To My Rock

It was so silent.

It was so silent, I heard

the cars moving along

the street

two stories below you

over the phone.

It was so still,

I imagined

the drip in the sink in

my kitchen

echoing -

through the wires.

I have not had a solid

night's sleep since you

sank to that place I

could not reach.

It used to be all jazz

in that red light.

The masked woman from

Venice, hovering above us,

gave us invitations to festivity -

night light, secluded sensuality;

strong hands and fingernails.

I knew that woman could do

anything she pleased, we were sure

she could climb walls

and speak of the unknown

we knew --

One night, in my dreams,

she turned her head to face me,

she was going to speak --

I have been familiar with

the agonies of the mattress,

it was breakfast in bed

three days each week --

I have fought those needles at

my fingertips;

and welcomed them;

and nourished them.

There are leftovers in my freezer.

What I think you think

is not what you think,

you react to what you

think I think

I CAN'T THINK ANYMORE

I had an idea, once,

that was healthy and pure

I mothered a cactus to full bloom --

five wide petals that felt like skin

and looked like sea anemone;

wilted, on the floor,

they formed a stray banana peel,

peach-soft on the backsides

like my child's skin.

I have sinned

by forgetting my child's name

her growth is stunted

without identity.

I thought you knew

the true values of the moon

you say you do (you do! you do!)

sometimes it's undeniably

there in your eyes

then you turn full around,

aim your darts at my heart -

say I'm "idealistic" and

I lose.

Richard at work said

I should try three things:

1. get in good with your family

2. write you a poem

and

3. smile.

- April 18, 1988, A.D.

My Rock (explanation of title of last poem)

At the back corner

of the thrift store -

for only a dollar -

I spotted a real

live lunar sample -

a charming example of

the mooner stock.

I found it resting in

the water on a fish

tank floor, and swore

I wouldn't be complete

without a lunar rock.

And so I, barely able

(with the fish tank and its table),

carried home this little stone

and placed it safely upon

the empty half of my bed

and since then -

I have watched as the little

fish have swum in and through

and around him

I have marveled -

he doesn't glow

he doesn't grow

but oh, I love him so. . .

- April 18, 1988, A.D.

A Wish

There was never a sweeter flower grown

than underneath your care

I wish I were a flower

that could spend my mornings there

And with a sunny look,

your eyes could wipe the tears away

From many emptier gardens

and more melancholy days. . .

- Jan. 12, 1987, A.D.

Fear and Loathing in the DQ, '86

You know that saying, "You're going to have hell to pay"?  Well, this was the year the bill came due - the hangover year, where people would tell me later how fucked up I had been.  They didn't have that phrase, then: "whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas".  Or in my case - Mardi Gras.  I didn't know I was just supposed to sow some wild oats, go to confession, and come home free and clear.  Instead, I had to keep it.  I had to carry Mardi Gras around with me for the rest of the year; a bug in my ear, telling me to live free at any cost.

But that's the problem:  There was a cost.  I had already gone home with the first man who asked me to stay.  I was in love, for sure, but I didn't know what to do with love once I had it.  The other part of me - Miss Free Love 1985 - was furious, and she wasn't giving up without a fight.

After my trip to New Orleans, I stopped trying to be good.  I dropped out of school, fell into love triangles, had an affair that I wouldn't stop talking about, got engaged way before I was ready, got drunk and did interpretive modern dances in rooms full of strangers at parties I wasn't even invited to. . .  you name it, it was that kind of year.  If I told you everything I did in "poor judgement" in 1986, I don't think I'd have your sympathy.  There were some prize-winningly bad ideas, which sent me well on my way to becoming a true asshole (in case I wasn't already).  

Out of college, and with no other prospects for the future, I tried vocational school, followed by a summer in the back room of Dairy Queen, washing dishes and dipping dilly bars.  I found myself relegated to that humiliating position because I was completely incapable of pouring the perfect 6-ounce ball of soft ice cream with the curly-q top that DQ was known for - just as it had always been done.  In the fall, I advanced into a soul-sucking waitressing job at a pizzeria, where I worked the day shift (who eats pizza during the day? NO ONE), served the same homeless man with the dark eyes that pierced my soul every day, and couldn't wait for the night servers to come so I could flirt with them before I headed home to my fiance.

That was all bad enough.  But the worst part was how stupid it all made me.  The writing nearly stopped.  I lost the poetry that sustained me through so many other hard times, and I had nothing to show for my supposed brilliance except for a wildly dysfunctional relationship and a barely decent restaurant job.  At least, that's what it looked like from the outside.

If the fall of '83 had been the first shoe to drop, 1986 was, most assuredly, the second shoe.  '83 brought the painful reality of growing up, and being ultimately alone in the world.  '86 was all about learning to function once I was out there.  For a radical dreamer, these were the hardest lessons I'd ever confront - lessons that keep coming back to me even now, in so many reminders that I need to be present in my life and responsible to the real people who count on me.

Even though I wasn't writing much, the Vision was still guiding me.  The Vision was what I called the voice that came to me in my dreams, and spoke through my poems.  It gave me my poetry, but never asked for anything in return.  It was a part of me, but distant.  Not wanting to live anywhere near solid flesh, the Vision just floated around in my subconscious, waiting for me to get out my pencil and write.  It seemed harmless enough.

But something happened.  I had a bad mushroom trip.  Nothing terrible came up at the time, except I saw ancient spirits of the forest in the wood paneling of my boyfriend's apartment.  But an incredible sadness fell over me after that.  A darkness possessed me, and I felt that the Vision was suddenly pulling me under water.  I wasn't depressed in a way that I could write about, this time.  It took me a long time to figure out it was suffocating me, and that I might need to send out a flare or search for a life preserver.  In my previous depressions, I had let the whole world know, and friends came to my rescue.  But this time, I didn't have the words to call out.  I couldn't define it, but I felt that it was trying to kill me.

Then one night, I had a dream that it - whatever it was that possessed me - was a big, fat, poisonous spider.  I took a large, hardcover book and smashed it against the wall until the blood spurted out of its abdomen.  And that was it.  I woke up, and I knew it was gone.  It WAS gone.  The unknown curse was lifted.

As much as I call myself a dreamer, deep inside, I've got to be in control.  That's probably the only thing that saved me back then.  I didn't have a prayer to call upon, but I had my stubborn will, and once I realized the ground was slipping out from under me, I willed my way out.  I did it in dreamtime, because that's where the whole scene was going down, but it had a tangible effect on my life.  I started to breathe again.

If you think this is when I turned the corner, it's not.  Surprise, surprise. . .  This is actually when I stopped writing.  I decided that if the Vision wanted to kill me, I'd rather be a pathetic, drunk, love-torn waitress than a dead genius poet.  If the Vision wanted me to suffer for my art, then I was just going to skip it.  I was pretty sure I could live without the glory, but I knew I didn't want to live my life without love, and a shot at happiness.  Even if I fucked up at it for years, even if I hurt a lot of people along the way, I wanted a solid chance.  I couldn't give up on my dream of a happy ending.

So, ironically, I had to ditch the love poems in order to feel real love.  I stopped being "a writer", and set myself to the task of being human.  I'm maybe halfway there.  I've even learned to speak, instead of containing all my feelings on a piece of paper, and slipping it under a door.  The language of people talking to people - the listening, understanding, and the constant adjustment - still eludes me at times - but it's the best work I've ever done.  I still, in fact, have the pencil to paper connection.  (As you must know, this isn't the end.)  But now, I nurture my life, and hope the words will follow.  You are why.  You are the reason I'm still here.  Whatever this is, whatever I have since I woke up that morning in 1986, unbound and imperfect - it is for you.

October

Every night

that you are gone

I lie in my bed

and I imagine your touch

and your warmth

I think how nothing opens me up more

than your caress.

The wind whispers outside, in the dark

and I feel your kiss against my neck.

The breeze in my ear

is your breathing.

Warm, bare-skinned bodies

your chest against my arm

your thigh on mine

two bodies, intertwined

your hand moves softly, gently

across my skin

your kiss is on my cheek

you pull me in closer

outside, leaves brush against leaves

lips brush against lips

they dance and fall from trees

as your hand moves down my spine

the wind presses the windowpane

against its frame

you press your body to mine.

I was never so alone

until your branches

got tangled

in my own.

- March 29, 1986, A.D.

Just This

It cannot be counted

unless in hugs and smiles

sometimes I lose myself -

deeply-

in your eyes

It could never be measured

with a list of pros and cons

my love is for you, lover

it goes on

and on

and on. . .

- March 26, 1986, A.D.

The Floodgates

I can't stand to be with him

for we have barriers

I have barriers

He has barriers

and I have endless notations in my mind

instead of love

And in the dark

we hold each other

we clench fiercely

and make love

for here, we believe we can find

what we have lost

but in the light, 

we are blank faces

I can't hide in the light!

I can't cover up my fears

I must fight

to look so indifferent

I must pull at my cheeks

for an occasional smile

I must turn away with my eyes

just before they conjure water

because I can't talk -

I'm so afraid of what the truth might be

I can't tell him 

that I'm so confused

There's too much water

pushing against this 

battered dam

why have I been holding out?

when there could be so much love

I must release the pain

in order to relieve the pressure. . .

Floodgate 1:

A father with a mind to my failure

he has never believed in my dreams

telling me I'm wrong

Am I wrong?

Was I wrong from the start?

Will I be wrong again?

Floodgate 2:

A self-centered poet

who wants herself more than anything else

who has devoted her life to love

who talks of pain,

but who cannot stand to feel it

who talks of love,

but who cannot stand to feel it

Floodgate 3:

A set of ideas

of what a person should be 

that would stop the love

if it could

that would make me wait

for no less than a god

Floodgate 4:

A lover who I love

but who falls short of the mark

who has no words to love me by

who's so discreet when people are around

that I sometimes wonder. . .

Floodgate 5:

A need I have

to share and to receive

that the public may know it

that world may know it

a need I have 

for some devotion

Floodgate 6:

A necessity for attention, sacrifice,

that primordial touch

and an understanding of love.

Now that the floodgates are known,

let them open, and release the river

so I can claw my way 

to solid ground. . .

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.

Application to the Forgiving for Consideration in Love

Dear Sir:

If I could know love, then I could love.

And perhaps I do. . .

I am a young woman, five-foot-six, with dyed black hair and green eyes.  When I was a child, the profile of my nose was like a ski slope.  I have a spot between my eyes from when I had chicken pox.  My lips are fat, but my cheeks are fatter.  I don't like how I look without make-up.  I always wanted to get compliments about my eyes, but I hardly ever do.

My body is confusing.  I have no waist, and my hips are too high.  My stomach is always a little fat.  My breasts hang down in a useless sort of way.  But worst of all are my thumbs:  One is longer than the other, and they're both too short.  And my fingernails are flat and boring.

Dear Sir, these are only the externals of what you will have to overlook in me.  I am cold, but emotional.  I am pretentious.  I am ungiving to the depths of my soul.  Deep within me is a calloused, dark thing that could cause me to deny your existence someday.

Shall I go on?  I'm self-centered and self-serving.  And self-righteous.  

Do you love me still?  I am demanding.  I am moody.  I am reserved.

If, kindly, you will give me a chance, however, I might be able to find what you want.  For I do have a smile.  And I do have a look.  And when I dress up to go out, I really can look great.

And I've got a strength.  I've got a power.  I am intelligent, but not obnoxious.  I enjoy happiness, but I have serious concerns.  I love doing things for people.  I love people.  And life.  And this, I might share with you.

Dear Sir, please, take this hand, and hold this wretched thumb.  Take my eyes and behold them as emeralds.  Take my heart, and feel the strength and the energy that pumps my blood.  My love beckons you.

Dear Sir, please overlook what I have learned to overlook in myself.  If you will bear the burden of my shortcomings -- if, in fact, you will see some beauty in me -- then I am yours, all yours, for eternity.

- Jan 4. 1986, A.D.

That Deep, Begging Bed

That deep

begging bed of grass

rather soft

rather irritating

it's where I lie

most of the time, these days

the snake got me early 

so I ate from the picnic basket

it's no wonder I had to

share it with you

with a severed lip

I made love to you

on solid ground

and now

we torturously cling

to the edge

of the cliff

and I want to mean well

but the skin of my fingers

is coming off

how can I smile

when I'm trying to hang on?

you don't understand

why I bite

because I hate the infant

but I love the child

so roll over

I need some room on

this flat earth

we'll find the missing sock

tomorrow

we'll toss the grease out 

another day

don't you worry

just keep looking the other way

and you're bound

to miss it, again

- Jan. 4, 1986, A.D.

Thanks for the Short-Term Memories, or How to Get Back on that Unicorn and Ride

I know you're thinking I'm stuck in the past, but if you knew me now, I don't think you would see that.  In fact, I'm not the kind of person who even remembers the past.  If it weren't for the old boxes of notebooks and journals that I saved (most of which haven't even been opened in 20 years), it would all be lost to the ether.  I can keep friends forever, but I don't hang on to memories.

And thank god for short-term memories.  When you're young, growing into new skin and falling in love every two weeks, it really helps to not remember every humiliation that naturally follows.

But I remember enough to tell you that 1985 was really great.  In '82, '83 and '84, I had been mesmerized by unrequited love like sparklers at a birthday party. 1985 was full-on Fourth of July fireworks.  I'll be honest - it was my best year for romantic adventures and real, requited love.  Finally, what all those poems were for, right?  It was "The Rise and Fall of the Love Empire", as I called it, and I had a lot of muses.  [All right, that sounds bad, but come on!  Do you really want this story to end without love, and, at long last, some randy romps through the garden of earthly delights?  After all I've been through?]

I might say something earnest, now, about how I learned something from each lover along the way.  This is true.  I had a lot to learn.  But the most remarkable thing about '85 for me was that I felt free.  Coming of age felt good.  I was self-confident and eager.  I was graduating, going to college, and the whole world felt like it was opening up to me.  I still went through some sad, teachable moments; but in hindsight, I can't complain.  There's a lot I did that year that I won't recommend to anyone's children.  For example, AIDS was just beginning to come into our consciousness, so throwing caution to the wind didn't seem like such a gamble.  But at some point, I have to admit it was just plain fun.  Exploits that my parents would have called "irresponsible" turned out to be a blast.  24 years later, I'm here to say that there was no harm done.

The adventures that I regret - the ones that hurt me the most - were all related to slavish devotion to men who would never love me the way I felt I should be loved (although, to be honest, the door swung both ways).  There's plenty of that in my future, by the way.  By comparison, the shallow trysts and the roads-going-nowhere, the "friends with benefits" and the well-meaning infatuations (followed by well-meaning changes of heart) were really just fine by me.  It was all great while it lasted, and it kept my spirits up and out of the gutter of depression that I tended to sink into when I was bored.

And through it all, I kept writing, as prolifically as ever.  My book was nearly complete:  "Poetry:  100% Pure Beef (or Vice-Versa)".  Complete, but never sent out into the world.  Typed, bound, and left on my desk, along with a whole host of good intentions.  But I'm not going to get you down just yet.  For now, enjoy 1985 in all its glory.  It was the best of times, I'm sure - even for someone who can't remember.

Hesitant Vulture

Oh yeah

it's gonna hit me in one blinding flash

Oh yeah

I'm gonna know when the precise moment comes

Bullshit

I cannot guess what to say or when to say it

That damn ice age --

could it still be with me?

I can't find the answer in a poem

or an essay by Emerson

or a dream

or a desire

or a tarot card

or in me

I can't find the answer in The Other

The future has come

and I'm lost

and I'm anxious

and in one quick conversation,

an entire dream could be shot down

In an instant

I am vulnerable

two weeks could distract or attract

or perhaps the answer has always been known

perhaps it is waiting for me

I will resort to complete honesty

I will speak of myself as myself

I won't prolong myself to another day

Hesitant vulture

waiting for the right hour

for the perfect piece of meat

this meat may be hard to get

but the mountain I climbed for the view

was much harder

I will be myself

I will sustain

I may survive. . .

- Aug. 28, 1985, A.D.

Small Thrills

It's a necklace I love

or a pair of shoes that I can't wait to wear

or earrings that match each other perfectly

or a great smile on an average day

Don't take anything for granted

It's the way I watched you chew your straw

after lunch every day

or a denim jacket I loved

or an outfit I put together

that you said I looked good in

It's the hug that made me ecstatic through

the mundane hours of schoolday blues

And the look in your eyes

I thought, "Wow! Someone likes me!"

It was you

There's a happiness that just can't be contained

There's a love that's waiting for an open heart

to catch it

There's a passion for life that's just dying

to be shared

It's me!

It's the real me

It could be the perfect bunch of grapes

or an exquisite lettuce and cheese sandwich

or a pencil whose lead lays down every letter

with the same inspiration as the artist's hand

It could be a color that's brilliant and captivating

Or,

It could be you.

- July 26, 1985, A.D.

What's Felt

What's felt

is known

and proven

More destiny than plan

Take it slow

it will last forever -- 

some way or another

not always good,

perhaps,

but sometimes 

better

Innocent,

but overwhelming,

desires

suddenly, it all came together

in your mind;

I really meant it

and there I was

Proven

in soft contact

your heart is racing

I really mean it

you should never have to question

When I'm gone,

it will still be there

it's shorter than we think until --

hold on to that heartbeat

it speaks rightly

there are no deceptions

as we -

separate -

in time

only the heartbeat

don't ever seek more

Fluid time:

my next day

is the day with you

what matters here

is only a dream

it means something,

but I can't say what

it will be gone tomorrow

Tomorrow,

I'm flying like never before

my journey is just beginning

it's going to be good

and I'd like you to join me

at least for a while

It's waiting

Hush

How well it was known

before

seen, but deeply within

one view for each mind

merging in time

to one view to share

one feeling that binds us

never the same in both minds

but the single,

solitary heartbeat

will sustain the truth

It's nothing

and it's everything

it is also something

but don't confuse

what is born of the stars

with the laws

of the earth

all that is

is among the heartbeats

rules and obligations

will only stop the pulse

Love?

Yes, universally

Here?

don't know

I cannot say, yet

I have always known

and never known

love

There is no time

between the meetings

progress is fast

although spaced

by weeks

by clock

and calendar

it does not change us

I think I know how you feel

so obvious how it is with me

too easy

too good,

but meant to be

I'm not the only one who feels

you must deserve this happiness

For me?

I pessimize

what I deserve

is hope returned

perhaps it's the same light

we're searching for,

still

It's deep, this feeling

not easily broken

it's held firmly in the heartbeat

it belongs to you of its own free will

take care with it

it can enhance you

relax, content

and wait

tomorrow is today

where

what's felt 

is known

and proven

- May 20, 1985, A.D.

Prince Charming #534

"10 days!" I thought,

"I have 10 days to be free from the obsessions."

What a foolish idea

It's day two,

and all I want to do is call him

It's the dreams again

they always remind me of those

that sanity begs me to forget

(at least for a while - please)

Prince Charming #534 appears in the vision

it's the last dream before I wake up

that makes it worse

For hours in bed, I contemplate, I fantasize

I keep hold of that feeling

He knows and will know none of this

unless he's done the same

Is that possible?

No (I guess)

I can't wait to get back

to see him

we'll try the hallway scene once more

I won't care if it works or not

as long as I can see him again

I want to say "this is it"

"this is the one that will work"

with no doubts

and no questions

I want to say that I'm sure

Oh, and I'm so close!                  (ha, ha)

Yes, but I am close

and I've got 8 days to hope that I'm right

8 days. . .

8 days is a lifetime!

One minute at a time, mein Freund. . .

What if I go through weeks more of this uncertainty?

What if I never know?

Is that better than laying everything on the line

to find out?

I'd say I hope the answer comes to me in a dream,

but I'm not sure I could handle another

8 days is the test

I could change my mind

this could be just another infatuation after all

I don't doubt the possibility

but I'm hoping. . .

If I'm right (god, I hope I'm right!)

then what's happening is

magical and wonderful

If I'm wrong, then I'll move on

(god, I hope I'm not wrong)

I swear he's the best one yet

well, the best one available, at least

and that's not bad

It would literally be a dream come true

if it happens right

8 days more to dwell on #534. . .

- March 31, 1985, A.D.

I Heart

I, Heart

do solemnly swear

[and yet, I must protest!

This isn't the heart -

this is the mind speaking. . .]

I'm going mad

with these feelings

[This is but a fleeting moment. . .]

You're making me crazy

[People cause their own insanity. . .]

Okay, I confess!

I've been doing this to myself

and it isn't so bad

Maybe, even, I like it

[You've loved it all along. . .]

And now,

I love it and hate it

all at once

[Enough!  Enough!  It gets you by.

Don't put it down. . .]

I, Heart

cease to protest

just yet, I will deny what I've said

what is is what's best. . .

- Feb. 21, 1985, A.D.

Subtle Exchange and the Neuro-Dancers

His fingers curve gently around mine 

during the exchange of

a pack of cigarettes

they hold softly -

for a moment too long to be a simple

exchange

but a moment not as long as I 

silently wish

He diverts my attention to his touch

long enough

for him to slide the pack away

from my fingers -

like a magician,

he leaves me astounded

he leaves me in awe of his subtle artist's touch

Every move he makes seems somehow to have

a purpose

not a deep, serious intention

or a powerful, mystifying meaning

just a simple purpose

to open a few of my hidden channels

somehow, he knows just the combination

Yes

sit there

look reserved

look like we're being hesitant

only we know of these subtle exchanges

we are the only ones who need know

of the contact

As we look into the pack of Camels,

we slip temporarily into a world

of little, drunken neuro-dancers

who travel up through the skin

like a small band of gypsies

to any observer, we would appear to be 

engrossed in the cigarettes

but the cigarettes are quite removed

from our minds

The brush of knee against knee

whisk, whisk

it sends a party to my mind

should I move an inch closer?

or would that offend?

I never know

I only guess

The feeling progresses

deep, shallow, barely there,

intense, piercing,

then hollow

then overwhelming

then gone

Don't ask me who I am

don't ask me why I'm here

but meet me at the movies

I've got a subtle exchange for you

Here comes the hard part:

I'd like to know what you're thinking

but I'll wait

I'll wait for the message in a smile

or in a look

whisk, whisk

the knees keep their appointment

the pack of Camels returns to the pocket

the neuro-dancers sober up

but they'll be at the movies tomorrow

Like a magician

he slips out the door

I wonder. . .

the party moves into my imagination

without asking permission

I contemplate everything that IT IS

and everything that IT COULD BE

I come to no conclusions

nevertheless, I am fascinated

(whisk, whisk)

I reenact the evening in my mind

and I decide:

I'll wait for the movies tomorrow

I'll not think about it tonight

I can't, for the sake of my sanity

(whisk, whisk)

the party retreats

but deep within,

I still feel EVERYTHING THAT WAS 

about the evening

Yes

leave now, before it's too late

leave others to guess at our private affair

how can they know?

how can they perceive?

today, only we see

here, it is a memory

here, a feeling

Expectingly, we wait

for a day that is a lifetime

for tomorrow, it will come again

the answer - another subtle exchange

another party for the dancers who spend

so much time waiting

tomorrow, again, he'll captivate me;

someday, like a magician,

it may - instead of the Camels - 

be my heart that's taken

(whisk, whisk)

I sigh and turn out the light

and wait for tomorrow's electric surprises

Subtle Exchange and the Neuro-Dancers. . .

- Feb. 4, 1985, A.D.

The Only Gift

I want to give you something

but it's not as easy as just walking

to the store and buying it;

it requires some thought

and some feeling

I don't want to buy a record or a poster

or a book

I want to give you a part of me -

but I can't figure out which part that is

It seems like in all the time we've 

known each other,

there was never really an answer

who am I to you?

who are you to me?

I would like to tell you

but I don't even know

I know nothing but a feeling

I've been attached to you

since the first day I saw you

sometimes, things are revealed about the soul

more accurately when we are silent;

Before you ever spoke,

I was attached

I want to tell you more,

but I cannot place the feeling

what little we know of each other 

means all the world to me

in some strange, indefinable sense of the word,

I do love you

I would explain further,

but I haven't got a clue of how I 

came to this feeling;

Yet I am not wrong,

and it seems that I have always

felt this way.

Like two people in a room who think

they are being spied on,

we never exactly told the truth

I was so sure that something dangerous would happen 

if I revealed myself

now, I can only wonder where time ran off to,

when we could have talked to each other

So today, I am giving you this,

the truth -

or as close as I can come to it

because I don't want you to leave,

thinking something of me which is

entirely untrue

You couldn't have meant more to me

in the time that we had

and under the conditions which existed

And if there is a future for us,

I will try to help make it a good one

Or if we go our separate ways,

please understand that I'll never 

forget you

Not in a million years would I forget you...

- Jan. 9, 1985, A.D.

Changing the Love Game, Part 2

Here, will I end whoever I've been for the last 4 months:

Okay, so I reached a new height

and meaning of love

I learned how to be an active force

in a relationship -

but when I tried it on everyone, 

I found it didn't work

some people just don't want you

to offer them your life

that's where I went wrong

I said, "Okay, I'm a pacifist.  I love human beings,

so they should at least respect me in return."

it isn't that easy

I said, "Okay, I'm learning about love, here,

and I've decided that I should try to love everyone

the same way."

no wonder things have failed

I said, "Fuck school.  I've got the whole world

to think about."

but the world is always spinning

meanwhile, I have a future to consider

I can't go on as I have been

it's been pointless

flower-children are too weak,

sensitive people just set themselves up

for the pain,

infatuation is too superficial,

and I'm not old enough to vote this year, anyway

I miss "The Noose", "The Projectile", 

"And the Meek Shall Inherit the Earth"

I miss the happy days of sarcasm

happy sarcasm, not bitter

It's not that I think too much,

because I'll always think too much,

but it's the content of my thoughts;

what garbage lies inside, unattended to?

what can I do to get rid of it?

There are a lot of people I really care about

and I'll do anything I can to make it easier

for them to understand me

they don't need to know the "ultimate ME",

they just need to know who I'm trying to be

they need a clue

I don't want to be "cosmic", "symbolic", and "radical"

I appreciate those terms,

but I don't want people to see me that way

I don't want to be a "mystery" to all mankind

I want to be clear and concise,

I want to have real, touchable dreams

and step away from this stifling cocoon.

if my friends are willing to endure another transition,

I'm willing to become "real" again

and find a new way

love is a drug

and it does have after effects

it's done this to me

but now, I want to be cured.

- Oct. 19, 1984, A.D.

Poetic Bullshit

when did it end?

was it yesterday?

or was it long ago?

what's the point in loving you forever?

or even saying so?

there are many others on that list,

and will be a dozen times more

I love you for the pain you've brought me

it's like no pain I've ever had before

thank you, thank you, thank you

I'd kiss your feet if you'd only let me

and you're such a beautiful person

or is it an illusion?

I don't want to be sarcastic,

but I love you like you'll never love me

why?

if I knew why, then maybe I could stop

poetic bullshit...

wasted lines

wasted life

and 17 years too long...

- Oct. 4, 1984, A.D.