall be the strength of the other.
His heart’s passion shall burn like the mighty sun. The scope of his intellect shall marvel his generations. The vastness of all the heavens and all the seas shall be the depth of his soul and every cell of it shall be etched with perseverance, faith, determination, and achievement.
Make his feet swift and his tongue swifter.
His loins shall be of ledged.
His dreams shall rise to my feet and they shall be as vivid as the Aura Borealis and his soul will naturally be tuned with the universe’s rhythm.
Make this man the father of many men yet to come.
His spirit shall be indomitable, unbreakable, and enduring. Whatever trial or tribulation that comes his way he shall be able to conquer.”
Looking at the world through tears the lines tend to blur. His hand touches my shoulder when my mind calls my heart stupid.
She whispers in my ear when my heart calls my brain a liar. He kissed me when you said that what was is now over yet it became the norm.
This woman caressed my head when the things you said did not match the facts but the facts could not be proven.
This man put his hand on my thigh while you did what you said you had no desire to.
Her words made love to my mind when your actions were to be “friendly” and not “lovingly”.
His manhood uploaded inside of me when you told me that your fidelity once went astray. She was born out of the womb of our secrets.
He grows more and more when things that were not, are; when mystery is invited to stay and trust in dragged out kicking and screaming.
She lies with me at night when (my ex’s name) is gone and I’m alone. When my heart has invoked faith and has silenced my brain from its constant chattering.
When I’m alone and I am consumed in his embrace he says in the after glow insurmountable passion
“Why are you alone?”
I say
“Looking at the world through tears, the lines tend to blur.”
What is this that when I awake your taste is still on my lips?
What is this that when I see random people on the street, on television, where ever, they seem; if only for a moment, to have your face. The memories of time spent with you begin to replay in my mind at random times for no reason at all.
What is this that I can not sleep if your soul is not near mine; the heat of your flesh not touching mine?
What is this that when I hear songs I’ve heard thousands of times before some how they sound new. The high notes a bit higher and I swear the chorus is new.
What is this that when we talk time seems to speed up and go way too fast and at the same time it slows down, almost standing still?
What is this thing that I can not explain, this new feeling, these new places and emotions?
My question, to whomever it may concern, am I to look for love or let love find me?
Am I to look for that special someone or let someone special find me?
My question, to whomever it may concern.
The search for the love of my life always leads me to a dark room with damp pillows and the banshee’s wails of silence. So, I love life instead and I escape the room.
My question, to whomever it may concern.
Why do I want for a type of something that I have never really known (even then it was only single sided)? Why has my one true goal been one that I can not work to, or make happen by my own will, my own power?
My question, to whomever it may concern.
I want someone to love when it seems to me that no one is trying, or even wanting to love me.
You’d be surprised at the things you see when you really start to look at them; the magic of water falling from the sky, even though you get wet and maybe catch a cold.
How lovers (or lusters) stare into each others eyes just before their lips take control.
The way an unadulterated, pure and sweet laugh seems to clear the air; and the sound, the sound enters the ear like an infection spreading through out the body. Instead of bringing hurt and harm it brings healing and joy.
What you would see if only you looked at the child taking their first stride; a pup’s first bark; a bird taking its first flight.
A generation come into it’s own only to scoff at the next.
If only people looked for the reality of miracles they could see.
If they truly looked for it they could see the magic in every breath, the wonder held in every journeys first step. The beauty I see in the corner of your smile, the blessing of your touch.
You’d be surprised at the thing you see when you really start to look at them.
I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t matter. Your one tack mind; your single sided emotions.
Your claim is your entry; your label is your right to abuse and use, to be completely self absorbed, self righteous, self involved, selfish.
Your brand of companionship could only be done with a smile. If you showed your real and true form, all would run.
Even if I held your face to a mirror and showed you the problem; put on a play with you as the main character; held an intervention with those whom see and know the same; you would only find others.
Your one-track mind, your single sided emotions. They won’t allow you to see, or maybe you don’t want to. It could be you don’t want to know, you don’t want to care. If you did know, if you did see, you would have to care, right?
My friend you have a problem. As your friend, I hope you don’t think I’m judging you. I’m prepared for you to be defensive and point out all of mine. It’s an issue we all see and I am tired of looking the other way. I care about you deeply and have defended you from what others whom claim to be have said.
You have a problem and please see. This problem runs deep and affects more than you know; more than you believe.
You have a problem and even though it’s not as big as Mount Everest or as wide as Lake Victoria, it is sufficient enough to cause me concern.
You have a problem and I hope you take my word. I’ve seen this before so I know what I’m talking about, but I can do nothing because it’s not my problem it’s yours. I’ll continue to pray that you see.
This is your problem which you have to fix. Only you can do it and I know that you can, but it’s up to you. You have to want it.
As your friend, I’m telling you that you need help but it’s nothing more than words to you, words that mean nothing at all.
Your one track mind, your single sided emotions have to want the help for yourself and yourself alone. Until then it still won’t matter, its all still sounds like
“Blah, Blah, Blah.”
You still do what you do; with your smiling mask. You think it’s hiding all that pain. It’s an obvious open wound to those of us who really care about you enough to look and see.
Your “medicine,” is not, does not, and never will work. It only keeps the wound open and causes infection to spread to ever other part of your life. It makes you a user of people, a lump of flesh at times taking up space. You’d like to think, and have convinced yourself quite well that you are the life of the party. When in fact you are the reason they all want to go.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I can’t help you. Your single sided emotions, your one-track mind needs help and only you can help it.
I’ve packed all my things and I’m ready to take leave but I stop.
I look at the house I built for you; you’ve never set foot in it.
I walked through the kitchen that connects to the dinning room remembering all the candle lit dinners that never came to be.
I walk up the stairs to the bedroom. I remember all the sheets that our wild and passionate love making never stained or sweated out.
The moans and groans silence told.
The nights that were full of zealous and hedonistic ecstasy beyond any comparison of the imagination. I wake up and know yet another dream.
I’m down by the back door and think about the times I snuck out and went to all the other houses in the neighborhood and tried to have fun, but it was not home.
I’m sitting on the couch looking at the front door. I thought about the times when I prayed for you to walk through that door and you dint. I remember all the strangers I let in because they claimed to be you but they weren’t.
I look at the door and wonder why I just won’t walk out. I did these things for you and I don’t know you.
I’ve let in strangers because I’ve never seen you.
I built a house for you in my heart and you’ve never even visited.
I made a place for you in my life and you never came.
I don’t know you and you have never known me.
As I walk through the door the fact that you don’t know, most likely don’t care, tares down the house that I built. The fact that I don’t know you keeps me from looking back.
Get outta my way, I’m movin fast. I gotta accomplish my goal; achieve my dream.
I already have the ride, the clothes, the house, and the bling.
I have the 2.5 kids and the spouse. The neighborhood watch (which I lead) checks for any and all that may be a louse.
When I’m old, I’ll take a vacation and see the Poconos, maybe learn Japanese.
For now, I have to run, as to not be late. My secretary told me that in my corner office with the deal sealing view there is a sheet cake.
I’ll work it off at the gym with that cute little trainer.
Maybe later after Im dead (if reincarnation is real) I’ll get a second chance to go back and see what it all really means and find what really matters.
I ran out in the street because this light changes fast and in order to cross the street in time you have to hurry. In a hurry is what I am.
I did not even see it. No one is asking me if I’m ok. No one is stopping to help me; they only look down while still talking into the air or their earpieces rather all the while not breaking stride. Cars began to honk their horns as they go around me.
I ask the man with the red tie “Why don’t they care or even try to see if I’m whole or if my body is sound?”
He smiled with a grind as he hung up his cell phone and said.
“Who are you, do I know you?If you know me and I have forgotten you forgive me. I’m very late and have to hurry, god there is never enough time. Here’s my card, call me and we’ll get coffee or lunch or something. Nice to see you again.”
What’s more important the thing or what the thing is to represent? We as humans place value in material things, words, and even in people. What is more important the thing, the words, or the people? People buy diamonds, fancy cars, huge homes, big guns, fancy (and ragged worn out) cloths all in an effort to show that because they have this “thing” that sets them apart. This “thing” that they have makes them special and or different from everyone else. This “thing” shows the world that because they have obtained this “thing” then they are. What’s more important: the thing, the words, or the person?
Sometimes people become wordsmiths. It serves many leaders well to be masters of words. Words are nothing more than labels; complicated sounds that universally represent various emotions, objects, everything. If it were not for words most people could not communicate. They would be lost in a world that more than ever before has more words, and more people who understand those words. The people now know more words from different lands and have even mastered the slightest of dialects and inflections. Words are some what important yet so worthless. Words, those complicated sounds, if not for the meaning behind them are nothing. If I repeat a sound, say a word over and over again it does not change the meaning of the word. If I consistently say the word over and over again but it is a word that has no meaning, represents no emotion, labels no object the word is useless, the word is worthless. If I say many words yet do exactly the opposite of what the words have become to mean then the words I say mean nothing. What’s more important: the thing, the words, or the person?
People like to be individuals and at the same time be part of a collective. Most people spend most of their lives either doing one or the other and at the same time thinking and knowing beyond a shadow of consideration that people who do the opposite of what they do are completely wrong. People feel comfort in groups whether it is a group of many thousands or a group of three. The group is the foundation for civilization, the group makes families, families make neighborhoods, neighborhoods make cities, and cities make nations. The individual has said to be god’s greatest creation. The individual was the one that created art, music, literature. It was the individual that became the hero whom slew the lion, dragon, criminal. It was the individual that was outcast from their group because they were too different only later, many years after they have died, they are labeled “genius”. The individual was the one who set themselves apart so much so that they became the leader of their group. Some people say that certain groups are evil just because they are that certain group; the fact that a person belongs to that group they are inherently evil too. People do not get to choose the groups they belong to most of the time. In the times they do they choose them because they find that their group represents them. Their group is a collective of people that is like them. The individual can be cruel. The individual has masterminded some of the most horrific events in history, has come up with some of the most hated words ever spoken, and has made some of the most deadly things they have ever known.
What’s more important: the thing, the words, or the people?
Have you always felt this way, "bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better?" Were these things taught to you by a parent or did you observe them through out life? What was it that made them important to you?
These things, some say they make you, and define you. They even make you the envy of all.
In everything that you do you claim mastery, you claim dominance.
You knew before anyone else, you had it before anyone had even heard. It was old and a thing
"so yesterday"
to you the second someone else came to in the picture and said
"did you hear?"
I feel sad for your material heart. Things are the only comfort you have ever known. Your soul, so jaded by emptiness it has become a void, a negative space so deep and vacuous it pulls in on itself until it becomes nothing.
You are not a failure. In this age and place being "bigger, faster, stronger, smarter, better" is what thins the herd. It is what separates the winners from the losers, the weak from the strong.
On the bed face down with your head turned to the side. I pour warm chocolate slowly down your back until it pools at the small.
I fantasize that the chocolate seeps down into your bottom mound and disappears. This is when I lick it from that place and continue till I reach the back of your neck.
I fantasize about you.
Having a cherry in your navel and I tie the stem with my tongue. I remove it from that place holding it with my teeth. I drag the cherry up your stomach, past your chest, and we share it in a kiss.
I fantasize about you.
Covering your ... with that chocolate syrup then licking every drop of it away.
I fantasize about you.
The back of your neck and your luscious lips dripping honey and me kissing it away.
I fantasize about you and I can't wait till I see you.
When the party is over it's time to go to the after party. When the club closes we walk over to the all night club. Last call just means beer run.
When there is no place left to go we'll just go to the streets, or we'll ride the freeways till there is just enough gas to get home.
When we get home everything is where it was before. The bed is ice cold. You take a shower, or run bath water. You heat up left overs from two days ago and entertain yourself with late night television, sometimes the early morning show.
You place yourself between the frigid covers and the sound of your own tears is your lullaby. The bed seems colder this night, colder than the night before
