This neighbor of mine

I thought I’d heard it all

until I heard a man

screaming at the top of his lungs

on a Sunday morning

at the mother of his child, because

for some people being an adult

just doesn’t quite fit in with their lifestyle—

This neighbor of mine

let’s call him Ray, he walks to the beat of his own drummer.

And frankly, that drummer sucks.

Whether he’s high all day, shouting who wants Champagne! (on a Thursday afternoon) or chasing women from his apartment claiming they’re trespassing while hollering,

YOU SELL SEX FOR FREE!

Hell, Ray does it all.

Record producer! Club promoter!

Youtube celebrity!

He’s a real stand up guy—

And all the while he’s shouting about custody.

Custody?

You mean the baby’s only in there half the time?

Well, I’ll be damned…

it’s 4am—and here we go again.

The best part is when he calls himself a grown ass man—screaming about a 34$ bottle of booze.

I mean, really?

You can’t make this shit up.

Funny eh!

Funny eh!

How when you put yourself to sleep

like a baby, you sleep like a baby…

Dreams

Isn’t it ironic.

The one place we go together,

we always go alone.

Regardless of the election.

There’s a sewer pipe

in the dark, by the L.A. river

like a grave in the ground

where people sleep

by the highway, by the neighborhood

where pumpkins soon

will be replaced by

feasts of Turkey, stuffing, corn

and carefully locked doors,

then to be replaced by balsams and fern

white lights and tender eyes

of Christmas morning,

regardless of the hole by the L.A. river

where people sleep

live, and love—and pray, regardless

of the election, regardless

of the president

I still weep.

Do you?

LA River. Nov 7, 2020

Topanga

Halogen yellow bursts

of light, turn signals

burn bright, through

white lines of Topanga

Morning sunrise, her and I

up all night, we rise

like silhouetted tree

under the belly of LA sky,

gaze upon a sea of fog

clouds, shower faint

hallucinations of

spontaneous future

Travel

October. Topanga Beach

The slammed door and the silence

The slammed door said I’m hurting.

The silence said I’m scared.

The walls between us listened

when no one seemed to care.

The portraits on the wall,

oh how they seemed stare,

where deep within night

the stars poured ever clear.

The door knob turned eventually

as silence did it’s head,

the sea between us parted and

the portraits went to bed.

While all the world was sleeping

with all their monsters fed,

the boy and girl slept soundly

no sooner had they met.

Bittersweet

This decade tasted

bittersweet, as now I welcome

this peaceful sleep.

I allow the teachings of the past to help guide my future.

After a good, long day of self reliance, sleep, and in depth personal analysis, I am left with this thought.

What you do from here on out is your own cross to bear.

Though like a broken record I’ve continued to circle in place.

But why?

Einstein said, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Well, though I agree I’m no Einstein, I’m not insane, I’m just a bit of a slow learner.

See, the hardest pattern to break isn’t necessarily the pattern but the mission so to speak.

We’re all on our own personal mission, aren’t we?

And whether or not we choose to accept it, it exists.

It’s taken many years through trial and error, deliberation, and self reliance to understand.

Carole King said, “you’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart…”

Carole also had two children by the time of her divorce and continued to create with love and compassion.

So what’s my personal mission? And what’s yours?

Will we rise tomorrow with faith and gratitude in our hearts or repeat the same patterns that no longer serve us?

Olmec said, “the choices are yours and yours alone.”

But of course we all need a few humorous anecdotes to help us get through.

And I will, as will you.

Tomorrow, reach a little further than you did today. Try something new and show the world the love in your heart. The choices are yours.

And I’ve built my cross, one which I’m willing to bear.

It’s a heavy son of a gun, but I assure you I’ll be walking, hand over foot—that which does not kill us, makes us stronger— like Nietzsche once said.

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

Taylor calls for me from those stairs in Italy

I’m walking by a pay phone on the beach

Reminders from the East and a girl named Cicily

Talk me into circles out of reach

Send letters won’t you son to remind us what you’ve done

Don’t be a stranger call us once a week?

I buried what was left of my heartache in a trench

On that lonesome stretch of sand I was released

Now Bret he reads the lines in the background of my mind

There’s no one in this room to hear me sing

When journaling in thought feels like a raven’s claw

It’s Taylor who sits calmly next to me

The grass rests underneath her cheekbone by the sea

While chemicals channel flowing dreams

It’s 8am in August while I pour the gin and tonic

Listening to the ocean’s cresting wave

The cobblestone in Rome for which once walked me home

Now Cicily I hear her gently speak

There’s no such thing as time, if you believe that then that’s fine

But darling I’ve got no tears left to weep

I did my best to please the priest listening to me

Still Lucas rest assured me of my grief

I didn’t have to sail to France to find a girl to dance

I just went out every night for one last drink

So now as Taylor calls to me from those stairs in Italy

I pick her up once more from memory

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

I pick her up once more from memory

I play my part as she sings me to sleep

In the early evening calm

She breathes in deep

and exhales his dreams.

In the early evening calm

he falls back asleep.

And just as she wakes

in the mid-morning sun,

he brings to her coffee

just after his run.