Let Me Reiterate

(“The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem.” – Captain Jack Sparrow)

 

          That which was which is and will be we cannot know. Things we experience stimulate our senses sending signals to our brain which processes the information and thereby we perceive or if you prefer learn and understand. This understanding, this knowing is influenced by the lessons learned from previous experiences. The country, the culture, the time period we live in all shape our understanding of the information we process, in short, it is all relative to your experience, which is what is meant when it is said that truth is relative.

          Existence exists just fine without me, but I cannot know our existence except though my ability to perceive which is also affected by the functionality of my senses whose operational ability is different with everyone, once again making it relative to what and how experiences stimulate my senses. I know I go to extremes reducing us to bodily functions but I only want to be me, not the me you perceive I should be and give no weight to your truisms by virtue of the fore mentioned argument. Nor do I have any desire to influence your perception, be who you perceive you should be not what I perceive to be. Your beliefs and understanding are based on the sensory stimulation of your personal experiences, which I have not experienced through your senses so I cannot relate to the whys and wherefores of how you conjugate.

          There are those who feel they are justified for killing you for your beliefs. I do not believe they are right because I do not believe any belief is right, only perceived.

 

***

syllables

(birthday cake and chocolate shakes

not every line is an eight)

 

far away from l.a. as one can get

up in the hills, hiking unfit

stoned on a stone smoking more weed

threw out the stem and all the seeds

 

sun raining hot, getting hotter

ham on rye, flask filled with water

full pack of smokes, sunscreen on skin

a never-was is not a has-been

 

quiet’s the word without l.a.

theater absurd taking the stage

sunshine feels good, that’s all i know

misunderstood, gravity’s hold

 

vocal chords hum, words are so weak

no one shuts up, endlessly speak

i’m all alone in my belief

even my clone would cause me grief

 

nothing is real, all is perceived

senses reveal teachings deceive

so here i sit, stoned in the sun

don’t give a shit where ley lines run

 

puppets and strings, a master plan

that’s just a tree, i’m just a man

i’m thirsty now, open my flask

wipe off my brow, quietly ask

 

what would have been, reason her smile

even a grin, was me for awhile

picture i trace, curves of her face

salt of her skin i’ll never taste

 

if she were mine, she would be still

death do us part, health or in ill

all that i feel may not be real

i may not pray, but i would kneel

 

with ring in hand, hope on display

hypocrite me changing my ways

all for her love, life in her arms

say i believe all else is harm

 

walk with her hand gently in mine

goddess of love now my divine

listen to words as if they’re true

tell her she’s right, cry when she’s blue

 

day that we met i fell in love

prayed with regret to nothing above

for she was his, ever will be

all that this is is fantasy

 

i wrote her poems, i even shared

one drunken night told her i cared

we remained friends that never kiss

and my divine rules the abyss

 

where i have dwelt for disbelief

searching her eyes for some relief

what is my point? nothing at all

write without words, play without dolls

 

try to move on, off of this stone

light up a smoke, make my way home

dig in the dark then call it art

freedom isn’t when you’re apart

 

***

 

 

 

an l.a. poem

i’d never been where i once was and never will again

the moon had rose without repose as clouds were rolling in

i walked the streets, shoes on my feet, the rain was coming down

my smokes and flask i took to task while i just walked around

 

sometimes i chose an asian rose enduring every thorn

but love conceived would not achieve more than being stillborn

but still i walked the city streets without a master plan

even after i married her whose birth place was japan

 

i walked the nights like one in flight neglecting all her charms

i never was behind the wheel but drove her to his arms

the night was stained as i remained in love with my l.a.

where even angels fear to tread although it bares their name

 

i haven’t drank in many months though sometimes walk and smoke

i love it when the rains return and linger till i’m soaked

but nothing’s as it use to be when i started this blog

the only thing back then for me was more hair of the dog

 

i still don’t hold to karma thoughts or one who will forgive

the only thing i know for sure we die from how we live

the alcohol won’t kill me now but something surely will

it doesn’t matter if we starve or if we get our fill

 

i use to sleep upon the beach or in an alley dark

i’ve woke up where the blackest hair upon white sheets was stark

but l.a.’s not the kind of place where poets grow and thrive

my words are scars that i can trace and show i’m still alive

 

but as i said with ink i’ve bled those days remain no more

i’ve left those nights and the bar fights and now i’m mostly bored

but that old call of alcohol no longer echoes sweet

and was the only reason that i use to roam these streets

 

and now the sun’s part of my fun from midday until night

i owe another novel that i just can’t seem to write

but windy days and april nights and california drought

do not fill one bereft of hope with things to write about

 

i only see the apple tree as molecules combined

anything more’s a mystery that i leave undefined

and hatching schemes for novel themes, a moral, plot and point

leave no words for fallen angels which god will not anoint

 

and so i walk to restaurants, eat hardy and walk home

the dark streets are still in decay but i no longer roam

sometimes i kiss the moistened lips of asian girls i meet

but conversation always slips and falls into defeat

 

i don’t believe in absolutes, in moral truths or lies

and in the “pointless” that i preach i’m not their kind of guy

and so i am just who i was when i would walk and drink

and now it’s time to get real high and stop these thoughts i think

 

***

 

 

wearing wine barrels and writing poems

wearing wine barrels, writing poems

quoting phrases no one coined

i reach that moment in the dance

where touch just needs a circumstance

 

spin and twirl, boy and girl

whatever makes your flag unfurl

find the beat that’s on repeat

sweat on the floor and on the sheets

 

hold my hand then hold my form

lace your lips with chloroform

lather, rinse and then repeat

let us dry within the heat

 

dance floors dream of closing time

poets dream of perfect rhymes

so while we can before the ban

help me redeem the fall of man

 

not for paradise regained

cause back then things were not the same

lest a grain of wheat fall and die

it can’t bring forth the butterfly

 

but back then nothing died at all

a different world of protocol

where dance floors and “your place or mine?”

were not part of the grand design

 

so let the morning beat the shades

these rumpled sheets that we have made

will be our spot upon this earth

where in your arms i find my worth

let’s linger in this couplet rhyme

till i’m more than your “in-the-mean-time”

 

***

 

 

 

how can youth be ill begotten

with words i’ve wandered far afield

there is a song i’d like to steal

it started with a melody

and weaved its way inside of me

 

the strings were tuned and intertwined

i heard it in another clime

the wind was soft and called a breeze

the sun had warmed all to an ease

 

the water sweet as lemon tea

and quenched a thirst inside of me

the poem i finished in those days

could paint a blue sky out of gray

 

but summer came unto an end

the equinox was not my friend

i noticed not the leaves of fall

how i had lost the word enthrall

 

the beach now sand and salty skin

the sun will always come again

the towel is folded on a shelf

my thoughts became concerned with health

 

that i did not know i would lose

with life just laughing at its ruse

and now those days deep in my past

occupy the shadow cast

so unconcerned with what we had

so satisfied that we could laugh

 

***

 

 

on a warm night in april

is love really a story

or are we ghosts on a snowy path

leaving no footprints as we travel?

 

everything is just a word

and even less it is just our

understanding of the meaning

of the word

 

a woman i wasn’t interested in

told me she use to be porn star

as if i needed to know the worse thing

about her before we could proceed

 

i told her i had her beat

that i am a poet incomplete

 

i kissed the softness of her cheek

walked out onto city streets

leaving another boring party

filled with people who chatter

about things as if they matter

 

i pulled a candy out of my pocket

a friend said the dispensary

always threw one in with his order

 

i let it melt in my mouth

while i lit a smoke

put in the ear bud from my phone

and played the black album

by project pitchfork

 

feeling much more at ease

apart from the tease

of human interaction

and the hope it will bring happiness

i started walking

on a warm night in april

 

i found my modicum of happiness

when i started letting me be me

no matter what the cost

even if payment in full may be due soon

 

people think my words dark

morbid

and that i will never know contentment

unless i leave all these words behind

not understanding that for the first time

i am at peace

accepting me

even if i am the only one

who accepts me this way

haunting the dark streets of decay

 

decadent stars can’t infiltrate

the artificial light of neon

and the travesty of torches

is that there are no monsters

to pursue

 

there’s just me and you

and all that you imagine

is imaginary

 

have you ever heard a canary

with a terrible voice?

or told a detached buddhist he was

aspiring to have no aspirations?

even the debris in the gutters i pass

meant something to someone

at some point

because and yes

everything is relevant

 

and i would rather walk alone

than atone for my loneliness

by being something other

than what i am

 

***

 

tokyo tea for two

held her in my arms

immersed in her charms

she was tokyo tea

so hot passion burned

like a five alarm fire

 

in l.a. without a rhyme

love has always been sublime

and i’m the congregation

in search of a house of worship

 

it was an all night event

she taught me to reinvent

and escape the recent moments

that makes me feel as if

life is like a doctor’s waiting room

 

i was born in l.a.

she was born far away

my fingers traced her exotic face

that floated on surfaces of sorrow

for a night we both tried to borrow

more than memories of the mundane

 

she kissed my tattoo of a crane

gotten on a night i don’t remember

and when i entered the shops

of little tokyo

the clerks would see it and bow

 

still i don’t know how

to make more than these moments

of flesh matter

 

my thoughts are always scattered

but the salt of her skin on my tongue

helped me to focus

 

the murky pond and the lotus

her purity breaking the surface

and reaching for the warmth of the sun

 

but the harsh light of day

sent me on my way

after exposing that

copulation on cotton sheets

is all i really have to offer

 

been here before

the morning after whore

light a cigarette

on a sidewalk in l.a.

while all that surrounds

the concrete and sounds

cannot stop this plummet

and the inevitable fatal crash

 

***