When the quarters are the mids, and the mids crave the end.

You know that sound a teapot makes when it's pushing steam out at full force?

That is the noise that I am making inside, viewing myself as someone that is sitting on the couch, pulling hair from the head, that awful screeching at maximum blast.  It's like being a teenager, the angst and anger spewing this way and that, so pent up, so alarming, so...ARGH!

I hate this life.  I hate it.  I hate it.  Woe is me, woe is me.  My life is at a standstill, I am going nowhere, this is nothing, he is ...  They are...  The screeching continues, piercing my own ear canals.  I imagine the blood trickling out of them, staining my shirt and the couch.  NOWHERE.  STUCK.

Woe, woe, woe, dear child.  Where is the comfort, where is the feeling that things will be okay, the assurance of a mother's touch, her hug, her guiding words...

Woe, woe, poor child, poor baby.  Screech, screech.  The downward spiral is about to take hold, about to pull me under, when I realize:

I am an adult.

Damn it.  Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT.

And where do we go from there?  The child adult sits on the couch, eyes absorbing the tears that were going to spill, unclenching the fists of rage, seemingly relaxing.  Ah, relaxing...adults don't do that.  The tension has turned to something else: it has turned to some sort of sadness, embarrassment, ignominy.

Body slumped, deadness taking over.  I am an adult.

And, with that, there goes my hope.  My world.  My sense of being.

This...is ...?

I don't believe in God.

He's not always present.

A lot of the time, he is.

It's lovely, yet, it can be painful.

He'll tell you the truth, whatever that may be.  Whatever he needs.  And you'll respect it.  It will pain you both.

You'll want to tear your heart out.  He'll make you cry, even if it isn't really his fault, because it is yours.

Forward, you'll say to yourself.  You wanted his presence.  But you knew it wasn't right.  And nothing you did seemed right.

He could be a martyr.  You are the sinner.  Baptism has nothing on this shit.

Nothing is really "wrong", is it?  But you'll tear yourself apart anyway, believing what you were taught, what he feels, is everything that makes you that sinner.  May you burn in Hell.  This is your forever Limbo, and you're scratching and pawing at everything.  Tread on your skin, bring upon the raw flesh to feel some substance of what is this life, but only for a brief moment.  Because the pain doesn't last, and the stinging doesn't last, either.

Go numb.

Whales.

Fuck.

These aren't revelations, they are ruminations.  Abominations.

Again, and again,
and again.

Ask her once,
Ask her twice.

Again, and again,
and again.

Stuck.

Eventually, she'll catch up.

To us?


We'll call to her
Through the smog

Cigarettes, here
and there
and there

.Not making sense.
But, alas,
here she is.

Somewhere, here, and she's dead.

She'll come alive through the paint.

In a stroke.

But living isn't really living anymore, is it?

So, where is she?



Things were grand.  A roller coaster of emotions, she was, but she was happy.  She didn't know it.  But she was.

She had hope, back then.  I don't know where it is now.  She remembers sitting in class, nervous.  Waiting for a call that she didn't understand.  The truth was, she did understand.  But she didn't want to believe it.  So, telling herself that she didn't really know what it meant was a way for her to deny what was really going on.

The fluorescent lights outside of the classroom shed plain, pallid light in the hallway.  She snuck out there to listen to her father, his voice steady, confident.  Lies?  Or did he believe himself?  Regardless, she believed his words.  They felt safe.  They felt okay.  Her heart felt sad, but she had that hope.  Whatever the fuck that was.

"The operation went fine."

Fucking tell me what this means, I tell her.  But she's in the past, and I'm in the present.  So how the fuck will she hear me?  It doesn't matter anymore.  We're here.  She's there.  The future is dark.  Or, maybe, it is bright.

Let's practice dialectically.

I can't.  Neither can she.  She worries too much.  She was wondering if her mother would see her sister graduate.  She saw mine.  Or was that the disease?  No, no; it was her.  She saw it.


Sips, sips.  Let the liquid flow.

You know who you are, you do.  You're afraid, and I know it.  I feel it.  You're stuck.  You're so very stuck, like a small, scared animal stuck in tar.  Except time stops for you.  The world around you keeps going.  You never age.  Your body does.  People think you mature.  You do things adults do.  But, inside, you're still the same.  You're still that small, desperate child.  Well, fuck.  What do you do?  Don't be so damn afraid, child.  Even children in Neverland grow and learn.  You'll get out of this.

Let's practice.  Come alive through the paint.  This is your picture.  It's not always big.  But it's here.

Paint, bitch.  Paint.

Realizing your truths

All these dark places
We go

We're not drowning
But the liquids do douse our feathers
A lighting of a match
And the party starts
Down, down we go

Not a believer

It is still beyond me how things can be so easily taken from you.  Just like that; gone, gone forever.  It's not that sudden, because you knew it was happening, but you never believed that this would happen in your life.  You sound selfish, saying this, but it just doesn't make sense.  Gone forever, and it didn't seem like the right time.

What now?  You "move on".  Right.  Because that is so easy.  Just move on, write all that you thought would be out of your life.  Because that is so easy.

Be with me, talk with me, play with me, joke with me.  Sit with  me.  Cook with me.  Just be.

And there we have it.  Gone.

How is one supposed to "move on" when moving on had such emphasis on certain things.  You honestly cannot "move on".  You have to change things.  You need to change all of your plans.  And, even so...let's face it.  It's going to be second best.

Let's talk truth:
I'll never have what I want.
I'll never really be what I want.
Maybe I'll be what was wanted.
But, hey, I'm selfish.
And I just won't ever have what I want.

So...here's to life right now.
And here's to death later.
Maybe then will things be at peace.

Love, love always.
Always love, always love for you.
I love you, always.

Nothing out of something

What we do to ourselves

The pain we cause

The sense that we do not make

The life that you live

I am not inspired, just hurting.

Soup Door

There's a can of Campbell's that's been sitting on the kitchen counter for weeks now.  She brought it home after shopping for some groceries.

"Look, Sam!  I found this.  Reminds me of Billy."

She placed it on the counter, and there it sat.  Campbell's Minestrone, its red and white label staring at me.

Billy.

Billy loved that soup.  I remember him walking through the door many a day, dropping his bag, heading for the cabinet to grab the small can.  A pot would be already be on the stovetop, waiting for him.

"Time is money; money is time," he'd say.  "No point in putting it on the shelf when I'll be needing it, right?"  He'd grin, a cheerful, gripping grin, one that won every girl at the bar over.  How he did, I have no idea.  But he did.  Fuck, he even won me over.

"We'll have to invest in a gas range.  I've been saving up.  This thing's shit."

Slowly, the smell of savory vegetables and broth would fill the kitchen and our small apartment.  Billy'd whistle as he poured himself a bowl, taking care not to spill.  His hands moved with grace.



She didn't understand why he left, at first.  She thought he was away on a business trip.  Like the soup, she had brought other little things home that reminded her of him.  A stuffed lamb.  A book about coffee tables.  A pamphlet from the new Chinese Takeout place that just opened up on Broad Street.  All of these things just became clutter, sitting around the apartment.  He never came back to see them like she thought he would.

"Why can't you just sort it out?" she'd ask, her big eyes full of concern.  "You were so close...  I just don't understand..."



I can't stand the way the can looks.  The way the letters of 'Minestrone' are formed, their cheery, rounded edges, saying, "I'm friendly and tasty!  Pick me!" bothers the Hell out of me.  I keep staring at it, imagining the paper peeling off the ribbed metal like sunburn.