My introduction page as a writer trying to get publsihed and a collection of posts showing who I am through ancetdotal musings about my life or how I am inspired to write or why I write and how I write in my own wierd little way.
Sketch me, sketch me, and I bet yea that you will not see me the way I wish to be seen.
Flawed and imperfect scribbles put down on paper, chaotic with no intention or care of staying within the lines at times. Sadistic selfish hard edges fading to soft featherings of delicious needs and wants at the corners of my contained fine lined darkened soul.
The eyes, the eyes, there is a beguiling light behind those shaded eyes, a light, a light, so fucking bright as to mesmerize, if you were to look too long, you would see everything, but most seldom ever do take the time.
Ah, but what is a sketch but a sketch?
A glimpse, a side eyed introspection. Am I not correct?
So there is no disrespect at not knowing the me of me when all the hours of my days and yours can’t be devoted to explore the why and where of us in all it’s full glory.
Perhaps though, that’s what keeps you and I coming back to each other over dinners, drinks and all some such.
They say parents shouldn’t outlive their kids, but should an older brother outlive their younger?
Much like a parent, the older brother directs, and protects the course of the younger.
Unlike parents, the older brother can also be a partner, a fellow perpetrator of many a fun misdeed gone awry. That is where bonds lie deepest, where intimate secrets are kept and held between a kin closer than that of the mother or father.
Sharing of sins, and the punishment of those sins, sharing in the joys and adventures that is youth in its whole.
You share a core with that little brother that none may know. It’s unspoken but known to the bone between you two.
To the Bone.
It’s honored, it’s delicate. It’s something that always dwells.
So when you see your little brother, dismal and seemingly damned, fallen and fragile, raging against an unknown foe and miles from the place in him from where he was once was, you know.
Where in the core that you share, now only dwells despair, you weep, and you weep, and you weep in the silence where no sees, because a man doesn’t cry, they simply don’t.
You know you won’t cry as he lies in a casket, all dressed and prettied up. You know you won’t cry when other’s speak of him in passing or come up to you with a hug, and “I am sorry for your loss”
You know you won’t cry simply because you have already cried so much as bit by bit of your little brother was pulled from you, excised with a sharp knife, and put into a blender and pureed to mush.
I love recalling the past of you when we first met, when the Universe nudged me into you, I remember your first smile, shy but sly, your first laugh, full and inviting. your body as it danced, swaying and in sync with my own. I remember your eyes looking at me with a lust of a thousand lovers, then later with love like a thousand poems I don’t want to forget the first time of knowing you and everything that pulled me into those eyes, running. I want all the songs that are ours to wrap up around us every time you walk into the room I don’t want to forget you the first time.
Because those first times always bring me home to you and I love you all over again just like the first time.
She can be full of fun and frivolity
or a chaotic mixture
of intensity and crazy passion
all in one day.
She may travel a trail in the
dark dark woods
wanting to be pushed against the rough
bark of a tall tree
as the sun peeks
as I give her a kiss on her pale freckled cheeks.
She’s exasperating as a girl can be with
ideas such as she.
But I wouldn’t trade her for the world though,
for my own world pales next to her
and all her lovely curves, from smile to almond eyes, to her hips divinely held in my hands, oh, and her heart, her heart, the loveliest curves of all.
She is the softest of the softest, a woman that needs to be touched, she is a bundle of wanting that compels me to please her, every day, every hour, every moment that transpires.
I don’t wish to let my curvy girl down, to fail her, to not show her she is everything to me and more.
I adore her. I love her in so many little ways.
I want my curvy little Red always to adventure with, laugh with, & travel the many ways of this life for ever and always.
98.2 Fahrenheat Degrees, 98.1, 98.0 and so on and on, down, down, down, until I am a cold rigid plank, as rigid as a piece of flesh could be anyway.
Call me Rigor, Mr. Mortis if you’re nasty.
As I say this, I realize the parts of me that will live, will go on in pictures, videos, my writings, and half memories in other people’s distracted minds yet still alive.
That’s kinda cool.
Cry at my funeral or laugh…or do both. I would prefer both. Please also drink and dance afterwards. That drunk girl over there though, twerking over my casket has got to go.
Talk about the dumb shit I did, talk about a kind word or two I threw at you, or when I asked you for nudes. By the way, I’m still waiting on one of your butt. When you finally take it, send it UP. Or is that DOWN?
I’m sure it’s UP, I haven’t been that bad in my life;
I have never kicked a puppy, only petted. But I have hit many a pussy in my lifetime if you know what I mean, and they never complained, and I petted them before and after as they purred graciously.
I was kind, immature, caring, needy, a charmer, careless of others feelings, repentant, codependent, then dependent on only me, then I met Red, a magical creature needing a safe harbor and I gave it.
I loved all the magic which poured forth from her, for I saw it had been bottled up for so long and it needed a nurturing voice to keep it flow, flow, flowing. I am content that I helped her find herself and to show her she was always good enough from the very beginning of her life.
I’ve always wanted to be seen as a good person, but it took me awhile to realize you have to BE a good person to truly be seen as a good person; to yourself most especially. After you do, everything else that follows is just gravy.
The cold is creeping as the flowers start to grow thanks to a weeping sky that often never lets up Yet the shy sun peeks eye intent then runs away as the clouds fly and dissipate their desires and the flowers grow as the cold still creeps.
Warmth rides the skin, plays with it, hugs the soul, the world sees potential in the what-if, but the cold creeps into their bones as they grab and hold tight to frayed blankets full of holes But the flowers are growing, can you see the buds, the ground birthing green?
Many beautiful rich colors to come even if the bold cold wishes to persist.
She discovered me in the darkness, coming to me wrapped in alluring music and undulating waves of red and blue light, she burst into me with a beckoning and a proposal to envelope her in all that was and all that ever would be beautiful in the universe. So I jumped, Fears falling away, Her soul enthralling enchanting, calling to my own that I had forgotten, and I fell and fell and fell.
She’s my mystic, my medium, my witch, and my fortunes come home to rest in arms wide open
I took you to the movies at the mall because I wanted to show you some fun.
I could feel the sadness in you and wanted to show you a bit of me. I’m all about going to the movies. I wanted to show you the magic of them, you never grew up in that world, you didn’t see that world the way I did. So I brought you into mine with all the eye wideness I could muster.
I liked you sitting next to me in the movie theater, sharing a first time experience of a new story unfolding on the screen, my friend, my lover, my soon to be girlfriend, then a fiancee, then a wife whether I knew it all or not, you were my destiny coalescing.
When we left the movie theater I pointed at the Merry Go Round and said let’s go for a ride, you smiled and didn’t know what to say.
I put a bright big gold metal token in your hand and led you to the gate where the man took your token.
You had fun picking out what type of an animal you would ride on. I think I picked a frog.
I took a picture of you smiling as you posed for me on your horse.
Then you and I took off and went around and around, and up and down….
I think perhaps I delight in you,
simply because there is a bite in you
a something quite not right with you
In the many fluid ways of you.
You draw me in with all kinds of sin,
but this poor delicate body can only
take so much abuse,
the fear is the itch that I scratch,
as it beckons
I answer, I bleed and bruise
my soul and mind continually
playing the fool of a tool
where your ways rule
of the day when we play
in decadent forays
of searing sensual
I meander down a shadowed road
upheaved, trees overturned and strewn about in my way, as a soft bird calls in the distance, beckoning me away.
It’s always the destructive, mingled with the mundane with you.
Drawn to mischief as the moth’s ass
is to a searing flame.
Who’s to blame in this story of us then?
Which of us needs to be grabbed and shaken, to fucking change
to learn to love “properly” in the mind
as the hand still explores the pain.
People are never simple.
All crying onions. Layer upon layer.
Until Time is forgotten.