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.
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April 29, 2014 — Brunch In The Village — A Journal Excerpt
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.
Our eyes told stories
I’ll always remember that day
And keep it as a reminder—
That day in which you looked my way
And I didn’t have a clue who you were
And you didn’t have a clue who I was
That day in which our eyes told stories—
As to what is most important.
So if and when we lose our way, I know
Together we’ll find ourselves again—
Where eyes can say what words cannot express—
And stories, we, can only tell together.
Beautiful Days
Beautiful music plays
while I remember—the worst—
most beautiful days.
The world spins for you
When the world
seems, to be
spinning without you—
just listen
breathe and remember
the world spins for you,
as it does that perfect stranger
who too is listening.
No matter the days happenings
No matter the days happenings,
good, bad, or ugly—
remember to remind her,
the one you love—you love her
and there’s no place you’d rather be
than with her, dreaming of tomorrow.
Memories
I keep coming across memories
in the background of my mind.
They say to live within the present
or else life’s a waste of time.
But presently these memories
have left me color blind.
And I can’t quite find my way out
of this never ending rhyme.
I keep coming across memories
like bicycles speeding by.
Their features blur together
with wind burnt summer skies.
How presently these memories
present themselves as I,
remember each one vividly
to whom each one I’ve lied.
How precious are these memories
kept sound within the dark.
Each one with their own melody
from which I’d never part.
Though presently these memories
which bear my open heart,
may one day get the best of me
for now are works of art.
It’s too early to be tired and I’m tired again.
It’s
too
early
to
be
tired
and
I’m
tired
again.
Not
the
I’ve
been
on
my
feet
all
day
tired.
No.
It’s
that
special
kind
of
tired
we
don’t
dare
speak.
It’s
the
reason
we
stand
all
day
on
our
feet.
Yes.
It’s
that
special
kind
of
truth
we
work
so
hard
to
forget.
Until
we
remember,
no
longer
able
to
sleep.
Words Of An Average White Male 