this is my time. of untouched stories. now. like a ford truck commercial. like Detroit. like the poems of t.s. elliot that kept on growing with imagination. elliot made it through. not like other poets. i don’t know much about elliot other than this is my time. right now. like a van halen song. like a chick flick. putting my foot down. we’re not going to take it anymore. like a quiet riot song. but the time is mine. and i’ve got a bunch of shit running through my head.
i like my home. i like how i’ve learned that not biting, reaction wise is still a reaction. i don’t have to let everybody and anybody into my home. i don’t have to spend it with the door shut either. it’s good not to care. other than having to keep my eye on the cat that keeps pissing on my belongings.
i heard my sister talk about the orphan mentality the other day. we were walking back to her home after one nice dinner. actually, we were at a bar called sorrey’s. they have a chandelier hanging up above the bar with a bunch of wishbones hanging from it. it’s an old bar. and that’s enough of that because the cat is trying to crawl in my lap. i resisted minus a nice tete a tete head to head nuzzle. it sat in my computer bag for a second then jumped off the table to take a look around my pile of dirty dishes.
i get lost easily.
i really do.
but, somehow – i make my way back. somehow. which is something that can go on for a very long while. easily fibrolated by the nice ladies on the television with fantastic orange county hair.
did you know i went to the wailing wall and prayed for my grandmother and the return of my voice? most of the things i say aren’t really just snippets of weird shit. nonsequiters. silly fuck shit. i went to the wailing wall and prayed for my grandmother and the return of my voice.
i stole her morphine when she died. i had a dream about her appearing in a beige Studebaker after she passed. she told me to behold the red robin. i saw a bunch of them. one time, i saw one in a banyan tree. that really freaked me out. but i was thinking about her and the story – that i pen – and she was there. staring at me. rekindling my belief in magic.
i believe in magic. i believe in the solace of strangers and the love of like beasts. i find myself saying, “i am grateful for my life.” it’s weird because i never really thought that much about my life. i have. but it has been localized within me. which isn’t life. not really. i mean, in relation to being able to shut the fuck up for a second and stand there in with zip shit going through your mind – for a flash – where you realize that broke, hungry, feast, famine, swagger, hopelessness – all those things that can seem like love or some other form of forever – or plan – is gone. and things are better.
kindness. thoughtfulness. intuition with out hunger. this is how i’ve come to hearing again. i’m a better person for it. although, i don’t give a shit about how lonely you are or how you need a ride across town. i’m not hungry anymore. not like you.
i guess this attitude may seem bitter but i don’t think so. i think there is balls in this. love in this. hope in this. great love in this. to be able to say i want more and this is not right.
i remember when i fingered my girl while driving in my xterra to buy my girl a big fucking ring in the jewelry district.
that is one of the things running through my head right now that will i will refrain from further comment. it’ll take too long and i don’t have the energy.
that’s enough for now. i’m tired. i have to piss. it’s almost four a.m. and i don’t care about the thoughts or stories or words or the feelings anymore.
they have passed.
that’s the thing about being a writer. my attempts are not limited to these lines right here. many more will come. but this is the best i can do right now. and i feel better. i should probably comb over it for spelling, clarity, punctuation and what not but i won’t. i’ll immediately post it. which is funny – or not because it’s now and not a line.
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