Older men rest their aches in recliners
At one end of the mall
Sprawled out and trying to resist looking foolish,
So they fight sleep by keeping an eye open,
Watching for hot young women passing by
There are plenty of them
Stroller speed mixes.
The larger the family, the slower
Single mothers rush by
As if repulsed by the other breeders
They’re different, somehow
Their baggage is less
Young couples walk hand in hand
Some slow, the girl fussy and unhappy
Some brisk, she’s happy so he’s happy
They pick their future stroller speed
And their lot in life
The mall’s what forms it for them
The very old line up at the buffet
And chuckle in common
At the futility of the younger people
They see the fate we all have at the end
How meaningless everything is
Except eating
Many attractive women wonder the malls
Not too young or too old
Their wiggles crying for attention
Even as they do not
They didn’t yet go the route of stroller races
A matter of time and a guy that’ll do
They look good and feel like shit
Each a pain in the ass
Settling for what guy they can accept
Good enough to get them pushing a stroller
And seeking a buzz from purchases
From the mall
I walk out, light a smoke
Stand alone, inhaling and exhaling
Wondering about life and purpose
Depressed, hopeless, enjoying
the cold, lifeless wind
that’s more comforting than the mall
I walk away, glad to be alone.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Bulls in the attic
I rolled over in the uncomfortable bed. My back was killing me. Ugh, another day of this shit. It was 10:30 in the morning, and my head hurt worse than usual. I rose and went for the only known cure for the morning blah; coffee. After the pot was set, I went to the bathroom and did my routine. I still felt like shit and faced a whole day of it. I wished I could have fast forwarded to after work, when I’d be home drinking wine and catching up on the days’ news while I waited for Zantha to come over.
There was an opportunity we were exploring. It was a 5,500 sq ft building with storefront, warehouse space, and offices that could be converted to a place to live. All that for much less than an apartment! I had doubts they’d lease it to me. They wanted a business plan and financials. I had neither. Zantha was very optimistic, though, and was coming over to help prepare paperwork. I would be so glad to see her!
After a third cup of coffee, I looked at my cell to see if anyone sent a text. It showed I had missed Zantha’s call. Being awake enough to converse, I eagerly called back, figuring she was bored at her store and wanted to talk. The day was starting well after all.
Her day was going far worse than mine! First, she ran out of coffee at her house, so had none in the morning. She remembered I had left coffee at her store the last time I was there, and so headed to the store early to take her cure for mornings. She arrived to a waterfall in the middle of her store. Upstairs plumbing of the old building had developed a leak. Forty pieces of clothing were soaked. She called the building owner and left a message, then called the maintence guy, who called the plumber. Then she rearranged the store to make room for the new waterfall.
What a day she was having! It was busy for a Tuesday, but few stayed long. The place was a mess. Sales were lost. A couple hours later, the building owner had come in to see the new store design she had just completed. He did not get his voice mail. He stood staring at the waterfall, then left to make more phone calls.
We talked for a good half hour. She was understandably upset, but there was a delighted wackiness to her voice. It was bad, but an adventure. I love that about her. She can take the shittery of life and make it an adventure, so long as it doesn’t take too long to be resolved. We talked and laughed, but had mixed in empathy and frustration in the conversation to keep each other sane. Soon, she went back to thinking of ways around the water and I left for work. The fun was over, for a while, anyway. She’d still be over that night, and more enjoyment was in store.
It turned out more bad luck was to follow. The plumber came, assessed the situation, and left to get pipes and so on. The waterfall continued. Customers came and left quickly. Time rolled on and on. Still no plumber. Hours later, a phone call solved the mystery; his truck broke down. He wouldn’t be back that day. The water for the building would be turned off after closing, but the water would continue to fall all night.
My route was fine, the usual shittery, but nothing too terrible. My back ached, I couldn’t feel my legs, and felt devaststed when filling the gas tank. The usual plight of the underemployed. I counted the hours until I’d have both wine and Zantha, and hope for opportunity. I daydreamt about it all; the storefront would hold Zantha’s second store, which meant more time with her. The apartment built in the office space. The warehouse converted to a playhouse and wine bar. The cheap rent and higher income. Being a business owner again. The return of my old self; ambitious, optimistic, driven, hopeful, not just a low paid employee with dim prospects who depended on coffee and wine to make it through the day.
Toward evening, Zantha sent a text explaining that she had a monster headache and was going to lay down for a while. I knew what that meant; no Zantha tonight. Gone was the adventure she had in her voice earlier. It had taken too long. I couldn’t blame her. What shit to have happen! She lost money from sales, had 40 pieces damaged, and nothing had been resolved. Small business owners don’t have much margin of losing before it becomes a huge deal, and have to strike while sales are available. She had taken a hell of a hit. I found myself wishing I could give a long massage and clear the way for her to sleep sound.
That evening we spoke by phone again, and she told me all about it. Nothing was done about the waterfall all day, and she wondered about the next day. I listened and tried to support her. No help could do anything but ease the stress slightly. It was numbers and frustrations, all external to us. Conditions can be so ruthless. I offered to help at the store in the morning. She accepted. We got off the phone after an hour or so. I had a few more glasses of wine, tried to write poetry, and went to sleep.
The next morning, I woke with a severe backache that overshadowed my aching head. Coffee brewed, bathroom routine done, and ached stretching out of the way, coffee brought focus. It was 8:30. Coffee helped me remember why I was up so early; Zantha. I chugged two more cups while smoking, filled my thermos, and was out the door.
Zantha’s store was rearranged to cater to the demanding water, but she managed to make it look alright. There was a big tub in the middle of the store, filled with last night’s water. Zantha and I slid the tub out to the parking lot and dumped it. We put it back with little water on the floor, and I worked on the carpet with a shopvac. Zantha went about the store trying to make it look as good as possible. It was early, so few people came by anyway.
Shortly, two plumbers came in, needing to get to the attic to work on the pipes. Zantha showed them where to go. They hardly looked like professional plumbers. They looked more like rural farmers, with overalls and dumbed down facial expressions. They had rural, almost southern accents. Thre was a certain drawl to the speaking. I had known guys like that; unruly, clumbsy good old boys who lacked style, consideration, or common sense. Bulls in china shops. I worried for Zantha. Don’t get me wrong. I was and am a dog, but I can be a well behaved dog. They’re bulls. Bulls just destroy.
Having cleaned up as well as could be done, I could have left. There was nothing more I could have done. I stayed around for Zantha, as I worried about the farmer/plumber bulls that were in her attic. Customers were coming in. Zantha flowed magically through the store helping them pick the right looks, the right clothes, the right everything. The bulls in the attic thumped and stuffled voices could be heard, much like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I could see the collision course; the cultured, upscale customers in the store and the bulls in the attic meeting head to head. The bulls had nothing to lose. The customers would leave, offended. The only one who could lose was Zantha. I pondered calling off work to head off the bulls. I was the bullfighter of a woman’s clothing store.
The bulls came and went with pipes and tools, and thumped around in the attic and clanged at their truck. As late morning arrived, more ladies tried things on, and the dressing rooms were rather busy. Many tuned out the waterfall and got in the zone of shopping. Things were going as well as could be.
With everything going on, there was one thing neither I nor Zantha had thought of. While the bulls sounded muffled from the sales floor, they could be heard perfectly from the dressing rooms. It wasn’t an issue early, as few customers ventured in the store, and few had gone into the dressing rooms. Now those rooms were busy.
A woman who had been in the zone for quite a while headed for the dressing room with a pricey sexy outfit . She was an older lady, probably in her early fifties, and conservatively dressed. She walked past sporting a devilish grin and a bright glow about her. It was clear that just the thought of owning such an outfit was making her day. Knowing nothing about womens’ fashion, and not caring about anything except taking clothes off, I was amazed at the effect clothes can have on a person. It gave me an even greater admiration of Zantha and her passions.
The lady was in there quite a while. Then it happened. The bulls in the attic had been coming toward the stairway after taking off the leaking pipes. That put them close to the dressing room and the cash register where Zantha and I were standing.
We over heard one bull say to the other, “Now THEMS some old pipes!”
There were thumps in the dressing room. Shortly, the older lady darted from the dressing room. Her clothes were unkempt, and her shoes barely on. She darted past, redfaced and furious, emabarrassed and hurt. Zantha held her head low, her hands over her face, trying to suppress anger. I held her close and waited for bulls to climb down the ladder. I knew bulls would respond to a bullfighter better than to a classy woman like Zantha, so I offered to talk with them. She went to the other customers. I went to fight the bulls.
“Hey guys, can I speak with you for a moment?”
They glared harsh. Bulls on the ready. “What you want?”
“she has customers here. They can hear you in the dressing room. A lady heard you about old pipes and thought you meant her.”
Laughter erupted. Make a bull laugh, and he’ll do what you want.
“It sounds funny, but it cost Zantha a sale of $250. Would you laugh if you lost $250 in 3 seconds?”
There was no laughing.
“Just please watch what you say, and try to stay away from the dressing room area. You might want to apologize to Zantha too. She’s losing a lot of money with all this.”
The bulls sneared a bit, then went to the truck. Zantha was glowing about another sale. My God, what a woman! What talent, smarts, skill! She rebounds from everything with a glow, with class, with smarts, with beauty. I watched her a while in admiration, doing her thing, smiling and glowing. A Godsend. A miracle. Everything would be just fine with her, despite it all. Waterfalls, disasters, lack of coffee. She’ll always be amazing.
It was time for me to go to work. Back to realities of traffic, killer back aches, headaches, idiot customers, incompetent managers, low pay, dim prospects, hopelessness, and low wages. At least Zantha would be over that night. There was much to look forward to, and much to be happy about. I climbed in my little clown car. I had been the bullfighter, now I was the clown.
The mindless, soulless clown car pulled out of the parking lot, and drove away from the store. The brakes ground at every stop. Sports talk came from the radio. Rain was swept away by wipers. There was no feeling in the legs that operated the pedals. An aching back leaning against the seat. A numbed spirit paired with an empty mind went on autopilot to get the day over with. Cigarette smoke rolled out of the window. A new day was at hand.
There was an opportunity we were exploring. It was a 5,500 sq ft building with storefront, warehouse space, and offices that could be converted to a place to live. All that for much less than an apartment! I had doubts they’d lease it to me. They wanted a business plan and financials. I had neither. Zantha was very optimistic, though, and was coming over to help prepare paperwork. I would be so glad to see her!
After a third cup of coffee, I looked at my cell to see if anyone sent a text. It showed I had missed Zantha’s call. Being awake enough to converse, I eagerly called back, figuring she was bored at her store and wanted to talk. The day was starting well after all.
Her day was going far worse than mine! First, she ran out of coffee at her house, so had none in the morning. She remembered I had left coffee at her store the last time I was there, and so headed to the store early to take her cure for mornings. She arrived to a waterfall in the middle of her store. Upstairs plumbing of the old building had developed a leak. Forty pieces of clothing were soaked. She called the building owner and left a message, then called the maintence guy, who called the plumber. Then she rearranged the store to make room for the new waterfall.
What a day she was having! It was busy for a Tuesday, but few stayed long. The place was a mess. Sales were lost. A couple hours later, the building owner had come in to see the new store design she had just completed. He did not get his voice mail. He stood staring at the waterfall, then left to make more phone calls.
We talked for a good half hour. She was understandably upset, but there was a delighted wackiness to her voice. It was bad, but an adventure. I love that about her. She can take the shittery of life and make it an adventure, so long as it doesn’t take too long to be resolved. We talked and laughed, but had mixed in empathy and frustration in the conversation to keep each other sane. Soon, she went back to thinking of ways around the water and I left for work. The fun was over, for a while, anyway. She’d still be over that night, and more enjoyment was in store.
It turned out more bad luck was to follow. The plumber came, assessed the situation, and left to get pipes and so on. The waterfall continued. Customers came and left quickly. Time rolled on and on. Still no plumber. Hours later, a phone call solved the mystery; his truck broke down. He wouldn’t be back that day. The water for the building would be turned off after closing, but the water would continue to fall all night.
My route was fine, the usual shittery, but nothing too terrible. My back ached, I couldn’t feel my legs, and felt devaststed when filling the gas tank. The usual plight of the underemployed. I counted the hours until I’d have both wine and Zantha, and hope for opportunity. I daydreamt about it all; the storefront would hold Zantha’s second store, which meant more time with her. The apartment built in the office space. The warehouse converted to a playhouse and wine bar. The cheap rent and higher income. Being a business owner again. The return of my old self; ambitious, optimistic, driven, hopeful, not just a low paid employee with dim prospects who depended on coffee and wine to make it through the day.
Toward evening, Zantha sent a text explaining that she had a monster headache and was going to lay down for a while. I knew what that meant; no Zantha tonight. Gone was the adventure she had in her voice earlier. It had taken too long. I couldn’t blame her. What shit to have happen! She lost money from sales, had 40 pieces damaged, and nothing had been resolved. Small business owners don’t have much margin of losing before it becomes a huge deal, and have to strike while sales are available. She had taken a hell of a hit. I found myself wishing I could give a long massage and clear the way for her to sleep sound.
That evening we spoke by phone again, and she told me all about it. Nothing was done about the waterfall all day, and she wondered about the next day. I listened and tried to support her. No help could do anything but ease the stress slightly. It was numbers and frustrations, all external to us. Conditions can be so ruthless. I offered to help at the store in the morning. She accepted. We got off the phone after an hour or so. I had a few more glasses of wine, tried to write poetry, and went to sleep.
The next morning, I woke with a severe backache that overshadowed my aching head. Coffee brewed, bathroom routine done, and ached stretching out of the way, coffee brought focus. It was 8:30. Coffee helped me remember why I was up so early; Zantha. I chugged two more cups while smoking, filled my thermos, and was out the door.
Zantha’s store was rearranged to cater to the demanding water, but she managed to make it look alright. There was a big tub in the middle of the store, filled with last night’s water. Zantha and I slid the tub out to the parking lot and dumped it. We put it back with little water on the floor, and I worked on the carpet with a shopvac. Zantha went about the store trying to make it look as good as possible. It was early, so few people came by anyway.
Shortly, two plumbers came in, needing to get to the attic to work on the pipes. Zantha showed them where to go. They hardly looked like professional plumbers. They looked more like rural farmers, with overalls and dumbed down facial expressions. They had rural, almost southern accents. Thre was a certain drawl to the speaking. I had known guys like that; unruly, clumbsy good old boys who lacked style, consideration, or common sense. Bulls in china shops. I worried for Zantha. Don’t get me wrong. I was and am a dog, but I can be a well behaved dog. They’re bulls. Bulls just destroy.
Having cleaned up as well as could be done, I could have left. There was nothing more I could have done. I stayed around for Zantha, as I worried about the farmer/plumber bulls that were in her attic. Customers were coming in. Zantha flowed magically through the store helping them pick the right looks, the right clothes, the right everything. The bulls in the attic thumped and stuffled voices could be heard, much like Charlie Brown’s teacher. I could see the collision course; the cultured, upscale customers in the store and the bulls in the attic meeting head to head. The bulls had nothing to lose. The customers would leave, offended. The only one who could lose was Zantha. I pondered calling off work to head off the bulls. I was the bullfighter of a woman’s clothing store.
The bulls came and went with pipes and tools, and thumped around in the attic and clanged at their truck. As late morning arrived, more ladies tried things on, and the dressing rooms were rather busy. Many tuned out the waterfall and got in the zone of shopping. Things were going as well as could be.
With everything going on, there was one thing neither I nor Zantha had thought of. While the bulls sounded muffled from the sales floor, they could be heard perfectly from the dressing rooms. It wasn’t an issue early, as few customers ventured in the store, and few had gone into the dressing rooms. Now those rooms were busy.
A woman who had been in the zone for quite a while headed for the dressing room with a pricey sexy outfit . She was an older lady, probably in her early fifties, and conservatively dressed. She walked past sporting a devilish grin and a bright glow about her. It was clear that just the thought of owning such an outfit was making her day. Knowing nothing about womens’ fashion, and not caring about anything except taking clothes off, I was amazed at the effect clothes can have on a person. It gave me an even greater admiration of Zantha and her passions.
The lady was in there quite a while. Then it happened. The bulls in the attic had been coming toward the stairway after taking off the leaking pipes. That put them close to the dressing room and the cash register where Zantha and I were standing.
We over heard one bull say to the other, “Now THEMS some old pipes!”
There were thumps in the dressing room. Shortly, the older lady darted from the dressing room. Her clothes were unkempt, and her shoes barely on. She darted past, redfaced and furious, emabarrassed and hurt. Zantha held her head low, her hands over her face, trying to suppress anger. I held her close and waited for bulls to climb down the ladder. I knew bulls would respond to a bullfighter better than to a classy woman like Zantha, so I offered to talk with them. She went to the other customers. I went to fight the bulls.
“Hey guys, can I speak with you for a moment?”
They glared harsh. Bulls on the ready. “What you want?”
“she has customers here. They can hear you in the dressing room. A lady heard you about old pipes and thought you meant her.”
Laughter erupted. Make a bull laugh, and he’ll do what you want.
“It sounds funny, but it cost Zantha a sale of $250. Would you laugh if you lost $250 in 3 seconds?”
There was no laughing.
“Just please watch what you say, and try to stay away from the dressing room area. You might want to apologize to Zantha too. She’s losing a lot of money with all this.”
The bulls sneared a bit, then went to the truck. Zantha was glowing about another sale. My God, what a woman! What talent, smarts, skill! She rebounds from everything with a glow, with class, with smarts, with beauty. I watched her a while in admiration, doing her thing, smiling and glowing. A Godsend. A miracle. Everything would be just fine with her, despite it all. Waterfalls, disasters, lack of coffee. She’ll always be amazing.
It was time for me to go to work. Back to realities of traffic, killer back aches, headaches, idiot customers, incompetent managers, low pay, dim prospects, hopelessness, and low wages. At least Zantha would be over that night. There was much to look forward to, and much to be happy about. I climbed in my little clown car. I had been the bullfighter, now I was the clown.
The mindless, soulless clown car pulled out of the parking lot, and drove away from the store. The brakes ground at every stop. Sports talk came from the radio. Rain was swept away by wipers. There was no feeling in the legs that operated the pedals. An aching back leaning against the seat. A numbed spirit paired with an empty mind went on autopilot to get the day over with. Cigarette smoke rolled out of the window. A new day was at hand.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Tide
The tide is marvelous when it rolls in
The water is just over one’s foot and calm
With waves that caress the beach
Like gentle foreplay
In the distance appears incoming waves
White water catches the eye first
and the galloping gangs of tide quickly close in
while the water levels rise
soon the waves pick up speed
growing sounds of water crashing
determined white water pummels
relentless, intense, unstoppable
just a short while ago
water was just to your ankles
now it’s nearly to your waist and climbing
as you back toward shore
the sea isn’t satisfied and sends more
push you back toward shore
as wave after wave hits you
and tries to take you
as intense as it is, you know the tide will disappear
and you’ll look for it to come back again
you’ll long for it’s intensity, it’s action
it’s sounds, even it’s pummeling
you’ll miss the high tide like a good woman’s love.
The water is just over one’s foot and calm
With waves that caress the beach
Like gentle foreplay
In the distance appears incoming waves
White water catches the eye first
and the galloping gangs of tide quickly close in
while the water levels rise
soon the waves pick up speed
growing sounds of water crashing
determined white water pummels
relentless, intense, unstoppable
just a short while ago
water was just to your ankles
now it’s nearly to your waist and climbing
as you back toward shore
the sea isn’t satisfied and sends more
push you back toward shore
as wave after wave hits you
and tries to take you
as intense as it is, you know the tide will disappear
and you’ll look for it to come back again
you’ll long for it’s intensity, it’s action
it’s sounds, even it’s pummeling
you’ll miss the high tide like a good woman’s love.
Our damn broke
We walked along the beach
as the sun set
The waves crashed
as the tide rolled out
We walked hand in hand
as people passed by
The sun fought the clouds
as if it could win
We conversed pleasantly
as if nothing were happening
The wind blew hard
as if it could topple everything
We built a damn of sand
as if it could hold the stream
The water held back and rose
as if held by our damn
We watched the colors of the sunset
as if it mattered to us
The wind grew colder
as if to hurry our sunset
We held each other tightly
as if we meant it
We resisted the changing climate
as if it were our last moments
Our damn broke, our sun set
as if any other result were possible
as the sun set
The waves crashed
as the tide rolled out
We walked hand in hand
as people passed by
The sun fought the clouds
as if it could win
We conversed pleasantly
as if nothing were happening
The wind blew hard
as if it could topple everything
We built a damn of sand
as if it could hold the stream
The water held back and rose
as if held by our damn
We watched the colors of the sunset
as if it mattered to us
The wind grew colder
as if to hurry our sunset
We held each other tightly
as if we meant it
We resisted the changing climate
as if it were our last moments
Our damn broke, our sun set
as if any other result were possible
Monday, August 9, 2010
Hell of a waste
There’s a man leaning against the concrete
Sitting with a cup and a sign for help
No shower, shave, clean clothes, or meal
For days on end. One of countless.
A couple of women walk by
One very pregnant. Concrete faces.
A preacher asks me if I know Christ.
“Yeah, but others need him more.”
“YOU KNOW him?!”
“Yeah, move on to the next.”
The preacher leans down and prays with the beggar
“Oh Jesus this oh Jesus that…”
Isn’t he supposed to be Jesus?
Teenage boys walk past and taunt the preacher
And homeless guy. Others walk past
Pretending not too see or hear.
The punishing sun beats down
Upon all the passers by.
There are young couples trying to impress each other,
By saying the right things
There are old couples passing by,
Trying to reconnect by saying the right things
There are children passing by
Trying to have the right experiences
There are loners passing by
Trying to seem connected
There are beggars sitting around
Trying to seem worthy
I count what money I have
To buy a sandwhich and a drink
And marvel at the lies that walk and sit
If not for the sunshine and fresh air,
It’s a hell of a waste
Sitting with a cup and a sign for help
No shower, shave, clean clothes, or meal
For days on end. One of countless.
A couple of women walk by
One very pregnant. Concrete faces.
A preacher asks me if I know Christ.
“Yeah, but others need him more.”
“YOU KNOW him?!”
“Yeah, move on to the next.”
The preacher leans down and prays with the beggar
“Oh Jesus this oh Jesus that…”
Isn’t he supposed to be Jesus?
Teenage boys walk past and taunt the preacher
And homeless guy. Others walk past
Pretending not too see or hear.
The punishing sun beats down
Upon all the passers by.
There are young couples trying to impress each other,
By saying the right things
There are old couples passing by,
Trying to reconnect by saying the right things
There are children passing by
Trying to have the right experiences
There are loners passing by
Trying to seem connected
There are beggars sitting around
Trying to seem worthy
I count what money I have
To buy a sandwhich and a drink
And marvel at the lies that walk and sit
If not for the sunshine and fresh air,
It’s a hell of a waste
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Laying in bed on a Thursday morning
Laying in bed on a Thursday morning
Your eyes barely open
Still slumbering face
Mischievous smile fronts severe hangover
From a hard night’s drinking
Fuzzy thoughts of empowerment
Change and contrast
From the dull life of suburbia
Coffee in bed, spoon and milk nearby
Struggling to converse with
The stray wino who kept you up
Before I leave for work
Sitting on the chair
That someone had abandoned in the hall
Wine bottles and half full glasses
Sit on the table with too many things
Talk about everything and anything
Drink and laugh
Your delicious bitterness and sarcasm
Echo the tiny studio
Your eyes light up in rebellion
From your past and present
Comments that blast
The bullshit of the life
We are all to aspire to
Your words and slams are poetic
Even as you don’t realize
Say so much
In ways no one else can
Makes me feel closer
Walking up huge hills to follow sunshine
On cloudy, chilly days
Just a few blissful moments
As the sun begins to set
On the vacation of your presence
A matter of hours
Before you’ll return
To the dull world
You made fun of the night before
Your hot body dancing in the studio
The stray wino struggles to keep up
While jazz plays on the tv
Your moves are amazing
So sexual, so arousing
Curves and legs, hips and breasts
Amazing smile and eyes that hide nothing
The long, sweet embrace
That becomes bitter when it ends
Because it ends
Holding tight like a woman in love
Feel your heartbeat
And your soul
Knowing you’re the only one
There were none like you before
You cannot be again
The beautiful voice
That changes when drunk
Becoming sentimental or scornful
And at times sorrowful
About life that disappointed
And things that were
To be different
Including yourself
A driving force to enjoy
And live to the fullest
A lone torch in the darkness
Frustrated by the late sunrise
So beyond special
The beautiful face
With classic features
So much class
But drunken by cheap wine
Drunk with the stray wino
Your eyes gleam with energy
Despite signs of exhaustion
Defying the propers
Being adulterous with the stray wino
And loving it
Sleep hits like bricks from the sky
Hot sexy body crawls into bed
Being blessed to experience
These and so many countless others
With such a special woman
Wears on the soul
Like a beggar who
gets gourmet dinners a few times a week
Instead of the usual dollar grease burgers
It feels so amazing while dining
But so bad after the plate is empty
As he wonders if he’ll have another meal
There had been others
Few here and there
But none like you, Babe
There just aren’t Beccas running around
What and who you are
Has never been and won’t be again
You are original in every way
All the other subscribe to this or that
Follow scripts, be someone else
Cookie cutter, unoriginal, unthinking
Just following the crowd
Or going against it on purpose
No one else gets it
No one else can
there you sit
or lay or walk or talk
or drink or dance or laugh
or cry or blast or think quietly
share much with me
create memories
That haunt when you’re not here
The parking spot outside
Waits like a puppy
For his owner to get home from work
Tonight it waits in vain
The chair awaits that amazing ass
As the space longs for your voice
And energy and laugh
The table is eager for your glass
The bed is haunted by our love making
Lengthy talks, cuddled slumber
The kitchen remembers our first long embrace
After our first date
And longs for one of us to be cooking
For dinner or breakfast together
The shadows eagerly await
They remember the moves
And motions
They long to party too
Celebrate us
You’ve been gone around 13 hours now
And even as I know you’re coming back
I miss you, Beautiful
The place just isn’t the same
It won’t be until you return home.
Becca, I love you.
Your eyes barely open
Still slumbering face
Mischievous smile fronts severe hangover
From a hard night’s drinking
Fuzzy thoughts of empowerment
Change and contrast
From the dull life of suburbia
Coffee in bed, spoon and milk nearby
Struggling to converse with
The stray wino who kept you up
Before I leave for work
Sitting on the chair
That someone had abandoned in the hall
Wine bottles and half full glasses
Sit on the table with too many things
Talk about everything and anything
Drink and laugh
Your delicious bitterness and sarcasm
Echo the tiny studio
Your eyes light up in rebellion
From your past and present
Comments that blast
The bullshit of the life
We are all to aspire to
Your words and slams are poetic
Even as you don’t realize
Say so much
In ways no one else can
Makes me feel closer
Walking up huge hills to follow sunshine
On cloudy, chilly days
Just a few blissful moments
As the sun begins to set
On the vacation of your presence
A matter of hours
Before you’ll return
To the dull world
You made fun of the night before
Your hot body dancing in the studio
The stray wino struggles to keep up
While jazz plays on the tv
Your moves are amazing
So sexual, so arousing
Curves and legs, hips and breasts
Amazing smile and eyes that hide nothing
The long, sweet embrace
That becomes bitter when it ends
Because it ends
Holding tight like a woman in love
Feel your heartbeat
And your soul
Knowing you’re the only one
There were none like you before
You cannot be again
The beautiful voice
That changes when drunk
Becoming sentimental or scornful
And at times sorrowful
About life that disappointed
And things that were
To be different
Including yourself
A driving force to enjoy
And live to the fullest
A lone torch in the darkness
Frustrated by the late sunrise
So beyond special
The beautiful face
With classic features
So much class
But drunken by cheap wine
Drunk with the stray wino
Your eyes gleam with energy
Despite signs of exhaustion
Defying the propers
Being adulterous with the stray wino
And loving it
Sleep hits like bricks from the sky
Hot sexy body crawls into bed
Being blessed to experience
These and so many countless others
With such a special woman
Wears on the soul
Like a beggar who
gets gourmet dinners a few times a week
Instead of the usual dollar grease burgers
It feels so amazing while dining
But so bad after the plate is empty
As he wonders if he’ll have another meal
There had been others
Few here and there
But none like you, Babe
There just aren’t Beccas running around
What and who you are
Has never been and won’t be again
You are original in every way
All the other subscribe to this or that
Follow scripts, be someone else
Cookie cutter, unoriginal, unthinking
Just following the crowd
Or going against it on purpose
No one else gets it
No one else can
there you sit
or lay or walk or talk
or drink or dance or laugh
or cry or blast or think quietly
share much with me
create memories
That haunt when you’re not here
The parking spot outside
Waits like a puppy
For his owner to get home from work
Tonight it waits in vain
The chair awaits that amazing ass
As the space longs for your voice
And energy and laugh
The table is eager for your glass
The bed is haunted by our love making
Lengthy talks, cuddled slumber
The kitchen remembers our first long embrace
After our first date
And longs for one of us to be cooking
For dinner or breakfast together
The shadows eagerly await
They remember the moves
And motions
They long to party too
Celebrate us
You’ve been gone around 13 hours now
And even as I know you’re coming back
I miss you, Beautiful
The place just isn’t the same
It won’t be until you return home.
Becca, I love you.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Just keep smiling
Everyone knew Chuck was a good guy. He was tall, handsome, smart, and friendly. He’d give the clothes off his back. There was a downside. Chuck liked attached women. Married, engaged, committed. Whatever. He was always getting them. They couldn’t resist the charming looker. Chuck was always in trouble.
I was a distant friend. We drank together. He passed a couple attached chicks my way when I needed them. We hung out once in a while, part of a crowd that tried to get women. We’d hit the dive bars for cheap drinks, then hit the clubs. Chuck was a leader and something of a hero to many drunken guys. Many tried to copy Chuck. No one succeeded.
One night we did the usual. We hit the local dives, got drunk and high, then went to a happening bar. It would be crowded and hopping. Chuck had been bragging about a blond he had a few nights back. He detailed her body, her voice, her climax. He was bothered because she cried afterward. She was engaged, and actually loved the guy she was with. Now it was over.
No one imagined Chuck could be sentimental. The whole thing bothered him, for some reason. His face reflected pain. He walked hunched over, defeated and broken. We tried to cheer him up. It was no use.
We walked into the bar. The band played and hot women ran around in next to nothing. We stood and checked out the crowd, inventing strategies to find women. Chuck had lived up, as we knew he would.
There was some yelling in the distance. Suddenly I saw a big guy coming at us. He was airborne with fists flying.
Chuck yelled, “It’s him!”
The scene unfolded in slow motion. I was too slow. The punch hit me harder than I thought possible. I flew against the wall, but somehow didn’t fall down. The sound of “Ohh” filled the bar. All eyes were on me. The puncher got up and looked at me. It was confusion.
For some reason, I was smiling. Maybe it was being able to take such a hit. Maybe it was what I had wound up.
My fist was on route. My back and legs added to the force. My fist was more than half way there when I found myself airborne. The bouncer had intervened. The door collided with my head, or vice versa. I was on the sidewalk. Blood ran everywhere. I jumped up, too pissed to see straight. I was going to kick somebody’s ass!
Two cops rushed past me. I heard the sound of brawl inside, and rethought my wanting to go back in there. A third cop stopped and yelled;
“HEY! YOU STAY RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE!”
I waited for the cop to go inside, then I left. What? Was I that stupid? Would my going to jail help anything?
In the end, Chuck had been beaten pretty bad. He would never be the Chuck we knew. The fight had pounded sense into him. The bar was left in bad shape. The fight made the newspapers. The cops remembered to look for me. They never found me.
The guy who beat chuck was a brute, and known for violence. No one took him on. However, from that night on, he left as soon as I showed up. I was a legend, and my smile remembered. I will never forget the look of shear terror that man gave. He hit me with all he had, and saw me standing there smiling. I know it was just the wall holding me up, but I never had to hit him or even speak to him, and he feared me terribly.
Just goes to show the importance of being able to take a hit and keep smiling.
I was a distant friend. We drank together. He passed a couple attached chicks my way when I needed them. We hung out once in a while, part of a crowd that tried to get women. We’d hit the dive bars for cheap drinks, then hit the clubs. Chuck was a leader and something of a hero to many drunken guys. Many tried to copy Chuck. No one succeeded.
One night we did the usual. We hit the local dives, got drunk and high, then went to a happening bar. It would be crowded and hopping. Chuck had been bragging about a blond he had a few nights back. He detailed her body, her voice, her climax. He was bothered because she cried afterward. She was engaged, and actually loved the guy she was with. Now it was over.
No one imagined Chuck could be sentimental. The whole thing bothered him, for some reason. His face reflected pain. He walked hunched over, defeated and broken. We tried to cheer him up. It was no use.
We walked into the bar. The band played and hot women ran around in next to nothing. We stood and checked out the crowd, inventing strategies to find women. Chuck had lived up, as we knew he would.
There was some yelling in the distance. Suddenly I saw a big guy coming at us. He was airborne with fists flying.
Chuck yelled, “It’s him!”
The scene unfolded in slow motion. I was too slow. The punch hit me harder than I thought possible. I flew against the wall, but somehow didn’t fall down. The sound of “Ohh” filled the bar. All eyes were on me. The puncher got up and looked at me. It was confusion.
For some reason, I was smiling. Maybe it was being able to take such a hit. Maybe it was what I had wound up.
My fist was on route. My back and legs added to the force. My fist was more than half way there when I found myself airborne. The bouncer had intervened. The door collided with my head, or vice versa. I was on the sidewalk. Blood ran everywhere. I jumped up, too pissed to see straight. I was going to kick somebody’s ass!
Two cops rushed past me. I heard the sound of brawl inside, and rethought my wanting to go back in there. A third cop stopped and yelled;
“HEY! YOU STAY RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE!”
I waited for the cop to go inside, then I left. What? Was I that stupid? Would my going to jail help anything?
In the end, Chuck had been beaten pretty bad. He would never be the Chuck we knew. The fight had pounded sense into him. The bar was left in bad shape. The fight made the newspapers. The cops remembered to look for me. They never found me.
The guy who beat chuck was a brute, and known for violence. No one took him on. However, from that night on, he left as soon as I showed up. I was a legend, and my smile remembered. I will never forget the look of shear terror that man gave. He hit me with all he had, and saw me standing there smiling. I know it was just the wall holding me up, but I never had to hit him or even speak to him, and he feared me terribly.
Just goes to show the importance of being able to take a hit and keep smiling.
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