.132 (pt. 2 of 2)

bright, like the vatican

in a summer vacation rise,

you startle with your

rare diamond splendor.

as the rings of saturn tighten,

i have a hunch what is,

isn't going to

stay static.

.131

i dreamt that i was sick

when i woke up

i was well

The Floor 13

Reading at The Floor at King King in Hollywood.

On the mic with singer Dorthea Porter and backed by Walter Davis and the brotherhood of The Floor house band

With Dorthea, dueting on "i see the pain of practice...",

Dorthea trading verses with me.

(Thank you Dorthea!)

.130

the newspaper held page

after page of 

violent info,

head busting horror

and furniture ads.

weekend specials

and budget cuts.

war.

famine.

celebrity.

and in the back

a 1" x 1" ad.

for caskets.

cheap.

.129

those tri-colored 

neutron bombs

give way

and

i can smell bupropion

from 100 paces

and 

i can't stop chewing on

the inside of my mouth

.128

a modern day

catcher-in-the-rye

using 4 wheeled muscle

to shield steel

from musing

over the side

.127/work in progress

it wasn't just about her looks.

she was intriguing.

she was foreign.

and she seemed like someone i could spend the rest of my life getting to know.

i knew i would never tire of her beauty.

she made me quite nervous.

it always felt perilous.

i always tumbled or fumbled

when she was around.

she made me laugh.

i made her sit up 

and take notice.

i was more charming (than psycho).

"you'll have to work hard for this"

she coo-ed,

motioning down her torso 

with perfect hands.

she thought i was a sucker; 

that i was incapable;

but i took her declaration 

to heart.

the next time i saw her

i had a real job.

i quit doing and dealing.

i ran every day.

i also came back.

i reconciled with my family and 

let go of my anger towards my ex-wives.

i read more and watched tv less.

i became a better listener.

i was being recognized.

i started to succeed.

she was impressed-

so she said.

unafraid - 

i moved forward.

i texted and emailed and called.

i spent too much time thinking about her

and buying her things:

volumes of art and

little blue boxes from tiffany's - 

pure french perfume;

and scandalous items 

via agent provocateur.

i crafted mixes of 

music to swoon by:

marvin gaye and al green. 

roberta flack and donny hathaway.

chet baker and nina simone.

i felt like i was in high school.

i gift-wrapped everything myself-

tight like a hug -

and lovingly -

like a home cooked meal on a Sunday,

instead of family and warmth and 

3 kinds of potatoes - 

ribbons and silk flowers and

hand-painted cards on expensive stock.

all this got me was ripe for failure.

she told me

she could 

never be with me.

afraid of what the answer was,

i didn't ask why.

she offered up

'i'm not attracted to you.'

without thinking, i replied

'you don't even know me.'

after that - i couldn't recover.

she beckoned for a ride to the airport. 

my heart was brick and crumbling

and too heavy to do more for her than i had already done; 

she accepted my emphatic 'no' 

but i actually heard her smirk 

through the phone.

as the departure date loomed near,

my caller i.d. once more

displayed the word utsøkt and 

a photo taken of black lace panties up her skirt.

a cruel and persuasive series

of communiques ensued.

the next day i drove her to the airport.

that was the last time i saw her.

she knew 

when to quit.

i was nothing to her.

just a fan-

trying to get 

to their idol.

as obsessed as i was.

i was becoming more psycho 

(than charming).

that had to cease.

i asked for her help.

but that went unanswered.

my dissatisfaction - 

the end came too soon.

what if i had succeeded

and won her heart?

what would i have won?

makes me wonder.

.126

hell yes!

it really gets in the way!

when i'm trying to get stuff done

oh shit! here it comes.

when i'm on the phone

or on my way

it can do me in -

in a heartbeat

a finger snap

is all between

the madness and 

the sanity

it's concrete 

out here!

it's madness 

out here!

it's sarcasm and gossip

and ill will

and unintentional 

fuck-ups out here!

it's slow leaking 

fumes and exposed 

electrical wiring

out here.

it's everything 

you're not

out here...

but,

i'm out here.

.125

how do you find the time,

the patience

the wherewithal,

to plot and

scheme and

shovel

and wait.

it's alone 

that i

crest best;

but how alone

can this

man be?

.124

rolling on fresh asphalt,

the choices of signature being-

seeming like an expansive

black ocean-

treading

or

separate

and become hateful and heat seeking.

boiling

steaming

painting yellow cresting-

4 under inflated tires,

a handful of change,

and a hard wet

scarring journey.