Let’s Not and Say We Did

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Lying on his sofa late at night, Lonnie realized his schedule was killing his love life, so he imagined a scenario for increasing traffic. He devised an advertisement akin to a fantasy and set it free.

Then a woman, or so he thought, answered it.

Off they went, back and forth, first as email and then as phone text, but as it kept going she never actually spoke to him and so because of the uncertainty, he ended it.

The ad:

By my intuition and sensitivity, if you are willing to sit before me, take my commands, never of course asking you to do something you would not want, I am a features journalist, an artist, a reviewer, a curious man. I would like to get at who you are and who you should/will become. It would be my opinion of course, as a writer, who looks at life and synthesizes it. What is your place in it? Perhaps a poem would come, certainly words and feelings, perhaps a friendship.

What will time reveal? What will my truth projected onto you say about me, because it is never about the person being viewed; this is why psychoanalysts seldom say anything that would be an over wash, which is not to say that even the questions are not revealing.

Her reply: “This is a scenario I have pondered more than once! I know everyone has a their story! I have titles for different chapters in my life and often joke I need a good writer! And that I wish I had taken better notes. I don’t want to give too much. But I promise you of nothing more or nothing less. I will tell you things that will intrigue and entertain you!”

“Well, there you are,” Lonny said, “the soaring type. I don’t think you need a good writer because you come across as one, but let’s begin with Chapter 1.”

“Are you free tonight? Or should we turn the page and make for a better time?” Lonny continued.

“Let me hear from you,” Lonny wrote, “I am already intrigued and entertained.”

“Well as you know,” she said, “Trust is key! So, please tell me a little about you and this current project, please.”

And so Lonny answered: “Let’s just say that I am willing to trust that whoever you are, it was meant to be. And as the words come, I would write them down. There is nothing required, nothing demanded, and nothing implied.”

“This project is about intimacy,” Lonny wrote. “I write what I think. I might take your hand or however it may seem. This whole project wasn’t conceived as anything more than the trusting of my feelings and intuition, of being sensitive to you.”

“If you sat in front of me,” Lonny said, “a table perhaps between us, and I wrote what came to mind, I was always worried that I would be negative, because as you know what we think about ourselves projects upon that which is in front.” He continued: “The sitter, for example, does not count in a way. The painter paints, if accurately, a picture that tells the truth, a truth, perhaps is something that he sees.”

Lonny said, “I write honestly or so I think and it worries me. Perhaps, I am being too open, perhaps it is revealing me as to who I really am.”

“But, in that honesty,” Lonny said, “I believe I am writing well and it is communicating in a manner that may touch the heart, because, I believe if I am being honest, it resonates in the other’s heart. Truth is the gateway to the soul.”

“What if I told you exactly what I felt?” Lonny questioned. “Would/could you be comfortable with that? This is the experiment. You could just as easily write what you think of me, if you wanted, but I hope you will allow me the first indulgence. I may not be able to survive an interruption.”

“Sometimes,” Lonny said, “I have to be left alone to grab the thoughts passing through my mind. I believe in first impressions.”

“I am interested in describing who you are,” Lonny said, “whether in words or in some other way that seems appropriate. I will wait to see what happens.”

“I have many talents,” Lonny said.

“Anyway, I don’t want to say more than that,” Lonny said.

“You would meet me in a public place and we would go from there and maybe not,” Lonny said.

“Trust comes in knowing me in person and getting a feel for who I am,” Lonny said. “Hopefully, you are close enough so that it isn’t much of an effort.”

“PS – If you need me to be even more specific,” Lonny ventured, “just let me know. This about a friendship, a telling,” then he added the following:

“Actually, I didn’t read this very well.

“You wanted to know a little bit about me: 6’2,” 172 lbs., black hair, considered handsome and looking like I am in my 30’s. African-American, fairly well educated. Artist, writer, musician, composer, photographer, jogger.”

 “My astrology,” Lonny said, “by the way for this day was: ‘a tantalizing prospect lures away someone who was bearing down on you. Thank goodness that there are other fish in the sea.’”

“You’ve got my attention,” she said, “such a turn on a well written / spoken man. Disclaimer- if grammar is your thing. You will find me in contempt before the night is through. I am self proclaimed puncutionally dyslexic.  I tend to write like I speak and adding voice dictation to our technology has not served me well. But If I stop and analyze and critique and correct I get to be a bit too OCD. I’ve chosen to not let it be one of my battles. I was on a symposium last year: and there were grammar Nazis and just plain mean girls. At first they made me self-conscious until I kindly point it out to them that somehow I managed to obtain two degrees and probably at the time made more money than any of them.  So it was their problem not mine.”

“I am not worried about your grammar,” Lonnie said, “but I have noticed your mistakes (I am sure I have made mine). They are inconsequential to what I am thinking. I am flattered that you, and I sense an accomplished woman, would engage me,” he continued. “The point is, I think the communication simply demands an honesty at every point. I don’t plan to be mean, but I would be interested in anything that comes because this is about me and this is about you. I would love to hear more about the symposium. I am proud of you.”

 “Thank you,” she said. “Although part of that is just my defenses going up. I do know and realize the importanace of grammar and puncuation in the English Language. And that when someone is reading my work it is a representation of me. I also having two young girls in grade school, of course I do take my time with their work.”

“When is your birthday?” Lonny asked.

“I think your grammatical hesitancy,” Lonny added, “is tied only to a second glance of your work. Or perhaps it is a third glance. It is no more complicated than that.”

“I am taking note,” Lonny said, “that you have two young girls in grade school and for that reason, I can understand your need for trust.”

“Not really into Astrology,” she said, “but in the past year have seen or recoginized patterns. Especially became intrigued with Numerology. But the whole everything happens for a reason or how it is suppose to is scary.
23 is more than just a # of chance in my life,” and then she followed that closely with: “I think that the trust I was referring to has little to do with my girls. I keep them completely separate from any kind of new relationship, friendships or interactions such as this,” she said. “My previous boyfriends. Were slowly introduced and only as friends. And unfortunately even sheltering them from that still caused heartache. But that is Ch 22. Lets not put that poor dumb donkey in front of the cart.”

 “I know the trust issue revolves around them,” Lonny answered. “I also sense that you can’t meet me tonight for that reason. I say, it is what it is and that is apart of this. Friendship brews from mutual respect. Having said that I still think we can engage this project. I also want to know what you hope to garner, what you imagined?” There is always a give and take,” he continued. “I am sweeter knowing you are a good mother. We are related to each other in the big scheme of things and your friends and loved ones would demand that I take care of you. These are gentle communications,” he said, “respectful of your interests, but let us not diminish the intrigue. That’s what makes this interesting. In the meantime, I sense that I can put my laundry in the washer and perhaps prepare for a night run. I am also getting hungry.”

“Ah! An evening run,” she said. “I am impressed. How about tomorrow evening for drinks a bite to eat and I’m sure what will be a interesting conversation… I’m going to also step away get some things done and grab a bite to eat and I will answer the questions of your last email before my head hit the pillow.”

“Ok. I thought for a second you had mentioned Midland,” Lonny said, “and you did, but yes, you don’t have to be in Midland tonight. It just would have been a lot easier.”

 “Still, my clothes are in the dryer now,” Lonny said, “and I am actually getting tired. I need to eat something, a steak with onions, perhaps.”

“I am going to have to take a rain check,” Lonny continued. “The idea of you being in a hotel room alone reminds me of a story my cousin told me about my father. He was going to see a prostitute as a sailor, but his cousin saw a shadow of a man holding a bat and he kept my father from entering.”

“Oh wow. 
No bat handling shadow of a man here,” she said, 
”You are old school. I like that. 
Good Night. Looking forward to our journey… Ok. Neverminded. Sorry if I over stepped. 
But I just realized we hadnt exchanged pictures. Here is Me. Two good pictures in combo. 
They describe me well! Well my take on me anyway.”

“P.S. – 
I love grilled onions on my steak! 
L but on the pink side,” she said.

“Then maybe we should have that for dinner,” Lonny said. “Are you still going to have that hotel room?”

“I just got your e-mail,” she said. “My phone has been dead all day. I forgot my charger and time got away from me. I have no idea how it got to be 10:15PM. I can chat in 15 minutes. I am finished moving some things.”

“Fine, call when u have the time,” Lonny texted.

“I am sorry I flaked,” she said. “I am completely exhausted and I would not make a very good impression tonight. Are you going to be around in the afternoon tomorrow?”

 “Early afternoon should work,” Lonny said. “I am tired also. Talk to u when it is convenient for both of us.”

“Ok,” she said, “Will touch base with you tomorrow. Truly sorry about today. I knew I had lots to do. But wow…”

“There is no need for an apology,” Lonny said. “We remain in the adventure.”

“What we want is always harnessed by the facts,” Lonny said. “The air today is cooler, refreshing, and awakening. And so the first call by her is going to be a doosey. One’s first words say so much about the possibilities. We appear drunk to each other at the height of our idea, a free reign love affair, where reality had slipped for a moment, but now the awkwardness of something so powerful as sex has taken hold; she keeps delaying the inevitable. Perhaps, her lie is greater than mine, with two young girls at home, she is not free,” he said.

“And what is my problem?” Lonny asked. “What excuse did I have, except that my dick hangs low at the prospects, a wicked adventure it would like, a dirty passing stranger to insert, to lick, to view against the backdrop of what is actually true. The world is wholly conservative,” he said, “staid, careful with things of the heart, reminding always of two young girls as metaphors of bad relationships or good ones. But responsibility rears its ugly head when we so want complete abandonment.”

“I just want to lay next to Tricia,” Lonny said, “and devour her with my nose and mouth. But then what? What sexual favors does she grant, where she and I are apparently in the same place?”

 “No, the cold breeze,” Lonny recanted, “is a reminder that wishes, can be granted, but the truth is warm and sober. I might take her as I said in the low-lying bed, close to the floor and whispering, the smell of her head, her small shoulders, the afternoon or night of full disclosure, every inch of her body explored only to find that like me our ancient sweat, our mouths having been around for so long cannot hide the humanity, the base animalian scents and dirtiness that seems to never end.”

“No, the first thing I will do,” Lonny said, “is bury my nose in her hair then with my hands on her shoulder. I will travel down to her legs.”

“But that is what I want,” Lonnie said, “the most truthful destiny then round about her, having smelled everything, her feet, her hands, her ears, her lips, and nothing can stop this passion.”

 “I undress her,” Lonny imagines. “Pealing layers, kissing naked skin. Pulling her limbs apart, kissing her head. I have no responsibility, or so I allow, as feelings of desire turn into a kind of love,” he said.

“I stop for a second,” Lonnie said, “and we lie against each other spooning and breathing harder than better judgment can dissuade. I whisper sweet nothings. We men will say anything, and she knows this, and so she smiles. It is about free abandonment and then reality, things like this never last because so much hope has been put upon them, that the truth is just that, life is dotted here and there by these moments that later live with us as soft, pure memories that make us smile or regret.”

“The tryst is a quiet affirmation,” Lonny said, “of two lovers under a blanket. The turmoil of lust spins and twists, and the body leaks the secretions of love, and then it’s over, an awakening, as a series of emotions, of attempts to pick up where we left off.”

“And so by now,” Lonny said, “we know each other, every fantasy explained, there is no intimacy greater and we make decisions to go forward as we let it drift as men do.”

“The true responsibility,” Lonny said, “is vast. Symbols of our love for example are like spiritual or actual children,” Lonny said.”

“So I pull her arm close,” Lonny said, “and I make one last kiss before we wake, back again to spooning, and we fall asleep,” and he said this as if it actually happened.

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The Real You

The Real You

I want the real you,
Not this avatar,
Where my thoughts are sucked.
This voice of yours
That speaks of fragility and hurt,
I want the real you
Because I am a man.

You say the real you is what you want
But in doing so you’d be destroyed.
There are things about you
That you cannot say
Or they would destroy the timidity you display.

You have your demons.
I say you could not be demonic
With that trembling voice.

I respect your need to hide things
You’ve left unknown.
I had to look up “heathen-”
Someone who does not believe in God,
Is uncivilized.

You are honest
And civilized.
I have no right to press you,
Gone too far.

No one is perfect;
I am that example.
But your beauty is unflawed
By your kindness,
The imperfections you have hidden
Are waved.

And yes, what appears your tolerance
Is visible and virtuous.
I am not blind to this,
Only ambitious.

Perhaps, it is your downfall
To be willing to see the beauty
In another,
Who is not so beautiful at all.
But, just as Nancy Reagan said,
You can always say, “No,”
Or in this case, “NO!”

The windfall is true.
Your perfection is my sin.

The Planet Mars

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Alain said that when you wake, you are supposed to see things. “Instead,” he said, “the angle of repose seemed fishy.”

“Her hourly stare transfixes,” Alain said, “in every appointment of the sky that absorbs light. This nomenclature is opened by space-time developments in the enclosures of jackets and spacesuits. There are little plastic plates with indentations that are filled with solid foods that have been churned into earth-colored pastes. The planets outside oscillate and darkness is imposing. The trigger finger of light explodes on occasion, where darkness is forever forming.”

Alain looked out the window and said, “Transplanted eyes in the memory of the moon looks back at you in the reflection of the glass. The round table you had hoped would gather the others sits empty, except for the scattered papers. Each sheet was an invitation.”

“When I write works that are a glimpse inside,” Alain said, “you are welcome to be there, to love me, but if it is too much for you, there are others in other rooms.”

It was like he was talking of a brothel. But it turned out that the experiment only coupled a few. There were always Alpha boys, who kept a harem of the women, who it turned out didn’t care that they were sharing someone who was strong enough to make sense of things. And I knew this was how it would work, because it came to me as something strange and effluvious.

“When I write words,” Alain continued, “they are a glimpse inside and you are welcome to be there, to love me…”

Alain wasn’t talking to me, but to Margaret, who was lithe and happened to be there slouching in a chair just to be away from Dirk, who was one of the Alpha boys. Apparently, they had fought and she was sulking and using her absence as a psychological device to ensure jealousy and desire. I watched her because I didn’t often get to. She was always smothered by one of the other men, like a sex doll, perfect in every way, but always untouchable. What I had to offer were words only, no stately shape, no promises of protection from the elements, which were always out there.

Although Alain wasn’t actually looking at Margaret while he continued, you could tell the words were meant for her, but she wasn’t listening. She was in a different place, that place where she hoped to ensnare Dirk’s passion.

When Alain talked about the other rooms, he was referring to the rooms in the hallways of the buildings on Mars, where we had all been willing to shuffle with the promise that we could never come back and that was fine with me. I had discovered who I was long ago when I heard the monologue of T. S. Eliot reading “The Wasteland:”

“APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire…”

“It is a hallway of lives,” Alain said, “each room is equipped with exactly what that person needs, because he/she has discovered who they are and what they are supposed to be doing.”

I watched Margaret. I followed the lines of her feet up her legs until the edge of her short shorts and I could go no further. But, I wanted to. I wanted to touch her, but that was impossible. There were rules for where the mind could wander. Even on Mars our desires were sequestered, compartmentalized into the impressions of truth, ideas we never actually tested but could figure out on our own. She never looked back for one thing, and by now, I was a middle-aged man, and she was younger, certainly a fine match for Dirk, who I conveniently had forgotten. I wanted to tell her the truth of what I was feeling, but it was pointless and that is what made my being here so lonely. None of the women, even the woman I was meant for, turned out to find me appealing, and so that was the end of it.

“I am the recorder of morning,” Alain said, “that is often afternoon, because I spend all night into early morning contemplating the sun…”

The sun shines for 24-hours on Mars. And so, for the time being, all of us are waking at different points along this spectrum of light and dark and most of us are taking notes. There are fewer opportunities for conversations and yet there are people in almost every room. As you know, relationships are formed in eight seconds and that’s pretty much how it will be for the duration.

“…I read books and interact on the computer with voices, talking heads, but none of us ever really connect,” Alain continued. “We flip through the dating site pictures and just for the fun of it, find no one we’d like to date, because we know it just boils down to power over the other, because wanting to be loved is a weakness, and people you love always don’t love you as much,” he said.

I am listening to Alain because what he is saying is a big joke. We can’t date the people on the dating sites, because they are all back on earth and once they find out that he’s on Mars, all they want to know is what it is like. It’s not like they are ever going to meet. Because, once they realize how alone he is and what it’s like here, they are never going to want to come. Wherever we go as a species, we take our habits, our character. There is no escaping how we structure ourselves socially. We can’t escape the fact that we are animals and the need to be loved and to belong to the group is what draws us.

“Desperation or longing is not romantic,” Alain said. “And that’s the end of it. And so the desperate one crawls back into his/her hole feeling the expression of desire was cruelly shut down.”

I am looking out the window while Alain is giving his diatribe and I see the long arc of flat land, not unlike a reddish Burning Man. “There are mountain ranges and sandy plains, and even some of the largest sand dunes in the Solar System. But, other than that it is plain, on going and empty. Occasionally, there are dust storms, like small tornadoes. The dust storms can reach thousands of kilometers wide and last for months.”

“But, we all want love, you would think,” Alain said, “except we’ve been out of love for so long that when we see it we stomp on it like a weakness in ourselves, or as some dangerous bug that if it touched us, it would sting.”

That resonated with me. I had grown so cold to the chance of love that it became painful to think about. I was embarrassed when I read that a student had told a teacher that he could learn more if she were naked. She was angered by it. She said: “I was so angry, and embarrassed, hopeless, and exasperated all at once.”

I saw the student as painfully aware of his faux paux. The truth had become unwanted and it made him question himself. He had nowhere to go. It turned out the teacher made an example of him. And knowing he was wrong for doing it, he did not return. He never again said what was on his mind, what made him real. He hated power. Power always told him how to act and it smothered him.

“The mesh of the wires,” Alain continued, “in our brain has become crossed. The world of God had been lost because of the spin. It is now a cacophony of fear and misunderstanding. This is why I am disposed to wake when I do and record the first words as the truth of the day.”

I looked at Alain. The sadness in realizing he was correct made me slouch in my chair. I felt completely isolated. I had to accept that it would never change. The possibilities were not endless. I was alone with myself and so how can one love oneself, where the world had already passed judgment, where I had already passed judgment on myself?

“Still, I often miss the dreams that recalibrate my eyes and nose to the grindstone of truth that I am forever seeking,” Alain said.

“I am eternally waiting for the voice,” Alain said, “of the muse to fill me with beauty and mystery so that I might share the joys of living and the intrigue of our being here.”

What Alain said wasn’t registering. There were words, but I couldn’t hear them.

“It is very simple,” Alain said, “how the plans started on Mars and how things began breaking down, gaps in the spaces between the structures that we couldn’t fix, and so we closed those units as best we could and some people ended up moving in with others; it was so that we were able to breathe.

“Eventually so much was taken away that we just left things as they were,” he said. “It seemed like the environment had changed us. We were like field mice. We scurried about always worrying if there would be food but we were not willing to go outside to see if we could survive. The environment had gotten to us and we became like furniture: staid and silent, motionless. Suppressed.

He Feels Like He Should Carry A Knife

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            Tanner wakes and the first thought is that he feels he should carry a knife and to stab the stray dogs that wander at night and might attack him when he runs.

            He also remembers a dream he had when he entered the highway in his long-dead father’s Eldorado and he was having trouble engaging the lights. A policeman stopped him.

            He can’t remember what he said to him except probably the truth. He felt like he had won the Nobel Prize for literature, or that he was well known by then. He has this capacity for writing, where almost anything can inspire him. But, the policeman had no idea who he was and he simply issued a ticket after learning that Tanner had not been drinking.

            Tanner spends all day, everyday; writing works that go on the Internet as fragments of the books that he then compiles and publishes.

            He keeps on writing, no matter that nothing comes of them. He still longs to hear from the curator of an exhibit at the Berkeley Art Museum, where he covered the entire museum with a running poem. “Why hasn’t she written?” he questions. “I want her to be my wife.” Tanner wonders at such greatness and depth, such loveliness, “But she says nothing, probably laughs, and confers with the other curator, who received a letter too, with a response as well about a photographer she curated.”

 

            Here is what Tanner wrote:

 

         “Issues in Roger Ballen’s images parallel our own demise as a society. 



         “We forget about the weakest link.



         “We try to complement our elitist culture but in so doing, we focus only on a few. Like a biosphere, if we neglect a species, we upset the balance. 



         “Diversity is imperative. We are all souls as Oprah says, and what she means is that if we ignore something that appears on its surface to be different, then we are disrespecting it. We are this whole spiritual force beneath the surface of our skin; that’s the point in our errors.

         

”Constance Lewallen, Senior Curator for Berkeley Art Museum Exhibitions said that Ballen’s photographs prove ‘[South African] Apartheid was designed to provide economic security to white Afrikaners.’ What it turned out to do was hurt the society as a whole and the people it was designed to protect. 



         “In a more poetic vein, I allow myself to let a thought run wild: 



         “Maybe we don’t see ourselves in the composition exposing class and ugliness — the pugs and the single eye in the head. 



         “Maybe we don’t see the ratty armrest or the dirty sheet we sit on. 



         “Maybe we don’t see ourselves in the bulging eyes and our companions. 



         “Maybe we don’t see the inherent fear nor feel the surprise in our eyes and body. 



         “Maybe the depression is normal. The masks we hold though lighter colored are less revealing. In the end, above the fray, we become what we thought we only saw. 



         “We sleep on a runway of words. There are symbols on the walls that separate the rooms. 



         “We hold the fake child grimed by our hands. Our husband carries the cross like an aerial. 



         “In a shadow among the jungle’s leaves, chords drape behind and in front. The Elephant’s ear has a good memory. 



         “Our blemishes are shared. There is no skin color. Our class bears the same wounds. 



         “We hide in a corner: Boney and veiny. 



         “We make fun of those with Down’s syndrome and a lamp at the end of a chord. 



         “We are a family portrait that is several generations away from the original. 



         “We are a child with a toy set, an infant on a chest of drawers. 



         “We are the cart without a basket.

 

            So, you can see that Tanner is a bit off. He writes out of context. He cannot see that Lewallen might not find his letter comforting. It seems to be the response of a person without any boundaries, a grim reaction to the art. This of course is strange in and of itself. The intention of the exhibit was not to attract the types of people depicted in the photos, but to communicate some message to the rest of us, a kind of maudlin recognition of the compositions of outcasts and of the mentally retarded and how we keep a distance from them to comfort ourselves.

           

            Tanner thinks that art is so inspiring that it touches him. He recognizes the communication right off the bat. He knows where the muse has been. He recognizes the eloquence of the muse’s idea; where the truth is as clear as day. “These greedy ones,” he says, “have no sense of time and place or how far from god they have strayed. They will take nothing with them and their lives as such are filled with regret and that is all.”

            Tanner says he closes his eyes upon waking as the words come as “A flow of ice cream, a Willy Wonka moat of chocolate passes before me, a fancier’s diorama of sweet joy. I can see the truth and beauty of life through my eyes that will not run away. I remain where I am supposed to be, doing what I am supposed to be doing, which is to throw things away.”

            “My life is changing fast,” Tanner continues, “and I have to get a move on, because I am supposed to move to my final place, where all the rental income is enough to cover my place too, such that I can live for free and when it is paid off, I have extra income too.”

            Tanner says that, “This is the time I must secure this event. I have no other chance as the prices start to rise. But, I remain dilly-dallying trying to decide what to throw away. The next thing is the photo lighting equipment and to sell my mother’s silver tea set and silver settings, which is in boxes in my bedroom. Her photos, I will use to write a book about my life as the descendent of a mayor of Philadelphia, but who like all great families, ends up bi-polar and damaged.”

            “Remaining pure and innocent takes great pains and discipline. I must maintain a vision that is about an angry response to my own frailties as a man.”

            “I cannot help myself however to move into this light such that I may forever be on key, where I am a writer and an illustrator of the future, which is wild.”

            “Still, I saw a child in the last couple of days, who made a mockery of an executive of Monsanto, his company has genetically modified food. There are no controls. The company is the only one running the testing and benefits from self-approval.”

            “That guy is so full of himself. He couldn’t see that he kept repeating himself and never accepted that what she was saying was correct and that she will win.”

            I stop Tanner and tell him I have to go. “It was nice seeing you again. I hope we can talk soon.”

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No Escaping

This image reveals the jeopardy in drinking:

His curmudgeon glare

The pursing of his lips

The gauntlet stare

So deep in thought of a mistake made

That set a lifetime adrift.

Pale riders,

Both of them

Sharing a similar boat

A stir in it’s sinking.

Both are on dry land.

Anger follows them

Like a gray cloud.

Pour back the pint,

Its glorious rivulets

Embossed for distraction

Slowly diminish with each sip into

The texture of forget-me-knots.

In an action that is forever reoccurring

There is no escape.

Conversations

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Part 1

Narcisse, hello.”

“Hi. How are you?”

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine. I haven’t seen you.”

“Yes, I’ve been busy.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I figured you got back together with your man, or someone.”

“Yes, someone. Anyway, how are you?”

“Fine. Nothing much is going on, still waiting.”

“OK. Maybe we should get together, have lunch or something?”

“Perhaps.”

“OK, well, let me know. It’s been so hot.”

“Yes, it has.”

“OK, good to see you.”

“You too! Be happy you deserve that.”

“Thank you.”

“OK, goodbye.”

Part 2

“You smile like I have insulted you.”

“Yes, when we saw each other, you put your head down.”

“Yes, you were just far enough away that I couldn’t see your facial reactions, and so rather than acknowledge you, I turned. I didn’t mean to insult you. I just can’t see. I haven’t been sleeping. I am very stressed. I apologize.”

“No problem. Thank you for letting me know.”

Part 3

“I’d like to tell you what is on my mind.”

“OK, I am standing here. Go ahead.”

“Well, I saw you and I said to myself: Now, that’s a lady I could make love to permanently. Well, OK, for a long time, because you are perfectly wrought.”

“OK, is that it?”

“No, and then I thought to myself eventually however, you would loose your shape, become someone I might not want to sleep with and then what? What would we talk about? By the way, who are you? I mean, who are you really beneath this perfectly lovely exterior, in case I wasn’t deluded about having the chance to be with you?”

“I am just a pretty girl. I have no other interests. You were correct in making that assumption. But, sadly I am very superficial so you were correct. I am not interested. I don’t know what we’d talk about. You are just interested in fu*king and I would just want to do my nails and I wouldn’t want you to mess with my hair. Besides, sex wouldn’t be so dirty. I mean unclean and I want to stay clean. I am waiting for someone, a knight in shining armor. Oh well.”

“Yes, oh well, sorry I bothered you.”

“No, that’s OK. I get that a lot.”

“Yes, I am sure you are right. It must be incessant. And you already know you are beautiful.”

“Yes.”

“But, may I ask you?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“Do you see a man who you could imagine fu*king until you were both old and then you have to start having a conversation?”

“Yes, and I think he’s just a bad boy and he’ll just fu*k me and walk away.”

“I know what you mean. Nobody just talks anymore. Everybody just wants to fu*k. That seems to be the only thing missing; well at least for me.”

“Yes, I agree.”

He likes how the music seems to loop

Image

Inspired by: The Gift of Life 
by Andrea L. Harris


(See: http://thepublicblogger.com/2013/08/31/the-prelude-to-the-right-to-life-introducing-andrea-l-harris-blunted-master-ent/)

He likes how the music seems to loop

As does the poem

Letting liars lie

Enjoying life.

The phrase

“How hard the fallen

Everything” came to him

Right after

“The wind blows…”

And “The Sun’ll come out tomorrow,”

Was another additive to the coffee.

Did you have to put the elderly in?

He’s already half-way

To the end of life

And the end doesn’t look promising.

He thinks the elderly would rather be dead.

Their bodies get so frail that

What their bodies must say to them

Is like a bad hangover coupled with a

Lack of memory,

“Which is good,” he says, “if you don’t want to remember,

“But being alive is remembering.”

He says, “Put that in your coffee.”

Do flowers really bloom?

He thinks they just come that way.

And what is “Love’s hate?”

Is that possible in a rhyme?

He means the whole idea and all,

“There’s nothing melodic.”

He doesn’t cry when a child is born.

He cries that he doesn’t want one.

He doesn’t want anything to do with the responsibility.

There’s a rub:

“Aren’t there enough?” he says.

“Free will?” he asks;

“Have you ever been to a supermarket like Whole Foods?”

If he has the money,

He always finds something.

He doesn’t know how you can look into your heart.

His stomach is too full.

It takes over his thoughts and

Certainly there is nothing in between.

He hears that men think about sex

Every 15 seconds.

“That’s pretty awesome,” he says.

“And women are always

“Complaining about men.

“Hey, if you can run the world

“While thinking about sex every

“15 seconds, and drinking beer,

“And watching football, then

“Men are pretty awesome,” he says.

“No, there is nothing deeper.” he says.

“And I can prove it,

“Sun notwithstanding,

“Or falling,

“Or racing across the sky

“As if it had an appointment.”