Eyes, Skies, Lies


 
It’s okay if you feel like these are just words on a screen, and if that obscures the obscene from your mental regime than I cannot fault your resolve and try to topple your walls, if it’s somethin strange in your neighborhood and you don’t call Ghostbusters than I’m not sure we can really connect. 
So. I see a lowered flag waving from your heart, and I want to help it fly boldly and proudly, to stand true and strong and somehow find light in private imagined darkened rooms, pre-emptively constructed tombs of doubt and despair, to climb up the ladders and fly up the stairs no matter how the stares and the glares might pierce you and demean, your challenges accepted, you are coming clean.
] tell me what you need
And I will provide
When they read of my love for her they look above her but none could ever be supreme to her she is my queen to serve and my life is what she deserves to burn if she wants fire I’m fuel, an uncontested duel of whatever you want and what I’m willing to do, but I would sell my child’s organs for you because my skies are all lies covering a thin disguise and my eyes cannot pry from locked doors and closed minds what truth in my life I should not leave behind.  
i can’t say anything anymore without thinking of how it sounds, 
 
is there a gentle touch inside us all which might propel some form emotional evolution, some type of redistribution of values and ideas which have been seen to be false; perhaps on a cold day all men shiver, and time is a package which never remains undelivered, but the hearts of all creatures are designed with a purpose, to live the next fraction of a second before your life muscles contract, every breath is gone with no guarantee of payback.
At times I think the whole world has gone crazy and at times I know there is no world or any crazy which is crazier than the thought of a placebo effect and we still won’t believe that we are what we perceive…is there any sense to any of these insane pursuits which scuff up our boots and leave us bereft, clinging to the small pieces left from the last time we loved and got broken again. 
someday all the doubts that live in my head will be silenced for good and I will believe what I cannot deny. 
Maybe.

What I Really Meant To Say

I meant to say, I love you, Mom. I was eleven and lying on the living room floor, and she was falling apart. Crying about life, about the difficulty dealing with my youngest brother. She poured out her heart, and then she had to go. 

“I love you,” she sobbed. 

“Bye.” The cold cruelty in my voice startled my brother and I felt something die, inside. 

I meant to say, I need to be your friend. I had been strung out on meth for weeks, maybe months… It gets fuzzy. Fifteen years old and trying to destroy the thing called me. I was desperately in love with her, Twenty-three and so much that I understood. Smart, funny, damaged. She told me that I was too young, of course I was. I told her that I couldn’t hang out with her anymore, because I couldn’t get over wanting her. 

I meant to say, please don’t let me screw this up. Twenty-three and so easily destroying the only real love I had ever found, she needed me and I needed her. We fell in love together, holding hands and reading philosophy and poetry by the ocean. Making love every night and fucking every day. Innocently, desperately, with joy and enthusiasm, we loved our love. We licked it. We breathed it into each other, 

and there I was on the phone, saying, 

don’t come back. Inside my head I was weeping, begging the words to change, please don’t let me do this. I need to be in this love. I can’t let this happen. 

But I did. 

I meant to say, so many things. Death after death after death and I kept thinking of the perfect things to say, too late. Funerals and memorials and another and another and when, when, can I say the fucking words that I need to say, in the moment? 

I need you, I love you, I  sorry. You were so much to me, you were my favorite. I need you. I need you. I need you. I’m sorry. 
Please don’t die. 

Buckle up. 

Look both ways.

 Take care of your health. 

Go see a doctor. 

Stop doing drugs. 

I need you. 

I meant to say,  I waited my whole life for you and I screwed it up the first time but I will not, this time, thank you for loving me, today we are man and wife, woman and husband (why don’t they ever say it that way?) Today we are choosing to say, 

This is us. 

I meant to say,  

I’m not anything special, just another survivor of childhood trauma and abuse. Just another recovered drug addict. Just another tormented writer, just another contradiction. Just another overactive mind. Just another insecure, needy, desperate fool trapped in a moderately attractive and confident man. Just another magician, using sleight-of-hand to show smiles and talent while hiding broken edges and shattered dreams. Just another depressed person, struggling with PTSD and suicidal urges. Just another day in the life of the impossible. 

I meant to say, this. 

Why Life Hurts

I have a sister I’ve not met. We know each other through words on a screen and the occasional photo. We are close to the same age but have lived wildly different lives. 

She is the person behind 

Our Lady Of Lust And Grace

www.ourladyoflustandgrace.com
On Facebook, and her blog is the first I ever followed. She has a way, she has a style that hits my brain like sugar cookies, she says things that feel like  home and she calls me Brother Matt, because I told her she is my sister. 

This was written in response to one of her blog posts, if you don’t read her you should. 

“I love this. I love you. It’s not up for debate and does not require any action on your part… It’s what I am. 

I have been debated and disagreed with on this point, but, my definition of love seems to me to be accurate. After seeing what is said and done, for four decades and in hundreds of varied relationships, I have narrowed it down to a one-word topic:

Love is service. 

A mother loves her child, and there is no use in arguing, because when she loves her child it can be seen (and if she doesn’t, it can be seen)

Spouses love each other when they put in effort to show love to each other

Siblings love each other when they make sure to exhibit love for one another

Strangers display their love for other strangers, for the needy, for the lonely, for the random asshole that needs a bit more concern… When one person feels love in their person for another, they act. It’s used as a catch-all go-to default setting type of thing, but so often it’s being used to imply some type of obligation… (Of course I love you, now do what I want)

But…

If I love you, it means I will help you, I will work for you, I will go out of my way to give you a part of me and whether or not there is any tangible return from you, my love is being shown. 

Love is service. Love is given. Love is acted. Love is Eve and her children are the gifts of nature. Love is an apple tree heavy with fruit. Love is a flowing, ice-cold stream of clear water, waiting for you to drink. Love is gifts left on a doorstep with no ‘from’ address. Love is the unnamed stranger changing a tire and leaving without a word. 

Love is not a weapon… Love is a choice, a decision, an action, a thought that brings a smile. 

Love is, it just is, love is. 

Love must be. “

Transmission


The time has been decided. 

What hurtles toward this collision hides yet from clarity, which reality will be left after the meeting is impossible to predict from where/why I am,

This will not be an end. 

Endings are one-sided, from a place of limited perspective. For the dying the world seems to be ending, for the Walker, when the path runs out a new one must be written. 

When we get there, you’ll know why we came, and so will we. 

If a message is received from unknown sources, how then is the veracity of the message to be measured? Where enemies and allies have not been determined, how then will a treaty be transcribed, negotiated, collaborated? 

 When the well runs dry, how long do thirsty people wait before seeking an alternative source? 

The arrival of new information does not always change the verdict of a trial, yet it must be allowed consideration. Fault lines are not cracks where the earth splits, rather they are laugh-lines, wrinkles left from expression, what fear cannot damage is the coming of dawn, when stars shine closely we name them and record in our ledgers how far, what size, colour and shape, yet when they are too distant we claim they have died. What is not understood is rejected. 

When we get there,

 we will know why we come.

You will know, also. 

Dreams are not safe places. The dead beckon from across veils and accompanying them means leaving this world, he died in his sleep, and now nobody will hear the tale of the love and the loss, the romance and the comedy of a life seen from a balcony, a life lived with minimal involvement and maximum emotional investment. 

Dreams are not safe, to achieve something great a great price must be paid, balance finds itself no matter how the mountainside falls, no matter how the deck tilts as the waves toss toy ships around a child’s bath, balance will be, 

It must balance. 

 The ending is not what it seems, there will be no post-climactic wind-down. No neatly wrapped loose ends, it will be sudden and fierce, there will be nothing left and no survivors. 

The beginning will not be what is believed, there will be no deafening bang, no creator speaking of light in the darkness, 

There will be nothing, 

And then there will be everything. 

It approaches, pretty up your face

It approaches, tidy up your room

It’s coming, from the depths of outer space

It’s the bride, walkin’ to the groom


Crashing Waves

I feel my soul in those rocks, 

Standing against the onslaught.

Eventually everything is eroded, 

But for now, I stand, 

Eventually everything is washed away and worn down to grains of sand

Rage, I yell to the ocean, 

Give me all you’ve got

Give me all I can take

I will stand, as it crashes on me, 

I will wear away one tiny piece at a time

River

Electricity hums in the lines as it runs through neighborhoods and across towns, the towers go up and everyone only looks down. Pieces of dreams transmitted through the sky don’t know if they will ever live or when it’s time to die, I want to stack what I lack next to empty backpacks scattered haphazardly so the whole world can see what really matters to me, the words of praise don’t flatter me, it’s sad to see what couldn’t be left behind monuments and statues of what shouldn’t be, what wouldn’t I give to see a better way to live or a national day to give thanks to the stories of glory, history is full of gory tales that don’t get told, advertising all the lies that get sold for dollars no longer backed by gold, we got jacked and they hold all the cards, why is it so hard to find out the truth?

Love begins and ends and new faces become old friends as love that used to fly free is caged and locked away, shelves stocked with what we didn’t say, tomorrow becomes today and yesterday fades into lost memory. New ideas are met with skeptical review, because how could we stop doing what we knew, how difficult it is to accept that traditional methods were based on misconception and misunderstanding, what the previous generation was handing down was a smile painted on a weeping clown and we don’t look around to understand what’s fair, just to say that what’s there is only what we knew we would see, nobody wants to find a new way to be free, only old paths to familiar locations, hearts fill with desperation and lonely longing, rights are trampled with the desire for belonging to groups that sit on thrones, old piles of bones and fossil fuels generate more wealth for the wealthy, and leave poverty everywhere, kids living in unhealthy homes don’t know why they can’t get a share. 

We borrow time from unborn descendants, and leave less than was left for us, our reality is porous and shaking but we don’t believe in creation, we worship the breaking and destruction, break ground for new construction while the sweat of overworked lives goes unnoticed. We give our energy to the holders of finance notes and they party on fancy boats while we dream of peace, but there’s always a new lease to sign, there’s always a new design to keep what we’ve had and nevermind if it’s always been bad for the majority, they call people minorities as dozens rule millions, the bottom lives on pennies while the top stack their billions. 

In the river of life we all drown eventually, we all flow downstream. 

In the collection of lost dreams and unheard screams, we all own the blame for what we ignore, we all play as pawns while kings and queens sacrifice what they don’t care about, what they don’t hold dear, nobody knows what the cost truly is in tears and years, nobody wants to know what they fear. 

Un-tinted Glass

concrete dividers crawl past as 

my car sits motionless,

surrounded by impatience
nobody knows I’m here

My phone buzzes 

Again

Telling me that traffic is heavy, heading north on I-25, and I am surprised every time, because this is not a highway,

This is not a thirty-nine year old man, smoking another cigarette and listening to ‘World Class Rock’ on the radio, 

I  am not this.

I am, however, getting irritated by the intrusion of turn-signals as impatience dressed in expensive clothes and fancy cars keep changing lanes in front of me, 

Don’t they know I don’t belong here?

The Lexus tries to merge into my passenger-side door and pulls away at the last second when eyes find me in a mirror, and I wonder if life will notice me too late, will reality crash into me just before seeing me here?

Can you save my heavydirtysoul? (Twenty-one Pilots)

I am sitting on a beach watching my daughter and sons play in the water, the sun shining on my tired face, as I see myself standing on the stone jetty that my brothers just jumped from, they call me to join them, but I see something in the water they don’t, 

There’s a dark figure floating just under the surface of the waves, beckoning to me with a promise of the end, 

It looks peaceful, calm…

We all float down here (Stephen King, It)

I’m watching her walk into the airport, and I know I mean to tell her to stay away, a scared stupid fool, and my heart begs me to run after her, go get her, 

Go get Her 

But I don’t. No matter how many times I see her walk away, I never go after her, and nine years later-

Traffic stops  

I am not here, thirty-nine years old and sitting in a car, smoking a cigarette and hoping the concrete dividers would pick up the pace as they crawl past me, 

I’m not here, and nobody knows it, they don’t see me. 

Impatience rides my bumper and hits the horn, because I am not close enough to the car in front of me. 

All my life I’ve been searching for something (Foo Fighters)

She is there, looking at me, and I am lost. She is my dream, crashing into me just before I swim away, she wants me and I cannot stand how badly I want her, I can’t believe that this is happening, I was only here to say goodbye…

I wonder if life sees me, like she did. Not the image of me, not the idea of me, not the preconceived notion of what I could be or what I was…

Just me. A few flaws, a few strengths, a few laughs and a few years, anger and love and passion and desire and imagination, all packaged in disguise. 

I exit the highway to my destination and I know, I am not this. I am not thirty-nine years old and working for a living, I am not a second-time college student struggling for grades, I am not a twisted soul writing poetry for internet eyes and digital hearts, I am not this.