pale and out of sight

the white fish
(flounder comes to mind)
buries itself underneath
the sand in the depths
of the ocean.

I realize that my pale skin
(and it’s real fucking pale)
may derive from burying
myself into the darkness
of
life.

it’s there that I feel most comfortable;
out of the danger of predators.
no vulnerability
hidden and absent
from humans.

but then…
the bait; the lure
is cast within my peripheral vision;
there she is.

why does she choose to show up now
when I have found my peace?

i ignore it…i continue to ignore it…
she won’t go away…she stays and stays
and
stays
but i stay strong,
but not for long.
I’m flawed
because I can only see around me
not in front of me.

so i eventually strike the bait;
hook, line, and sinker
(I think that’s the adage)
because I’m weak
and my flesh is easily torn
filleted
chopped
cooked
eaten
digested
and
there
lies
my heart:
complete shit
and
easily
flushable.

the accidental slippery slope

innocent as it may have been
the towel dropped.
time stopped;
a burning sensation
throughout my veins
seared the image into my brain;
an image that can never be
forgotten.

it’s more clear than the highest pixelated
digital
camera
photo.

not even dementia
derangement
alzheimers
stroke
insanity
madness
or
death
can
remove
this
image
of
human
perfection
from
my
mind.

Somethings, I guess, do live on forever.

dial-up love

once, there was this girl I met online
when dial-up was still the thing
and AOL is all we knew.

shit, I didn’t have a car
or a license (neither did she)
so my brother drove me there
in hopes that I cracked
the female code.

as a teenager, you’re only driven by procreation;
although, you have no idea what that means
in the moment.

needless to say, I broke her heart.
and some other guy pursuing the same goal
called me to let me know about it;
my guess is that he cracked the code.

as the years passed by
and the kids frolic in the parks
i think about her
and
the several abortions since her.

flowers blossom
and die
blossom
and die
repeat
repeat

I blossomed for a moment
died
but was never re-born:
don’t believe religions.

scenery

I’m trying to recall the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen:
Pacific ocean: sharks.
Atlantic ocean: more sharks.
Rocky mountains: snow, bears, death.
Aerial view from 10,000 feet: i can’t make any of those objects out, plus plummeting death drop.
Yellowstone: snow, bears, wolves, bison, volcano, death.
Grand Tetons: snow, bears, death.
Grand Canyon: death drop.
Costa Rican rain forest: wet shoes; death from pneumonia.

It occurs to me that the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen is
in front
of me
every night…
the bottom of the bottle,
and then death.

words and throwaways

I can sit here and spout off
famous writers, philosophers, and poets:
Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Twain, Aurelius,
Bukowski, Elliot, Salinger, H. Lee, Kant,
Locke, Whitman, Emerson, Thoreau,
Tolstoy, Hesse, Gilbran, et al.

But fuck it. Do you know them?
They’re all dead.
But their words live for
eternity.

With any luck
I’ll be dead tomorrow
along with that homeless fellow
with the big ass grocery cart full of throwaways
so that we can both wallow
in our absence
while
nobody
attends
either
of
our
burials.

We both bask in the glory of anonymity.

my ode to the genius

the loneliness

I wish I could’ve built that
If only I invented that
If I had the talent to write that
or to paint that
or to sing that
or perform that way
or dance that way
or compete that way
or strategize that way
or envision the future
or to create that
future.

but I’m average
I might get lucky once in awhile
a bet here or there.
a beauty here or there.

but I can’t recognize
the moments the genius
does.

they change the world
they change humanity
they win wars
they change the way we think.

even to suggest that I can begin to understand how they are wired
is
an
insult
to
their
legacy.

I sit in my broken chair
and
admire.

flirting with the eightball

I’ve played Nine-ball
(yellow stripe)
I aimed for the corner pocket;
geometrically lined it up
nailed it
won it,
but
still
lost
in
the
end.

My true and best game is eightball
(solid black with a speck of white)
always behind the eightball
grinding for scraps to
build up enough
to pursue the eightball.

the stick and the cue ball
are mere annoying
elements
to
this
game.

should I jump it?
put some backspin on it?
can I bank it?
combo?
I just gotta call it.

cig in mouth
drink in hand
love this game of pursuing
the
eightball;
the
side
pocket
is
yearning.