Tag Archives: Love

Heal Me

[PROLOGUE]
(So what are you supposed to do when these words keep on choking you and the only thing that feels like breathing is a hopeless view into the future where you’re a homeless dude charging dollars for the poems you wrote a moment before you stowed the things you owned into a shopping cart and you’re zoned out because you chose the high of writing over the road oft traveled: college grad; family man; suits and ties and wedding bands, pressing matters for a writer endowed with addiction but not enough talent.)

But there’s a break in the pattern. There’s a breath of fresh air. There’s a moment, no a fraction, where there’s no mention of despair.

It’s in the black of her eye, in the length of her skirts, it’s in the tremble of music she puts under my words.

She’s the waves under my boat

and if she stays

I remain

afloat

and if she wails

she’ll drown my sails

with her nails

at my throat.

We’ll be undersea, a slash of passion sets us free to ride the currents underneath, under sheets our lungs can’t breathe but her tongue does fine between my teeth, sweaty thighs and awkward knees, struggling to keep the speed, exhausted like we’re fucking to compete, gold medalists, we’re so competitive during these fucking sprees, the fun defines what life can be, what rum and beer have tried desperately to match, where drugs have failed to help me pass, when not a moment under clear blue skies could make me laugh, this girl has been my nicotine patch.

The only breath of fresh air. The only escape from my brain. The only flash of real life to keep me from going insane.

If I can only write one more thing,
let it be her happy ending.

(Pun intended).

Art By Leonid Afremov

Navigating Your Sea

This dark room
became endless
the moment we closed our eyes

every kiss you
leave on my skin
is like a drop of melting ice

every taste of
yours I get
reinforce my
habit
ease, comfort,
the force
comes after
like a storm
or fire
like a whisper
comes in forms
of moans and
laughter
fun and anger
collapse, adjourned
for moments
while our bodies
conform to
desire, your form
is contorted
and I resort
to your thighs
like I’m holding
the ropes to a sail
and we’re floating the highs
and lows like a boat
and you’re steering us
straight for disaster
to thunder and lightning
drowning our bodies
in bubbles and tides high
currents deep enough to
lose our footing so we slide
into each other, like floods
we are consumed in the water
in the motions and moves
of two lovers, it’s beautiful
war as our bodies compete
for a truce
as our speed tops
and your jaw drops
and your eyes roll
and your moans stop
and the pitch of your voice
peaks and my hips
seek one final
lone thrust

completion
comes from feeding
your lust.

 

Art by This Guy

Vow

Sam, here is my vow:

I’ll love you tomorrow more than I do now. I’ll raise up our kids and I’ll adopt a few cows, you farm loving freak, if compassion is sound than your soul is muziek, that’s Dutch and rhymes better than music, you’ll learn one day and then we’ll both speak in a secret little language unknown by the publiek, haha, I’ll stop now, keep English on the sheet, not that you understand poetry, but you know me, I can’t help but be overly lovey dovey and I’m supposed to be, that’s a husband’s job, yours is in the ovaries (just kidding!), this is my closing piece, the final paragraph keeps it short and sweet, but I’m going to turn it up like I’m about to peak, here it is:

Enter, enter.

Isn’t she a spitting image of perfection? You can hear it, catch it, like prisms in the sunny air and when the sun sets we’ll be married, damn I can’t wait to be married, rings upon each others’ fingers, promising each other years and songs of memories will bring us tears and smiles and laughs and paragraphs of laws will bind us then but until then I’ll bind your hand with all five fingers, that’s the plan, intertwined like a web, like the lace on your wedding dress, like my place in your shade in the face of whatever comes our way, give me just a few more Mays and then one day we’ll be bound in matrimony*.

*Matrimony should be pronounced like matrimonaaaay

What it almost was

There it goes. My grandmother gave her that plate. Now it’s on a UFO trajectory to the wall like it’s area 51. I don’t have to duck – she has terrible aim. Or unclear intentions.

Her eyes water when she yells this loud. Her hands flex out and she leans at me like she’s catapulting her words. When she stops screaming I assume it’s my turn to talk so I say the wrong thing. I always say the wrong thing.

She pushes the lamp over because it’s going to solve our problems if that fucking blue lamp is on the floor. If she were a man we’d be four bloody knuckles into a fight by now. God I wish she were a man so I could beat the shit out of her. Here she comes.

She stomps over the floor like our neighbors pay her for it. Then she jabs me in the chest and drops my car keys in my hands. I have to leave, of course. In our apartment where I pay for most of the rent, but I have to leave. Fuck me, go fuck myself, fucking fuck fuck. She’s always been awful at using curse words in a sentence.

I walk to the door, but how did I know this would happen. Am I just going to leave? Just like that? Well shit, isn’t that what you wanted? Now she says I don’t care about this relationship. Maybe I don’t. Can I say that? I just want to tell her I don’t care. I don’t care about any of this. I don’t care about you, I don’t care about our kids, I don’t care about this apartment, I don’t care about this life. I just want to leave. Hitchhike on the bumper of a semi headed right to Hell. I’d rather have Satan rape me repeatedly in the ass than inhale another molecule of your Britney Spears perfume.

She asks if I ever even loved her. She won’t like the answer so I don’t say anything. I can leave, she says, and she becomes soft. She’s raged out. Her body slumps like a bean bag chair and the tears breach her lashes.

Guilt settles into my gut. The crossroads. I’m here once a week and I always pick the wrong road. No, less like a crossroad, more like a roundabout. All I have to do is take the exit.

Of course I love you, I say. I’ve always loved you.

Sorry Satan, our date will have to wait.

Remembering the canyons

Clear winter afternoons remind me of my mother. We used to go for hikes in the canyons and she’d be bundled up under a red hat and a scarf and a jean jacket. The image is burned in my brain. You’ll never find a woman like my mother, the way she smiled. Her blue eyes judgeless and wrinkled at the edges because she’s been smiling her whole life. The kind of woman whose skin tells stories. Sun spots and scars. She conceived my brother under summer skies after hiking the Camino De Santiago for an entire day. She gave birth to me in her own apartment. Raised us both as a single mother and pioneered a theatre troupe while freelancing as a communication therapist. We used to travel to Bordeaux by the overnight train and took a ferry to Soulac-sur-Mer to visit my grandparents. The saltwater prickled in my nose while I stood against the metal railing overlooking the ocean. My grandparents had spare bikes for us in their garage and the clearest memory I’ll ever have is the smell of sand and ocean in that muggy storage chamber. Later they’d remodel it into a sunroom, but it doesn’t matter because the garage will always exist in my head. We always biked, my mother and brother and I. Always, everywhere. The three of us experienced a lot together. I love them both enough to make my throat feel like it’s closing in on itself.

We moved to America and we branched out. Language will change people. My brother moved out of state and my mother moved out of the country and I’m still here, sorting through fragmented experiences because the canyons crowd me with them. Towards the end I was with either one or the other, but we were always in the canyons. In a way, every red rock clasped to the soles of my shoes tied the three of us together. It’s going to be hard to leave this place.

photo credit: KOLCHphotography

It’s all true. Everything they wrote.

That’s the kind of romance. Slow strings and deep bases. Rain drops over open lips make for foggy kisses. That’s the kind of romance.

Nowadays you’re a romantic if you wash your hands before you fingerbang a stranger in a public bathroom. A real gentleman if you warn her before you bust all over her eyelashes. Netflix and delivery pizza. Anniversary dinners with the same button up tucked into your JC Penny’s jeans. Your faces look the same in every picture because those are the only smiles you can fake. This is our 21st century Romeo and Juliet. You get married and fuck out a couple of babies because those are the last components to your socially accepted life.

I was that guy, once upon a time, minus the JC Penny jeans. Found this girl who didn’t care if I liked spending our time off together alone in a coffee shop writing about other girls. I thought, this could work. I found someone to be with who I’ll never actually have to be with. That’s all anybody in a relationship ever wants.

That’s when a this green eyed freakfest plot twisted the shit out of my life. You enter that surreal zone as a writer where real life becomes better than anything you could possibly write. I’ve said I’ve fallen in love with a dozen girls, but this was like love in all caps. This was thundering and explosive. This was sincere – I wasn’t copying the words I wrote out for my characters.

Love like that you kinda have to drop everything for. A bullet train with no space for baggage. Everything in my life crashed down in a blaze of fire when I made the choice to hop on. I became the villain in a lot of stories but it felt good. Breaking the chain. The illusion. I felt like Neo and I’d just taken the red pill.

Cue secret rendezvous in back alleys and sweaty sex behind foggy car windows. Lies to everybody but each other. Early morning naps before work in a park. You can find poetry in life. When three or four perfect things happen at the same time it’s like the gods are rhyming. You never really understand why love stories are written until you’re in the middle of it. Every kiss feels like flash fire. Every graze of her fingers. Every breath on your neck. It feels like the first second of the universe. You can remember every day because the way the wind blows her scent in your face is so consistent that everything becomes a pattern. You’re not trying to go through the motions but the poetry of life forces it, and it feels good.

Days go by and you expect it to stop and when it doesn’t, you think maybe it’s true. Everything they wrote. All those love stories and fairytales. Maybe they’re all true.

Then one of those days happen when you guys get in a fight over groceries and you think goddamn this bitch.

Moving and accomplishing

My brother and I used to wake up at 5AM or something. Early as hell – before the sun’d risen. He’d come into my room and wake me up and tell me it’s time. I’d get dressed and he’d pack our backpacks. A water bottle each, granola bars or trail mix, and a gatorade. Yellow. Always yellow. He’d be smiling, even though the night before he’d been up since 2 doing homework. He’s never needed much sleep. Too busy moving and accomplishing. When I was ready we’d carry our bicycles down the steps of our apartment and set out. The clicking of gears adjusting and the chain ringing over the sprockets. The cool early morning air crisp against my cheeks. A few birds chirping. I’ll never forget that. We’d bike through the city, uphill, drifting between traffic and hopping up and down sidewalks. Couple of punk ass kids in jeans going harder than the cyclists in their spandex and aerodynamic helmets. We’d get to Red Rock by sunup, sit down and munch on our granola bars. Then we’d climb. Up and up and up. Sometimes we didn’t make it to the top, it didn’t matter. The journey – never the ending. But when we’d reach the top it felt good. Saw eagles and our tiny bicycles in the distance. Talking about our dad and our future. Laughter. Sometimes somber understanding. Sometimes just silence. The way back was bliss because it was all downhill and we’d stop by a mcdonalds or a pizza place and carb the fuck up. We’d get home and my legs would feel like jelly. Most of the time I could take a nap, but not my brother. He’d be leaving for work or to meet with his girl or doing more homework. Too busy moving and accomplishing.

Adam’s Prey

He wrote thrillers. Had only wanted one woman his entire life. Never had the balls to fall in love with her, though – in the back of his head he always wondered if she’d end up like one of his characters. Now he sat here, at some French bakery across from her. Not the one woman, but some woman he met who had asked to see him here.
She wrote words, she’d said. Her wide brimmed hat lay over her pitch-black hair and hid one of her eyes. The other looked up tentatively between gaps of the smoke lingering from her cigarette. Her lips were thin and angry, but with every puff she found brief elation.
“You’re pretty boring.” She said. Her voice dragged when she spoke. Like each letter wanted to be as far away from the other as possible.
He didn’t know how to respond, so he looked away. Instant, un-editable life was foreign to him.
“I like this bakery.” He said, finally. “I always get a…”
“If I wanted to know how you felt about this bakery I’d look up your Yelp review.”
He had, actually, left a review two weeks ago.
The question was slow to come to conclusion. He was unsure if it was the right one to ask. “You looked up my review on Yelp?”
Her response came matter-of-factly. “Because I wanted to know if you’d like this bakery.”
He couldn’t tell if she liked him, or if she was just a giant cunt. Her eyes were dagger sharp, like a single look could crush his nuts. Then with every puff, her eyes softened, and a similar look promised a very different kind of conclusion. The way that cigarette entered and left her lips.
“So what do you like to do?” He distracted himself. “Besides write.”
“I don’t care to learn more about myself.” She was angry again. “And you’re obviously only asking to fill blank space on a page.”
“I’m not.” His eyebrows rose up so innocently high into his forehead they nearly disappeared into his hair.
She looked down and her hat shadowed her whole face. Cigarette smoke trailed around the rim until it escaped into the atmosphere. “Maybe I was wrong about you.”
“What the fuck do you want me to talk about?” He bit his bottom lip and his grip tightened around the croissant he was about to eat. Golden flakes dwindled onto the white tablecloth. His outburst caught her attention, and she looked up and for the first time, both eyes were visible. Her mouth was open and her cigarette hung loosely on her bottom lip. She only stared until and past the point he became uncomfortable.
“What?” His voice juddered.
“You finally sound like yourself.” She sounded exhilarated. “Like the man I’ve been reading.”
He only stared at her, until his own words shook from his mouth and he had to look away. “That’s not me, what I write.”
“Why are you ashamed?”
“I’m nothing like Adam.”
“Is it because you don’t like the way he fucks?” Her foot found its way up his leg until her heel pinned down the material by his crotch to the chair.
He got up real quick, throwing her off him. She recovered nonchalantly, but he had made a scene.
“You’re fucking crazy.” He said. His eyes were wide. His hands were clenched.
Her dark pupils didn’t leave his. She stood up, tossing her cigarette down and walking to him with clicking heels.
“If it’s any consolation,” She got close so she could whisper her next words in his ear with warm breath. “I like the scene where he rips her apart.”

Fighting Samantha

It’s hot outside. Both of us are sweating and the cool air conditioning feels like heaven. I said something insulting to her – it was a joke, but she doesn’t just surrender. I’m washing my hands when from the corner of my eye I see her reach into her empty cup. But it’s not empty… ice! She moves to slide the cubes down my shirt, but I evade her in the nick of time. She chases, so I lash back and grasp the cup. She won’t let go, so I push her against the counter and slam her hand into the cabinet. We look like a scene from Bourne Supremacy. She won’t let go of the cup and pushes me off her and I land against the fridge. She goes for my shirt again so I smack the cubes out of her hand. I reach into the cup for ammunition but she turns to throw it down the sink. I’m fighting her for it, leaning over her body as she’s slapping away my grubby fingers. It’s in the sink, she screams. It’s too late, my hands are wet and icy and I insert both of them under her shirt. She yelps and I laugh victoriously. To celebrate, I grab her by the thighs and lift her into an embrace before I carry her to the bedroom.