It is raining darts right now and some poor kid is peddling home as fast as his legs will take him.
Been there. It sucks.
The front of grandma's house is now scraped, caulked and primed. That's progress.
And if I could get one of the crapweasels (to borrow Adam's word) to bring me the other half of the extension ladder I could get the soffits and fascia done. There are many days I wish I drove a truck.
The rolling is getting closer!!!
Gma's house is now scraped, caulked and primed on three sides. . . I guess that's progress. I still have the front to do as well as all the soffits and fascia.
Too bad the smallest part of painting a house - whether interior or exterior - is the actual painting. I swear it takes ten times longer to do all the prep than the painting.
I am living in my parents' shed. That is my life. Metaphorically and otherwise.
Their house is totally gutted. Nothing but bare stud walls. Yesterday I got to rip down the ceiling. It was a great outlet for frustration. This is the snapshot I took before I started.
Then I got to disassemble electrical boxes and salvage the good switches and outlets that the electrician just threw in a tangled pile in the middle of the floor. That brought my frustration back.
I keep trying to do things to keep myself busy and keep my mind off how worthless I've become. I'm doing anything that will keep my brain from totally atrophying.
This week I'm scraping and painting my grandma's house. So far I have it all scraped except a little spot on the front. Unfortunately it's raining today so it will take a day to dry out before I can primer and caulk. I'm hoping to have it done by the end of the weekend, but if it stays dreary like this it will take a lot longer.
I also have a construction project that's all my own. Really it's more like disaster repair. There is a horrible little falling down house next to my grandma's that was sold on sheriff's auction a couple weeks ago. For months she had been worrying about what kind of trashy people would move in, so my parents bought it. I'm not kidding.
When I first went inside I nearly puked. I don't know how anyone could have lived like that. The stench and the filth are overwhelming. Starting next week I'll be pulling out all the carpeting and scrubbing down all the walls and cupboards, etc.
It needs serious structural repair, but that's a far bigger project than I want to get into right now. Instead, I'm going to scrub the heck out of it, clean and paint it, fix up the nasty yard, and put it back on the market. The goal is to make it nice enough to put a high enough price tag on it that skunky people won't buy it.
It will make a fabulous little fixer upper for someone. But right now it's so trashed that I doubt anyone could see its potential.
The beauty of the deal is this: I get to keep the profit. If I can get it sold, my parents want their money back, but I get to keep the rest. Awesome. I'm hoping to net ten grand. That would be sunshine and roses.
On the dark side, I have applied for 109 jobs in the past 4 months. Jobs I'm totally capable of and know I could do well. No one wants me. I suck.
Optimally I would post something on my blog each day. But being the procrastinator I am, I tend to jot down my thoughts on random chunks of paper and toss them into a can under my bed. This defeats the point of blogging entirely.
HOWEVER, over the past week I have painstakingly typed up a bunch of what's in the can and am ready to post it today. I know, I hate it when other bloggers do this too. They post nothing for ages, until you're so frustrated you stop going to their site. And then all of a sudden they post 20 pages of stuff. I apologize. That's exactly what I'm doing today.
I've compiled a bunch of my stuff and yet there is still a s***pile left, half a can. I'll work on that.
For now, here's what you get. . . a ton of poems of varying quality. I make no guarantees. They're arranged alphabetically by title. It's the best way I could think of to ensure the content is in random order.
Enjoy. Or don't. It's up to you.
Cheers.
***
3-4-5
Silver fish
play leapfrog with
the silver river
*
362 Days Lost
I have closed my ears to listening,
turned my eyes from reading –
from soaking in the sounds and scents of
language thick and powerful,
light and inspiring, full of hope,
dark and misleading,
from swirling into an abyss of loneliness,
of helplessness and despair.
I’ve kept myself from dwelling,
from wishing,
from wanting,
from remembering –
anything,
anyone,
it all.
*
Adversity
Crises of faith
and indecision,
of doubt
and derision.
*
Advice
Stop talking about
what the good version of you
would be,
and just be that person.
*
America’s Nerve Centers
New York:
land of vanity
and self-congratulatory rhetoric.
D.C.:
land of pomp and circumstance
void of conviction
*
An open letter to you –
I try desperately not to burden you with
my infatuation.
In public I feel like
you are embarrassed of my adoration,
and I don’t blame you.
You shouldn’t have to explain why
this girl you do not want is
following you around like a dog –
an unwelcome wretch you cannot shake.
*
Back Then
A lot of years have passed since then.
You and I aren’t the same people we once were –
full of childish hope and
the naïve belief in ourselves.
The music has changed,
and so has the view.
I have changed,
and so have you.
*
Between The Kitchen and The Backdoor
With gravel in his voice
and fear in his eyes,
he grabs her by the arm.
“You’re not leaving me now,
not after all we’ve been through!”
With tears in her eyes
and sorrow in her voice,
she turns to face him.
“I am.”
And she retreats.
*
Blue Flowers
Breathe –
free and easy
like a basket of country flowers
plucked from an emerald meadow
rolling, relaxed,
beneath a cornflower blue sky.
*
Busy
Playing games with
my own heart strings,
tying them in knots.
*
But It Never Speaks
You stand in the center of the room,
not spinning, but standing –
waiting for something to speak to you,
then go to it.
*
Change Poem
Passion to Lust
Lust to Jealousy
Jealousy to Anger
Anger to Rage
Rage to Regret
Regret to Shame
Shame to . . .
*
Confession
I can’t get you out of my head,
I think about you constantly.
*
Confession
I’ve got too much time on my hands and
all I can do is think of you.
*
Consider
Think of our world
and how it would be
if we had never met –
if I was not in your life.
*
Contemplating. . .
contemplation
of complication
caused by
sitting here
soaking up
the pristine sounds
of nature.
*
Dark Sky
In my rear view mirror
the memories fade away.
The good go down the drain with the bad –
anything to make the pain stop.
The fear, the fatigue, the nightmares –
longing locked away from freedom.
*
Domestic Abuse in an Airport
Two people trying desperately to hurt one another.
My insides die and shrivel up upon watching it
There are degrees of ignorance
regardless of orientation, geography, occupation, religion or anything else.
*
Droplets
A gentle breeze
wakes the tops of trees
whose dancing leaves
rain down on the ones
below.
*
Easier for Me
If you were gay,
I think it would make things
so much easier for me.
Why exactly I feel that way,
I don’t know.
I know your world would be
complicated as shit
if it were true.
The stereotypes and biases
from where we’re from
would be like razors
staring you in the face.
But I promise I would be
steadfast by your side.
*
Every Day
Every day I wonder
how and where you are –
what you’re doing –
the mundane and the unpredictable,
the foolish and the absurd.
*
the feeling washes over you
And all at once
the feeling washes over you
like watercolor
blue-green
and blurring everything
*
The Flowershop
She stands on the sidewalk staring –
arms at her sides
barely holding onto the groceries,
halted by her own reflection
in the flowershop window.
She wonders where
all the daylight has gone –
from her life, from her eyes.
The cold black glass reflects
a grey spirit with little fire –
years visible in her hollow face.
For a moment she
sinks into the darkness –
inside the shop window,
inside herself.
She is mesmerized by
a vase of creamy, peach-colored
roses
standing in the display cooler.
“They are beautiful, aren’t they?”
The voice snapped her
back to the sidewalk,
to herself.
An old man was there beside her
peering into the same window.
His mottled tweed overcoat was tattered,
and his hat sat slightly offside.
Leaning on his cane he
motioned to the flowers,
and in his shaky Russian voice said,
“They look like my wife.
She was beautiful just like them,”
and the girl smiled,
but tears burned at her eyes.
For that brief moment,
they were connected by the most
exquisite of human pain.
She finally looked away,
unable to bear him
or the roses.
He turned on his heel
and shuffled away.
She was thankful for
his absence –
and stood alone for a second more
to acknowledge her pain,
the broken woman in the window.
Then she too turned on a heel
and walked away,
leaving the roses behind.
- Related Note: 2 years later a bouquet of wilting flowers was taped to the lightpole on that corner. The old Russian man that ran the store had been run over in the street and died.
*
Flutter
Fields of
buttercups
*
Forgotten Roots
You stray further and further from your plan.
Maybe it’s your big budget,
or your new confidence,
but you hardly miss the old ways.
You have until the end of the week
to decide if you like where this is going.
*
From a Gallery
On streets you’d never expect,
lined with industrial warehouses,
treasures are hidden.
Overlapping jigsaw puzzles –
portions of images –
fruits and stamps and candy
and anonymity beneath table glass.
Charcoal on handmade vellums
stories scribbled and scratched out,
bleeding into one another.
*
Gag
Sometimes I need to be alone
thinking and dreaming on my own
Trying to see what makes me “me”. . .
following my own special path.
*
Golden Truth
the greatest success lies in
not succumbing to monotony
*
Honesty
It’s killing me
to be here with you.
I thought it would
be fun, but instead
it is all manner of
excruciating heartache.
*
I Don’t Know How
I require a lot of time alone –
time to do my own thing.
I can be fiercely independent –
and stubborn as hell.
I am a tangle of eccentricities –
random interests and dreams.
I think I may never find someone
that wants to share a life with that.
*
If I Could (Cheeseball)
If I could give you the world. . .
I’d sing you every country love song
in a voice caramelly and soft.
I’d paint you every wispy sunset
in radiant velvety hues.
I’d bring you tiny bouquet of buttercups
in porcelain teacups of sunshine.
I’d wipe away your pain
before it ever knew your name.
If I could, I’d be the yin for your yang.
*
Intent v. Action
My full intention was to
take some time off
and let the creative juices flow.
But I haven’t let myself write,
nor even pick up a pen.
I’ve been afraid to.
I think I’m in a precarious place,
a tenuous position –
one that I couldn’t get out of if I’m not careful.
I’ve been afraid to loosen the walls that
I’ve taken so long to build.
If I open the gates,
my control would drown beneath
the deluge that would ensue.
If I let myself write, darkness creeps in,
and instability takes over and
I fall prey to the powerful tides of ups and downs.
Immersing my self in writing
takes me to a dark place from which
I can’t claw myself out, escape.
I can only wait –
wait for the tide to recede and
I can breathe again.
*
In the Moonlight
Diamond crusted waves
are crashing ashore.
*
I See…
the deep,
rich tones
of wet stones
*
Let’s Face It
We all have baggage.
Our only hope in life can be to
find someone with luggage that
matches our own.
*
Living A Lie
Living a lie.
Is it always a bad thing?
When is it okay to
keep up appearances,
live a charade,
stay behind a façade?
I accept that,
so long as you can live
a double life.
There has to be a place
and people with whom
you can be your true self,
not just empty acquaintances,
real friends –
the deep and meaningful kind
that you can rely on and trust.
You and I could build a
beautiful, convincing charade.
For you I would do anything.
I have a dream of us being married,
spending holidays with your parents –
Living together in a house with a
basement apartment where your boyfriend lives.
It’s the best of all worlds.
Your secret is safe,
the appearances are solid –
the love and the friendship are
commingled in a beautiful web of complications.
*
Look Forward
Nothing we do changes the past,
but everything we do changes the future.
*
“Love” Is So Cliché
Love is such a washed out, cliché word,
but I know no other to use,
so every day I want to tell you
I love you.
I love you a hundred directions to Sunday –
inside out and upside down.
I love every constantly changing fiber of your being,
your spirit, your aura, your essence.
I love you all the words in the dictionary,
every drop of ink from every pen I’ve ever owned
as well as those I haven’t.
I love you a million ways to Wednesday –
and more.
I long to tell you I love you with
all the great lines from movies,
every succulent whisper in novels,
every snapshot of every vista.
Everything and always.
Forever.
*
Mockery
Your love is like
a bad tattoo
that I can’t remove
from my heart.
*
Mrs. P
I like her
because she
genuinely
appreciates life.
*
Museum
In a museum you can
walk through time and space.
You can experience history
and foreign lands.
You can spy and
speculate on others’ lives.
*
My feelings are transparent.
I walk away when all I want to do is
stare at you –
take in every breath,
hang on every word.
At absolutely any moment of any day,
I would throw down what I’m doing,
turn from where I’m going, and
follow you to the ends of the earth.
I know that scares the hell out of you, but
maybe it is also comforting to know
I’ll wait for you forever with no expectations.
*
Notebook Covers
Notebook covers
worn thin from use
are etched with the names
of grade school crushes –
little boys with tousled hair
and shiny pink cheeks.
History makes
the hearts of little girls
old before their time –
and their minds spend
sixty years
trying to catch up.
*
Observations At The Art Museum
I see…
Mothers and fathers that have
dragged their children to the museum for the afternoon.
The children trudge along begrudgingly.
I see…
Young people that have
dragged their parents to the museum
for culture in the hopes it will be absorbed.
I see…
Women wearing shoes that
pain their feet to the point of passing out.
They stare at the messages blankly and unabsorbed.
I see…
The art of sound neglected
under the agony of harsh,
unyielding,
almost sterile lights.
I see…
A teenage boy say,
“It’s just a bunch of old stuff”
I see…
A middle school boy say,
as he’s dragged along by his ignorant parents,
“I wanted to read that. . .” then
“Oh this is cool,” but
his parent plod along unaware.
I see…
Pretentious people say,
“Oh, this is a Rodin. . .” and stop to look, but
only after someone noticed the plaque with his name –
as though the sculpture wasn’t worth viewing
until they saw the name.
*
Patience
Instead I wait,
and I watch
because sitting here
won’t kill me.
It is only your silence
that hurts me.
*
Pleading
“What’s it going to take
to get you to believe me?”
she screamed.
“To believe in me?”
*
Quell
My mind is not dry of words,
but afraid to open –
to dwell on the things
it knows will draw tears.
*
Realization
I just turned and walked away –
and looked back only twice.
At some point on the road
I came to the
sullen realization that
I am
only playing games with myself.
You have never hurt me,
which I knew,
but now I see how much I
hurt myself.
*
Red Can
There’s a can beneath my bed
filled with scraps of beauty –
with the intricacies of words –
their intent and their silence
*
Role Reversal
Turn the tables,
look out for us.
*
Roman
A heart with
still waters inside
a crown of olive branches
and warlike pride
a warrior saint that just
stepped down from heaven.
*
Sadly
The one that got away…
is
the one that never was…
*
Sight
Through the trees
a single silo
on a solitary plateau
*
Silence Is A Lie
There are big things you
are not telling me, that
you cannot,
should not,
hide.
*
Somewhere Just Outside Of Big Sky . . .
How do I get these thoughts
out of my head, she questioned.
The only thing she ever wanted
was to be with him.
All her life, thoughts of him
would crowd out the daily monotony.
What was she supposed to do
now that he had gotten married?
Seven hours on the road and
that’s as far as she had gotten –
how do I walk away?
Where could she go to
escape his memory?
Every coffee pot, every napkin holder
at the diner was etched with
his face, his fingerprint, his scent.
They could board up the windows
and put bars on the doors
and still it would remind her of him.
In the drivers seat with
chunks of thoughts half done,
she was stuck and prayed the answers
would be somewhere down this road.
*
Still Wondering
I’d give anything to know
what thoughts were behind that question.
I wish I hadn’t said, “Sure.”
I wish I had said, “Yes. More than anything.”
*
Swirling
Eddies on the river
speak to the birds
playing on hanging boughs
*
Today
We could all use
a little more superhero
and a little less angst.
*
Truth
It is killing me –
being here with you.
*
Unnoticed
The subtleties of art,
like magic,
go undetected.
*
untitled
The rising
sun
coaxes
the earth
out of her slumber.
*
Untitled
She says goodbye to him
beneath a cold stone archway
and the shadow of
a love that wouldn’t grow.
They are captured in time
tormented by demons
that will not let them go –
assailed by memories and
haunted by hope that is just
out of reach.
*
The Victor
I am a warrior
this is true,
but I am not
a barbarian.
*
Vital Realization
The drugs have stolen the highs I crave so much, and
I realize now it was in those moments of mania,
of crystalline clarity
that I made all my major life decisions.
*
Wanted:
Someone who accepts me for who I am,
tangled mess though that may be –
just as I am.
*
Wanting to Say
I want him to know
that I support him wholeheartedly,
no matter what has
or hasn’t
happened between us
in the past.
Every situation was complicated by
my foolish stumbling.
How do I reach out to him
and let him know I have absolute respect
for the man he is?
*
Why Does It Hurt to Bleed?
The liquid of life
slips from her veins
as she lays motionless
wondering why it hurts to bleed.
Any veteran knows
you slit the veins lengthwise,
not across,
and she had done just that.
But Time seemed to dance around her
mocking
unwilling to hurry its pace and
release her from the world.
She smirked at how she had never
dreamed
that at this moment she
would be contemplating the
physical pain of her act.
She had only imagined her life
drawing to a quiet close
as it did in the movies
when the picture fades
to black and white.
She laid there wishing for
the words “The End” to
appear somewhere
on the wall or on the mirror.
They did not come,
only a mounting shame
at the selfishness of her act.
*
Why I Don’t Write Odes
Never could I wield words so powerful,
so eloquent as those offered in homage,
so elegant as those spoken in reverence,
so sincere as those whispered to a lover.
That, dear friend, is why I don’t write odes.
*
You, From Where I Stand
Fury is an aberration.