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for Luke Chrisco

In a city of unshaved long hair having creative open minded types I worry

“What makes me different?” initial observations

report the visible differences in body type, posture, body hair,

expressive hand gestures,

glasses, and other shades of fashion.

I wonder how their friends describe them

He’s jolly, conscientious,                     caring, and sensible,
                a douche bag, enjoyable,                                 reflective, affectionate,
sometimes romantic,
                adventurous, physical,     very intelligent,
fun loving, crazy, a dreamer,                     hard working
        responsible, shameless                           or well kind of lazy.

And the loves of their lives are they still around to share, regale us with the first time they knew it was love or the moment they no longer cared?

Can they still laugh at the funny hats, the sporting events, the late night on swings, dancing in rain, the willingness to strain to make things work past each pitiful fight, each regret and new chance at embrace.

Recount the gut organ’s shifting, caused by strained faces just before the words too hard to bear,

or the new places in their chests that suddenly existed when previous spaces couldn’t contain the explosions of joy that threatened to tear,

as beat skipped and lungs forgot their automatic and unending roles.

For aren’t these moments, the real moments rather than the virtuous behaviors often extolled.

Or maybe we could watch them in their privacy,

Big Brother style lounging, contemplating the effort of brushing their teeth just before sleep,

and pry into their dreams to see if they’re the same, or

are these men hiding secrets and super powers, and identities they desire like

the ultimate sports star

the shining armored hero

the father of children

the padre all spiritual

Do they hide in their dreams all the sources of shame, they wish to always contain?

a moment of shamed vulnerability pants-less in the office

a memory of shamed vulnerability pants-less and preyed on

a moment of shamed ecstasy pounding their boss in

a memory of shamed ecstasy pounding their cock in.

Then woken in day light -costumed in humanity

does each wonder in the absence of others

If he’s similar enough to keep dreams hidden, and yet just enough outstanding

that he can attract another lover to share those secret moments

or another victim to get behind his mask, to share with him his torment. 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Like always I was writing at a coffee shop, coffee shops are filled with men, its really amazing. Girls if you want a guy, go to a coffee shop, they will be there waiting. Anyway, I was reading this book called The Shooting which is a real story about a guy who accidentally shot and killed his best friend when he was a teenager. The guy goes through life trying to prove that he isn't a terrible person, trying to live a virtuous life for the both of them and then has a nervous breakdown at 30 and his life falls apart because of all the shame he is carrying. It occurs to me through the tears and empathy that many of us live these lives... and so I watch guy after guy come into this coffee shop and wonder why they too are so afraid of making contact yet clearly desire it. Like me, they seem to have every reason to be outgoing, they dress the fashions of uptown, they seem nice enough... but who are they?  and who are they really deep down?

-the title is in reference to one of these men out there that seems somewhat delusional, intrusive, uncaring, selfish, but probably has friends and family who care about him, probably he is a really decent person, probably he doesn't know how to find someone to love him for who he is... and he is insecure and ashamed and is now broadcasting it to the world. 

Recent 2011 poems from other blog

Longing

I long for something truthful

Is it too much to ask that I find it in your face?

expectations never satisfied, for each moment creates anew

excitement builds and magnifies until

disappointment becomes my view.

My mother says its the meaning you make of experiences

and that when you are older the difference is made plain

compassion for our young inner selves,

reveals realities and

inevitably relieves the strain.

But tonight I lay in my memories

child victim mocked for his excitement

looking for love in all the wrong places

stomach sick, head down

so as not to see the disgust on their faces.

Yes I long for something truthful

a moment of understanding between us

I won't say love, for of course that takes time

but just a hint of receptivity could allow me

to leave the shame behind.

Keeled Over with my Stomach Caving In

I know its hard for you to understand

-like its hard for me to understand when you question what is in front of you.

Is a chair a chair or isn't it?

and I wonder why you are calling yourself a chair

but I do understand past my impish smile, these are the worries caused by those chains deeply hidden... and I recognize myself in them now.

Recognize their grasp as the doubt that keeps me from moving forward,

cold digging shakes my frame,

piercing, so every dream is punctured,

and the dark ever enveloping, shroud of confusion, panic building.

and these are my outbursts, tears gathering at odd moments.

lack of comforting gestures, clenched responses -held like shoulders and teeth grinded

arms crossed and hunched over

so that everything returns to the child's pose

Tonight I contemplated writing your death song

you know the one that pours out from some primordial place in my throat

all bawling salty sting and spittle

all heartbreak, center shaking, inconsolable

lost between the nothingness of wanting to be numb

and the nothingness of bleeding void

lost between hoping for relief, unsure that time can fill such vacancies

and with anger that time would dare try

if there are words, I am sure "no" will be featured prominently

as will that one word question.

From Last Year

"A New You"

I find it funny how I recognize you and yet not. As if I thought memorizing every look once would be the completed set. Would mean I had total access for the lifespan, and now I am caught off guard, disturbed and dazzled (?) by a new photograph... is it you? I cannot sense the true weight of things, the temperature, the static in the air... cannot sense the warmth in your breath that urges me to believe such a thing, this mimic of your moment is it real? I'd have to hear a confirmation from you to know for sure and even then I'd wonder, what did the sun feel like that day? What were the noises that kissed your ears and who's eyes and who's love attempted to embrace you with a gesture, who's longing to remember these serene moments with a picture kept them from touching your soft skin, your supple lips, your sweet taste? Who made the subtle mis-calculation that kept you enshrined, a digital alter, a token gesture of worship the same mistake I've made a million times rather than gluttonously devour the moment with each sense, and revel in the pleasure, discomfort, torment and ecstasy of the presence of heaven's sacred creation, you.

My dreams of you are not my hands reaching to hold you, but my heart still pumps to keep the blood you offered warm. In the warmth within me somewhere there is still a sectioned labeled "home" with your name on the mail box, and forever and ever a welcome mat (and at least dreams of hugs for your homecoming).

"Stress Coaster"

It’s funny how stress waxes and wanes

like tides and the moon or the amount

of chocolate I consume, but

to be clear it’s not the stress itself

that rises but the level to cope

with surprises or even the expected.

For instance, during summer I neglected to

keep my coping skills blazing so

while lazying about, I lost my ability to deal,

then as the end of summer neared the feeling of tensions crept up my calves, through my limbs and my lower back, and eventually my shoulders which rose to the occasion and completed the picture of me hunched over tight shoulders and burdened with nothing truly unpleasant, nothing unbearable, not rare not painful, not malevolent, uncaring but rather something exciting, productive, enlightening

The return to school though I felt it like glaciers on my frame,

but isn’t it just more of the same- so why so stressful?

When sedentary for so long it sometimes feels as if I have never done anything. Like I am the dirt, my planted roots take the form of the house and it feels like I could never leave, like I have always been. She says this house is 80 years old, it’s my cranky knees but it'd be so easy to set me adrift tornado, strong wind blow me over, I could be anew. I am the walls, I am this city, I am this job I am secure and unchanging. Revolutionary ideas are surprises, taste of excitement like good poetry, make you feel alive the way you aint been. Am I so symbiotic, I didn't notice becoming part of you, didn't feel you infiltrate me, I thought I had my own long hair, my own wild tongue, my own joyful smile, meanwhile I find you chipping away at my teeth, the fibers of my pants, my many faces all with eyes that reflect you. I forgot my song, started humming a plain one. I thought I was a new born, now find I am ancient or at least middle age. I turned to look over my shoulder and saw what I had been, an adventurer where did he go. I thought I had engineered a new path, find me now a paved one. I been paved on, oil slicken easy, rain slides right off me, aint soaked with passionate sorrow just stained in the meanwhile. Where is refreshing fragrance, where is impassioned discourse, zealous beauty chasing, falling into the plain modelesque notions of pretty, forgetting uproarious laughter, forgetting cosmopolitan color, forgetting statued staring at passing people, forgetting uncomfortable scary, forgetting panic punches to the gut and esteem, the confidence building of day surviving, the chasing of simplicity, the grandiose proclamations of understanding fully and simultaneously knowing fully that nothing can be known so simply. I forgot about dressing scandalously, supported in my ferocity and the casualness -laid back style of being brilliant, brilliantly not normal. Gleam in the eye special. Gleam in the eye everyone. How have I been so detached from my humanity. So blessed and appreciated into comfort, couch pillows, blankets. Not a bum's bindle, not a gifted hat, not a crocheted scarf, an entirely different fidgeting stomach, not tenacious, not disgusted, not angry or in love. Easy to see something is different, the question is how long will I swill it?

How distracting it is

to sit here waiting

always a book or work to keep

me company, but despite my

stated purposes

I come here for you.

And see you in chatting lips,

across filled tables,

what is it you're saying?

and in cheekbones

jaunting out from

Books, I want to know about.

Find in curls and locks that hide

your eyes for a time,

and in your fancy boots

that have their own story too,

and in postures

which attract but,

don't show back

temptation.

So here I sit,

waiting on glances lit

with not just light

but question,

For I know my own have

signaled forth, to every

woman present.

Familiarity in each stranger's face

am I insane?

My memory faltering,

my senses opening to strange beyond

underneath your material guise, you're my friend

my past and future friend.

Only the present then,

is an illusion.

But in every science journal,

I read the opposite

frequently the sacred texts

opposite too.

How I am to trust my senses

listen to my breathing

feel the tightness of my muscles

the dizziness in my step

the queasiness in my stomach

if the underlying, music, is too beautiful

for my unperceptive ears

the truth so magnificent

my eyes blinded

by its flame

either we are one,

or, I, am insane.

February's Storms (Feb 2011)

“ Storms make oaks take deeper roots…”

this seems to be my theme lately.

How many days can the

ravaging winds lay claim upon my

arms before they are pulled off forever

my leaves already a distant memory

my stance continuously bracing.

Each gust, each thunderclap sends shivers down

my already shaken frame

the storm is not yet over BANG

another fallen sister claimed.

Can you hear me through the howling

the staccato of shivering teeth

are you humming your own mantras to keep

from losing those

deep roots you’ve already

put down, from other

storms you’ve survived

because I, need to see you

steady before I release

my own clenched fists.

Master of Illusion (Feb 2011) (rewrite 2018)

In my pocket are two fistfuls of silver dollars

-I find them behind your ears sometimes

and a top hat that folds up, a string of silk handkerchiefs (that go on forever)

a deck of cards to play tricks, a wand, a cane and a walking stick

a live bunny, 3 doves and a little tiny mouse,

a few matches, a metal pin, a key and some handcuffs,

a saw of course and a full length coffin,

and all of that is in just one pocket.

I also carry some stretchy balloons for children’s shows

but in order to keep some mystery, really who knows

what secrets lay in a magicians pocket,

this wandering wizard, a one man show

-in my pockets are the dreams

of all people, the ones they think through

and the ones only I know.

Somewhere deep down I hold your fears,

those deep shameful insecurities that

you think are so hidden.

I carry the spiders, snakes, ferocious sharks and bears

the ones from your bed-ridden sweating night terrors.

The regrets and the guilt from

each little mistake

the words that make you cringe

the noises that shake

and I use them, ever

so slightly, delightfully terrorized

before the big reveal

because a trick is an illusion dependent on your worries

and I the master know

you believe your worries are real.

--------Thought I'd try an edit--------

In my pocket

            are two fistfuls, of silver dollars,

            -I find them behind your ears, sometimes.

AND a folded up top hat,

a string of silk handkerchiefs which go on forever,

a deck of cards to play hand tricks,

and of course, my magic scepter.

As well as a wand,

AND a cane,

AND an old walking stick,

but one secret revealed,

             I’m only faking my limp.

A bunny, three doves and a tiny mouse make their home,

but I’d not be the Master, if there weren’t room for more.  

Matches, AND torches, AND machetes to juggle,

handcuffs, a key, a chainwatch to muddle,

your mind, soon defined by my masterful babble.

And in the deep, you’ll find the bite of my saw and its sharp teeth,

The trick not complete,

without a polished full-length, hardwood coffin, 

And my dears, I have ALL OF THAT,  

            - in just one,   pocket.

Like a harmless clown, I also carry stretchy balloons,

for the children’s shows,

but by now you must assume,

that from there it only grows,

because from the harmless, I incarnate,

the fantastical unknown,

what treats, what secrets

might I carry with me,

perhaps fantastically, I promise the imagining of all human beings,

the ones they dream openly,

and those only,  I,    know…       (---------)

YES!

Deep in my clutches, I hold all your doubts

those shameful insecurities that 

you think are so hidden.

And I carry them, within,

my pockets

so slithering

snake wrapped,

defenseless and bare,

spider eyed and bug bitten,

all your dreadful,

night terrors - OF 

falling regret, such chasms of guilt,

each little mistake, that-

spasms to cringe,

and ripples, and trips you

till no safety exists,  

your mouth wide open,

your stomach in grips,

caught in concern,

and bracing in terror,

and that’s when the Master,

knows it is time to reveal,

for awe, is just the truth unbound from your fear,  

but luckily for me, you believe

your anxieties are real.  

Falling (The Heart's Lament)

The way the notes come together in dissonance, warmed sad-melodic

Is the way my heart finds you- missing

The brief subconscious thought sends signals and sends search parties

Finding nothing shallowly hidden in my chest cavity (nor immediate vicinity), a brief ringing alarmed despair

This is the part ears call jaw-line and eye brow to cringe at,

Met with remembered headlines

Things Have Changed-She’s far away, tensed shoulders

Longing from my diaphragm, spine crisped, eyes focus on the distance

Though the muscles of my back have braced for impact

my brain can’t comprehend the time and mileage

–and it curses itself with lack of logical understanding,

Find comfort somewhere more ancient, that distance

and minutes are not the true separation,

The heaviness sets in. 

Heavy like anchors (will have to be)

Heavy like hoof kicks, the breath of certain horses

Heavy like an oxytocin addicts miss,  and

Heavy like knowing that, I’ll still miss you tomorrow.

And I want to write that I’ve never truly been alone,

knowing my heart lied in the hands of others,

my thoughts always on their songs,

my truest hopes,  on their tongues.

Ripening with time to bitters’ sweet -my heart laments

such beautifully sad songs.  

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