that certain something

You can love somebody

anybody

unconditionally

but the one thing you can’t do

is change them. You can’t

make them who you wished

they would be, although

yes it’s there

that certain something

always shining

like a diamond in the rough

sparkling is their beauty

but only for a moments glance

before it’s lost again.

God how I wish I could tell them

of everything that I see within them

of all mine and their desires fulfilled

though they wouldn’t believe me

for they couldn’t see themselves

like I see

their souls burning in denial

wanton and wild

whether it be love or vile

you can love somebody

anybody, but

you can’t change them.

Not really.

All you can do is tell them how you feel.

So tell them.

Chances are

they feel that way too.

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getting out of bed

However you get up and out of bed

or off the sidewalk

however you dig yourself

out of the grave is commendable.

And if you choose nothing

that too is just as valid

as choosing something.

I see far too many people

driving themselves mad

with work and love

and money and power

and fitness and greed and guilt

trying to fit into some sort of

idea they’re bred to believe

will fix them when really it won’t.

They don’t need to be fixed

or loved or loathed or accepted.

They just need to listen.

Listen to the air.

Listen to the ice crack when hot water hits.

Listen to the sea spray.

But I know nothing really.

All I know is what I see and what I see

is beautiful and diseased and delicate

like a rose petal or a dandelion flower

plucked from the earth by a child

in the outfield of a baseball diamond

wanting nothing more than to drift away

with the seeds he’s blown to anywhere else.

However getting out of bed

or the sidewalk or gutter is the first step

and the rest well, the rest is just —

up to you I guess.

don’t think twice it’s alright

She said she had nothing to say

and the hard part was

that I kind of believed her.

She had it sometimes, this spark

but never really fleshed it out.

And even when she did

she always just kind of played the part

but never really got it how I saw it in her.

I think I just wanted her to be this muse

which she understood she couldn’t be.

Not because she didn’t want to but rather

because she’d already given so much of herself

that there really wasn’t more to give.

And what’s the point of giving your all

to something that never really gave you anything

but headaches and a broken heart?

Oh how we live for those who treat us like dirt

because in the end we respect them better than

the rest who smile and nod and tell us how

good of a job we’re doing just to get through the day.

But they don’t really care. To them

we might as well not even exist. I mean really

who do you call when you’re at rock bottom?

You call the ones you’ve loved, lost, and

will love regardless of the pain they’ve caused

because even when she said she had nothing

to say, I knew better than that.

I just pray she wasn’t telling the truth.

Hell even when I have nothing to say

I have something to say. But that’s me.

That wasn’t and will never be her.

“So don’t think twice it’s alright.”

Bob Dylan said that.

“I’ll let you be in my dream if I can be in yours.”

Bob Dylan also said that.

“Write with fire,” I said that.

I’m probably taking this harder than I should

but that’s who I am and what I do.

I know this. I admit it. I am this.

There is no turning it off, no turning back.

I’ll wake up tomorrow pen in hand regardless.

Don’t it feel good? That spark. Like fire, right?

You just can’t put it down no matter how hard you try.

See, you don’t choose it, it chooses you.

And if you don’t say it, someone will.

It’s all just wishful thinking in the end

so here’s another penny to the well

funny how it doesn’t even make a splash anymore.

Before Long Island

I
believed
in
myself
once.

A
long
time
ago.

Perhaps
too
much.

Perhaps
not

enough.

Like
I
believed
in
you.

A
long
time
ago.

Perhaps
too
little.

Perhaps
too

much.

While
your
many
faces
spoke.

Such
awful
beauty
spewed.

All
that
time.

I
heard

nothing.

Believe
it
or
not,
I

really
believed
in
everyone.

Spitting
tea
leaves.

Before
Long

Island.

The reason our parents told us not to worry about the mail.

So

here’s the thing.

You’ve got two options.

Either succumb to the pressure

or roll with the punches.

Take note, being an adult

means a diet of eating shit,

and just when you’re ahead,

another bill arrives,

a parking ticket

a meter reading

a doctor visit that’s killing you.

Just spare us

the headache

and chew

with your

mouth closed.

Because we all have our own plate to eat.

No one is asking for seconds.

Nothing ever is that cut and dry.

Take me with a grain of salt

then throw me over your shoulder.

It’s the only way I know,

self taught and still figuring it out.

Just a pinch is enough though.

Nobody wants high blood pressure.

Oh, but we’re all so practiced

in the art of innocence.

I hear you when you give thanks

but that doesn’t mean I believe you.

It doesn’t mean that I don’t too.

Nothing ever is that cut and dry.

Is it?

Now, this is the part

where you throw me over your shoulder.

 

 

 

A working hypothesis.

Burning my hand while removing our bagels from the broiler, I hear a voice.

“BECAUSE THERE’S NO GOD DAMN ROOM!”

And I recognize that voice.

That voice is not my own.

It’s deep and fearful.

Hoarse and irrational.

It is the voice of an angry man.

It is the voice of my father.

Then there is silence.

A long insecure silence.

A fearful silence.

And I recognize that silence.

I have been on the receiving end, and that is a terrible place to be.

Catching myself in the act I quickly apologize.

“I’m sorry.”

Only now it is my voice.

It is mild and tame.

Concerned and rational.

It is the voice of a scared child.

It is the voice of a worried man.

And in my mind I’m thinking, please believe me.

Please for the love of all that is holy.

Believe me.  Believe me.  Believe me.

Because what I meant to say – while burning my hand and channeling the blame to whomever(the loved) was in firing range – was, “because I’m the idiot who didn’t think twice before touching a hot pan.”

It’s my fault.

Not yours.

And now I’ve got the scar to prove it.

Through outwardly and publicly expressing concern and or contempt for one’s actions, said party, will reject the path of his predecessor in order to lead a gentle existence.

It’s a working hypothesis.