Angels

Do not go quietly and to the darkness do not succumb,
for it awaits you silently and begs for you to come.
But if you go do not go lightly, go loudly and go proudly
even though it is too cold for angels to fly tonight.

 

Advertisements

Cigarette Break

The cat that wasn’t really there
ran across my vision again. He is
all black, except for a small amount
of white at the tip of his tail and
just under his little chin. Sometimes
he sits at the edge of my peripheral
and just stares at me with his glowing
green eyes. Other times, like this time,
he darts across in front of me, startling
me, forcing me to take a step back.
This cat, that no one can see but me,
knows I abhor his presence, yet still
he haunts me – toys with my mind.
I hate that fucking cat.

I forget about the cat for a moment
and sit down in my chair that faces
the small copse of trees. Birds, big
blue jays and regal cardinals, flit
among the branches, singing their
songs and calling out to one another.
I watch as they dart from limb to
limb, tree to tree, and from the trees
to the small awning that covers my
deck. I watch as one breaks from
the flock and dives down towards
me, it’s beady little black eyes locked
on mine and I scream, jumping up
out of my chair, throwing myself
against the wall, covering my face
with my arms, shaking like a leaf in
a strong wind, waiting for the impact
… but the impact never comes and
my screams die in a hoarse whisper.
The bird is nowhere to be found.
Was there ever even a single bird?
I hate those fucking birds.

I pick my chair up off the deck and
sit back down, my eyes drawn to
the Poplar planks with their ellip-
tical knotholes. As my eyes slide
across the wood, I find a multitude
of eyes staring back at me, blinking,
some of them crying, and the largest
one bleeding. I shake my head to try
try to clear my vision, but the eyes
have me. The pupils trapped in the
wood, following my swiveling head.
I close my eyes tight and scream in
frustration, but when I open them, I
find I am still being stared at.

I can’t take this anymore, so I slam
my cigarette down in the ashtray,
listening to it scream as I grind out
the butt and walk inside, where I bury
my head in my pillows, praying that
sleep will end this fucking nightmare.

Giving In To Give Up

She was carefree
and running barefoot
through Devou
when the pansy
fell from her hair.

Gunshots were so close
that my ears were ringing.

Bending down
and picking up
the yellow flower,
she saw me
watching her.

I turned to see what I heard
and missed what I needed to see.

With a smile
that was meant
for me,
she tried to meet
my eyes.

The shot was meant for me and how
I wish it would have hit its mark.

Crimson soiled her
and her knees hit grass
and her smiled faded
and she looked
relieved.

I rushed to her side to stop the ebb,
but her outstretched hand stopped me.

“I will gladly take a bullet
for the man with love in his eyes
for a woman he had only seen once
for love at first sight
only happens when
we let go and
let another in
with trust
and without
expectation.”

Hard At Work

I started working on my almost fictional memoir/biography quite some time ago. It has gone through many titles and I recently gave it a new one: Ramblings of an Uncut Mind. I chose it because my poetry collection is titled Poetic Visions of an Uncut Mind and when doing nonfiction (or a reasonable facsimile thereof) I am trying for stability that way if the book gets picked up then perhaps they will pick up the collection for republication. I have big hopes and dreams, but if you can’t dream big then why hope to dream at all?

I say the piece is “almost fictional” because I am not sure what is real and what is not. What is fact to me, may be a lie to someone else. My therapist told me I should leave it alone (trying to figure out what is real or imagined) and just live my life, but that is hard when you are a writer, especially if you are writing a memoir. So I have taken what I think I know and written it down and if something contradicts that in my mind then I write that as well, explaining that I have two or more memories of the same event or time period.

So most of my time has been spent working on that. The rest is spent writing poetry, cleaning the apartment, trying to buy a house, taking care of my daughter and finding time to show my wife some love. As I write this I have to say I feel sorry for her because as much of a bitch that she can be, she still has to deal with a (medicated)schizophrenic, former drug addict, smoker, pathological liar who happens to be an aspiring author. That is not to say that I don’t feel that she still treats me unfair at times, it is just to say that she has it just as rough, if not more, as I do dealing with her unmedicated ass who is sick constantly and whines when she is not bitching, screaming, or not listening to a word I say, not to mention never taking my feelings, thoughts, or sicknesses in mind.

So if you are wondering why I haven’t been posting so much, now you know.

A quick update:

  • The 2 year old is sleeping through the night in her own bed, but never past 6:30 am.
  • The wife is looking for a better job that won’t treat her like a door mat.
  • We have found a house, pending inspection (Monday), that we should be in by mid-August.
  • I think my best friend is trying to get in my wife’s pants as his wife’s pants are currently in the possession of another of our friends (complicated). I may write about this when I have time.
  • My medication is working splendidly. Anxiety is at a 25% level and paranoia is at a 35% level, but the hallucinations are at a 5% level and the emotional response is up 300%. Moods are stable for the most part and I am seeing signs of real happiness.

Would love to hear from any of you readers that would like to say something.

Writing Is My Mistress

I recently have posted a few pieces of poetry because it and the novel I am working on have consumed a lot of my life.

We are still looking for a house and getting very impatient. We have to have an accepted contract by the end of this month at the latest. Tomorrow I am supposed to go look some more and hopefully I will find “the one”.

My psych increased my main anti-psychotic med and it will take a week or two to find out if it makes me “normal” as that is the ultimate goal, that and being able to take care of my daughter. If it helps even a little bit my wife and I will be trying to have another baby.

So all of that and keeping the house (cleaning and cooking) should leave me with no time, but I steal away and find time to write. Sometimes I don’t sleep and sometimes I skip cleaning and cooking. I try my hardest, but sometime I even neglect my family to write.

I have gotten more than several rejection letters over the last month (10) and I am trying to not let that put me down. I am still waiting on five others, but I don’t have high expectations. I decided to send out 15 submissions at a time and wait. The next round is coming and I don’t have enough to send out. I need 3-5 pieces for each submission unless the journals/magazines take simultaneous submissions.

So expect to see pieces of poetry more often as I will be posting my scraps here to keep a record of them. If you have a comment that could help me improve please speak your mind. If you think I should give up entirely I am not sure I want to hear that.

Here is another piece to read:

Cold But Not Alone

Belched beer,
regurgitated booze
all reminds me
of home,
of him.

Warmth at
my hairline,
a caress
of my ass –
sliding around
to the front
as I slip
from his
grip
only to fall
over his legs
wrapped
around me.

A boy can only take so much.

Bricks burn
when hot enough
and screams
get so high-pitched
you can’t
even hear them
anymore.

They both deserved to die;

him
for being him
and her
for not being
who she
should have been.

And I ran.
I ran
until
I could see
the smoke
no more.

I ran
until
I was
no more.

I ran
until
the boy
became
a man.

And then
this teenage man
was alone
and cold
and lost,

but there was hope to be found in the alleys,
hope shoved in my hand
and pointed
at another man
only existing
in the wrong
part of town.

So blood.

Hands dirty
and never
could they
be clean
again.

So I ran,
but not far.

I found a spot
under an overpass,
where Amelio
proclaimed,
forever in red paint,
that he
loved Kelly

and that was my new home.

I collected
things,
mundane things,
to make my nest,
my new home

and I found friends,
friends who found me,
who offered
more conversation
than anyone
I had
ever met
before.

But then
the cars
started looking
at me

and people
were screaming
at me

and I didn’t
know what to do,

so I hid
with my remaining friends,
feline, fauna and Hector
and we shut out the world together.

Hector,
the hippie from Los Angeles,
just wandered out into traffic
and I have to go after him.

A Little Poetry

I am a professional poet, which some of you may already know. I thought I would give a small sample of some of the recent pieces I determined were good pieces, but not suitable for professional publication.

The many, The downcast, The Children

In the land of the free and the home of the brave
sat a young man locked in his room so full of hate.

He wanted to know how anything could ever be okay
ever since his daddy died and his momma flaked.

It used to be games of planes, trains, trucks and guns,
but then his daddy left to play with sand, fleas and bombs.

His momma used to say, “Daddy’s havin’ so much fun”
when in reality it was momma’s fun that had just begun.

There came a nonstop barrage of new men
and then he was locked up in his room again

hearin’ all those moans, screams and cries
knowin’ then that his momma’s words were lies.

When the day finally came, they told him daddy died
and reality finally became everything he had denied.

Now, years later, with a new man on the throne
he found that pistol daddy had made his own.

Mamma never noticed a single day in his life
and new daddy barely noticed the loss of his wife.


Springtime fallen leaf

(Painfully)
Noticing
the (lack of)
time

that is
(not)
going by

and yet
another day
passes
and you
are
still (not)
here.

What is
here
and
yet
not?

All those lost
before their time

and (your) time
was never to be now
(or then).

And yet
your time
(never)
began.


Gone

We used to meet,
but never eat,
at White Castle
on Monmouth street.

Now it’s just a lot
with shit and squat
where poor kids play
in holey socks.

At home Reap died
and we all cried.
Death to an era
and one last ride.

Feedback is welcome. I would actually appreciate some. I know this is not what I usually write about, but you get a little of me in every entry.