My Mind (A Study In How I’ve Disappointed My Parents)
My mind is a used book shop. It is filled up dusty, piled precariously. Packrat, hoarder, floor to ceiling. Unorganized to the outsider, but to me… organized chaos. Just right.
My mind is an old record. Scratched, crackle, pop. Ring wear cover art. Dollar bin. It skips a few songs but plays. Patti Smith, John Coltrane, Lou Reed. In constant rotation. Soundtrack.
My mind is a medicine cabinet. Old needles. Haunted. Demonic. Ghost clang bottles. Glass, shaker. Bad pills traded for good. Prescribed. Still not right. Quite far left. 12 steps…baby steps.
My mind is a part-time bully. Part-time bullied. Fetal position. Fulltime beautiful mess. Scarred. Post-traumatic stressed out. Tired as fuck. Sober, alcoholic, addict. Recovery. Reclusively on call. Ringer off.
My mind works. Day laborer, inconsistent. Sometimes nefariously thoughtful. Vulgar. Tongued whipped truth. Medicated, for my protection. From me. From everyone. The results are varied.
My mind is a collected works. A tattered journal. Bound with string cheese. Lactose intolerant. 44 years. Ginsberg’s madness marked up. Emerging nonconformed. Identity crisis. I’ve disappointed my parents. Again. They’ll be okay.
I fall in love with afterthoughts and the names in playbills. Cast and crew. Nuts and bolts. Backstage busted non-union smoke breaks. Fuck. That’s good. Write it down. Have you cried for a smile that you never saw? A mirage. A dial tone fantasy. The best love never gets to that point. It scorches the earth then moves on. Forever is a badly cooked steak. Chewy and familiar. Paid for with coupons. The conventional version anyway. Soul mate synergy is more of a matrix of hearts. We love in spurts. As Richard Hell would say. Intimacy and multiplicity. Culture crushes called connections. Religious orders. Fast food faithful. One on one with a mirror between. We are wasted on our own selfish wine. I know love isn’t marriage’s possession. I’ve known that agreement. It’s just a subcontracted. Under god or the courts. Love is free. Birds singing duets on multiple wires. Wave length lovers. Moment to moment. Electricity is okay for mass consumption. Live more. Love bigger. Love in ways that defy sheltered norms. Kiss the moon. Kiss me too. Hugs are not deadly. Just infectious. Anyway, I’m going to bed.
Love poems are shit.
Shit. Love. Pray.
Or, was it, Eat Love Shit?
Either way. Struggle.
Ghosting. Window pane
Window into pain.
Ice forms on glass, crackling.
Winters are cold here.
Smoke. ignite. Dissolve
My hands turn red, then blue.
Snow fell. I was falling. Star
Smoke rings into square pegs, ashtray eyes.
She held the cigarette like dart. Aiming it. Bullseye.
The sycamores were full of birds. Song birds. Love birds.
The soup was cold. Served white bowl diner.
Smoke rings. She made them perfect. Open mouth, lipstick cool. Puff…
I rested, coffee tired. Eyes dark circle, vulture.
Death in a vinyl booth. She smiled.
Staring hazy cloud. Eggs Benedict. 3am sleepless.
She blew smoke rings. Round pegs. Ashtray eyes.
Match sticks, vulnerable, struck heat. No more.
He dared me.
Party, after party. Drunk.
Gay. Not me. Maybe?
Never sure. Never cared.
That was a kiss. So what?
Laughter, we followed
with whispered. Maybe?
Then New York. Magnetic.
Over and out.
Never again. Only a kiss.
No regret. Philadelphia was my courage. Orange bike.
She. Beautiful, brown.
Stronger than aware.
My heart scraping
sidewalk gum. Sneakers
She was smiling.
Acting. Poet. Proud.
We were different. Same
White. Me. Nervous.
Brown. Her. Hesitant
Lips, soft. We were free
We stopped. Summer,
overheated. Modern lovers.
Radiator cool. She Was.
Crushing pills, formica
Cold cuts. Tender touch
Rolled twenties. Credit card, chop, dice, tap.
Nose burns, tears swell.
Corduroy jacket, sweaty pants. Break the bone.
Slit wrist bath tub gin.
Blood orange, blue moon
Call me. Dawn. Call me.
High school, wretched memory, Fuck
Grated my skin to bits. Parmesan ghost.
Priestly garb, clerical collar, choking victims.
Student body, body shaming, phobias.
Catholic cross crusted Christ. Nailed, bullied.
Fuck the nostalgia.
My classmates were cruel. They are. Repression.
When you try to die
it becomes a lifestyle
Blood letting us just
in letting everyone down
Death trades us in
and artists that matter