There are two things in my apartment
that are hard to let go of.
The ripped up old tee
and the blank canvas.
Unfortunate remnants of our past.We seldom speak of your father.
But sometimes, I believe he was a better man
than you could ever be.
At least he left you
with a little dignity.I don’t usually title my grievances,
but when I do, I name them after you.
Its only been three days,
but it seems like the electricity we make could cause power grids to fail,
and wire boxes to explode like supernovas as we pass down the street underneath the dim street lamps,
your skin looking nestalgic as you turn softly in my direction,
almost creating sparks from the tempest as you wrap your arms around my mid section,
continuing down the street with you,
there,
holding on as if you would drift away if you let go of me,
carried away into a tempest of love,
this time we spent almost feels unreal,
like I am watching us from afar with an old 70’s family video recorder,
all the images blurred in a vision of happiness,
watching your eyes shrink and your smile grows when I tell you how cheesy it is that I feel like we are in an old episode of happy days,
creating a mass of energy that could be seen from the poorly lit living room windows we pass by,
and almost all at once as if you were the man in this relationship you stop in mid walk,
and force yourself onto me,
knowing that I want a girl who can take control,
writhing in blissful love,
riding the winds of the tempest,
hands claps around one of my wrists which has now been pinned to the neighbors bright red fence,
as I grip your waste with other trying to create one body,
becoming the eye of the tempest,
As the man looked out onto the rocky out crop he paused, and took a deep breath reminiscing about the youthful years that he had with this place. Skin now wrinkled with age and experience he sat wondering what would then become of him as the next year passed.many times he colorfully described his self as a dried old prune to his grandchildren, who looked at him as if he was an audity to be gauked at. in a not so far off past he had loved once. but six months before his trip back to that place that had filled his head with memories, his wife had passed. He tried hard to hold on to the last few trinkets he had left to remind him of his wife but he had come to this place for a reason. as he slowly walked down the rigid cliff side to the slender strip of beach below tears began streaming from his face.he had thought at first that maybe it had begun to rain, but when he realized that he was now crying he keeled over stricken with almost enough pain to send him tumbling to his death. Once he caught his breath and gained what little composer he had left he continued down the cliff side. and he mad his way closer to the ocean he could smell the crisp salt air biting the insides of his nose. this too brought back faint memories of everything and anything that had ever transpired there. he thought of all the summers he had on that cliff side and on the beach as child, the bottom of his feet worn from countless days of running barefoot back and forth across the rocks and down onto the beach… And he also remembered the evening he and his wife had gone there. The night that they were forever bound by his words. As he reached the sand and the breaking waves he removed a parcel from his front right pocket of his double breasted navy coat that he had held onto since his time in WWII. he opened the parcel and removed a ring that had been tarnished with time and had two diamonds missing from the set of 8 that were carefully set when he had bought it 40 years ago. He is now 85. he also removed a women scarf, A handkerchief with his wife initials A. M., which stood for Azalea Morrison. the last and most important thing he removed from the parcel was a lock of silvery shimmering hair and a picture of his beloved. he then simultaneously removed and old model of a bright red steam boat and placed all of the precious memories inside. he leaned down to put the boat into the ocean to set his wife’s spirit free.her burial was not enough. She was now finally and truly free, but before he did he paused and stared at all the things he was letting go, reminiscing on all of the memories one last time. as he released the boat he watched it sail off into the distant waves and crests tears falling from his cheeks again wondering how he had survived so much to come home from a war to wife that he out lived, and loved with all his heart. And as he sat down on that slender patch of beach his body began to feel tight almost as if something was pulling him from this place. and he then lay back on the sands and the sun set as the salted waters absorbed him along with the memories he had released into the surf.
felt like a drifter when I realized the true meaning,
feet floating only inches from the ground,
eyes blazing in the distance,
in shadow,
piercing through the reality that i had come to find comfort in,
fingers extended out trying to touch something that was drifting,
ever distant,
when at once my sense of touch had acknowledged that it was time to let go,
and as I turned chin over my shoulder I sensed the smell in the air,
almost immediately like I was reacting to the future at hand,
predicting each persons moves and behaviors as if they had already taken place,
and quickly picking up on the sounds reverberating from my inner drum,
like the perfect tracker now I follow unmarked paths,
because when once I followed the signs and settled into what I knew inside,
my world tumbled down,
spilled among the flowers on the ground,
so like the fleet footed tracker I drift along the updraft feet leaving ground to find a clearer picture,
I still lay lifeless,
wondering,
still trying to piece together parts to a puzzle that just don’t seem to fit,
shifting the misshapen one dimensional objects,
trying to connect the freeways and dotted lines,
to what some call bliss,
my utopia my shangri la,
listening to the empty spaces on the table speak to me,
mocking me as I try to piece together the lives that were broken,
trying to wedge them together frantically,
in the hopes that one of the paths made will lead me out of the oceans depths,
and into warm arms,
yours,
but the empty pieces keep speaking driving me mad,
and almost crazy,
trying hard to fit each corner and each curve,
reaching for a clear crystal vision of the breeze and the trees lining the tar and cement,
guiding me to your heavenly touch,
shifting…
slowly shifting pieces as the empty spaces speak…
they’re telling me that your not lost,
Ella Fitzgerald Outside Her Dressing Room
Ella waiting to go on at President John F. Kennedy’s 45th Birthday Party at Madison Square Garden… the same night Marilyn Monroe sang ‘Happy Birthday, Mr. President’.
Photo taken by Bill Ray on May 19, 1962.
I’m trying to live the innocent life but my mind is telling me to raise hell,
not because I was raised by fools,
but because my heart finally began to fall to pieces,
the scaffolding around it broken and flimsy,
and yet again I ended up in front of the computer typing posts about you,
trying hard not to relapse into pity and sadness,
but as the keys begin to write my story and I feel like the end is close at hand,
the fact that you know what is on my mind keeps us bonded,
so the question remains,
should i have some restraint about staring at the this blank screen daily and reminding myself of you as my words unravel onto my desktop facebook news feeds,
or should I continue to twist and mangle my insides while you bask in the sunshine,
or should I bring down the hail and rain in order for you to more clearly feel my pain,
or is the rhyming and metaphors to much for your tender ears to be exposed,
one way or the other this what becomes of situations like this,
my nervous habit begins to surface like a cyst,
by habit i try to repress it at best but its hard to forget when it stems from your chest,
the emotion now peaked and I dont know how to end this,
But I guess i will do just what you did…
forget all of it
Trips To the Beach In San Francisco. The Academy of Science Museum. Really Living
| — | How many times by k. Michelle (via beybeelicious) |
