the alarm clock is ringing
three hours too late!
what a mess we've made
of these blankets,
of our souls.
someone open a goddamn window
I'm boiling alive in my own sweat
matted hair, tangled limbs
who the hell invented this?
there, that's better.
it's cold outside and clean
cool, clean november air
see that gray sunshine
over the skinny skeleton trees
embrace it,
that belonging-ness
that kind disregard for tomorrow.
just that cold blue gray sun
steely bicycle rider afternoon
made for six-button navy blazers.
I like you with your glasses on
I like your sharp teeth
I like your barely-hidden lechery
don't compliment me,
you liar.
liar, I laugh.
that's not the first time...
pouring coffee while
she brushes her teeth
reveling in the real honest
unabashed dishevelment,
I don't smile, just groan
move to the deck chair
cigarette wet-limp
between wet-limp lips
pretending to be on a Havana steamer.
poached eggs for breakfast,
my toes touch the dew
with the Stones record on
grit my teeth. taking deep breaths
sharp and unsure of the future
I take out a notebook
and start numbering my days
she puts out her hand
she wants me to dance
the song is "connection"
so bare feet on concrete
I stop caring about my clumsiness,
the violet-striped bathrobe sashays.
I can't dance, I can't love
nothing is right
everything is gray
she smiles sweetly
and says
don't worry.
oh no no no
wrapping one another
in scarfs
houndstooth and cashmere,
respectively.
a lovely bicycle ride
to the cemetery
seeing children on the sidewalks
clinging to red balloons
waving.
behind sunshades, there are sad eyes
sitting dreaming against headstones
sucking on the red-striped straws
of chocolate milkshakes
wanting nothing more
than to kiss your mouth
november days
will we always spend our time
sitting, waiting
or in each other's arms?
the sunshine on the buttons of my coat
makes me think back to winters past
and graveyard paths
with friends on the wayside.
the breeze carries sad youth
I long for you,
wistful winter
making me miss
all the things I never felt
that I would.
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
Showing posts with label depression. Show all posts
6.10.09
bad october
I am back to the machine gun
it is gray and ugly outside,
the plateaus obscured
by rain and fog
and the fury of the coastal winds
driven heartward by hot santa anas.
I am back to the machine gun
she is gray like the skies
and the rough paint is chipping
from the underside of her carriage.
the lamp is hot and gold
and we are alone.
please keep lecturing me
there is nothing I need more now
than your brilliant advertisements
of young naivete.
it's becoming more and more evident
that glaring character flaws
are exemplar
of how interesting all lovers are,
but you can all take your double standards
and play the roman fool.
I'd rather be an old man
than be counted useless and hollow
living for a day that will never arrive,
pretending to be content.
and so I
sidelined by the culture
not cynical enough for her tastes
too much of a bastard for her's
clinging to my tattered banner
"at least I have principles"
but they're fading fast
and the jacobins are putting me on trial
for the sins of yesterday.
I'm sure if Marat knew that it would end this way
he would've drowned himself in his bathtub.
after enough of the same faces
the effects of gravity become
much more apparent.
and after hearing all their graven exploits,
I can only think
this is not what I wanted
these are not the stories I want to tell
every sordid detail
propagated for posterity.
is it too late?
it drives me to filth and embarrassment
lying under the same grey sky
I wake to the afternoon sun
and start the long walk
back to the land of the living
delivering apologies on the way.
gone is my era of steak and eggs
midnight coffee and rainy drives
to be replaced by that of
2 AM confessions and clenched fists.
eyes too tired to weep
for the lack of honest friend or lover,
and the crimes of which
I am guilty.
it is gray and ugly outside,
the plateaus obscured
by rain and fog
and the fury of the coastal winds
driven heartward by hot santa anas.
I am back to the machine gun
she is gray like the skies
and the rough paint is chipping
from the underside of her carriage.
the lamp is hot and gold
and we are alone.
please keep lecturing me
there is nothing I need more now
than your brilliant advertisements
of young naivete.
it's becoming more and more evident
that glaring character flaws
are exemplar
of how interesting all lovers are,
but you can all take your double standards
and play the roman fool.
I'd rather be an old man
than be counted useless and hollow
living for a day that will never arrive,
pretending to be content.
and so I
sidelined by the culture
not cynical enough for her tastes
too much of a bastard for her's
clinging to my tattered banner
"at least I have principles"
but they're fading fast
and the jacobins are putting me on trial
for the sins of yesterday.
I'm sure if Marat knew that it would end this way
he would've drowned himself in his bathtub.
after enough of the same faces
the effects of gravity become
much more apparent.
and after hearing all their graven exploits,
I can only think
this is not what I wanted
these are not the stories I want to tell
every sordid detail
propagated for posterity.
is it too late?
it drives me to filth and embarrassment
lying under the same grey sky
I wake to the afternoon sun
and start the long walk
back to the land of the living
delivering apologies on the way.
gone is my era of steak and eggs
midnight coffee and rainy drives
to be replaced by that of
2 AM confessions and clenched fists.
eyes too tired to weep
for the lack of honest friend or lover,
and the crimes of which
I am guilty.
4.10.09
my foolish heart (4/27/09)
when it finally came time to leave
I was still clinging
clinging to a ghost that shivered
like a leaf in the wind.
it was a familiar feeling.
I snapped towards the sedan
that long black chariot
and felt the cold silver
on my shoulders.
from the warm leather
of the driver’s seat
I watched as the rain drove
spiny needles through the air
smashing in puddles on
the asphalt.
my phone rang a number
that didn’t exist.
deep within my heart sank.
I did not want it to be this way
the day by day drag
of anomie and ennui
though I still knew that
all glory fades.
the machine hummed and purred
as slick tires met slick blacktop
jet-black and shining
in the dull grey
of the waning daylight
and in my back mirror
I caught the glimpse of the car
I wished would follow
underneath the weeping willows
of my verdant avenue.
as the piano sang
and the drums hushed
the cello hummed
the rain stopped falling.
I have seen the clouds roll
over the cemeteries and
the hills
like a gray mask over the city.
she wears it sullenly.
from my third-story window
I can look out over the
bricks and the wires
that crisscross like webs
over the traffic.
I can smell the chow mein
from the pushcarts below
and the damp rain
on the beige of the newspaper.
I lay back on the leather
the second leather my back
has felt in an hour.
beyond the smoking ashtray
on my paint-peeling windowsill
across the street
in her own world
there is a skinny girl
with a tattoo of a dragon
on her neck down her arm
she’s wearing pajamas.
I wonder what her stereo
is playing.
in two years
she'll have nothing left.
I think about how I’m
not fat
or stupid
and how glad I should be,
but it all just seems
dull anymore.
someone feels like I do
if only we cared enough
to make feeling worthwhile.
I expect things from people
and never tell them
what they are.
so I am disappointed
as the rain falls again
across the face
of the concrete Jesus
who watches the barrio.
a thousand tired feet
in a city that always walks
old men in chesterfield coats
hipsters with Pabst in their hands
Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese
the rain’s all falling
everybody’s tired
nobody gives a damn
or maybe I only give a damn
about myself.
I was still clinging
clinging to a ghost that shivered
like a leaf in the wind.
it was a familiar feeling.
I snapped towards the sedan
that long black chariot
and felt the cold silver
on my shoulders.
from the warm leather
of the driver’s seat
I watched as the rain drove
spiny needles through the air
smashing in puddles on
the asphalt.
my phone rang a number
that didn’t exist.
deep within my heart sank.
I did not want it to be this way
the day by day drag
of anomie and ennui
though I still knew that
all glory fades.
the machine hummed and purred
as slick tires met slick blacktop
jet-black and shining
in the dull grey
of the waning daylight
and in my back mirror
I caught the glimpse of the car
I wished would follow
underneath the weeping willows
of my verdant avenue.
as the piano sang
and the drums hushed
the cello hummed
the rain stopped falling.
I have seen the clouds roll
over the cemeteries and
the hills
like a gray mask over the city.
she wears it sullenly.
from my third-story window
I can look out over the
bricks and the wires
that crisscross like webs
over the traffic.
I can smell the chow mein
from the pushcarts below
and the damp rain
on the beige of the newspaper.
I lay back on the leather
the second leather my back
has felt in an hour.
beyond the smoking ashtray
on my paint-peeling windowsill
across the street
in her own world
there is a skinny girl
with a tattoo of a dragon
on her neck down her arm
she’s wearing pajamas.
I wonder what her stereo
is playing.
in two years
she'll have nothing left.
I think about how I’m
not fat
or stupid
and how glad I should be,
but it all just seems
dull anymore.
someone feels like I do
if only we cared enough
to make feeling worthwhile.
I expect things from people
and never tell them
what they are.
so I am disappointed
as the rain falls again
across the face
of the concrete Jesus
who watches the barrio.
a thousand tired feet
in a city that always walks
old men in chesterfield coats
hipsters with Pabst in their hands
Puerto Ricans and Vietnamese
the rain’s all falling
everybody’s tired
nobody gives a damn
or maybe I only give a damn
about myself.
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