Just a Thought, Just Because – The Inner Voice


I hear this certain narration
or a voice from within,
somewhat speaking for me,
telling my story
but, of course, from the heart.

I have these ideas.
They have been with me for as long as time has kept me alive,
which, by today’s account,
I am alive far longer than I realize.
Perhaps I am more than I realize
or better yet,
perhaps you are more than I realize
or maybe we all are . . .
more than we realize

But what did I know
I was only me,
alive and well . . .
at 19


At some point,
I think I thought the world would be a different place
or, if anything, perhaps my version of life
was different from what it is now
or maybe I thought that we would be different
from who we are
or who we should’ve been.

I am me.
You are you
Such is life

To be clear, for all my life,
I have been searching for someone,
something, someplace
or maybe somehow –
I thought I’d find an answer
but the questions . . .
they keep on mounting.

My aim or my goal has always been simple.
I want to feel a sense of safety,
like a child in a blanket
safe from the wild
and close to the Mother.

I want to be free to seek and to discover,
as well as define myself within reason
(of course) and certainly, I want to find what it is
to be at peace
or better yet,
to understand the word


It’s funny to look back now.
Isn’t it?
To glance back into the yesteryear
or to think about the old things we’d say
or think or believe.

I suppose I’ve always wanted to be someone of note
or at least
some importance
to have something
to be at one with my oneness
and not allow the mistake
that being alone would somehow translate
into lonesomeness.

My heart is real.
So are my dreams.
So are you for that matter.

I remember the days
when youth was the only thing that mattered.
Everything was about “the time,”
and though time moved fast,
who cared?
What did it matter?

I was young and, to me,
there were a million tomorrows
and a million chances to either find
or redefine myself
at least a million times over.

I remember my friends who had bands
I remember how they poured themselves
on a stage and how they played their music.
I remember how they thought and swore
that one day
they’d make it to the top.

I remember their shows at tiny clubs and little venues
how they poured their hearts out to the crowd.
I remember how the cheers met the band
I swear, it was electric!

They swore they’d make it,
as if someone would eventually come along
to “discover” them
or give them the golden key and say hey,
the rest of the world belongs to you now . . .

Meanwhile, here I am, decades after the fact
and as for the old friends
or as for those who swore their climb to the top
would be out of hand and
out of this world:
they’re old too.
Some of them are fat.
Some are bald.
Some are divorced, living back at home
and looking around at the life they never lived
Some are elsewhere and unreachable
They are no longer in human form
and elsewhere in spirit.

But once . . .
they were admired and celebrated
like wild heroes
crazy as the nights when the lights went
the stage grew dark
and the music surprised the crowd


All my life, I’ve been looking for something
a feeling, perhaps
an answer
a solution

Meanwhile, there’s a man on 9th Avenue,
spinning around, reeling on the corner,
talking to himself with his chin held up
and eyes facing to the rooftops of the buildings
which are standing in a place
where I used to refer to as Hell’s Kitchen. 

I wonder if he’s crazy or, if at all,
and maybe it’s me.
Maybe he’s the sane one and me,
I’m the mad one.
Maybe  I’m the hysterical one
and blind to an otherwise, so-called life.
Maybe it’s me
living in a so-called freedom
with an exceptional level of awareness that is otherwise

But let me ask you?
How many people are truly aware?
What does this even mean?


Yes . . .
Safe to say that I have always wanted
to feel as though I were cool.
I’ve always wanted to belong.
And sure. I want the lights. I want the music.
I want the good times and the fast times but now,
I want the easiness and slow times as well
I want the option of something smooth like a jazz tune
and an easy listening moment
where warmth consumes the skin
and inside, I have nothing but love.

Yes . . .
It’s true.. I have always been hopeful.
I’ve always hoped for love or that if at all,
I could find love and feel love
without regret or fear.

(Could you imagine?)
And yes, I admit it.
I have always been afraid.

Afraid to be hurt
Afraid to be rejected.
Afraid to play the part
and walk the line and then later,
I’d find out that none of this was real
or worse, I was only a joke.

This is true and from the heart; however,
this isn’t downplaying me
or a self-deprecating memoir of what was
and what I’d hope would never be.

I’ve always wondered . . .


Tell me something
Tell me anything
Tell me about the way
the lights would flicker in your eyes,
say like, if we were somewhere
on the corner of Avenue A at St. Marks Place
somewhere around midnight.

Tell me about the warm sensation of skin
or how the late night can be solidified
in the version of a tiny concave puddle of wine,
red like a dark rose,
resting at the bottom of a glass,
which stands on a table beside a candlelight evening.

Tell me about the closed door you hide behind
or when you lay down,
curled with sheets around your legs and hips
and your clothes are thrown to the floor.

Tell me about this because I’m curious.
I’d like to know because, if anything,
I’m wondering if you or if anyone else
is alone somehow but yet,
we’ve never been alone.
Not us. Not at all
Not ever, at least in this world
because, of course, there is this thing, cosmic and all-encompassing,
which we know as fate and because of this,
I know that while I thought I was alone, no . . .
You’ve been with me the same way
the whole time
for life or longer. 

When you sneak into my thoughts,
wearing nothing other than
one of my favorite band’s T-shirts,
like . . . say,
let’s call the band, Slayer
it makes it so
that I can’t see
or think about anything else . . .

I love you in this sexy shade of mystery.
It makes me think and keeps me on my toes.
It keeps me sharp, like a knife to cut through the tension

And sure . . .
I might not have ever made it to stardom.
I might not have ever been famous
or even cool.
I might not have the right stance
or the voice or the cool way of leaning against the wall.
I’m not sure.
I don’t know either because, to be fair,
it’s been years
since I gave up my James Dean impression. 

These days, I just try to be me
Alive and well –

at 50

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