imcliche

"If you love someone and they love you, don't fuck up...'cause you are left with less than nothing."

A surplus of indiscriminate venom—
         this is my stumbling block,
       my problem to fix.
  Is ego or modesty
                my mask? 
Perhaps, the answer is in the question.

        Here, I wear
              the crown of shit
     upon my liar's chair.
             I let you down.
             I made you hurt.
    There, I boiled over,
            drunk and angry, again;
          a cloud turned grey.

     The division I caused
                left no remainder;
 ashes of a dream
            scorched by nightmare...

Now, I can only
   curse the day I became
            a nothingman,
       brush myself off,
   and learn how to walk
                  carrying memories of you.

One day at a time

Cabaret or crucible?
     It's a choice,
             I suppose...
But as for today, I'm tired.
   Loneliness reared its ugly
     face in the mirror;
so I cut off my hair—
   it was a silly romantic notion
       to have felt like
                   I owed somebody.

   The fact is that I break things;
clearly illustrated by
               the smoldering ashes
      and pieces of
                     what was,
                 now past,
             debris
        left in my wake.
  I chopped down my
           beloved dreaming tree
      for firewood.
   The bridges I burned
          glow faint red,
    revealing just how green
         it was on the other side.
My syncope at
           past deeds recounted
      amounts to a feint retreat.
  I've named my sins,
          repented,
         asked for absolution;
    but the facts of my destruction
            remain.
My spiteful ego
       is no less a part in my Gestalt
   than are my empathy
           and passion.
At times, I wonder,
     could I have been anyone
           other than me?

But how do I forgive myself
           for the fear and
       bruises
                  I've inflicted?
     How do I ask forgiveness
               from those I've injured?

I cannot go back and undo.
      I am discredited.
   My vows ring out hollow,
              like empty lip service.
    I have squandered and wasted.

Take the bottle from these lying lips.
              Smash it.
     Use the shards
        and tear open my chest,
   scrape away the black bile.
        I swear there's a heart beating
                         underneath.

  Create in me
               a clean heart; renew
         a right spirit, within.

caterpillar body and butterfly brain

I've been scrubbing stains
   for the last decade,
        with steel wool and
      bleach and
         scalding water,
       cigarettes
            and a bristle-less
          toothbrush—
not that they've been effective.
  It'd be easier, i'm sure,
           if my scalp would split
        and the ten years
                    of dead skin
      and wasted talent
             fell to the floor;
but i was raised Lutheran,
          we preach Grace,
      and love the flog (in private).
Guilt
    is its own justification, after all
simul iustus et Peccator.
  Yeah, but Luther was full of shit,
                            wasn't he?
What's it mean when
           all the penthouse Christians
     earn their scars
                avoiding the painful scab?
Faith without deeds is dead,
      what are deeds without faith?

   Take me to a river
                and hold me under
           until a dove descends
                      or I turn white...

There's got to be some better way to come clean.

cinquains 2-5

revolt.

youth of today

crowded the Tahrir Square,

Arab Republic of Egypt.

raised fists.

 

borrow.

disconnected

lost laws of conservation;

one nation, undeniably

in debt.

exploit

humanity,

find cheap beasts of burden,

build a banana republic

at home

wake up,

sleeping daydream

nation, comfortably

coddled by flashing distractions,

riot!

cinquain 1

lost love,

once here, then gone;

heart break’s par for the course.

to you lucky ones, I’ll sing out,

“hail, hail.”

read this and thought

what the fuck?!

A Little Too Honest

Perhaps, you should have let me sleep.

      It’s in poor taste that I expose

    my dark side, my bad mood rising—
not a place to end, but somewhere to start.

  Absence makes the heart grow still,

         and that silence helps hide everything

             you never wanted to know.

     So, here we are, two zeros, the classic case.

Weren’t we supposed to set the air ablaze?

             Instead, it’s face to face,

           shadow box, then double cross…

       I dropped from the shot to my

                  glass jaw, and the shock to

                                my cold heart.

     But if it’s a chase you want, my angel,

                my sunbeam, let me find

             a gag and a net and

          I’ll drag you down to my level.

I’ll hold open the door, for you.  In the

    light of day, in the foyer with the

        potted plants, I’m a gentleman,

     a marquis, a smooth operator.

  Follow me down the hallway,

               to the bedroom,

         where I study philosophy

    and spiritual phrase.

         I’ll give some, to get some.

       Give me all you got, girl.

               I have an itch, I want

          scratches down my back.

      Swallow my pride and

            make me lick your boots clean;

          but leave your coat and skeletons

        in your own closet with

   your chambermaids.  I could

                 give a fuck about your dignity—

       just keep giving me that sweet taboo.

The washroom is the second door to the left,

              should you wish to feign cleanliness.

       One dirty hand washes the other hand,

         sacrilegious ceremonies,

                heaving in drains.

    I won’t forget to leave the toilet seat up.

           Yes, that’s an insult;

               mind yourself, so I

                         won’t have to injure…

      In the parlor, where lewdness

               waxes drunk and the glinted disco ball

      spins away the years, a party has started

         and everyone has gathered:

             boisterous and foolish, libertines, all.
         No place for beginners or sensitive hearts.

            The scene is tired,

                 trite,

              impious,

                   debauched,

                      depraved,

                               criminal…

God, this town is so small.

              Paraphiliacs, or hypochondriacs?
         When sentiments are left to chance

    and bedbugs are shared,
               it’s getting hard to tell the difference.

       I’ll take my leave of this and keep you

                    jealously to myself;

                and if not,

                        you can find me downstairs…

Below, in the solitude of the root cellar,

        the shrewd pariah sits

                  hiding, brooding

      in a basement of hoarded smut.

  He laughs at those who say,

      “Life is short; don’t fuck up.”

     He laughs at those who say,

              “Life is short; don’t miss out.”

           He’s far too apathetic for hedonism.

…and in the quiet of my shade tree I wonder,

                          what makes me say these things?

           In the face of disaster,

                         out comes my laughter;

          it’s this flailing, blind anger in me.

I should crawl back to my cold unmade bed.

in the dreams where jackals hide

Cut loose your
       noose and don
  my leash.  You can cuff me,
     if you swallow
             the key.  We'll make it
a fun parlor trick; bound, you can
   whip me, until I escape.
Bite marks and scratches, just
         try and stop me.  Honest,
  I didn't mean to bruise your
           gentle neck; your
      inner submissive bleeds
   through our feigned
                          rolls reversed.
          Pealed masks, disrobed
       and naked pale skin.
Rope tied to bedposts,
              slipknots around your ankles and wrists—
         such an innocent face,
                such a dirty mind,
      such a pretty little pervert.
  Pinch me, I'll slap your ass;
           leather clad dreams
         of stormy moonless nights,
     no headlights,
      high speed and misty
    steamed windows; of basements
          and chains; flamable silk
       and candle wax…
when pressed, still so clever:
   you can't whisper "I love you,"
           through the red ball;
      there's no safety in words, after all
               is done and said.
    Dangerous lands lie beyond the borderline—
Show me. 
               Cut me again,
         carve your name in my chest;
                             we belong together.

untitled

The Bombmaker, Minesweeper,
         and Drunk dance
     around a circle
           side by side by side.
  Pressing their luck,
        tempting claymore fates,
     they want to see if
            proof really is in dismemberment.
Meanwhile, the Butcher, Baker,
           and Insurance Salesman
   mourn the plain lesson:
a thousand ways to leave your lover;
           and not one to bring them
                          back, again.
But, such is life
          for Ghosts and Bedbugs
  that lurk in shadows,
revealed only in sideways glances of
   razor scars and lovebites,
bloodstained memories of what's
         gone...
    what exists only as pain
                  in abstentia.
   Dream homes and cloud castles
        left dark and decaying,
   over-grown and in disrepair...

What is lost,
         if it was only imaginary?

Dear Daemon,

The letters I sent you this summer were all returned, unopened.  They were marked as "undeliverable as addressed; unable to forward."  Maybe you forgot to leave a forwarding address; you can be forgetful, at times.  It still kind of stung at the time.  I still have them.  I also still have that pine cone, that name tag, and that candy cigarette box, among other maudlin trinkets.  Sometimes, I wish I was less sentimental; it would make for less clutter, for sure.

I'll confess, you've been haunting my dreams, lately.  I'm trying to let go; it's one of my unwritten resolutions for the year.  I'm trying to keep my distance.  It seems as though that's what you want (you certainly haven't indicated otherwise); and to be honest, I've got my own laundry list of shit to take care of, so it's probably best for me to focus on that—and by "that" I mean "myself;" a new way of thinking I'm still getting used to.  But if my dreams are any indication of how I really feel at my core, I am still fiercely loyal to you, in spite of everything, or anything else. Things change, things stay the same.  Before going on, though, I'd like to take a detour, briefly.

Is it just me, or does the phrase "let go" make you think of Val Kilmer?  I honestly feel bad for the guy; honest, I do.  He had a period of time when he was an A-lister.  He was a Hollywood golden boy; with just cause, since he had actual talent.  You can't teach comedic timing.  People either have the gift naturally, or they don't; just watch "Real Genius," Kilmer has it.  But, holy god! It's like everything he does, now, has the crust of B all over it.  Even "Felon," in which he did a damn fine job, just wasn't quite up to Box Office standards (what ever the fuck that counts for now-a-days...).  I mean, he was fucking Jim Morrison!  I don't know the guy, so this is just conjecture, but now he's got the bloat of a drunk.  It's sad, really.  I used to wish that I had the blond hair and chiseled jaw that made him famous (and I'm sure got him laid, plenty); but now, I think, "fuck, I should start taking better care of myself, 'cause 27 ain't too far from 30, and I'm over half-way to 50."

In case you need a visual:

 from "Top Secret," circa '84

from "The Steam Experiment," circa '09

One last side note, "The Steam[ing pile] Experiment" is an awesomely bad movie, also starring Eric Roberts and Armand Assante.  It's worth watching.  Look at that cast!  Don't pay to see it; but don't get caught not paying.

I drove to Goldsboro, recently.  It was an interesting drive.  The sun was out and bright, but snow was blowing—very odd.  "Yield" covered the first half of the trip.  This is definitely one of my favorite road trip albums.  It's possibly my favorite Pearl Jam album; though ask me on any given day and that could range from "Ten" to "Backspacer."  What can I say?  I dig 'em.  About the time I got to Selma on hwy 70, I put on "The Shepherd's Dog."  It fit how I was feeling, driving back east for the first time in some five years.  Something about the uneasy, or reluctant but unavoidable, relationship with Christianity, the very Carolina (in spite of Beam being from South Carolina) material, the wolf/sheepdog metaphor, and the overall tone that strikes a chord with me—did you see what I just did there?  Thanks for hipping me to it.

I was driving to Goldsboro for my grandmother's birthday, but reached Princeton with plenty of time for a detour.  Once I reached Goldsboro, almost from instinct, I took hwy 117 toward my childhood home on the 500 year flood line—the waters stopped yards from our front door.  I know I've told you that before.  My family and I were lucky, incredibly lucky.  Floyd's flood did a number on the area.

View Larger Map

I grew up on Croom Dr, the turd colored curve at the upper right corner is the 

Neuse River.

Hurricane Dennis (not the one that hit the Gulf a month before your storm) had sat off the coast two weeks earlier, dumping rain for a couple of days.  Having dealt with Fran, this was a boring storm—since school was canceled, my younger brother and I flew kites until they were more duct tape than plastic.  Then came Floyd; which for being a cat 4 was pretty tame, but dumped over a foot of rain.  This rain caused the usual day after flooding, but then subsided; until the folks in Raleigh to let out water from Falls Lake, which flowed east and added to the already saturated land.  Hurricane Irene, shortly after, definitely did not help.  That was in 1999, we left in 2001.  At that time, even two years later, pretty much everything from Summerlin Dr to the river, that wasn't a trailer, was condemned by FEMA and left dilapidated and abandoned (they were mismanaging assholes back then, too...does that count for irony? calling oneself "emergency management" and sucking at that when emergencies happen?).  That meant plenty of practice houses for Mar Mac Volunteer Fire Department.

My parents live in Rocky Mount, which is on the Tar River, also hit hard by the flooding from Floyd.  Areas along that river were more densely populated, so the damage was more extensive; but these many years later, Rocky Mount, Greenville, and other areas show only a few waterlogged scars.  What was neighborhoods of modular homes, in my childhood, remains barren.  I'm not comparing; just sharing.

This is the house I grew up in, '89-'01.  

There used to be another tree to the left of the house, Fran took it.  

A hedge used to run the perimeter of the front yard.

We beached the jon boat past this tree, closer to the house.

In the background is Dad's old garage.

It is literally more square footage than the house.

This is along Old Grantham Rd.

There used to be houses here.

 The last little brick house, abandoned, but still standing.

Beyond those trees is the Neuse River.

To the right, off camera, is hwy 117.

I guess I've become accustomed to the rolling topography of Chapel Hill, because the absolute flat blankness of the land took me somewhat by surprise.  The grey day didn't help to elevate the mood, either.  It was sad to see what was a neighborhood reduced to the bare bones of streets leading to vacant plots.  My little sister and Dad did this same tour a few days earlier, they had business on base (Seymour Johnson AFB) and so were in the area.  She agreed, it was ugly and depressing.

With this sort of mood and enough time left in the sliding ETA I had given to do some more site seeing, I drove back up hwy 117, past Teasers—the strip-club I always dreamt of burning down, past the cemetery where the coffins floated out of their graves like in some soggy Rapture, past hwy 70, and kept driving.

Things change.  117 turns into I-795; this was news to me.  I drove past Pikeville, past Fremont, but not quite to Wilson.  Getting closer to the late arrival time, I got off of the highway and headed back south, toward Goldsboro.  All the while the weather varied from bright sunshine to blowing flurries. The Paper Chase better suited my mood, so "Now You Are One of Us" played as the chain of cigarettes burned.  Good times.

One of the things I've always loved about small town eastern North Carolina is that every town is the same.  It's impossible to get lost; even if you try.  Every town is the same.  There's two highways that pass through each and every town (one north-south, the other east-west) and generally one main rail line.  Whichever highway runs parallel with the train track, generally becomes that town's main street—generally, creatively called "Main Street."  You know that you're getting close to town when you pass a flashing yellow intersection and the row houses run on the other side of the tracks.  Did you ever read Maniac Magee?  For all I cared about the northern setting, it could've been set in Goldsboro; racism and all.  Maybe that's just every small town, anywhere, USA (Mellencamp, eat your bleeding heart out).  I digress.

I was driving through Fremont, which happens to be the birthplace of Charles B Aycock, North Carolina's "Education Governor," also a bigot (putting it lightly), when my little sister called.  The conversation was brief and I told her I'd be arriving soon; which I would be, but mainly I didn't want the Yankee in me to come out while on the phone with her.  There was a line of brake lights in front of me, which I fucking hate, since that strange white stuff falling from the sky turns the fuckers around here into Chicken Little's, seizing their brains with dumb fear, blanking out the knowledge of how to drive—it snows at least once a year, mother fuckers, every fucking year; fucking christ, get your fucking heads out of your asses and fucking drive!  (I know snow's a neat thing for you, I'm partial to it myself; but my uncle left to come down for my grandmother's birthday, literally, just before a blizzard blew through the area Mom and Dad's families lived; which Dad's family, except for my uncle and his family, left.  Flurries and flakes ain't a big deal when your cousins are being buried by two feet or more—better them, than me.)  Eventually, I got around the traffic and made it to my destination.

Sadly, neither of my brothers could make it; but it was a full house, none-the-less: my grandmother's cousin and his wife came down from Maryland (or Delaware? same fucking difference); a childhood friend of my aunt, from Philly, flew in; as previously mentioned, my uncle was there; and then the rest of us living here.  After all of the initial greetings and such, my sister and I chatted.  Out of nowhere, she brought up how that bitch Cunty Love killed Kurt, then how envious she is of my hair, then the fact of me turning 27 came up—to which I reassured her that I had to be famous before I could join that club.  She's taking some absurd three or four studio classes; little masochist!  I still think you would really like her, she's a pretty awesome young lady.

It was a good time—good company, good food, good conversations, what more could you want?  The dinner conversation between Mom, my sister, the cousin's wife, and I was interesting.  She's a pretty neat lady, you would like her.  She gave my little sister pointers on being a professional artist, and the general conversation we had ranged from her experiences (like what it was like to do digital graphic design when computers were just starting to be used) to intellectual property to anthropology to linguistics to metaphysics to theology and gardening.

After dinner and cake and such, we took lots and lots and lots and (jesus, are we done, yet?) lots and lots of pictures; then they sang "Happy Birthday" to me; then we called my cousin in New Jersey to sing "Happy Birthday" to her, since it was her actual birthday; and then after long lingering goodbye's, we all parted ways.

More went on, but I've rambled enough.  The drive back was pretty exhausting.  The snow was done, but the wind blew my S10 all over the damn interstate; NPR was entertaining, though, minus the "Jared Lee Loughner" every fifteen minutes, or so.  When I got back, as with many times during the day, I wanted to share all of this with you—things stay the same; but, like I said, New Year's resolutions and what not.

I do hope this new year has been kind to you, thus far.  I hope the kids are doing well.

                                                                                                                                     Take care,
                                                                                                                                      Mailer