Saturday, June 11, 2016

bare patch of skin

He told her yes she was right, he didn't respect her. He didn't have feelings for her. He did disregard her. He told her this many times, maybe with different words. She needed to hear it at least 28 times before she believed it. She needed the abuse to make her stop reading between the lines, the stories that weren't really there but projected from her own want. Now it is today and there is nothing left of it but silence and bruises to cherish and rub. Oh, don't let me forget, there is the embarrassment that sits in her self chastising and daily emotional beatings. I shall pluck a hair for each mistake and then I will have a nice round bare patch of skin to press and pinch my sins to self till a soft fuzz grows back and I can pluck again. Or I could just let it grow. She just doesn't know

Sunday, November 29, 2015

Be suspicious of what you want -Rumi

I want a devil. He wasn't going to make me happy but I wanted him. I wanted him because he refused me. This isn't the only reason, I'm not purely a fool. There was some amazing moments and I am addicted to them. But the devil refused. The devil didn't love me, want me or even care that I was alive. I am dead to him. And he is the only thing alive for me. I am a devil. I want to extract the good, kill and discard the devil in the devil. My want is so unwieldy it frightens me because it contains it's own velocity and wind patterns that accost and harass. I believe it's panic and I die a little each time I let it take lead of me. Just come back. Live my story of you and I and be everything I want. What a monster I am. What a devil you are. It is two men since I wrote this and the second exactly the same.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

still you don't want me

You don't want me I want to believe this completely I must stop looking back into a past that no longer exists for proof that you love me and want me I twist the memories around in my hands and pretend they still apply to now Nothing applies but your silence and distance from me there is nothing true but this

You Don't Want Me

I am turning to stone. There is only you. you don't want me anymore and I can't live with it. I keep waiting for you to tell me you want me back. I wait and think and wait. I dream about you. I have made up everything that has happened between us. I look back and see potential that is no longer there. I make up that it is still here. You have told me you will never want me again. You have implied my friendship isn't a priority either. I have made up that you don't mean it. That you will change your mind. There is no evidence to support anything than what you have said. You don't want me. You don't want me you don't want me you don't want me you don't want me

Monday, March 26, 2012

The overlooked

I've just come back from a visit with my sweet mom.
As she's getting older, her health is changing and the experience of this has me thinking of how much I love her and want to spend as much time with her as I can. In between the times that I visit, I want to think about the rooms she moves through during her day.

I decided to take pictures of some of the discarded areas and areas that aren't designed to have their pictures taken. I think they carry as much information about my mom as the obvious places that hold what's pretty.

This is a very little mirror my mother has hung with a push pin in her spare bathroom.

Yes, it is sweetly, this small.

The little boxes, paperwork and books below the microwave, they have been there for years, I don't know if my mother remembers why they were once important or if they still are. They have become part of the scenery of a home, like so many things can. The kitchen utensils that hang here, they aren't used, they're part of the "artful" presentation set up with the margarita glasses that are there just for color.

Behind a garden chair on the back porch, a can of wood finish and other forgotten containers from projects past. They sit in the dried flower petals of the bouginvillea bush from the side of the house, that have blown to rest here.

Before my mother lived here it was my grandfather's home. This shed is a remaining piece from that time. For me, it represents what the memory of someone can become after they leave, no longer refreshing your memory with new images. It seems sad but there is such a beauty in the falling apart of memory and the forgetting that follows. It's what so many poems are written about and cried over.
This is my favorite. My mom has just left and should be back shortly.

Friday, August 19, 2011


At my friends birthday party a man was singing a song about the time in a person's life when one realizes they aren't going to be famous and change the world in some big way. He sang how it's a time of disappointment, maybe sadness.

In my own life I remember this moment and how it brought on disappointment and the feeling of shrinking into unimportance. But it's evolved into something different. Not that I don't still have my moments of wanting to create with word or picture, a life of influence in the world. But now I think about all who have passed before, tens of thousands of years worth of people. People most of which were and are completely forgotten.

So when I visualize my passing, what it means, will mean to others, etc, etc. I think this: That which is remembered is built on the back of that which is not. We the forgotten, cover this earth from one end to the next. We are the bedrock that holds the built up memories of the so very few. So it's OK to be the dust in a box whose grave stone no longer stands.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


You're rustling through the park like old dry leaves again. It's not even Fall but here you are in the wind, pushing along the sidewalk. And even though you sound like a lonely, scraping leaf, you will always remind me of early summer.

Regardless of the ragged hole I believed you tore into me after walking away, when you conveniently forgot to untie all those lovely little heart strings I tied to you. Or, tied to what I made up about you. I still see you with dog by your side watching, waiting impatiently as I soak up your image like a photo, to save for a near future in which you will be no more.

I was always terrified by my premonition of my loss of you. You were gold you see, I coveted the immense newness of my wealth, knowing I would lose it all when the market of your affections plummeted. I thought to jump from a window, leaving a note with my Secretary saying, "Send word to my stockbroker, I've jumped in spite."

You've hidden so much of yourself inside your ever thinking mind. Stretching wide, you fill yourself full of words that all eventually come together in a scheme that will always leave me feeling hungry for more of something you only gave sparingly.

Despite my complaints you will always hold such a massive if not horrific acreage in my life. Because of the few gems you gave, I made you an epic masterpiece. And I have written about you before as I have now and no story really describes the immensity as I know it, nor will the 10th, 20th or 33rd story I write after this.

Maybe when I die I will become a transparent glob of ectoplasm carrying stories told by emotion and image, if this is so I will try to play myself like a movie reel for the pleasure of those who would like to feel what my brief wealth was like. But I can't imagine any of the stories ever ending without the audio of old dry, rustling leaves.