Does anyone deserve the turmoil they live with?
Are tragedies consequences or random acts of happenstance?
If what happens to us is a result of karma,
then for how long are our actions
susceptible to its malice and reward?

A good wife, an even better mother,
young, still idyllic about love,
loses her true one to a sudden death;
Is that repayment for his or her actions?

If he were disreputable, why must she suffer?

But if she, all along, was the one closeting unsavory skeletons,
must their sacred bond force him
to discover his demise as a result?

But what if
these unconscious consequences
we consider to be negative, positive
occurred only by the proverbial coin flip?
Would the perception of the objectionable results
then be interpreted as a challenge rather than a sufferance?

Perhaps it is just that people have a flair for the dramatics,
so enjoy being afflicted through tragedies
so as to prove to themselves
worth
and strength
in the face of the label of horror
rather than evenly accept that, in life,
shit happens and joy happens
and there most often is no reason to either,
no grand plan for us or against us;
it is simply life
occurring in its series of events
moving forward always as life does
with no regard for our opinions…

Perhaps not everything is all about us…

af

(written with pen on paper)

the music is what i miss the most
nights out in what will always be a strange land for me
people who will always remain bizarre strangers
but the music is what pushed me -
the phonograph on the sand
the sunrise, sunsets entertaining ladies
capitalizing off of capitalism
with the music
always the music
in the background
as i fucked her on the cold black tile floor of a best friend’s bathroom

i do not know how i could ever forgive myself
if I ever moved back there
where angels fly through the clouds strumming harps
to sooth the soul of humanity below -
there is a reason the misfit music makers
migrate to that namesake city

and that music they create is epic
it’s everywhere, regardless of quality…
and i miss it

af

(written on pen and paper listening to my records)

I have to fight for something higher
something more meaningful than a life
dedicated
to money, security and the latter years
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Why can’t I write?
Is it the weed?
And the reason I can’t stop;
is because I am too afraid to write?

It is not just about the lust for the opposite sex anymore,
it is about the feeling of sinking teeth into something delicious,
about the energy of beauty
the energy of a woman
because I am a man
and I need that muse

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On a plane back home, away from
already waiting for that moment
too aware of the minutes apart
to be concerned with looking forward to anything new

Sitting in a park
weeks later
staring at passionate reunions
knowing how sweet those feelings will be
when two lovers who became strangers
will become lovers once again

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“Utah provides much inspiration.”

That’s what she said to me.
That is all she could say to me.
She was married
finally happy, if only for a moment
after years of submission
willed or volunteered
willed and volunteered
years of his way
years of no choice
years of “…just this one for me…”

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Hundreds of pounds
being carried on these shoulders

the sirens have begun
from every direction

diamonds among the hustle
deciding unknown effects

it’s hard to wake up
these days keep on passing

no heat is needed
as long as the trains still warm the way
across america

af

(written in little notebook)