Who Haunts You?
When you wake-up first thing in the a.m., who is it that is coming after yer ass?
I recently had an old GF, and by old I mean 50 and a long time in my past, write me a hateful sorta poem I think, at least the lines were all broken-up like it was meant to be a poem or she was shit-faced while writing it (knowing her, or at least remembering her and considering our history, I’d guess probably both). Anyway, this arrived on Easter morning and, again, so fuckin’ hateful full of venom and loathing. She has some legit complaints, she was much younger than me and our sex life was insane and unforgettable in both bad and great ways.
But that said, why should she be haunting me (not ghosting, which would be fine) but creeping into my dreams/nightmares full of sexual madness and desire and still hating me, blaming me for much or all of the unhappiness in her life? To answer my question above “Who haunts you?” This poem is my answer, a partial one only because there are a few other deeply unhappy spirits chasing me though my sleep and my awakening that I must battle and deal with on many mornings. If any of you haunters are reading this, remember, ghosting is very popular these days too . . .
. . . and in terms of Karma and your own sense of peace and contentment may I humbly suggest that might be a better path especially if you’re already a senior fuckin’ citizen.
No More Little Kisses
I’ve had it with this petty stuff...
The next kiss I do will be my last one forever. As I’m waiting to meet the lips that wait, too, for a next kiss that will, damnit it all, last forever.
Heaven’s Gate and My Halebop Divorce
Looking back through an old journal, I’m reminded that I faced a little death back then myself . . .
“I love you” I said, sounding pathetic even to myself, looking for something, anything to show me that she spoke, or at least understood, the same language I was speaking.
“Will you watch kids or not?” she snapped back, never missing a beat in her movements, hair, make-up (eyelashes, etc.), a hot, hot kind of shimmery/slutty dress, readying herself for a big night out, without me. But she spoke in a strange tongue borrowed from Hale-bop, soaring by, 120 million miles out there.
Portrait of A Face #1, Under a Sky Without Clouds (But Not That, Quite, This Time)
Here is a face and my translation of it into words; I hope I do it justice . . .
My intention: setting out to write about faces and to translate the image of a face: a look, a moment held motionless, into words that do justice — My plan is to present faces under a sky with various clouds of shapes and sizes and shadows and light. “Telling” you a face, translating it to the world.
Okay, in truth she’s in disguise and indoors so the face is hidden and the “sky and its clouds” idea goes out the window (literally I spoze). But the glory of a face lovely, unique and mysterious, looking back at us, holds and affirms our best intentions and despite the obvious effort to appear to be mocking the very idea of mystery, her face holds up, because her skin is perfect, her expression full of faux distance holding back a laugh at herself and at the action around her (you can’t see it, but it’s the hustle and idiocy of a Vegas gift shop where faces like hers, naturally pretty, intelligent, full of candor and honesty, are so hard to see in two dimensions,) and are rare in this world in any event, whether in vulgar rooms or under glorious sky and clouds, but trust me her face is one of wit, humor, love . . . or don’t trust me; does it look like she gives a fuck whether you believe this or not?
And I assure you I don’t give a fuck either, (so there is that.)
Someone keeps adding the description of me as a “Pervert” to my Wikipedia page. . .
And I keep going in and changing it back By editing out the change they’ve made. This shouldn’t bother me Because there isn’t much I can do about it And somebody maybe truly believes this And when it comes to sex and my sexual history I can see why some people Might feel this way. Hell, Sometimes I feel this way about myself. Still, I wish Wikipedia would stop letting This cowardly-hater keep doing this shit. It’s not my fault That we live in a world Where if you are a thin Whore with tiny tits You have to blow a horse Until it cums in your mouth Then spit it out but pretend you enjoy it Or at least take a huge penis Into your bottom To get full porno attention. I don’t make the rules, But I know this stuff goes on… Pervert? Ok, Maybe a little bit, sometimes.
I Don’t Care To Know Anyone Anymore
This isn’t so much about bitterness as it is about finally being able to see more, most of the angles to things
I mean, I know I have to know some people. And most of the people I already know I can take or leave but am equally happy to take them and put up with them as they seem to be willing to put up with me. But as for “new friends,” this feels like the time in my old life, (“old life” in the sense that I am old now,) for a new approach to it all. Any “new” thing occurring is going to take on more of my attention and interest and I have less time than I used to have. So, no new friends, especially no new lovers, somehow thinking that she can be the center in my life, the dominant love and sex when, in truth, most of the time I’d rather watch movies I’ve already seen before that I know have happier endings than any new love affair would have. No new audiences. No new people, if that’s all right and even if it isn’t, no, no, thanks. I think I’m ready for sainthood, the priesthood (although given my atheism and bullying tendencies, that’ll be awkward) or maybe the grave.
This is NOT about depression. it’s about realizing and accepting that I’ve run my race and enjoyed the hell out of it, but now I just wanna go sit down on the grass and lean/lay back and be left alone to savor the moment of that race being completed, and well-run. And, blessedly and a little sadly over at long last.