Dialogues & Diatribes III

Peace of the Night

The white table cloth with martinis and toasts

Oyster Rockefeller while laughing at the jokes

Old friends all around and you’re feeling good

But I’m left driving alone through our old neighborhood

I keep the truck humming at a decent speed

As the lines start to blur I begin to feel free

They turn out the lights and you settle your tab

Closing out the life that you thought you had

The waves keep crashing with the moon shining bright

I’ll leave you alone to keep the peace of the night

Fuck with the radio and ash a cigarette

This living alone hasn’t killed me yet

With a case of beer and a pack of smokes

Just stuck inside laughing at my own jokes

I’m feeling mighty noble just staying away

But I’ll have to pay my dues come tax day

When the morning comes around who really won?

I’m still waking up alone when I love someone

Perilous Path

I had a premonition

of a perilous path.

One that requires

attention

enthusiasm

courage

and a well placed smile.

Devotion

humor

forgiveness

and a little swagger.

Generosity

kindness

vulnerability

and a powerful sex drive.

It wouldn’t go on forever

but there would be a hand to hold on to

through the highs and lows

ebbs and flows

tides of life.

Though you’d be blind to it

you’d be walking towards

assured devastation

guaranteed heartbreak

grief and death.

Yet you walk down it anyways

because you had no choice in the matter.

The Weight of Hope

The nail is in the coffin

and I’m being buried alive

just gasping for air

in a shallow grave.

Taking any sliver of light

and holding on to it

for dear life,

because it beats the darkness.

And so the earth begins to fall

bomb after bomb

one thud at a time

bringing forth the black

on to my pine box

but leaving just enough light.

Just enough light to hold on to.

Hope is what keeps

my heart pumping and blood warm.

Hope will lean upon me

with the weight of a slow death.

Hope arrives as a dark haired angel

at my doorstep.

As long as there’s an ember

there’s enough light to hold on to.

And that is enough to kill a man.

Fanfare From the Front Porch

You can hear the jingling music of her jewlery

as it gives her the triumphant assertion of a parade leader

marching down the sidewalk

with an aura of rose petals and citrus rinds

following close behind.

After putting out your cigarette

and shifting your attention

from the dying embers

of one vice

upwards towards

the new light of another

it dawns on you.

She’s frazzled and pissed and more beautiful than ever.

Some asshole cut her off in traffic

so I’m left to take the punches

with my hands by my side

and a smile on my face

thinking that there’s no place

I’d rather be.

“Roll up a twenty and hop on the first line out of your mind.”

I could see she was smiling by the flicker of the candles. I feel like I could’ve said anything and she’d laugh. Good wine has a way of easing the flattery, dim lighting helps too, but mainly I think it was the coke. Here I thought I was running from something, but she couldn’t tilt her head back fast enough and let out a little grin. How cute.

We sat there in the living room with the music playing, candles lit, with drugs and alcohol at our disposal. This is how I was getting by, because I couldn’t exactly look anybody in the eye or stand up straight, so I leaned on my vices to get me through the pain. Another drink, another girl, fucking lather, rinse, and repeat. 

She kept talking with an emphasis on having a deep conversation. Something about the stars and when I was born. She went in for another line and told me about myself. I looked out the window over the park and could only think about how it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Once upon a time, I was happy, we were happy, and then it all went to shit. Once she walked out of that door I realized I needed her more than I needed anything else in this whole god damn world of ours. She was everything.  She kept me alive. Now I feel like I’m just easing into some sort of slow suicide. The days add up, but they don’t amount to anything.

“Does that sound about right?” She said

Coming out of my daze, I looked her right in the eye.

“Nailed it.”

Feeling confident, she crawled across the couch to lie on my chest. I played with her hair and I think we both stared at the ceiling fan, I know I did, but I think she did, too. An old Motown song came on, “It’s Too Late to Turn Back Now,” and I nearly choked up.  The memory of us dancing in the shower rained over me. Both lathered in lavender, swaying our hips, singing off key at the top of our lungs.  That’s one of the simple pleasures of a Wednesday night that only lovers will understand. Laughing at each other only to fall into each other until the water runs cold.

I felt a hand on my jeans. She began to unbuckle my belt and use her fingers like she was reading braille. Much to my reluctance we gave way to animalistic pleasures.

After she left all I could do was go through old photo albums; family trips, memorable moments and tokens of our relationship. They all seemed so distant now. I drank the rest of the booze we had in the house and pretended to have a slow waltz in the living room. It was to her favorite Temptations song. This was the hell I was living in. I knew she wasn’t ever coming home, but I’d rather be ruined by her than loved by anybody else. I got on the ground to play with the dog. My eyes grew heavy and everything faded to black. I saw her dressed in white, but it was just my imagination running away with me.

The Blue Hour

It comes in the weight of a shadow

slowly stretching out

from your heels

and across the porch.

The blue hour sinks in

with all its mystique

and I’ve got a glass

of decent wine

watching another day

fade to black.

Then a cat approached

and stared me down

with the eyes of the reaper

only to lick its paw then

move on to another victim.

I felt pretty damn good

having evaded death

and forgetting about you

for only just a moment.

Leather Jackets and Jet Black Denim

We were young and ignorant

crushing out our cigarettes at the doorstep

licking the negligence off each others lips

and stumbling through the house

Hands of a Clock

If all we have is held in the hands of a clock

I’d like to give you all of mine

Regardless if it’s detrimental to  

My sanity

My health

My wealth

Because my time with you

Is worth holding on to

Even as it slips through our finger tips

into pools of nostalgia and distorted memories.

These thoughts will be my only crutch

As my days count down.

The little nuances

Fireworks

Sand in the sheets

Birthday cakes

Candle lit smiles

Morning breath

Lingering perfume

As my days count down

These thoughts will be the only thing

I can hang on to.

Under My Skin

I threw out my favorite boots, the ones I wore when I met you down in the park.

It’s like I had to choose, since I can’t kick the blues, so this is a start.

I can’t find the woman I love, I can’t turn to god above, that isn’t right.

I’ve given her most of, hell I’ve given her all of, what’s left of my life.

So I sink another drink and play my favorite songs

It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got, so I sing along

I get calls from people who care, as I sit in my leather chair, just killing the time.

Ma says I’m in her prayers, my sister says this isn’t fair, I’m done hearing them whine

The things I get choked up about, are the nuances she left around, like that fucking ashtray

When I tell people that she’s moved out, they look at me without a doubt, and say I’ll  be okay

So I sink another drink and play my favorite songs

It’s all I’ve got left, so I just dance alone

As the evening closes in, I start to let out a grin, knowing I had something real.

A true love that’s gone and went, one that got under my skin, it’ll take time to heal.

It’s okay to feel the pain, just cut open that vein, and watch it bleed slow

I’ll always remember your name, the way I said it that day, in the evening glow.

New Routines

As time passes on you start to make subtle changes in your day to day: you make the bed differently, swap out some decorations, and fill the pantry with food you don’t necessarily eat. Maybe it’s a stab at independence or a reach to reclaim some dignity. Either way, you’re just happy those fucking beads on the coffee table are gone.