This grouping of writings is a bit newer, probably a little over a year and a half old at this point. I wrote these much like I wrote the poems in Gun Control for Polar Bears; I saw a situation in my head or imagined someone going through certain emotions and it just kinda flowed out. Much like the first collection before this, I'm not sure what I'll do with it all, so I felt like putting it on here. AND much like the poems in said book these are in this order because those are the order they were written in; however I'm sure they could all tie together if rearranged.
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I’m lying in a meadow. Well, it’s more like a wheat field. There’s no bugs on be because, well, they’re all dead. A little bitter sweet, really. No bugs to spread new bacteria and no bacteria to become new become new bugs. Man, the New Bugs. The thought makes me want to get up just thinking about it. But getting up is for another time. I got time to spare under the sun in this wheat field. I feel so at home here. I wonder if they’d let me move here; just rent this square.
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It’s cold out tonight. Sad thing is, as good as this thermal nuclear sleeping bag feels right now I’m going to be cursing it in hours time. I always get overheated, I don’t know why. I wonder if it’s more than something medical or even genetics. Is it in my soul? Is it an aura? Is it my skin? But how? My skin feels ice cold. Something deeper. My heart to my spirit, something’s burning, and as it radiates from me I will be sick and tired of this thermal nuclear sleeping bag no matter how cold.
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I have insomnia. I never thought I would have ever had to refer to myself as an insomniac. I try to sleep, believe me, I do. When I lie down it’s like little explosions in my head. Fireworks – only these fireworks are in the way of and not what we came to see. Every thought, opinion, idea, criticism, take advantage of me and bombard me with their various postings. Then the pain begins; nerve pain all over – head to toe. My own body seems out to get me. As I write this my high is coming down. I’m starting to feel the pain again. I am an insomniac.
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The wind is relentless. The dog is barking at the dead leaves scraping across each other. They scurry with the current like they’re all heading somewhere; I wonder where. The lifeless leaves dance in the wind and, at this moment, are livelier than they’ve ever been. The gusts are sharp and cold and the sound mixed well with the train in the distance. It’s getting harsh out. Time to bring the dog in…
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I am not the flashlight, I am the darkness. You point and shine but you never catch me. You never see me because you always see through me. I am all around you. I surround you yet I can never be with you. I can’t join you because you shove me away. You push through me to catch a glimpse. I must not be anything worth seeing. Regardless, I am the darkness.
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The wind is relentless. The dog is barking at the dead leaves scraping across each other. They scurry with the current like they’re all heading somewhere; I wonder where. The lifeless leaves dance in the wind and, at this moment, are livelier than they’ve ever been. The gusts are sharp and cold and the sound mixed well with the train in the distance. It’s getting harsh out. Time to bring the dog in…
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I am not the flashlight, I am the darkness. You point and shine but you never catch me. You never see me because you always see through me. I am all around you. I surround you yet I can never be with you. I can’t join you because you shove me away. You push through me to catch a glimpse. I must not be anything worth seeing. Regardless, I am the darkness.
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I am a burden. I am a failure. I don’t fear death or torture but I fear becoming those two things I’ve become. We’re not even living paycheck to paycheck and I’m not helping. I don’t work or bring in any money. I have two credit cards maxed out, I can’t pay my medical bills and I have a house going into foreclosure. I spend my days writing and spending time with my dog. I’m lonely and the feeling of longing continues to grow. While my writing continues to get better my goal seems further away as I’m having the hardest time getting my work out and sold. I wish someone would take a chance on me. Although I’m becoming a better writer I feel it’s not good for the longing at times. Sometimes I feel the more immersed I become in the situations and worlds I create the more desensitized I become to the rest of the real world. I have a high sex drive but with my illness my body doesn’t always allow sex to happen. I tend to have a freaky list of turn-ons and without someone to act them out they’re just masturbatory fantasies meant for behind closed eyelids. Don’t get me wrong, I have a sexy wife who has a healthy sexual appetite but when it comes to freakier, dirtier, or alternative methods she doesn’t seem too interested and I’m not the cheating kind. So I imagine my dirty little erotic fantasies and take care of myself. Now listen to me, a man with a wife and child complaining about myself. Completely selfish of me, wouldn’t you say? I am the weight, the burden, the block in the way of a normal life for my wife. I’m 30 and not where I need to be nor where I want to be. If I can’t carry myself, how do I expect to carry others? I am a failure. The only thing to do now is to fight, claw, and dig out of this hole, be a man, and take care of my family. Life is like airplane safety – you have to take care of yourself first before you can take care of others.
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The steam from my coffee and the smoke from my cigarette float upwards blending together in front of my computer monitor before me. I don’t even smoke, I just light it and let it burn away in the ashtray. I type away through the cloud in between my work and I. I don’t know why I keep writing; nobody wants it. It’s just something I feel I have to do. Some days I may get a paragraph to a page if I’m lucky, but other days I get on a roll and I can’t stop. No time to eat or drink. The ashtray’s full and the coffee’s cold but pages upon pages are done. The day ends and as happy as I am with what I’ve done I always with I could’ve done more; never satisfied. But then again I guess none of us are. There’s always a higher mountain. I’m an old man now who’s been living on hope. I’ve just completed my 14th novel and I’ve never been published. I’ve lived a life of rejection. But who knows, maybe this one will be different.
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I am a burden. I am a failure. I don’t fear death or torture but I fear becoming those two things I’ve become. We’re not even living paycheck to paycheck and I’m not helping. I don’t work or bring in any money. I have two credit cards maxed out, I can’t pay my medical bills and I have a house going into foreclosure. I spend my days writing and spending time with my dog. I’m lonely and the feeling of longing continues to grow. While my writing continues to get better my goal seems further away as I’m having the hardest time getting my work out and sold. I wish someone would take a chance on me. Although I’m becoming a better writer I feel it’s not good for the longing at times. Sometimes I feel the more immersed I become in the situations and worlds I create the more desensitized I become to the rest of the real world. I have a high sex drive but with my illness my body doesn’t always allow sex to happen. I tend to have a freaky list of turn-ons and without someone to act them out they’re just masturbatory fantasies meant for behind closed eyelids. Don’t get me wrong, I have a sexy wife who has a healthy sexual appetite but when it comes to freakier, dirtier, or alternative methods she doesn’t seem too interested and I’m not the cheating kind. So I imagine my dirty little erotic fantasies and take care of myself. Now listen to me, a man with a wife and child complaining about myself. Completely selfish of me, wouldn’t you say? I am the weight, the burden, the block in the way of a normal life for my wife. I’m 30 and not where I need to be nor where I want to be. If I can’t carry myself, how do I expect to carry others? I am a failure. The only thing to do now is to fight, claw, and dig out of this hole, be a man, and take care of my family. Life is like airplane safety – you have to take care of yourself first before you can take care of others.
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The steam from my coffee and the smoke from my cigarette float upwards blending together in front of my computer monitor before me. I don’t even smoke, I just light it and let it burn away in the ashtray. I type away through the cloud in between my work and I. I don’t know why I keep writing; nobody wants it. It’s just something I feel I have to do. Some days I may get a paragraph to a page if I’m lucky, but other days I get on a roll and I can’t stop. No time to eat or drink. The ashtray’s full and the coffee’s cold but pages upon pages are done. The day ends and as happy as I am with what I’ve done I always with I could’ve done more; never satisfied. But then again I guess none of us are. There’s always a higher mountain. I’m an old man now who’s been living on hope. I’ve just completed my 14th novel and I’ve never been published. I’ve lived a life of rejection. But who knows, maybe this one will be different.
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I keep screwing up. Maybe I’m the mistake; the perpetual fumble. I try to say my part but only one side is seen. Is that the only side I’m showing? Saying? Thought my intentions are pure I can’t seem to stop stepping over boundaries and crossing lines. I mean no harm or disrespect. I guess there’s no right way to some things; no correct approach. We live in an age where you can’t just be nice and sociable without it being turned around and accusations thrown. I am nice with genuinely pure intentions however I’m ignorant to a fault. I just assume that others see my innocence and realize there’s not even a thought of foul play. I’m lonely and am always open to new friendships but because of this my true intentions are not seen and I’m compared to horrible people whose interests and intentions couldn’t be further from my own. Am I to be a hermit? Am I to remain silent and lonely? I cross lines and boundaries like a child walking into another room, without malice and without seedy intent. Life is short and I want to meet and talk to people; nothing steamy, sexual, or even flirtatious, just a conversation with other innocent adults. I know not everyone means well but why must I be damned for the cruel intentions of others? Why must I be among the innocent on death row? I’m naïve, yes, and the ignorance I’ve mentioned but am I evil? No. I’m forever faithful with only love and more love for my wife but I manage to disrespect her without knowledge of doing so – until it’s too late. Forgive me, father, I know not what I do. I only know of my clean intentions but don’t think of how they look to others. My thought has always been “But that’s not what I mean so it’s okay.” But it’s not and I need to learn that if I ever expect to get off death row.
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I keep screwing up. Maybe I’m the mistake; the perpetual fumble. I try to say my part but only one side is seen. Is that the only side I’m showing? Saying? Thought my intentions are pure I can’t seem to stop stepping over boundaries and crossing lines. I mean no harm or disrespect. I guess there’s no right way to some things; no correct approach. We live in an age where you can’t just be nice and sociable without it being turned around and accusations thrown. I am nice with genuinely pure intentions however I’m ignorant to a fault. I just assume that others see my innocence and realize there’s not even a thought of foul play. I’m lonely and am always open to new friendships but because of this my true intentions are not seen and I’m compared to horrible people whose interests and intentions couldn’t be further from my own. Am I to be a hermit? Am I to remain silent and lonely? I cross lines and boundaries like a child walking into another room, without malice and without seedy intent. Life is short and I want to meet and talk to people; nothing steamy, sexual, or even flirtatious, just a conversation with other innocent adults. I know not everyone means well but why must I be damned for the cruel intentions of others? Why must I be among the innocent on death row? I’m naïve, yes, and the ignorance I’ve mentioned but am I evil? No. I’m forever faithful with only love and more love for my wife but I manage to disrespect her without knowledge of doing so – until it’s too late. Forgive me, father, I know not what I do. I only know of my clean intentions but don’t think of how they look to others. My thought has always been “But that’s not what I mean so it’s okay.” But it’s not and I need to learn that if I ever expect to get off death row.
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