1)
I know—
The things I say
are different from the things you hear.
But hey,
in the Land of Interpretation,
misunderstanding is king.
Or perhaps I should say queen,
depending upon the circumstances.
I was wondering something.
Why do you ask questions
if you’re not interested in listening
to an answer
or why would you ask for someone’s input
if you’re not open to what they have to say?
Is this a case of simple trolling?
And what I mean is
it looks like you’re fishing for opinions,
just to hear someone say,
“You’re right!”
Better yet,
why bother looking in the mirror
if you don’t believe in your own reflection?
Why try if you see no reason?
Why believe in yourself,
or why look for hope
when doubt is all that you see?
I understand the confusion though.
No,
really.
I get it.
I have my own battles which,
let’s just say, at times,
my broken wing has me flying
in circles
aimlessly or almost pointlessly
and so,
I find myself endlessly searching
and hoping that maybe someday
I’ll find the key . . .
to which you can be my cylinder
and we can turn this world around
(Together)
It’s like what my friend T used to say to me
when I’d start my shift
and this goes back a while,
and I mean back when I worked at a job
that didn’t work for me.
He used to tell me,
in the land of the blind
he with one eye is king
or I guess queen,
depending upon the circumstances.
These things that we struggle with
tear us apart
and rip us to shreds.
These things are:
The insecurity
The constant questioning
The waiting and
depending on other people,
places or things
or, how about the bullshit
back and forth
which we do to ourselves
is torturous
and we still do this
all the time—or what about
the hours we waste
worrying about our own validity,
as in, “are we valid?”
As in “at all?”
How about the weight of modern depression?
How about that for your bag of tricks?
It’s a bitch!
(Isn’t it?)
Ever notice the paths you choose
seem to end the same way?
Ever wonder
if this has anything to do with the choices we make
or the way we think?
Ever realize that sometimes,
we are the ones who keep us sick
or held back
or hold us captive
and that it’s us, which means
and I guess what I’m trying to say is
Ever notice
that we are always the common denominator?
We are always the square root to our own equation,
but yet,
personal math was never our strong suit,
or was it?
This is not a problem with who you are
or your character.
This isn’t about me or you
or us.
This is not about our character at all.
No, this is about our chemistry
and the lack of balance thereof.
So there, I said it
But now that it’s out there
what are we going to do about it now?
2)
I am outside of your world,
passed the guards
and beyond the gates.
I am on the opposite side of the bars
and without barriers
or borders or on the opposite side of the table
opposite you
or on the other side of the partition
in the visiting rooms
and on the other side of brick
and concrete and the steel,
which holds you in.
I am far from you yet
I am as close to you as you remember
which means,
you are not forgotten,
but only suspended,
as if to be somewhat or temporarily
in a space of “time-out”
or as if your name is now encapsulated
or imprisoned
and held captive by an old decision,
which no longer available
to ask for a “take back.”
Your apologies and remorse are unheard
or possibly unrewarded
due to mandatory reasons,
like say, a sentence that has to match the crime,
even if in your mind
the crime was not like the charge reads
but hey,
this is a bitch
but this is what happens
when people play Cops and Robbers.
I am far from you now
But not distant.
Not at all.
I am not beside you,
but you are not forgotten
or gone from my thoughts
nor have you exited my prayers
nor has the candle of hope burned out
and nor have I ceased to rekindle this flame
for you,
my old friend.
It is amazing though
Your “jacket’ they call it
or your record or your
rap sheet.
I know what this looks like
but I also know you,
who is someone I value.
But get this,
I know what the record reflects
or how this constitutes judgment
so then,
people will call you a monster.
But not me.
No, I just call you my friend.
I am in a different world yet
I am not so far away from the days
like say
the carnivals at St. Raphael’s
or the nights at Speno Park
or the summers at Prospect
or the evenings at Meadow Dairy
or the sunsets on the weekends
hanging out by the liquor store
where, if you remember
our goal was to ask the so-called
cool adult, to buy us a bottle
or a case of beer.
Remember?
I am far beyond the days of Marlboro Reds,
or a fresh pack of smokes,
and ah, our kingdom for a cigarette
(right?)
like, Camels, unfiltered, of course,
or Lucky Strikes
and my denim jackets
with a tiny flask hidden in
one of my inside pockets
or my long hair,
to act as a statement,
or an expression of my rebellion
and so saith the psalms
of young burnouts, or young rebels,
eager to live quick and die in blazes of glory
or eager to defy the odds
or like me . . .
living on the dangle,
and looking for the next best rush,
sipping from a shared bottle
to heat the tongue, which is why
brands like Jack Daniel’s or Southern Comfort
still make me cringe to this day
and Seagram’s 7 too
I remember . . .
and I remember this well and not with regret.
Not even an ounce.
I do not recall any of this with contempt
but with a smile,
because, of course,
this is who we were
(once)
wild as ever
high and young,
burning through braincells
and hearing the lies we’d tell each other
about the same bullshit things
and sharing the same bullshit stories.
That’s not me now, though
nor you,
nor are we the same.
Or,
maybe we are the same in some respects
and we are certainly different
in other regards; however,
as I recall,
we were young once,
together
you and me . . .
and as long as I am alive,
I will always swear,
you never forget the kids from the neighborhood.
Sleep well
My friend
your soul has certainly been counted.
3)
My assumptions have misguided me
on more than one occasion. Yet, you—
you of all people—you who walked in through a doorway,
and shone brighter than the lights
from angels above
and who smiled, who destroyed my lies
and uncovered my truths and you
who entered my life,
who woke me up and who distracted me
from my various assumptions
and took me away from my gadgets of mass hysteria
and this is always about you—
about you who changed me,
who brightened the room,
just because you came through the door,
and you who changed my perspective,
who caused me to question my misconceptions,
and you who I call my queen, or my princess,
and my temptress, or my mistress,
depending upon the scenario
and you—you of all people,
you who destroyed me with only a sentence
and you who rebuilt me with a kiss,
and you who turned my kingdom into rubble
and then taught me how to rebuild it,
brick by brick.
You are the strength and the steel in my spine.
I have never seen nor believed in a power, such as yours
and yet, you,
You are so powerful and so capable in ways that yes,
I am sorry because no
I just don’t understand this.
I don’t understand how you
decided to make a believer of me
and now I believe.
now, more than ever.
How do you do the things that you do?
How do you do this to me?
Or to my knees?
Which, by the way, my knees are weak,
and so is my soul
(without you).
How did you do this?
Effortlessly.
4)
My mind is searching
for the emulation of the world in scattered beats,
like the scene of crazy poets
in dark stages with one spotlight
standing in smokey houses
and speaking their truths.
I am looking for a vibe or a presence of self
or a feeling, like the ones we used to have
when we were young enough
and allowed to be free.
I want to hear something
like a beat
like the ones we used to hear,
remember?
Remember the music
back in the days when club life ran real life
and our home life was outside,
and not inside,
because inside was lifeless but the City was alive
and inside, we might miss something and outside
was our escape.
I’ll tell you . . .
we might not have had much,
but at least we had a place to dance,
every once in a while.
5)
My heart is hoping for the time to come
when my mouth can let me speak freely enough
to say the words from my heart
without tripping over insecurities on my tongue.
Do you get it?
And my body?
God, my body.
Yes, this is my body
This is my frame
This journal is like my Bible
and this entry is part of a whisper
that carries my name
I am like the father
I am the son and like the sun,
I need the moon because, to me,
I am nothing without the completion of the stars
I am like you, equally resurrected
on a daily basis
or swinging back and forth
like a blade on the bottom of a pendulum;
I am the seconds
ticking on the clock and each minute that passes
can either be like days in an oasis
or memories of my dungeon
but either way
my time is a representation
of an irretrievable moment
to which I am no longer afraid to say “Ah-Ha! This is my life.”
This is me
arising and revolving like the earth
and aligning, sometimes, or coinciding
like the planets, like Jupiter or like Saturn,
or like Venus
known as the Goddess of Love,
or hot as could be.
This is me.
I am no different nor infinitely smaller than anyone
or anything else in the universe,
I am equally a part
quite possibly
the universe might contain other worlds
with people like me, or you
searching and seeking,
wondering and hoping that perhaps somewhere out there,
someone is waiting for ME
just as well.
6)
It is not too crazy to think that maybe . . .
nothing about us has happened by accident.
But then again,
perhaps it’s true that
in the land of the blind, he with one eye is king
or queen.
Perhaps my vision is unclear
and maybe I don’t see very well
or maybe I am blinded by a light
or hopeful that this idea of mine
can lead me somewhere
and hopefully,
or let me say
eventually,
I want to find myself exactly where I am supposed to be
which is
somewhere
next to you.
The Written Addiction 