They keep looking at me.
They keep trying.
They keep intentionally doing what they do
and why should I say no?
They have power.
They have beauty.
They get what they want with what they have to work with.

I try to be a gentleman,
try to be respectful,
try to just do my job,
try to be friendly, move along, go home.

Then another skirt.
Then another bra-less tank top.
Then more wavy hair, dark skin.
Then another perfect scent of feminine olfactory stimulation.

I really am a good guy.
I really am a gentleman.
I really am respectful, valiant, well-intentioned.

But, damn…
Summer in New York…
and they keep looking at me…

af

(written with pen on paper in my local coffee spot)

if you allow yourself to be consumed
paralyzed
by this emotion this thought this lack of purpose this vibrant cynicism
then create something…
stop waiting for life to change

af

(written with pen on paper)

Middle of the back
Middle of the road
Middle of this clustered convulsion

My lips are chapped from too much hot sauce
Middle of the sandwich
Eyes tired from too much beer

My desire is still too exhausted from too much nothing
Middle of the soul

There is no lack of love
There is just none of what I want and no way for me to find it

Tonight I will go to sleep dreaming as always of the
destinations and the women I wish I had to comfort me

Middle of the bed
Waking still in the same place same rotting teeth
trying to forget, as I always do
why someone who tries so hard to be so good, do such good
always ends up being so alone

Middle of the life
Middle of the inspired
Middle of the road

af

(written with pen on paper)

“What is so wrong with sex between strangers?”

An hour ago, she was student and he was teacher.  And with one unprovoked question, made by this legal teenager, all of the burden is now all his; And should she act erotically irrational, whether he says yes or no, all of the guilt is also now all his.

That is just the way it is these days.

“Excuse me?”  He did not exactly outright reject her.

“Do you have a big cock?  You seem like you do and I only want to fuck you if you have a big cock.”

With every word, he saw it all collapsing.  His work, his morality, his restraint, his character, his innocence…word by word by word.

He felt his life, the actions in his life, becoming irreversible.

Why would anyone believe me?

She was beautiful, sexy, ferocious on stage, and a confident seductress.  His boss was a horny, lonely ex-celebrity.  She will have him slobberingly hard a few lines into her story.  

I can’t fault him for it.  He himself was getting hard just thinking about what she would say, given what she already has said; This striking Indian girl with those big cinematic eyes and full of a lust for absolute power over men.  And successful thus far.

“Are you a writer?”  She finally asked with him staring, lost in her question, her possibilities, and not answering.

Why would you ask that?  What the fuck do you think?  

All he was doing was sitting in his make-shift office that literally once was a supply closet.  He was contemplating his first day as a young teacher at a university in New York City, the city he dreamed about as a boy no differently than anyone else had.  He was writing about his day, the ups and downs, trying to get something on the page in the solitude of this third floor after-hours.  The security guard had allowed him to stay as long as he liked, as long as he wanted to take in this life change.

“Pay attention when ya can,” the guard told him, and shut up the rest of the floor before he left.

“Well, you’re writing in that book, so, are you a writer?”  She snapped him out of his lost thought again.

“Yea, I am, try to be.  I try to do a few different styles, keep life interesting.  Us artists always get bored too easily, so, this year I’m trying teaching.”

He was being sarcastic but, damn…Why the fuck would I lob her a softball?

“Then you know you really have no choice…if I approve.  We’ll have our little secret and you’ll have your story…and maybe one day I’ll decide not to become a writer and share my stories.”

And as she says this, she closes the door, he breathes deeply and closes his notebook.

What is so wrong with sex between strangers?

af

(written with pen on paper)

Got 3 hrs till the sunrise
but I don’t mind
I can’t call what I do work when I look forward to it
cooking creating writing and being the necessary cog

Naw, I don’t mind.

Been here 60 hrs in four days
seventy-five in five next week
twenty hrs sleep in the same time
but I don’t mind

Talked with a girl on my only day off
3 hrs
drank beer for breakfast
salad and eggs for dinner
coffee
to help with the constipation from crafty
my intestines throbbing from being too full
but I don’t mind

Living on couches and in hotel rooms; in a different city every other week
never sure of what day it is
forgetting which country my country is fighting for
or whose birthday it is
or what is supposed to happen next in my life
but I don’t mind

I am finally inspired
finally as free as I’m gunna get
and that I definitely don’t mind

af

(written with pen on paper)

Turning the keys in,
I knew my life was about to change;
It does so frequently
It does so more than I expect it to

I walk down the stairs with my luggage,
tape the envelope to the door
and sigh as I step out of the gate
So, it’s like that, huh?  
No turning back now?

As I sit on the runway, I think of the last 2 years;
I think of the fights with absurdity on both sides
I think of what I accomplished and what I tried to do
I think of the help I gave, the selflessness I fought to hold on to.
Now, none of it matters
It’s all over now
but I left it, left them, better than when I found ‘em.

My stomach drops a bit as we become airborne,
realizing there is nothing I could do to cure the
deficiencies of others;
Can’t help he who cannot help himself.
Still, a friend is a friend and I do not have many;
losing any loses a part of myself in the process.
Just do not give up on trust.

As the landing gear touches down,
I smile knowing I am in a different state,
knowing I know nothing of my life past tomorrow,
skin tickling, knowing that I know absolutely nothing

Year thirty-six is about to begin
as I go to sleep in my hotel room,
perfectly comfortable, content and exhausted from the thousands of miles I have walked
pumped-up for the thousands I am preparing myself to begin walking
understanding that everything will change once I become certain of anything
looking forward to that first cut-away as I freefall out of control
and have only the instincts
to save me.

af

(written on computer in Capone’s town)

I hear you

you know I hear you

but I am not listening to you
this time
again, anymore

I am dressed in my blacks now
I am invisible
I am ignoring, lalalalalala, you cannot find me
not this time

I do not want to be found this time

too much, too too much
you go too far
too too far
and it doesn’t feel good anymore

» Read the rest of this entry «