you can’t go home

I moved back in – to a life. Something, if one has tried, you may realize is next to impossible. I was ‘down on my luck’ and had nowhere else to turn. It was shortly after high school and I couldn’t ‘hack it’ on my own.

The style is older and less developed – some, more prose than poetry. I feel it should be include to show growth and change.


untitled

| September 28th, 1997

whiskey tainted hours spent at bars . . . literally spent i wait like so much spare change for someone to pick me up . . . hoping they won’t drag me around the world….

divinity in a nutshell – god’s spine is snapped and he shouts out, “Christ” – but he has fled . . . he runs down all the back alleys of your mind and hides within the sanctuary of the broken down dreams and lack of direction . . . he haunts and hunts you down like a vicious wolf he hunts and tries to kill but knows he cannot . . . for he is not isis and only she can be the one . . . i hide from her and wait for Death . . . she is more my type you see . . . she would look at me with her infinite eyes and say, “it’s time to go, no . . . don’t worry . . . i’ll take you there” and she would hold my hand and i would truly know the sanctity of dreams and of holding the hand of a goddess who is leading you to her realm where she will put you away into the pastures to roam free . . .

the dull tainted hours pass me like a lover . . . i watch her go and see her trailing my life behind her on a chain. i try to kill her in infinite sadness i strike at her and hate her . . . i show her the way to the room with the interrogators –   they’ll get her to talk. to entertain me once again. to let me out from under these bricks that seem to be pulling me down . . . allowing me to drown.   will you let them?   close your eyes and look at me for the first time and answer me – will you let me fall from where you have put me? down to the lions and the fiery pits of hell . . . down to where everything real is plastic and crimson – shining in this dimly lit room.   down to where we hide the bottles and all the memories that flow from us like butterflies . . . down to where hurt is true, pain – we know it is real, but nothing else . . . nothing more . . .

perfect sense

| September 27th, 1997

drifting amongst the clouds i see you fall before me into the dying empires . . . the roman coliseum and you burn into what was once a childhood trip a memory back to where you once were . . . where you used to be . . . where it all made perfect sense . . .

bitter tear

| September 27th, 1997

baked, spent . . . 7 hrs ago it seems or maybe a week . . . you and me ran quietly in the sand as the sunlight shone smooth on our faces.   we ran from all the dogs that live in the buildings who try to control you who know just “what” i am.   they stab at us with their slick words and horn rimmed dreams but evasion prevails in our favor . . .

the trees rise to meet us as we travel through the forest of nirvana . . . the place where it all IS . . . and we look at each other, and cry to the gods “what now, we are here and have achieved nothing” and somewhere someone laughs and cries a bitter tear for mankind

american dream

| September 27th, 1997

images graft themselves together into so many streams of consciousness . . . i drift – floating down within you . . . sun and moon aligning with my heart . . . astronomy is all a lie . . . .

middle of the night . . . cafe’s empty . . . smokin’ a cig no one realizes that the heart within is golden painted – chipping shards into so many leaves and leaflets – invitations to balls with gowns and glass slippers, but the slipper shatters for you my dear. . . no more games or fairy tales . . . just me and my luckies and a lost broken down hearted american dream . . .

the american dream has died and along with it go all the houses and the walls all fall in upon me my eyes smoke but the fire is way to hot for you . . .   you back away and watch me burn into all the beings of what they all think we once were – they don’t realize they make us this way . . . unintentional – but enough to shed a tear over?

foolish

| May 31st, 1997

whiskey laced and barely breathing
lost in time without a guide
thoughts of you are far from fleeting
wondering why we ever tried
to sail beyond into this madness
torn apart by foolish pride
left to float on tears and sadness
never speak, never confide

when you say those words you never say i think i love you
every time i hear you speak of things you’ve never said
why be sure when passions wind blows strongest in denial
this hunger for uncertainty will never bow it’s head

we dance alone when near each other
struggling for some peace of mind
these thousand things, never uncovered . . .
distance lingers, never find

an inner peace we hold before us
set upon the coals of time
embers burn out, turn from our trust
to a tainted dying shrine

untitled

| September 27th, 1996

lifeless, severed hand cannot grasp the hope it once could find in
completeness with the body in the knowledge of a need cannot enjoy
simply living without a deeper drive

i feel like a mirror would be a great place to hide

i ache
i feel
i alone

my peso and my silver cross

| March 2nd, 1995

break on through the moon light . . . come on and try to catch me as i run and jump the fences of my youth that divided my heart into so many cold dark rooms . . . with balls of human beings lurching in the corners…i hide myself from them. they want me. they hunt me down. they know i hold the key to sanity in my retched hand and they try to steal it from me . . . why?

they turn the dogs loose so i run to an old abandoned house that was hollowed out to be a tree to hide the walnuts in but they found it there with you and me…they run but they won’t let me go, no – they must have their turn at me and at my mortality . . . if i give it all to them they leave . . . hand them the lead peso, buy my way through . . . salvation for spare change and a heart that won’t quit pumpin’ . . . to live for a machine the can only see when the light of day has run for it’s own fate . . .

but i can’t – that peso’s mine dammit.   i worked for it.   i put it in the jar with the photograph of kennedy.

they try to take from me what was never really mine to begin with . . . this key, this god damn peso and my silver cross . . . if that’s all it’s about
then take the damn things . . . it’s worth more to me to feel the pavement crunch under my feet . . . so you take my salvation and give it to the devil
for all i care . . . stuff that silver cross down his fuckin’ throat . . . take the key and find a lock . . . try to find the way in . . . i don’t think there’s
a door behind this wall . . .

but you bring him here before me if he wants me for his pink flamingos and dante nursery rhymes . . . i’ll show him where the stakes are drawn and where to take my blood . . . straight to the vendor at the commissions office. spread it out before him and show him where the paisley turns to deeper shades of blue and how salvation can be found in the cerulean lines the cross and divide time . . .

butterflies

| February 10th, 1995

watching all the lights fade
into something more than i can
touch
or see
or feel
they hold themselves
deep within the jars
that house the butterflies
of my youth
kept to live
made to die
fate holds her hands
tight upon me
tempting me to draw the line
make the connection
burn to a conclusion
walk straight through the sun

untitled

| January 15th, 1995

to reach an end
being reborn
into fields of barbed wire
transcending beyond
agony
into a lusterous decanter
filled with my dreams
you drink of it
and laugh at me
keeping all that which once was
sacred to me
apart from my arms
you undergo this transformation
and my soul is left
surrounded
and alone
with an echo
and a fractured tale