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Our Love Never Wasn’t

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I haven’t seen you in a long time, to be frank I’m enjoying the silence.

I can’t commit to the truth it lies, cause it feels kind of like we are dying.

If I made you blue, I never wanted to.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

There’s disappointment in her eyes, as he speaks she echos with silence.

Neither one is good at goodbyes still they always seem to be trying.

I will remember you, if you remember too.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t, it’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

There’s a melody, in a harmony.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

He sang to her a lullaby, she did all she could to stop crying.

They fell asleep in the moonlight, just two heartstrings played on violin.

Some day you’ll see, in a memory.

It’s just love and our love never wasn’t.

What Could Possibly Matter More Than Meaning What You Don’t Have The Answers For?

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What’s the point in asking the question

If your voice is already defeated

I’d go blind just trying to see it

You know everyone is trying to beat it—

If there’s pain then that means there’s a reason

If there’s truth then it’s hard to believe in

Still it’s hard not to relive this feeling

Where everyone everyone’s stealing—

It’s like selling your grief for a grievance

Why the hell would you even break even

Doing all we could to deceive them

It’s all wasted time wasting time healing—

It’s like playing pretend dressed in your skin

Or saying the pledge of allegiance

When there’s no one to please or believe in

It only matters as much as you mean it

Santa Monica

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I guess we drank wine, I don’t recall but a Polaroid tells me we did.

I lost track of time, all around me the world continued to spin.

Not like you were mine, I just talked to you when you came around.

I guess it was kind, of like two kids on a merry-go-round.

You wrote me a letter, from Santa Monica in June.

You said you felt better, and that you thought I’d like it too.

Come in December, and we could write poems in the park.

Then there was that blizzard, that left New York alone in the dark.

I was alone in the dark.

I guess that it’s time, to burn these memories you left behind.

I never did find, a more honest friend or a beautiful mind.

I hope that you found, the world that you set out to see.

And know that I’ll be, singing this from across the sea.

Tchotchke

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You read my sadness

Word for word

Like I’m a novelty

Then put me down

Back in my place

Some oldtime tchotchke—

And I wonder how it feels,

Window shopping too?—

From the corner of my gladness

To the outskirts of your sadness

Where nothing is for certain

And no one is to blame

Except we don’t glimmer anymore

Or sparkle like we used to—

Ornamental at our best

Tokens from another life

Holiday On Ice.

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Now all we have’s the memory.

I’ll keep the one to forget

if you keep the one to remember.

The one never to forget,

the ones kept best from afar,

and the occasional Holiday on ice.

May 6, 2014—Only The Silent Can See—A Journal Excerpt

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Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the soil.

No bark alike. No height specific. No two seeds the same.

Are we so different from the natural world, I ask?

Tangled together in clustered chaos, rising from the bed.

No skin alike. No gender specific. No two wombs the same.

Are they so different from us, I ask?

The answer cannot be sung. The answer cannot be heard. The answer cannot be praised.

The answer shows itself every so often, in between the tangled clustered chaos, where only the silent can see, where only the silent remain.

April 29, 2014 — Brunch In The Village — A Journal Excerpt

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While the money drains from my pockets like a busted water main I can’t help but wonder—has our existence really boiled down to name badges and paychecks, fedora’s and chino’s, tax breaks and debt? It’s no wonder the streets are filled with broken bodies.

It’s no wonder the idea of the “weekend” has begun to depress me. This invisible structure, unspoken, yet accepted continues to devour our living, chewing us like cud, and then spitting us out to white sheets where we can’t even reach the bedpan without assistance.

A weekend ago I was eating brunch in The Village, drinking a Bloody Mary, eating eggs Benedict, and writing a letter to a friend when I noticed two men noticing me. They asked if I was a writer—each in their 50’s debating women over Mimosa’s—to which I told them I was just going through the motions of my 20’s. They both smiled, shared a laugh of remembrance, and went back to arguing. If I was smart I’d play the game, perhaps try to sell myself even. One day I thought, but for now, I’m an artist stuck in his artist ways, trying his best not to care that he can’t afford the eggs, the rent, or brunch in The Village for that matter.

Stories and Mythos

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It’s not exactly the man

that makes for an interesting talk.

But the stories of the man.

And the mythos of the man,

which more often times than not,

are much wiser than the man—

Leaving out his failure

to remind him what he lost.

Flirting with Death

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It’s much easier to lie

in the afternoon light,

steady’s the humming

bird that takes flight.

Oh whispering wind

forgive me tonight,

how flirting with death

has been a delight.

Bliss

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Don’t know how long I’ll be back,

but I am now. It’s like

waking in a movie theatre

while the credits roll and suddenly

everything and nothing’s changed.

You don’t know what everyone else saw

but you’ll take their word for it.

And with arms akimbo they just watch

you pocket your hands and head home.

So if I don’t see you today, then tomorrow

perhaps we’ll go swimming? And maybe

for just a while we can pretend

that I never left us in the first place,

and that this was all a dream, and that

starting over didn’t have to mean the end.