Miss You (A Poem)

NOTE- I wrote this over a month ago when a special someone in my life seemed to have disappeared. It’s much better now but this poem is based on how I felt at the time. You know who you are.

 

Miss you

I do

Seriously

I keep thinking it’s something I did

Or didn’t do

 

I thought we were mates

Of the soul

Unconditional love

Now you’re gone

 

I understand you have a life

You have problems too

I’ve been too self-centered

To notice

 

I notice

I do

Seriously

Are you gone forever

Or just for a little while

 

Unreturned text messages

Phone calls

Over and over again

Not even a “I’m going through something”

Or a

“I can’t talk now.”

 

Maybe it’s a hint that

You don’t want me

Like me

Love me

Or miss me

I’m Not the Guy

 

I am not the guy your mother warned you about if she warmed you about anyone. I am not the guy your father would play golf with. Your mother and father couldn’t even conceive a person like me. My attitude. My lifestyle. My perversions. My ugliness. My beauty. The delightful deceptive motives and intentions I have about you.

 

Your mother would never dream in a million billion trillion years that a man like me exists. Soft to the touch and rough to the heart. I am a God. I am Satan. I am everything you desire and everything you despise. I am crippled. I am invincible.

 

I love. I hate. I cry. I laugh.

 

I am rage. I am kind.

 

I am you.

 

I am human.

 

I am no one.

A POEM: Something Somewhere

Forgotten feelings merge into apathy

Urges fading.

I feel almost nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Something is inside me.

Something somewhere.

It has to be there.

My personality.

It has to be there. Be there. Be there.

Something somewhere.

Living one hour to the next.

I see myself growing older.

I have changed.

Not for the better or for the worse.

Just a change. Change. Change.

There has to be something somewhere.

I want to be Different so I can Fit in with the Different People

Hipsters, scenesters I don’t wanna be-sters. At one time I thought I wanted to be one. I always loved the word “hip” but I found out that there is a “crowd” for everything including the “hip”. Ever day, every month and ever year I realize more and more that I am a misfit, an outsider or a freak as I was called in High School.

 

Not that I ever tried to fit into a group but found myself hanging with different “in crowds” through the years and I always come to the same conclusion. I don’t fit. I won’t fit. Now I realize that I don’t want to fit. I don’t really care. I have enough trouble fitting in my own skin at times.

 

The other day I went to Fishtown in Philadelphia to do a book reading and signing of my novel at cool book store called Germ Books. They specialize in UFO, conspiracy theories and occult literature. I might have called it hip at one point. I was semi-early and the owner wasn’t there yet so I went to the corner to a coffee shop. I walked into the shop and the place reeked of hipsters. They didn’t literally stink but there was an aroma of another kind.  An aroma of pretentiousness. Maybe they all weren’t pretentious but I got that feel.

 

Now over the years I have gown less and less tolerant of “clicks” or “gangs” of people. I get extremely uncomfortable around a group of more than 3 people especially if they are of the same age, race, uniform etc. This is no different.

 

The band King Missile had a song called I Want to be Different. The lyrics were spoken and the singer says “I want to be different. I want to fit in with the different crowd.” I used to feel that way.

 

For a moment I thought “This is where I should be reading my novel.” Then immediately thought the opposite. These people would be too worried about how they appear in front of one another and not paid any attention. I assumed that they probably couldn’t afford my novel anyway. Ha. I can be so judgmental at times. Hey- I’m human.

 

As I waited in the long line watching these people and  feeling uncomfortable it hit me that I was dressed and carried myself like them. I had the look and I wish I didn’t. These feelings combined with my claustrophobia and semi-social anxiety I fled as fast as I could to get out and drink my coffee and have a smoke before the reading.

 

When it was time to read I looked around at the sparse room of a handful of people and thought how much better it was in the bookstore with people that are truly themselves and interested rather than part of a click. I don’t want to be the “in” event or the “hip” person to see. I want to be me, whatever that is at any given time and be around people that are themselves. Outsiders, freaks, misfits.

“I’m Hip” -Maynard G Krebs

Bad Boy: A Poem (sort of)

Bad boy. Bad Richie. I disrupt my spiritual sideshow with questionable intentions. Intentions are always questionable. Hot in the cold and hotter in the heat. I ramble and get my point across despite my confused tongue. You know. I know. She has no idea.

Simple. Low intelligence maybe? Uneducated. Bewildered from my inconsistent actions. I am a unique breed and she can’t comprehend me. You can. Can’t you? Sometimes I understand myself and then I hide in a quiet corner of the closet with a flashlight so I can breathe. How does she breathe?

My thoughts are much more scattered since they did away with the Dewey Decimal System. You’d think that my mind would sharpen with modern technology but it’s dull. Dull. Bent. Maybe even warped a bit.

Modern science tells me why but I don’t believe them. Them. Who? Modern religion tells me a few things and I can’t hear out of my right left ear. Canada. Hmm. Far enough for hope and close enough for fear. Eat my heart again. Lumpy gooey goings on.

Celibacy is one thing but my fear of her is another. Thing. Her. Bad boy.

Maybe its not so bad. Maybe trails of bitterness lead to the road I wanted to take anyway. I made a wrong turn. Flat tire. Out of gas.

The song goes on after skipping a few times but it’s on repeat so I can take comfort in something now. Wonder what she is.

Wiliam S Burroughs Clock

I used to make a living selling clocks like this on Ebay. This has to be my favorite. William S Burroughs.

Charles Bukowski Digital Art

“Human relationships didn’t work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death…in a cesspool.”
—Charles Bukowski, Women, 1978