dir/old_school/rant: S i t t i n g  b a c k . . .

When you’re sitting back on the long chill…you don’t want to think.  Really, you just want to lay back, catch the waves and surf a high.  You know. It’s like if you think about it for a second, especially with poetry. It’s like we’re jerking off, quickly scribing our work to paper, typing frantically to not just write the piece, but ride the wave.  We don’t want a piece, we want an epic, we want some shit Jim Morrison rises out of the grave from, to hear. But what we get is Alone.  What we get is one jerked off piece that makes us happy like crack, cause at first, that one good piece is good for a month, it’s good for a month of jerking off and drinking and that’s what we want, let me escape the pain.  Let me escape the press of cold metal pressing against my temple.  I write it and it let’s me lay the hammer back gently, no smearing, no climax.
Maybe I’ll write again.  Or maybe this time I’ll be a little bit closer. Cocking back the hammer.
 I don’t usually write like this.  Usually if I’m angry I’ll just choose the time to maybe destroy someone in a frantic burst of email, or an awkward spout in the elevator, while people nervously wait for steel doors to open.
 But that’s the crack that poetry and expressive writing is.  We think it’s to purge ourselves of our heart wrought passions, but we’re just holding off for the next high.  Why? Hoping the next one lift’s us up a little higher.  I want more then those moments, see….From months to mere moments.  Poetry isn’t smoothing out my rough edges, it makes them more jagged.  I think the more I write, the more I feel I might be losing my cool.  That, the last one, might have been the last good one.
 When and if you do eventually, begin to write good poetry that makes you happy and is resilient against the cruelty of your aged cynic’s opinion.  I hope it’s not like crack, I hope it always lifts you up and doesn’t make you begrudge the fact that at one point you did have a heart about things

I’m sick of this shit.

I remember Juan and I once slept in the same bed, with a friend of his Sherry, they fucked and it was an odd feeling to lie there beside them. They did fuck, but it was gentle in that “Let’s act like we don’t know Paul is still awake and totally aroused by the fact that we’re rubbing up against him while we fuck.  It was a timid gentle fuck, Juan on top, holding on to her in an embrace, while she sighed into the crevice of his neck and shoulder.  It was really a nice night, something that happened twice with Juan actually, come to think of it’s I’ve laid in many beds while friends and lovers, people I knew, fucked each other.  Like I was incense or some quiet music, to soothe there nerves.

I’m going out with a woman I love and I’m thinking about her, I guess I could say I’m writing this because I’m thinking of her, or maybe it’s because I’m not with her and I feel melancholy.

Poetry is a drug, like drinking to fight depression or doing drugs to fill all the little potholes of anxiety that you feel in your life

I am not whole
In no single way
I am fragments
You hold me
Together in your embrace
You keep me sane
I waited and hoped
And right when
I was at the calm
Of falling apart
You came to me
And
To be honest
I’m afraid
I’m in love
and I’m afraid
But I’m whole
Little pieces wound
About your
Heart
I’ll never speak of angels,
But I dream of you
Being one

-read the next piece: If we can’t admit or even express our fantasies, maybe more importantly experience our fantasies in some safe manner, are we hurting ourselves...