FAITH'S COLLAR - TWITTER'S SUICIDE

FAITH'S COLLAR - TWITTER'S SUICIDE
a collaboration between Mike Haley @windowstreak
and aladreth antionette brown @aladreth

"I had rather be a doorkeeper in the House of my God,
than to dwell in the tents of wickedness." ~ Psalm 84:10 KJV

One on one
they met on Twitter
bound so tightly,
no knife could cut it
without slicing flesh along with,
Unfailing Commitment.

Or so we thought ... going
-- from exclamation marks, exclamation marks,
exclamation marks
to glassy blood pieces
on the floor
-- from hand held squealing furry fun,
jokes about, "I'll be back,"
and "Look how sexy my boyfriend is!"

To...
To merely a reflection,
watery smoke filled coffin eyes
through white drapes (space)

she wants to go home...
the real home
but there's no recollection
of anything
before

Twitter.

Yes. It was Twitter
where we took pics of our penis.
Didn't mean to. Seriously.
It was pointed out
to us.
Twitter, where we steal
our stalkers words,
we like to put our red marks on.

And later,
There,
her last words,
"It's not pretty."

It was not.
No longer
an illusion of herself

To feel.

Something.

Finally.

I can navigate my life, my words,
around her memory,
but cannot around my own.
I never write
of our meeting
in the mountains
to plan the murder
or on the beach
to plan the rest of our lives,
that night, when I pulled you
by your ankles to put your feet
in the fire we built
from daisies, mud, lactating pin-ups and spit.

And things never play out
as they seem,
Faith's faith
hanging from her heart
from a purse bag,

Sans bag.

Hell, Sans Faith.

So, she's gone -- dead now.
And Truth is stranger than Fiction
-- the guardian angel in green hump suit
(required uniform of Heaven)
you see from the corner of your eye
before the last snip.

Oh, God, if the dice of hope
happens to roll with us,
It keeps us going.

But, we shoot marbles too.

Let Faith ......
Let Twitter ......

Never fade away.

There Remains One Story

There Remains One Story
I Have Never Told
Not Even To Myself


@aladreth
Copyright 1999-2015

Pass the Salt
For Princesses and Planets
to Eat the Rich
and pickle the wounds
of unruly slaves

I'm telling you,
The big juicy part of my life is
-O-V-E-R-

I no longer fill this space
I'm about to walk through
for the last time.

Some of the doors
I remember
shut in pain
slammed in anger;

might as well
block these doorways
with thick scarlet museum velvet ropes.

In one fantasy ...
I lived in an Oakland Loft
scent of night blooming jasmine,
cigar smoke, rum, and perfume,
practicing ritualistic Island Tea Dances
constantly wiping off dirt
from tumbles.

In another fantasy ...
I sip latte in a corner cafe with Drag Queen Tramps
locked in Riots
over Wonder Bras and fuschia lipsticks
before taking the ferry
(where I casually cross and uncross my legs to expose black lace panties)
to San Francisco,
pulsing cool breeze rustling my garden artichokes
along ivy covered stuffed clay
held in place by lead channels.
A Melange of Wet Music plays in the distance
Neither Spanish
Nor African
but a unique synthesis of "How Do You Repay A Killer?"
or "God Rest You Merry Gentleman"
(you pick the Season)

In the final act
before my death
on an October Rainstorm Night
I fall asleep behind soda green shutters
to waves crashing against the sea wall,
marble floor
over ocean beach Babble
and I tell My Daughter,
"all this will be yours when I'm gone"
and she says,
"When do you think you might go?"

See, kids? God does answer prayer!

See, kids? God does answer prayer!
(a fairy tale of sorts) rated R, must be 17,
or accompanied by an adult to read

"did this poem make it to twitter, perchance?" ~ stolen words

@aladreth ©2015

she has moved
from "that's just her,"
and "she means well,"
to, "stop that shit right now!"

i must forgive her,
pretend she is a wise virgin,
her oil lamp filled
waiting for the master,
a sweet slate ready for writing

she's a world class hustler,
maybe i envy that trait in her,
maybe that is why her outbursts
anger me so

but, i must forgive her,
pretend she is doing her best,
the best she can

her father was a magician,
believed he could move things
with his mind.
he went as far as to thinking
he could stop inevitable events

so, one day he poured gasoline
in the house, struck a match,
sat and 'willed'
the flames to stop

somehow, she saved her siblings.

her dad went to a mental hospital
(five times)

from him, she learned
the easiest way to get out
of going to jail was to pretend god
talked to you,

so she visited mental hospitals herself,
always thought it was a blessing
in disguise -
hospitals were nicer than jail

later on, i don't know how,
she had kids of her own,
took in their friends too

she met steve jobs several times,
he gave her huge tips at applebee's...
he liked her jokes and her ideas
(i'm not going to tell you
he used any of them)

she barely survived being a waitress
because she was more of a clown
than a server

one day it happened, (again)
money was gone
and everyone needed underwear.

to take their minds off their troubles,
she played silly games like her dad had played,
without the gasoline, of course...
pretended for the kids she was moving things
with her mind,
pretended she caused the rain to come
by playing drums and chanting
pretended she could talk to aliens and ghosts

"let's pray to god for our underwear," she said.

they gathered in a circle and held hands,
they swayed, started a slow dance,
around and around and around.

"dear, god, help my kids to believe in you.
we need underwear."

"dear, god, help my kids to believe in you.
we need underwear."

"dear, god, help my kids to believe in you.
we need underwear."

let's just believe,
all of us now,
together,
god answers prayers

she got on her bicycle and flew down the street,
there was a vietnamese woman closing down shoppe,
throwing out a big black garbage bag of stuff...
"what is that you are doing?" she asked,
and the small lady answered,
"throwing out these panties from the store i'm shutting."

"oh!" and joy filled her heart and mind,
"please, may i buy them at a discounted price?"
thinking she'd show her kids there was a god.

but, the lady said, "no, i can't sell them, but here,
take them for free."

praise god, there is a god

off, she went balancing a huge black bag
of panties
on her bike

(this may sound like a fairy tale.
i'm sure there are secret parts
we never tell to others,
but be sure to ask your boyfriend
how his last relationship really ended.
i promise you, it's very important.)

back home again,
she ripped the bag open with glee,
underwear falling everywhere, shouting,
"see, kids, god does answer prayer!"

Take Care Of Each Other

"Take Care Of Each Other"  - Seen On A NYC Protester Sign for #Ferguson

I unfriended someone on Facebook today.  They were complaining about the protesting in their state so far away from Ferguson, Missouri.

Some of their friends commented we should just shoot the "animals" and  save money.  I could have commented.  I could have posted directly to her but I had determined this morning, I would not 'argue' on Facebook, where people are very different than they are on Twitter.  On Twitter, people are really telling the 'true story' of Ferguson and injustice.  On Facebook, people are posting their relationship troubles and what they are having for lunch. I say this 'in light' - I know people are fine and can definitely post whatever they want and I liked several things today that had nothing to do with Ferguson.

I thought about my unfriending of this girl later and realized, "She's young, she doesn't understand." I am older.  I should be a female mentor to her.  She could be my daughter.  She doesn't realize the years of boiling over pain people of colour have had.  She doesn't realize the failure of America's government to protect its citizens.

Katrina.  Need I say more? Well, maybe I do. As it seems everyone wants to throw a blanket over Ferguson thinking it will just go away.

I am white.  I am Charlie Brown white.  Much like Darren Wilson.  You know, white with ruby red cheeks from a little friction or when it gets cold?

I have black family.  I have black friends.  For thirty or more years,  I have seen up close and personal the prejudice and racism black people endure on a daily basis.  The people who do not believe there is still prejudice or racism are wrong.

I feel like I should at least say something.  Because I am white.  And I think it's going to take a lot of white people to take care of our black people.  There's going to have to be states upon states marching, protesting, doing 'die-ins' - with thousands of white people.  We must take care of each other, just like the protester's sign in New York said.

Last time I made a post or comment about this type of thing was about Zimmerman and one person hit 'like' on it.   I don't care.  I am old enough now that it matters not who agrees with me or stands with me.  That is the positive thing about being older.  Also, as time goes on, you realize if you don't stand for something, you will fall for anything.

If you can't understand what is going on, then you aren't paying attention.  If you are worried about looters taking laptops, televisions and making your comments about "How is that helping anything?" perhaps you need to understand what riots are all about.  What protests are all about.  Change.  Showing the rage, anger, and even the raw emotion of hate of how things are, how the world is.  If the murder of a teenager is not as important to you as a laptop, then you need to "check your privilege," as they say.

You have white men in government in America who have looted from all of us far more than what a few businesses have lost.

This was an INDICTMENT not a jury trial.  Grand Jury's indict in 10,999 of 11,000 cases brought before them.  So, here's one they didn't.  And we are just suppose to 'feel' that all is fine and everything is okay because this Grand Jury didn't think this case could have went to a jury trial. 12 jurors, 9 white, 3 black.  9 members needed for an indictment.  Do the math.

Let me point out a few things that I am not sure everyone has heard.  Many people watch riots and do not understand the reason the riot is happening.

Officer was 6'4 - everyone made it seem like he was just a little guy and was up against this "elephant gorilla of a demon of a hulk superhero." Officer shoots 12 bullets.  Leaving only one bullet in the chamber.  Officer takes six weeks to write a report, giving himself plenty of time to "fill - in" information and change things to his own department's 'training' (if that's what you want to call it.)

The officer originally came from a department that had to be disbanded because of racism.

There was no need for lethal force in this case.  The murder victim was unarmed.  Police departments need to train their officers better if it takes 12 bullets to arrest someone for stealing some cigars.  Is there anything police departments are given other than a gun to take someone down with?  Yes. Tasers, batons, mace, handcuffs and so on.  Law enforcement are suppose to be trained in disabling with pressure points.  If you are in 'close' proximity with someone you can squeeze near their neck/shoulder that will literally bring them down.

Announcement of the 'no bill' is given at 8PM when it could have been made at 8am the following day.  Or at noon when the grand jury actually finished meeting. Why?  Because the "prosecutor friend" (Since when have you seen a prosecutor so happy for not winning!) of the officer wanted to see property destroyed in Ferguson.  This was obviously planned.  He could have cared less.  Along with the Governor of Missouri who 'deployed' approx. 700 National Guard but wouldn't even pick up his telephone when the Mayor of Ferguson called him all night and has not spoke to him since August.  The National Guard on the original night was sent 'behind the scenes' they said.  Behind the scenes to them means "protecting property in wealthier, more white areas." If the National Guard was standing guard at a Ferguson Hair Salon or the local pizza/antique shop or a car parts store, you can believe there would have been no fires.

Everyone wants to complain about property damage/values but whenever white kids have bonfires and blow up things after a sports events, it's no big deal.  Looting and fires started when no one was out there.  The police must have planned to leave those 15 buildings that burned unmanned and unprotected.  It's much like a protester said, "Y'all shoulda seen this coming."  How in the world were there people who have degrees and 'smart' positions not aware something like this would happen?

Someone in government positions needs to be held accountable.

No one wants to put police on trial.  They watch CNN and think they have all the information.  You find out more information on Twitter than you do on any of the news channels.  Police need to be put on trial.  Last night, Amnesty International representatives were there and peaceful protesters were there.  There was designated 'safe areas' however, a church (safe house) was raided and a coffeehouse and this church in Shaw were tear gassed.  Peaceful protesters were called to come out with hands up, threatened with mass arrest, yet, those exits were gassed and people had to hide in the basement.

They were told in advance this would be a 'safe' area. Then gassed.  Put yourself in their position.

Which brings me to protesting and our Constitution.  I may be wrong and I'm sure someone will let me know but I do not recall there being something written in the First Amendment that we need permits and need to protest in certain areas.  I'm sure it has something to do with each state.  If you want to protest in the street, you should be able to do it.  If you want to walk down a tunnel, interstate, bridge and block traffic and you have enough people in your march to do that, then do it. This is America.  People died for your right to protest and walk down any street you want to while you are doing it.

Being arrested for standing up for your beliefs would be an honour.  Civil disobedience.  Some people know that.

I'm grateful for the over 100 protests tonight.  I'm thrilled to see it.  Continue.  Shut down Time Square.  It's wonderful to see.  It proves some people know what is going on.  Hopefully the media will continue to show these protests, and interview the protesters.  I don't care how much property is lost to looters.  I care about people speaking about the value of human life.

Finally, I want to remind some serious infractions of ethical and moral and legal matters.  Firstly, the dead body of Michael Brown was left out on the street for four and a half hours.  Imagine that being your son, your brother, your friend.  It's immoral, it's sick.  It's disrespectful.  Made me laugh when our President said we had to 'respect' the decision.  I don't.  I find it totally unacceptable and irresponsible to treat a human body like that.  That isn't suppose to happen in America.  If you think it is, then you need to get in touch with your heart again.

Secondly, pictures and measurements were not taken because batteries in camera ran out.  I can find batteries within ten minutes anywhere I am at, but obviously in Ferguson you can't.  Maybe that Family Dollar or Dollar Tree didn't have them?  I doubt it.  Lazy behaviour in the case of a murder while a body is laying out for all that time.  Measurements not taken because 'not needed.'

A juror admitted when autopsy hadn't arrived by Friday that they did not need to see it to make decision.

That is illegal.

I am sure people in other countries who have police who don't even carry guns !!! YES !!! (amazing, huh?) or who allow protestors on the street to do what they want and when they want to make their voices heard, are shaking their head at America and what a joke we are.

To this, I'm sure every redneck would say, "If you don't like it, get out."

FIND YOUR BEST SELF, PEOPLE!

There's something to stand up for here, there's something to hold up to the light to examine.  And it's time to take care of each other.

wendy's street

Wendy's Street #fotobyaladreth

Wendy's Street
copyright 2014, @aladreth



i dream chromium retrograde,
ladies licking tips of paintbrushes,
testing malina,
which would be the name
of a sprite,

i sit, digress, spellwork,
watch with water,

sober, and i'm not sure
why,
except,
the universe has commanded it
to save a life

i asked him if i saved his; and why did we meet?
~is all i have said and done,
a purpose,

there be a big screen review,
"you did not get sex
because God's plan was only for you to
save the man getting the divorce, but not
for your pleasure...

that night, and the next night and the
next year, all you wanted was sex, what a
selfish, selfish girl."

then peter would point, 'if you only knew
the lives you had saved! by being
celibate!'

oh, fuck off, peter

this runs in just-a-poe to
everything of a goddess,
all nature, magical practice,

      me, losing mystical conscience

                                                           follow dragonfly eyes

he says to me,
'what you did tonight, cannot be commended
enough'

but then within a minute, i listen to the voicemail

the voicemail
reminds me,
i am a deceiver who will set a place on fire
and hide the evidence of the burn

no matter it be sweet jam or full blown petrol
this 'you are so great' barters with 'you
are a liar'

exchange or hang
go deeper inside

i cover over with my own obsessions,
so it neutralizes,
brings into itself something
of a joke,
a little piece of family,
fatalfamilial? fatafamiliar?

"get in my car"

"sure"

that was easy,
too easy?

no, because she's drunk,

smiling, loud, happy,
someone just paid for her meal...

strangers who look very poor paid, $20.47
so this is the least i can do,

call it an adventure,
just get her out from behind the wheel of her car
where she sits looking, searching for keys,
and laughing

i tell her, lock it up, leave it,
bring your purse,
scattered kleenex,

she offers me alcohol,
once, twice, three times,
water bottles and flasks,
baggies of
stuff,

how much shite can you get in that purse?
but, i apologize for my car being filthy,

worry it may get filthier, she may puke, then realize
she's a professional drinker and will not be ill

i give her words, words of healing
she may remember when sober,
but i doubt it,

what does it really matter?
she's not my wendy,
she's not the wendy,
the wendy that brought us together
with canned pineapple ads,
pretty hair, european magazines
and eyes so deep they caused sleep

disorders

(please don't let the crab make me sick,
i've done a good deed)

i drive back by her silver car,
to tell the place of business
it will be parked there all night
because she was too drunk to drive
they say, 'she only drank half of a margarita'
- i say, i know, you can't control what someone
brings in,

i am no saint
there are no stars in my crown,
even if he says i have earned 'another'

i walk a fine line

i tell her, 'tomorrow is a new day, you
can do whatever you want'

"progress, not perfection" ~ an old hazelden
motto i know from 30 years ago

'do you like music?'
i ask, hoping to change the subject,
which has been the same
with little stories woven into little stories,
"racism is bad,
people smoke weed,
i'm a horrible mother,
i have a warrant out for my arrest,
i'm an alcoholic,
i'm with my daughters grandfather,"

she has said all of it
and more

to the 40 year old little girl, i say
things i want someone to say to me,

'you aren't a bad person,
you are a sick person and you just need
to get well,
if you were a good girl,
you couldn't get good enough.

i know how
half priced margaritas can make you feel,

baby, i do'

fucking brilliant, i say, fucking brilliant,
in my best bad english accent

it's 30 miles of fucked-up-monsoon-road,
she is flirting with him,
telling him she likes quiet men,

they are strength,

telling him she would tear him up,
ride him hard and throw him away wet,

she is
trying
to give me high fives,
but they end up like slushy-half-fish-holds

please, don't you know?
i am worse off than you
look at you ...perfect body

he likes when i say, "look at you" during
those moments that landed that way

"that's the problem with you thiests," he says,

even if i were to tell him the
Queen of the Warrior Angel story -
the only thing i miss of crazy
he would still say it,

as he likes to say,
"your god"

i like to say,
"you're angel"

dontcha know
dontcha
scroll, scroll, saltwater bath

i am jealous,
i am lonely,
i want to scream at that woman,
he says he feels sorry for...
SEEN
SEEN
SEEN
I FUCKING (have) SEEN!

but, i know the truth,
really, i do

this whole time, i'm wondering, do you know the truth?
do you know who i am?
what i am?
you don't treat me like you do.

i roll the window down for her,
"look at that sunset, wendy"

later, as she gets out of the car, lock, unlock, stumble, boots, rocks, stumble, chain, lock, unlock, trip,

                                                "hey, girl, i'll call you tomorrow,"



wendy, you don't even have my phone number.
you don't even have my name.

Slippery Slope

Slippery Slope
@aladreth, copyright 2014

"Did you read my story?"
"I dare not for fear it is about me."


This is only a story.  Sure, there are true parts.  But mainly? Only a story.

There is a sexy, sassy Black girl on Facebook who has a group and she publishes these cheeky quips about sex in the form of jpegs.  There was one I will never forget.  It said something like, "If you ain't getting laid at least twice a week, your partner is getting it somewhere else."

I couldn't stop wondering about this.  Oh, how things become settled in our minds.

Reminded me of another saying I had found many, many years ago, I had also engraved in my head and heart.

"In every relationship there is one who loves more than the other one, and I'm that one."

Or something like that ... close enough.

I found that saying while snooping around at the office.

When everyone left for the day, I liked to snoop around in their desks and see what sort of things they had.

Angela kept pens that didn't work because they had some special meaning for her. I 'called' her on it one day and she got all offended. Freak.

Renee's desk looked like she was 40 going on 11.  She had little toys and pink princess shite everywhere.  She never grew up.

Karen's desk added to the rumours she was a lesbian.  She kept magazine cut outs of women in suggestive poses and especially Cindy Crawford.  She really liked Cindy.

Roberto's desk was the most interesting.  Roberto was cheating on his wife and kept all of the gifts his mistress gave him in the drawers on the right side of his desk and all the letters his wife wrote him on the left side.

She knew or suspected, I guess, because she wasn't getting laid twice a week.

According to the letters, she had not been laid by Roberto for five years.  In this case, Queen (the sexy, sassy Black girl from Facebook) was correct because Roberto was getting laid a lot.

Roberto couldn't fit all the gifts he received from his mistress in his desk, so very often, I would go home with plants and chocolate she had purchased him, tags removed.  He saved the tags in the drawers of his desk.

Sometimes I would get jealous of the things he would keep and not give me.  I'd ask him, "Why are you giving me THIS and not THAT?" He would chuckle and come up with a reason or two. I don't think he knew I looked in his desk.  He probably figured he had told me enough and I knew about the affair so why would I go in his desk.

Why would I. Why would I just.

Where I found that quote about one person loving more than the other person in a relationship was on the left side of Roberto's desk.  In a drawer, a long letter from his wife.  Sixteen pages to be exact.  Lots of handwritten pages, I'm sure some tear stained, rehashing their years together and how he had cheated before and how she had not been fucked in five years.  Lots of things about her kids and previous marriages and how he probably hit his first wife. (She said she knew but didn't tell.) Just lots of things I didn't really understand.

But, I understood when she said she was the one who loved more in the relationship and how she always was that person.

I guess, because I have been that person myself.

Even when men I've been with have argued they loved me more than I loved them, I would have to say under my breath, "You just don't know."

I held back with some because they would run screaming for the hills if they ever experienced it - but I've always loved more.

And more.

They call that 'complex.'  At least I've been called that before.  As an excuse for loving.  For loving more.

I met a fellow named Rudolph.  A seemingly common guy, we sat talking about all sorts of things.  Some I didn't care about at all; sports, war, politics, video games and so on, but there was enough I did care about that I listened and he was a good conversationalist and the coffee was nice.

As things progressed in our conversation, he shared with me he was celibate.  He had been celibate for ten years.  I looked at him very hard, when he told me.  He wasn't bad looking, he was a fit man, in his fifties, seemed well spoken, intelligent and had already told me he had a son and an ex wife and ex girlfriends, so I knew he had to have had sex at some point.

He went on to explain he had given a vow, taken an oath, with some metaphysical guru type gal, that he would never have sex again until he found love.

He said he would find love by next month.

Immediately, I put up a bubble, "Woah, buddy, back off, ain't no special reason we met! I'm with someone!"

Actually, I had to ponder it all because here is someone I've met basically off the street who is so totally opposite from me, that if he only knew, he'd be terrified at how sexual I had been compared to how faithful to his vow/oath he had been.

But, we don't talk about such things, do we?

Rudolph said, "I've not felt so calm in ages.  I was a ball of energy, so full of anger and rage and all I had to do was talk to you, my new found friend."  I laughed a little and told him it was sweet for him to say because normally I didn't calm anyone down.  I normally got them so wound up and so hyper like myself - bouncing off walls, they couldn't stand themselves, let alone me.

How weird he thought I was calming and peaceful.  Not sure if anyone had ever thought that about me. Ever. I wanted to be, though, I really wanted to be.

Also, what I really wanted, was to say, "Man, how the fuck can you stand not having sex?  How can you go without it?"

He must be one huge ball of something? Electric? Or does one go out of practice? Is it like one of my favourite authors alludes to?  "Sex is a talent." Are people born with the talent?  Do you have to work at it?  Does practice make perfect?

I really wanted to say, 'MY GOD, dude, TEN YEARS? YOU AREN'T A PRIEST!' (I've always disagreed priests should be celibate. Silly rule-thing, if you ask me.)

Sex is God-created.  One thing He 'set up' - The bible even indicates the sexual bed is where freedom happens and you can do all you could ever imagine, anything you could ever think of when you give yourself to your partner and they give themselves to you.

They don't tell you that in church.  They seldom tell what the bible says in church.

Sex is like food and water.  How can anyone go without it?

Sex is definitely Goddess-given.  It is magical.  Sex creates healing and perfection in humanity. There is no such thing as 'bad sex.'

Oh, well, here I go again, on my soap box. Slippery slope. Pardon the sexual pun.

I remember a dream I had of the man I love.  He has a sports car and he rented a red one when he visited me.  A red convertible to drive down Route 66.  One of the days he visited I was upset about a newspaper article I had written being totally changed and important parts being left out.  We were sitting in his rented sports car at the County Fairgrounds and he tilted in the leather seat and pulled his wallet out and took a piece of paper from it. He unfolded it and there was the original proof of that very newspaper article I had been speaking about.  The way I had originally written it before they had got ahold of it and fucked it up. My Corrigan.  He had it.  I said, "I think I am in love with you," and put my head on his shoulder.

Later, I woke him up at 5am in the morning to fuck him and I said over and over again, "I think I am in love with you, I think I am in love with you."

Think? Know. Hell, everyone knows I love him.  I do love him.  I am in love with him.  But, it was a nice dream.  A nice scene.  Somewhere they say that dreams are more real than our everyday life. Especially when we dream of someone we love.  That love is perfection in our dreams.

My car broke down today.  It overheated in the upper parking lot of a car parts store.  Convenient, you would say, but it just left men conversing over what was wrong with it, what had gone out and then me wondering who would be the one to fix it.  Who would take care of it.  Would any of them? Would one step up to help? I'm still that princess, (only in my head, I look nothing like a princess!) thinking the knight in white shining armour will arrive one day to fix the car. Fix the house, the properties.  Fix my mother. Fix me.

I just left.  I went for a walk.  I ended up in Jack's neighborhood.  He's one of my exes. I didn't go there for any reason. Truthfully, I forgot he lived near the lake.  Some lady keeps baby lambs near there and I wanted to see them hopping around and watch the sunset over the lake while the men bickered over my car a few blocks away.

Jack's mother saw me and said, "Oh, Jack is so glad you have come by."  I said, "He isn't.  You must know, he doesn't care about me, he'd be happy if anyone came by. It was never about me, Ma'am, not at all."

She needed to know, it had been a few years and she just needed to know. She still had this fantasy in her head that was not true.  Jack didn't care about me one iota.

Jack came out of the house and stood at least ten feet away from me watching the sunset.  Jack, who I had made love to every single day for 13 months, Jack who knew every damn thing there was to know about me, and he couldn't even come close enough to me to watch the sunset together.

I said, "Come over here." I knew he couldn't see the way the sun danced pink sparkles on the lake from where he was standing, I just knew it.

When he came to stand next to me, I reached out to hug him.  It was the first time we had spoke, let alone touched in a very, very long time.  Well, I spoke.  He did not speak.  He did not say one word. I felt his body shudder, he, so much taller, so much thinner than myself, was he shaking with a tear? Did he finally realize? That he had hurt me?  That I had hurt him?  It felt like it was a tear, a held-in cry that had made him tremble.

I did not know anything except that shudder.  That shake.  He would not speak. I did not ask.  One hug and then back to the way it had been.  Nothing.

All those days, all those nights in each others arms, experiencing every sexual pleasure you can imagine, knowing every romance anyone could wish for and now it was down to silence, shudder and a shake.

I could try to interpret it.  But, I just let it go.

One sunset and a hug.  I suppose it was closure?

I did not know.  I did not know anything.

This is Serious

This is Serious
copyright 2014 @aladreth

"It was the best interview of my life until they said they would rather hire a nun.  
Just being celibate was not enough." Overheard on "Adult Swim" 


You said you were leaving and I felt so much pain.
I'd be giving up on myself if I let you go.
I can't give up on myself.

the Septuagint adds a bit more on our tortured 'blessed' man, Job
(see what you learn in Theology?)

he will rise,
rise as some prophet, like Elijah,
to be hung in front of us all

Hello hope.

Also, vaya con dios to the Drama Prince Band
To escape the soldiers, take the phone,
make an investigation to get us out of here. (underline that last bit)

to follow a bird of flight
who turns to the water,
I am scratching to keep on the mountain,
nails digging in the dirt and green grass just planted
- no root taken

 like when I would play "King of the Hill."
I never made it. So, at dusk I would sneak
to the hill
and stand with arms stretched out, silently screaming,
"Fuck you fuckers, I'm King of the Hill."

the Emerald Isle one way and another place
just as pretty the other way

but not where you are

to follow and hide,
hiding and thieving,
a tall man somewhat brave,
at least more brave than myself,
"here's one for you,
one for me,"
he says, handing out rations.

and back at the motel - "I can't stay,
can I get my things?"
It's always past check-out time
and not all done
and every quarter that falls,
I imagine I will get everything done.
It will be this time.

The cab takes us to a town
where the roads go up and down.

I have not bathed in forgiveness in a long while
and I want everyone to accept me
anyway,
let me stay for fuck's sake,
let me stay.

But, would I be so kind?

Let me live long enough to touch you.

He is a leader, the tall man
so I follow, but he's no more clean than me.

His jeans look cleaner than mine
but he can't be through and through
- we are dragging toxic streets, pipes, artifacts.

he's like an Eagle Scout, quiet
with a sense of duty to me.
he knows I'm suffering my loss.

He knows also
I am an addict.
He pretends or maybe even ignores that fact.

And he just confidently leads.

Who is the tall man?
Could he be Jesus?
What if he kisses me on the lips?
Kisses me in the back of the cab
as he hands me a bite size Snickers candybar?

Really.
Would it be sacrilegious to be kissed
by my Jesus?
My own personal Jesus.