The Poet & The Liar

Words...
where do you come from,
and where will you go?
Will you ever mean something?
Will you ever be known?

Words...
are you from my heart,
or just from my head?
Are you going to be remembered
when all of this ends?

Words...
I know you have saved me,
and I know I'm alive,
but what will you be worth
if tonight I just died?

I've been writing since the early days of junior high, and I simply cannot explain how many various notebooks I have hidden under my bed, or all the ones I have burned because of what the pages scream from the inside. It's a funny thing, taking the time to alleviate your chest and scribble poems or confusing sentences onto loose-leaf, then just watching them turn to ash and blow away within the ways of the winds. It may seem unproductive to some, but you don't understand the relief of letting your thoughts fly into the air.

I haven't burned a poem in years, because I actually promised myself I would keep everything I ever write, and hold it close, hopefully 'til the days of my last breaths. I think this may allow for a more productive relief; a release of thoughts, but chaining them to be forever remembered in my heart. 

Although writing into hidden diaries has always been a brilliant escape from reality, as I grew up I realized that the last thing you ever want to do is escape from reality, rather express your thoughts of where the mind drifts, because someone may also feel that way too. Showing your work to world is what makes an artist real... or at least that's the way I've been feeling lately. 

Having said that, I feel like an absolute hypocrite!...'cause yes, I show as much work to as many people as I can, but there is always more out there that could feel the words I write, if only I would just balls' up and do it. I keep telling myself that I am a poet- an artist of words, but in the grand scheme of things, I am nothing more than that little boy I once was burning notebooks. It's time to be heard by everywhere, by everything, and to stop lying through my teeth when I say, "I am a poet". It's time to give these paragraphs a purpose. It's time to do more, to become something better. It's time to take everything I write and burn it into the atmosphere, but without the flames. No ash, no fading, no disappearing... just let it sink into those breaths so many are dying to take, right at the time when they think they cannot breathe anymore. 

I'm not saying I will ever amount to the words of Shakespeare, or be remembered along side that same darkness of Poe. I'm not saying I will ever write the beautiful choppiness of E.E. Cummings, nor will I ever even understand the words of Whitman, but I am saying is...

My words, they are true, from my heart and soul, stitched together like sweaters to keep you warm, because I know so deeply how cold life can become. It's time to stop claiming the glorious title of a Poet, and actually be heard. Then, maybe, just maybe... one day, I too, will be remembered...

...or at least, when all is said and done, have my words not be forgotten. 

96 (a new place to call home)

The snow fell that night,
a man sat thinking on a bench,
and I watched him fade away
into a beautiful white-out.

With my feet frozen stuck,
my body- somehow still warm,
I began to disappear too.

We both stared at each-other,
with gargoyle eyes and
slowly-cemented chests.

He told me about his life,
how he wouldn't rather
sit anywhere else...

in the whole entire world.

I'll save my breath and not waste your time with the tedious details about how it all went down, because it's not about how we ended up here, but more about what is to come; what is right up ahead. Plus, I don't really think I could explain to you how it all happened, everything just happened so fast, and now I find myself laying in a new bedroom at night. You'd think a switch-up of this magnitude would have helped my sleeping problems, but no, I still find myself writing poems with my eyes glued to that little clock that continues to read: 3:00 am. I title them "Insomnia", because I guess you could say it's merely fitting, right?

In an old city house that has five bedrooms, a very opened layout, and wooden floorboards that date back to before I was born, it's safe to claim that the nights up ahead will be far from silent. It's okay though, as I said before... I suck balls at the whole sleepin' thing anyway. Although I have fallen in love with this house its'self, I personally think I could share a box with the homeless person down the street, 'cause it's not about what I'm living in, it's about where I am living. Also, I like to think the homeless man has made that box his own- an old lamp from the antique store on Monroe possibly taped to the ceiling, some modern artwork tacked to the cardboard wall made from egg-cartons and spoiled milk jugs, and a message somewhere on his door in which was cut out using a broken rusty razor blade that the neighbor threw out when they realized that there actually is beauty out there somewhere. Sloppily scribbled in red colored pencil, the message will read: Will Work For Love... And Hope

I've quickly grown to realize why people have so much trouble leaving here- the homeless man and his cardboard castle... the statue of the man sitting in the tiny park up the street, on the corner of Alexander and South Avenue, it's not that they don't want to leave this area, it's just they simply cannot; it's much too breathtaking to risk not breathing again. Yeah, so what? I may or may not have just dramatized the description of the lives of two men I have never met, but you must understand, this street... it sings poetry every single day, every single night.

To my right side, there is a tattoo shop, and next to them is a coffee shop. Across the street there is a fairly new Mexican restaurant, and on Thursdays in our parking lot there is a farmers market; what more could you ask for? I can almost here the buzzing sounds of ink being forever pressed into so many different shades of skin, and at night, from the coffee shop, I can smell the strong burning scent of espresso being made. I love espresso too, the way it enters your body like a liquidated pinch of adrenalin. Although I cannot claim myself to be a Mexican food lover, I'm going to have to try it just because. And for the farmers market, I simply can't wait to go to every stand and buy the freshest fruits and veggies. Speaking of farmers, why don't they get paid more for what they do? Without them, we would starve. They should seriously stop production one year, just so we could all know what the homeless man feels like on every brisk night when only he and the moon sit down for dinner and imagine  what it's like to slice dollar bills with golden forks. I feel as if it is difficult to cut loose-change in half with plastic silverware, don't you?

But besides the fact that this location is simply wonderful because of all the amazing businesses around, it's the natural ambiance that truly gets me. Just the other night, I walked up and down the street as the first snowfall of the year touched my body, and everything just made sense during that moment. Have you ever felt reality in the form of a snowflake? Though it may appear solid and freezing, it's still hollow enough dream at the same time. I haven't exactly felt a wintry cold Rochester in quite sometime, but something about the other night, it just overcame my soul. I walked up and down this winter-wonderland like a child, throwing snowballs at nothing, staring at trees that looked like Christmas; I just walked with no destination, no purpose, and it felt nothing short of liberating.

I'm going to love this place, I just know it... and maybe one day, just maybe, I too will freeze myself to death every night, or turn to stone, just so nothing can make me move away. 

I Live in a World of Legos' and Love

This morning, I awoke to the sounds of nothing, and I now believe that silence can eat away at my dreams far worse than any alarm can make them disappear. But it was what it was, and today is what it is, and I think it's going to be a great day for some reason... at least that's what my sheets told me as I left them, though lonely they laid. 

I went outside earlier than normal, so early that the day was still letting go of the night. It's an interesting thing though, aint' it? you know, the darkness becoming daylight. I understand it scientifically,  but I can't help but always wonder who actually lets go of who? Does day let go of night, or does night let go of day? I like to think the moon is control, but that's just me. 

I saw my breath leave my lips three times before I had the chance to gaze the snow this morning. The barely covered blades of grass somehow still looked like Christmas to me, and I went to the fireplace to search for presents from years before. I found wonderful memories and also a couple swords that were just never real enough to stab out my eyes. I also thought about how badly I wished I still believed in Santa, because for some reason today I wanted to venture a fireplace with him and risk burning. How exhilarating it must be.

I keep yawning, and my eyes feel like they're mad at me for opening them. I guess I may have woke up too early today huh? But that's what happens to me when I go to sleep before 1:00 am, I cannot sleep through the night. I can tell though, I am not exactly all there at the moment. After all, I did just briefly mention risking burning alive in a chimney with a make believe man who brings us presents every year and somehow can eat cookies at every house he goes to. Plus, they say the human body cannot even handle consuming that much milk. I liked it better when I didn't know anything. 

Iv'e been trying to figure out what I'm writing about for about an twenty minutes now, but I think I finally understand where I'm going with this one (oh yeah, by the way, I had no intentions of even writing this morning), but anyhow... I believe it's about how I think today is wonderful, mainly because I felt the need to feel air no matter how brisk it made my chest feel. I think today is wonderful because it's not yesterday, as in I had the glory of seeing another day. I think today is wonderful, because there is a tomorrow- I hope.

But if doesn't come for some reason, I'd just like to say that I learned one of the most precious lessons today when I sat at that fireplace and thought back to when I was just a little boy. "Little boy", that's a funny statement, because my limbs haven't longed for much more since those days, but my heart...my heart, fuck... that thing has gotten far to big, so big It nearly hurts from all it holds. Then there is my mind, not the deep depths of my soul type mind, actually like my brain- the part where I have attempted to store everything I've learned over the years. But what I learned today is that I hate my brain so much, yet I love my soul (...they are far different). To be naive again is how we fly, so I think this year I'm going to leave cookies and milk out again in hopes they disappear. 

Knowledge is nothing but a curse to imagination. Reality is my dreams worst enemy... And this fireplace, I think I'm going to burn anything that's ever attempted to rot my soul, but I'll keep everything that lives in my heart, though it heavily weighs against my chest. The air brisk within it, but beautiful it will become.

Dear Rochester... I Love You.

It's not exactly easy for me to say what I am about to tell you, mainly because I am one of the most stubborn people I know, but anyway...

There once was a time where I was gazing out at the Atlantic, Miss Atlantic, and I would watch the way the waves would fold over with no acknowledgment of what lied in their path. It was a reckless journey to say the least. But while I watched these white-tips turn over and smash into the areas of the sand where its particles were always caught in a war between breathing or drowning, I would find myself kicking up sand castles just to watch them disappear into the backdrop of a burning Southern sun, where birds would fly freely with no clouds above. It was perfect, so perfect, that at the time I truly believed I never wanted to live in Rochester again... you know Rochester, that little place I sometimes called home, you know, when I wasn't too busy attempting to pretend it held no beauty. 

So, this is the part that is difficult for me to admit, but it needs to be said: I'm starting to think I want to live here for the rest of my life, you know, call this place home, like it always has been since the first day I left my mothers womb. Having said that, do not twist my words, which people so often enjoy doing when they don't truly understand something. I am not saying I am done traveling, or seeing different places, I am merely explaining that I am ready to tell you that this is the next chapter of my life, and I truly believe it's meant to begin and end here, you know, in this little place I should have always called home. But let me explain why...

I recently had the glory of seeing Fall for the first time in four years. I know what you're probably thinking: What do you mean, see Fall? You have definitely seen Fall in the past four years Michael! And although you are mostly correct, because I have seen it, mainly from a distance, driving through different states and what-not, this doesn't mean I have SEEN it. To me, a season where the leaves slowly change, you cannot truly appreciate the process of a once green leaf changing from reddish-orange to yellow from a distant passing in a car. Honestly, you may have a better chance of  catching the day turn into night (you remember that, when we were younger, how we always wanted so dearly to catch the magnificent moment when light would become dark, or sun would become moon... a complicated process far beyond the simplistic measures of claiming nightfall). 

Also, I am looking forward to Winter this year, which is another difficult thing for me to admit, primarily because if you're from Rochester you know how bad the snow can pile up here. But after all these years, I've learned something about Winters here, it's not the snow nor the brisk air that makes cold months ironically a burning hell, it's the people that have forgotten the beauty behind the changing of seasons. It's astonishing how easily influenced we are by the weather... it's amazing how weak we all become too, as if our bodies become so brittle, we act like we all hang like icicles from a porch just waiting to fall and break, and shatter like pointless glass that never served a purpose. You see that right there? That was over-dramatizing a situation. It's similar to when you act like a complete selfish asshole and bitch about brushing off your car in the morning or shoveling a walkway for three months out of the whole year. You know, being over dramatic about a minor task you need to do when there is far greater things to worry about. But I'm not just talking about certain people, almost all of us are guilty of this. 

Speaking of dramatizing something, I don't want to overdo this one, so please allow me a moment  to conclude what I'm trying to say:

What it comes down to is simple... in the air, I need change. I need the ground to challenge my feet on some days. I enjoy that not every morning is the same here, and as much as I'd like to murder the rain, without a storm how is their every sunny days? Since I've been home, I'm beginning to remember how good feeling every season change is for the heart, because I believe the process of them changing keeps our beats fresh, in sync with our soul- that thing we so often forget that is more important than our eyes and skin. Don't get me wrong, letting my body burn in the hot sun everyday overlooking the ocean is beautiful and all, but that too can become repetitive. Plus, I don't want to get too much into it, maybe some other time, but the truth is it is not the place, it's the people. You could stand in the sand and look out into any ocean all you'd like, but if you don't have someone next to you that you love and have known for your whole life to turn to and explain how beautiful it is, the waves then don't crash the same, if you know what I mean. 

If you keep up with these, then you know that I usually begin them with a little poem... this one I did not. This is because when I was walking around outside this morning at roughly 6:30 am after falling asleep at 5:00 am ( yup, nothings changed, my sleeping habits are still fuckin' crazy), I wrote poetry in this Rochester air with my breath...and it went something like this:

I cannot breathe 

without the burning of leaves,

I cannot see without the snow.

I need to see the seasons change,

and I'm beginning to believe

that I need this home.

There Was an Old Couple On a Bench, Somewhere In Venice...

I will live,          let us wrinkle          forever like  

only to die          together...              the first time

with you.           but love                   we kiss.

To the many girls my young naive mind let go of. To the girl I once loved, but haven't seen nor spoken to in years. To the girl that will always have a part of my heart, though we are barely allowed to even be there for each other. To the young woman with the baby blues that stole my heart from a close distance back at the beach. To the crashing goodbye waves of Miss Atlantic herself. To the young woman I told to chase her dreams, but never to forget about us. To my best friends who I know should be together. To my grandparents, the one couple that gives me hope when it comes to love. To the old couple on the bench in Venice, and to the woman I will one day make my life, though I do not know if I have even met you yet... this one is for you, all of you, wherever you are.

Recently, there have been a couple different situations that have occurred in my life that have yet again got me thinking about what it means to truly love someone, so I had to write something about it. I know what your thinking, "Michael, do you ever write about anything besides love?", and although the correct answer would be yes, you still wouldn't believe me, because I bet the pieces of writing I have done that you remember the most, are the ones about love. First off, thank you all so much for reading these words I so desperately need to spill onto these pages every night, but at the same time, It makes me so angry. I'm not saying the fact that you read my writing is what gets me angry, I'm saying that it makes me angry that you claim you can take so much away from breathing in these words, but go on not doing anything with them afterwards. I have realized something about our generation, the one coming after us, and also the generation just before us; I think we have misplaced love, and instead of finding it or holding it close when it is available, we are content with believing the only true love that exists lies within the beat up pages of a novel, a "chick-flick", or somewhere hidden in the complicated words from some pointless poet, like myself. It's as if we as people have grown to believe that love is only fictional, but this is far from accurate. 

If love is just the cheesy lines of a screenplay, then why do we cry at the end of the movie? If love is just the creative words of an author, then why do we read their next book? If love if just the metaphors of a sloppily put together poem, then why do we feel the need to share them with one another? If true love isn't real, then why do we let it cut us so deeply? The answer is simple, we do these things  because we're constantly longing for love, a love far greater than the one so many of us end up settling for. We have merely became lazy lovers, trapped in a society that has wrongly prioritized our lives under the preconceived notions that true romance has no place in reality anymore. There are so many people who wish they had love like the ones they read about or watch, yet they will just watch someone just slip away into the settling arms of someone else. Then what happens? ten years down the road, you just sit on your porch looking up at the sky with your heart three-fourths of the way full, wondering where that person who could have made it whole is, what they're doing, if they're happy, etc. It just doesn't make any sense to me.

We cannot settle. I will never settle. I would rather die alone than search for something I have already found, already felt, already wanted. If you love someone, and you truly believe they feel the same, things like timing or distance should become nothing, because this person is your everything. If they're too far, you should go be with them, and kiss every mile that stands between the two of you. If the timing is not right, you need to understand that we can die at any moment, plus, what exactly is time anyway? But if it's deeper than these two things, deeper to the point of just fear itself, then you need to realize that fear is loves only enemy, but fear is also beautiful. There is nothing better than being scared to fall, because when you fall, the feeling you get before reaching that other persons heart is the greatest high you could ever experience in this lifetime. 

I admit, I am beginning to ramble again. I do this whenever I talk about love, because it makes me feel like a little boy again, running through the woods, getting pricked by thorns, searching for roses in a field of dried weeds. It makes me feel like tomorrow, and yesterday at the same time. It makes me feel like the branches of trees reaching for the sun, burning in the summer heat. When I see love, I can watch my body change like leaves during the Fall in Rochester. Sometimes, when I feel love within the same room I am in, I feel like I'm trapped in a sandcastle, but I never try to escape. I do this, ramble on and on when talking about love, because there is simply no other way to explain it. Right now, writing about it, I feel like an unfinished poem hidden beneath a bed waiting to be read. I feel like a letter that's never been sent, a notebook being burned, a turtle without a shell, a flower that isn't beautiful, a leg with no feet, an astronaut tied to the earth, an atheist making love with a nun inside the confession booth of church, the color black mixing with white, a message in a bottle that was buried in soil instead of thrown into the ocean... I feel like a book on the shelf of an abandoned library, a nail that was never hammered in, perfume trapped inside a trashcan, a chair that was never built, a burned hand reaching to be extinguished,  a pen with no ink, I feel like caution tape wrapping absolutely nothing... 

I feel how I feel, because love is so close yet so far, and when I try to explain it everything comes out so wrong. But still you read these words, my words, because together we are dying for love, longing to feel romance, even if only for a brief moment. Together, we are searching through giant paragraphs, paraphrased memories, or pointless poems to find each other. But the truth is, these are only words, turned into melodies to sing us to sleep, just so we can wake up and forget how we fucked up and forgot to fall, all because the fear of clocks counting too many miles with its hands. We too often watch what we truly love just walk away, and then wonder where it went, and what could have been. I feel the doubts, I see the regrets, I hear hearts crying much too often. But I will never subject myself to these senses, for I have felt belief, seen the way eyes have only had to look forward, and I know my heart cries, but only for loving love, not just letting it leave me. 

Having said that, I would like to show you something. I came across a picture my roommate took back when we were living in Florence, Italy for month in the summer. We were luckily able to travel all over this gorgeous country, and though we saw so many amazing things, ancient art, giant cathedrals, the sides of mountains that painted a scenery I cannot describe in words... still, the one thing I know I will never forget is this picture, it sticks with me, as if it's painted on the back of my eyelids, so every time I blink, I remember the only reason I am alive, and that is for love, to love, and to be loved. 

This picture was taken sometime in the middle of the day off of a cellphone, in Venice, Italy. We didn't know the couple, nor did we meet them that day. But thinking back, I am happy I didn't have the honor of meeting them, simply because I didn't have to. I knew them just from looking at this picture, they're in love, always were, and always will be. After my roommate took this picture, he turned to me and asked, "Where has that kind of love gone?". At the time, I didn't have an answer for him, but now, after looking back at it, the answer is ...nowhere, it's still here, around us somewhere, everywhere. But we must not let it ever slip away, no matter how hard it tries.

So, in conclusion, I guess what I'm saying here is, to the woman I will one day make my life, though I do not know if I have even met you yet, we are going to be like the old couple above, because in the end, that right there... is the only that will truly matter.

And when we kiss,          forever...              And when distance

or if we've kissed,          'til time says         has it's dance with death,

I'll press your lips          no more,              still, I'll chase you there...

...wherever the next chance to still love you hides. 

Lost Lingering Leaves

Dark, dim, and displaced,
these days display 
an ever so daunting sky.

And a dry defining death
lines the clouds...
Where this haunting lies.

After living down south for almost four years, then making a brief trip to live Italy for a month... this whole idea of moving back home has been nothing short of a struggle for me.

Like I've said before in past posts, I've seen many different parts of the country, and I guess you can now also say the world. Although traveling and experiencing life in different places is wonderful and I recommend it for everyone, know that it also makes everything much more difficult in the end. Once you leave the place you've always called home, when you return, you begin to have these unrealistic expectations for the location in which you grew up in. 

For example, over the past couple months, I've been searching for Florentine sunsets in the skies towards Buffalo, making my way towards the boardwalk in Charlotte to see if Lake Ontario has made love with Miss Atlantic yet, and I've been lying to myself lately, pretending the music of Corey Smith and Zack Brown Band still sounds the same in a cluttered Rochester Garage. At night, I now walk the streets of this familiar neighborhood making believe the echos of antique accordions allow my legs to move and the vibrations of tongues from romantic languages race my heart. Not to mention, I slowly step these sidewalks right out in the opened as if I couldn't get a ticket for straight sippin' out of cheap bottles of Merlot. Every night, I make my way to local bars looking for an 8-ball game, and a friend who once was willing to shoot a bit after a long night at the library. Also, I've hit bulls-eyes here, but it just doesn't feel the same. It's just not the same anymore. 

For a while things felt the same, but I think that's just because the summer season in Rochester is as beautiful as anywhere else. It wasn't until a couple weeks ago when this darkness began to settle in my chest; a feeling I cannot quite define. To call it depression is much to simple. But to claim it to be just a feeling of missing the past would be far to complicated... plus, that's why we experience things, to remember them, to miss them, isn't it? If you don't miss something when it's over, what was ever the point for doing it in the first place? 

But as I was saying, this all didn't start until about two weeks ago, you know, when we started to feel the seasons changing, watching this before our eyes. Although the leaves still green, refusing to get painted in wonderful oranges and yellows, the universe is adding weight to the air, and I can feel us falling. I can hear Fall flying in the wind, waiting to land it's body all over this town. I have realized the days here are becoming shorter, but so is my happiness. I've admitted it many times before, I enjoy the night far more than the day, but when there's a presence of a different darkness, the moon and stars just do not look the same, it's as if they repetitively lose the war against the clouds. I don't understand why the weather, or where we are, must affect how we act towards each other on a day to day basis? I'm not pointing any fingers, because I too am victimized by Mother Nature, and I simply cannot stand losing the fight to her every single time she decides to change.

In a fast paced town constantly on the go, when the brisk Winter begins to creep in, the people here also start to change. I got out of work early the other day, and while staring through the thickness of separated raindrops, I found myself fixated on a tree across the street in the woods. I sat motionless staring, as if all the clocks in the world just stopped, and I had this epiphany... I came to the sad conclusion that anyone who grew up around here are similar to the leaves of this lonely tree in the woods, especially when it comes to the changing of seasons. We spend our summer days smiling in the grazes of sunshine, but once that air begins to change, our limbs, our eyes, and our lips, they all begin to crinkle at the edges, and the colors of our hearts begin to slightly change. We endure this morphing act like there is no other option. We fall far from the branches of our souls to a ground iced over in wintry fingertips, and from there, we barely touch each other. Covered in snow, we search through slush for a Spring that never comes in time. So, consumed by a brisk darkness, we coast through our days in silence. It's almost comical how we can feel so alone during this time, even when there's so many other people around us.

Lately, between the thoughts about the death of a friend, the death of a friends father, and this creeping coldness, I have subjected myself to the changing of leaves with no escape. The rest of the leaves tell me I'm much too early, but I'm already laying on the ground looking up, wondering where everything went so wrong. What happened to the way sounds of crashing waves helped me fall asleep? Where did that love go I saw in Venice between that old couple holding hands on the bench? Why did moving forward have to make me leave those friends behind? Where is my sanity hiding? What does it even mean to go insane? Is this darkness? Is this depression? Is this missing the past?... or am I just doing what I always did, and changing with the leaves?

I think love has a big part in all of this. I think the lack of love has finally taken its toll on my heart. This heavy air, it collapses my chest so perfectly; so beautifully diminishing to my lungs it now lives. With my eyes widened in the awakening of morning, I cannot breathe, and in the hours when my eyelids should be closed, I barely sleep. To call this anxiety over nothing is just a cop-out. To claim this to be some mental breakdown is far from correct, but I guess I can see why you may think this. But the truth is, there is no true way of classifying this mood I am in, or if it is even considered a mood for that matter. 

What it comes down to though, is the fact that I have been weak enough to let this feeling consume me. My motivation has gone A-wall (I think it has left our Earth), my heart now hangs from icicles (But Winter has yet to arrive), my mind is stuck masking itself in stability (A baggy costume I wear so sloppily), my emotions trapped beneath my feet ( I step on them as I run in circles, but do not feel a thing), and my eyes, these brightly bloodshot things, they look like they have punctured my face (It hurts deeply to see ahead, while always looking back). 

With all the beauty I have already seen, and every wonder I still wish to one day watch touch my legs, I am lost here, in a place I know from corner to corner, edge to edge. I want to jump off, or at least wake up. To most, this eagerness may appear as the cowardliness of suicidal knees, but to some, the people who think like I do, merely understand this concept. All I am saying, is I wish I had the strength within my shins to spring my body from this state of mind, from this lost lingering darkness.

I now am torn between the past lives I have led, and the many new lives I only long to lead one day. But stuck here, in this place I know much too well, I once believed it was time to leave it again, but now, after feeling this feeling I have felt before, everything feels the same, yet completely different... and I now have come to conclusion that I'm meant to stay here for a while, to eventually leave, or permanently stay. That is the ironic beauty in it though, no matter what tonight touches us with, tomorrow may have different fingertips.

I stare up at those other leaves as they scream down to me. I am early; this I understand. But down here, against the blades of grass that have cut me still , I'm waiting for a sign, a spark in the sky that says I can stand again. I guess what I'm doing is changing, like the leaves of before, the colors of tomorrow, and the crinkles that may never sound when we step on them. I'm down here waiting, ready to let the sun beam down and warm my soul again, even though my bones will break so thoughtfully in this brisk darkness that lies ahead.

Dammed, distraught, and unclothed,
I lie naked in giant piles 
that just may never come.

Destroyed by darkness,
and living in a longing...
There will be a light 

when this is done.

Hey Bonds, This One's for You Kid...

Dear Russ,

I so deeply wish I knew where you were right now man, 'cause the boys and I just want to see you again, even if it's only for a moment. That's the problem though, aint it? We always wait until it's too late to actually care. Lately, I keep finding myself staring at your picture trying to fathom the saddening fact that your gone. I feel like a such a hypocrite these days, constantly writing about how I understand that life is too short and we must take advantage of these brief breaths we our given. But it was only a couple days ago, the morning when I found you had passed, when I realized that I have been nothing but a liar with a pen, hiding behind my words from my deepest fears. I would always sit there writing about how much every single one of my loved ones means to me, and how I cherish every single second I spend with them... and now I'm just crying over the fact that we haven't spoken since last summer, and how we won't be able to again in this lifetime. 

You remember that day man, the last time we spoke, when my grandpa took us to play 18 at Deerfield? That course ate you up so badly that day HaHa!... But I would give anything to go back and watch you duff the shit outta the ball on that first tee again. Man, that was some funny shit. When I first heard the news, I must admit it didn't hit me right away, but once the days began to move forward, I felt like I was still waking up in my basement and getting that call... it felt as if I was being electrocuted by still-silence over and over again. I have come to conclusion that I simply did not have any words to explain how I felt at the time. I think that's why it took me so long to write something about you...

I'm laughing to myself in the library right now, because I know your out there, or up there somewhere, just laughing your balls off at me because I'm still giving this whole writer/poet thing a shot. It sounds silly, but I'm gonna miss the way you would always bust my balls about being an emotional poet. I swear, all those little jabs you took at me are coming back to bite you in your ass, 'cause now I'm writing about you bro, about how much I love and miss you already. I'ts simply not fair, and if I'm being honest, I don't really know if I'm doing okay with it all. I put on this smile and try to only remember the good times, but if I'm being like you, that honest straight up man you always taught us to be, I'm here to tell you that I feel weak without you, and it's going to take us all some time to understand and accept that your gone. But I just want you to know, we'll all be okay...eventually. They say "time heals all", right?

You know me Russ, I was never one to read the newspaper or watch the news, yet lately I find myself doing both. But I don't know why I'm continuing to do so, because I end up just getting so pissed off at the media. You would hate it man... it would make you sick, they just keep talking about drugs, and how our generation is so easily influenced by big names in Hollywood and shit... I don't even understand what they are saying, or attempting to prove by this. The fucking media acts like they care, yet in reality all they want is another story. I sit there and listen to all their nonsense and how they keep talking about how successful in school you were, and how much potential you had and blah blah blah... Those are wonderful things and all, but where's the true meaning in their story though, you know... like the little things that create an actual purpose?

I understand that they know your favorite football team (who doesn't?), but I'm just wondering if they know your favorite poker hand, or that your Full Tilt username was Blumkin Jr. (so inappropriate lol), your favorite soccer team (I still don't know how the hell you even got into soccer?), your favorite baseball team, or how much you sucked balls at fantasy (HaHa, sorry I had to!). But most of all, do they even know the fact that every single time you walked into a room, your heart and smile gave off such a calming and happy energy that none of us will ever be able to describe? Why aren't these things part of their story? These are only a few of the little things that made you... you, and I'm just wondering why they don't know about them. But I'ts because they don't know you like we did. Hell, there's even a couple of your boys that know you more than I do... and I cannot even begin to explain how much I wish I could have the chance to learn even more about you, as much as they know.

There I go again, wishing and wishing. I have to stop doing this, because these wishes, they simply cannot come true. People keep telling me that they hope we all have learned a lesson from this, but the lesson in which their speaking of means nothing to me. The only thing I have learned from this is the fact that life really is too short, and it is foolish to not take advantage of every waking chance you get to spend with someone you love. I hope everyone has learned the same thing from all of this that I have.

Before I end this, I just wanted to tell you about something... A couple days ago, the boys and I took a trip to Seneca in attempts to tear up the poker room, but you of all people know how that ends up in the end. On our way there, I thought about the first time you dragged me to Turning Stone to play in a cash game (I was so nervous and I blew a cool hundo' within minutes. I remember you laughing at me and telling me to buy back in and play my game) On the drive, I found myself in silence for minutes at a time just thinking about you, and every memory we have shared together. I'll always remember those all nighters' when we would eat pizza and drink energy drinks, grindin' it out in online poker. I'll always remember every game we ever watched together, every time you ever busted my balls, because we all know much too well the smart-ass you always were and always will be, wherever you are now. And I'll always remember that smile... the one that always lit up the room and had the ability to change a persons mood from bad to good in just seconds. 

But it's not always about remembering, it's sometimes more about the things you just cannot forget. When we were younger, back in those days when we were still considered athletes, your dad would always call you "Bonds", and I'll just never forget that. It actually makes me laugh today, 'cause you and I both know you were never going to hit one over that fence... we were just so little, on a field so big. But today, although we have grown to be much larger than those cleats we once wore, this field of life remains much larger than us, and always will. You know me bro, I aint one to believe in certain things, but the hard truth is, there are powers out there that are far greater than the grips of our hands, and this bat I'm swingin' with right now is hitting nothing, whiffing nothing but wind... but don't worry, I feel our memories in the air. I guess what I'm saying is, wherever you are man, hit one out of the fuckin' park for me- for us, and just run around the bases smiling over and over again... because one day, one day man, we'll all be waiting there at home-plate for ya'... a moment when we can all be together again. Can you do that for me Bonds? 

Although it deeply saddens me that your gone, and this stupid little letter might not ever even reach you, I just want you to know that I love you bro... we all love you so much. I'd be dammed before I ever claimed that there is a positive side to any of this, but in the grand scheme of things, I hope you know that at the end of the day, I think you may have just opened up many eyes to what it means to live again...to love again. And though it's extremely difficult to admit, I believe everything that has happened has served a greater purpose, and I know that your gone, but I want you to know that I truly think you have saved many more lives than you'll ever know...and for that, I guess the only thing left to say is...

Thank you, and we love you so damn much.

-The Omaha Kid

PS: Do you remember that time when we were playing a quick nine out at Wild Wood Country Club, and you whipped your sand wedge into the woods? Also, do you remember that club being a ladies wedge by any chance? HaHa! In the next life, or whenever I get to freakin' see you again, I want you to answer something for me... Why the hell did you even have a woman's club in your bag that day? Lol, I've been trying to figure it out for years man.

The Story of Miss Atlantic & the Moon (and how together they saved me)

Your waves, 

they crashed like gorgeous tragedies.

With your white-tips folding over 

like secrets into sand pockets,

I found relief in your soothing sounds.

My cuts,

they were from lifetimes before.

But I loved the way your salt tasted,

so I let it seep into my wounds with ease.

Together,

we scarred my skins so beautifully,

for today I swim through the air.

I remember your suffocation... 

it allows me to breathe today.

Just the other day, I watched the Rochester rainfall again...

But only this time I wasn't aloud to complain, because although I simply cannot stand the sounds of storms, it hasn't rained in an unusually long time here.  I sat in this summery lookin' chair that my mother cannot stand (she says it doesn't look good with the rest of the porch). Sitting in a still sort of silence, I listened to the way the raindrops exploded as they hit the sidewalk. I didn't understand how such a minimal noise could pierce my eardrums so beautifully. It was as if every time they landed against the pavement, they were creating a song together, and I feel like they wanted me to sing along. 

My toes began to feel much warmer than before, my legs started to tingle like they were going through acupuncture, and I dreamt I was being pricked with tiniest points of needle tips. With my body sound asleep and my mind racing at uncontrollable speeds, I endured this ecstasy and began rollin' within the memories I began to feel. Once I allowed this unknown touch to take over, my legs were lifted, and I remember leaving the porch like something allowed me to fly back in time. 

I was thrown back four years ago to a time I like to consider the demise of my inner-existence. There I was, sitting on that same porch- my porch, the one I've written about on many occasions, I watched myself there as if it is possible to sit somewhere in reality at the same time as a time before. With a handle of Nikolai at my waist, a familiar pen in hand, my face dripping sweat or tears onto loos-leaf pages, and eyes redder than hell itself, I was watching me watch myself. Him and I, I and him... we stared at each other, completely unaware of who each of us were, is, or what we would become. 

I remember those days though... I remember him; the old me. I was just a boy who had his whole world unfold in front of his eyes. It was because of broken love that left me so lost and confused with life- what it meant to live. What it meant to move forward. What it meant to feel, and what it would eventually mean to die. Bottle after bottle, pointless poem after pointless poem, I felt the death of my inner self making it's way to the surface. My motivation was ripped from my bones, and I simply could not stand in the sun anymore. The night became my heartbeat, the stars became my drugs, and I got high off the way they managed to shine through the darkness. The moon would tell me stories every night, when only he(r) and I were awake, and there were endless amounts of lessons within these many words that fell from the sky.

My arms became frail, my stomach became weak, my hair grew long over my ears, and this rugged looking beard began to hide my lips. I forgot how to speak. I forgot how to listen. I was gone, cowardly hiding behind nothing. But I felt myself inside myself, somewhere screaming from the tunnels of my heart, and when the answers eventually started to squeeze from my valves, I knew what needed to be done. 

Some would call it running away or escaping, but no one will ever understand what it has grown to mean to me. I realized that Rochester, my home, became a place of melting storms and depletion, and quickly decided that leaving is the only way to recover my love and appreciation for this place where I once released balloons into the air as a young boy. I wanted something different, a new way of living if you would. I felt the ocean calling me, screaming my name over and over, and with each folding wave I heard crash against an eastern shore, I knew their was freedom somewhere in the unknown depths of the Atlantic.

I left for Coastal Carolina in search of myself, or at least the answers to my endless list of questions. Still, after almost four years of living there, I never did find exactly what I was looking for. But it was the fact that I didn't find myself that allowed me to live again. I remember all those sunny days when I would just let the southern sun burn my body so beautifully. I remember all those nights walking the beach with my toes touching the soaked sands but barely grazing the water. But the moon, (s)he would never speak to me like before... as if silent beauty had become its only purpose up there. I felt lost in what it meant to be found, and I embraced it like the idea of death accepts disease. I killed my own inner-demise and was reborn there. 

After realizing it was never about "finding myself again", I came to the conclusion that it was always about growing, and sometimes with growth there needs to be change. Miss Atlantic, she purified my heart and flooded my dreams with purpose, and she wrapped her oceanic arms around my body tightly, and squeezed me until I disappeared, until I depleted to the tiniest grains of sand. I remembered this feeling of suffocation, a time when Rochester dug its fingers deep into my neck until I could no longer breathe. But only this time, it felt different. What was once a feeling of demise became a feeling of re-birth, and I was caught in an undertow, being tossed around in breaths of realization. 

Sometime after that, at night somewhere on the beach... the moon began building something out of sand. Packing it closely using the water from a high tide until this formation of a castle was finished. The castle was the new me. My arms covered in fight, my eyes lit like stars, the upper left part of my chest cut opened, and a silhouette figure was tinkering with my heart. I awoken to the slightest sounds sweeping the surface of Miss Atlantic. They were whispering something about how I was re-built to love again. 

It then began to rain... 

and I remember thinking how I will eventually grow to love that sound.

Your waves,

they once consumed me.

I dreamt of the wonderful 

white pockets they created,

and hid there for a while

until I was brave enough 

to be again.

To be

meant to breathe

and to breathe 

meant to drown.

You killed me...

in the most liberating way. 

                                                                            

To the Dying Art of Love... My Friend & I Have Donated Our Hearts

Back in the day (...way back when), since those first moments I chose to find relief in a pen, I have gone through many changes in the ways I write. Although it's been a long road, and I've taken on all the different challenges that come with writing in different styles, I have always stayed true to one thing, and that is how I title the things I write. Whether it was a diary entry I wrote within the coffee stained pages of a composition notebook in which I hid under my bed when I was only 15, or one of these blog posts I've been so often writing lately, titling has always been the last thing I do (because I simply never know which direction I am going, where my pen is going to take me once it touches the paper, or what keys my fingers will decide to press). I have literally done this with everything I have ever written... until now, until this moment... until this very piece of writing. 

I have no idea why I felt the need to change my method this time, but I wrote the title "To the Dying Art of Love..." long before I wrote anything else. This title sat lonely and lost on the top left corner of the page for weeks, and I have nearly broken my backspace key in attempts to fill the emptiness beneath it. But one night, after hours of drinking, one of my best friends told me he wrote something a while back, and since I was so caught up in what it means to lack the right words, I wanted nothing more than to hear what he had written. 

Since it is a good bit of writing, I was only going to show you parts of it, but I have decided to release the entire thing, because I need you to read all of it to understand where I am coming from with what'll follow. Plus, I just want it to be seen by as many people possible, because in my eyes, it is one of the most beautifully written things I have had the pleasure of reading. 
He titled it: Thoughts of a Drifting Astronaut...

"A long time ago when i was a confused, hopeless romantic teenager I was laying in bed one night. I was staring at my computer screen as i often did, and felt a strange desire to write something down... It was as if someone, inside of me, was trying to get this final thought out. As if it was a last breath, a dying credo if you will.

It went like this...
"These days I don't believe in much...
But i do believe in gravity.
Not in a scientific sense per se
Rather, as a force.
I believe that gravity tugs on the fibers of our very being.
From a gentle nudge to being knocked to the ground, gravity has shaped me.
Hell, gravity is not much different than love.
A force that is so inexplicably pure and life altering, yet can be expressed in the faintest of touches or gestures.
I believe in love, and i believe in gravity... And i have truly existed because i have experienced both to the full extent of my being"

From time to time in my life i have met people with whom i share a connection which i cannot explain.
A connection far older than them or I, as if it had been there forever and us meeting was just a formality, something to prove that irony and fate can coexist beautifully. My "acknowledgement", because understanding would give me far too much credit, of these "connections" has not only changed my perspective on life, but has given me an appreciation so vast that if i were to die... I would go knowing that it was all such a beautiful, well-orchestrated symphony of seemingly random interaction and chance, but it meant more to me than anything ever could.

Time and time again i have spent nights looking up to the sky as if it were going to share a secret. I've dreamt of what it must be like to be in the emptiness of space, utter silence, floating with no gravity: a mixture of pure bliss and terror, ecstasy and horror. To be so free, yet completely alone and free of that gravity, that love that i so deeply cherish.

When i began writing whatever exactly this is all I could think about was her... The girl who gives me a reason to dream. The girl I love more than anything in this world... Or any other for that matter. She taught me to love and has given me more than i could ever describe. So when you feel that gravity, that inexplicable force, undo your safety tether and give a gentle push off into nothingness. For both gravity and love are infinite in this breathtaking existence and are sure to grab ahold of you and pull you in."
                                                                                                 -CDP

After reading this, I was able to finish the title of this post, and I added "My Friend & I Have Donated Our Hearts" to the original title. It then became easy to write, as if the words that were once so lost, were now exploding right in front of my eyes like fireworks. I could now see the letters falling from the sky, and all that was left to do was fill this once blank-white of a page with the words that I could create from them. It's really difficult for me here, to attempt to live up to what my friend has written, so I'm not going to try. These are his words, and I am just here to merely explain what they mean to me. He deserves all of the credit. This post is for him, his words, and for that little idea of what it means to love. 

At an early age, I learned what it truly meant to feel, to hope, and to love. It's a rare thing- you know? Especially in this generation, to understand what it once meant, or what it actually means to love something, or someone. I so often feel lost in this world, as if I'm not from here or something. People think I'm crazy for thinking this, as if the belief in different worlds is ludicrous or something? Although I am lucky enough to have come from a wonderful family with parents that are still married, and a pair of grandparents who make romance movies and books actually look realistic, this still doesn't mean I don't constantly feel all the broken love that walks this earth all around us.

With these odd lives we lead, always on the move, and driven by the idea of success, our priorities have simply become fucked. What does it mean to really succeed anyway? I'm not one to believe in the cliche' thought that money can't buy happiness, because I've seen money buy tons of happiness, whether it be full happiness or not. I think you're just lying to yourself if you completely disagree. But having said that, I do believe something slightly different, and that's money can't buy love, because true love cannot be bought nor sold. Now after that dramatically long beginning, let's get to the true purpose of this post...

Love, a word that feels like heroine to the heart and razor-blades to the mind; it is one confusing idea I've grown to understand so well. I truly think that the belief in love itself is far greater than the simplistic concept of any one "God", and it is far more powerful than the hopes that a certain religion is correct. Love is fear and excitement (I believe they're one in the same). It might be much larger than any other feeling, but we can feel it, and  to say it's intangible is an utter lie. I've held love in my hands, with my fingers laced within another, and both our eyes lost in the sky. You sit there with someone you love and wonder things together, how far the sky goes, what it means to wish for something, and together, you try and understand and define what a soul really is. All around you lies complete confusion, but right in front of your eyes, within your fingertips, is this connection of love, holding the two of you together. In a way, it's like what my friend has written, love is like gravity, or at least they coexist together inside of us... deep in our souls (those things we'll never fully understand).

I have mentioned the words "To the Dying Art of Love..." because although some of us have grown to understand love, I'm constantly wondering where it has gone, or where it is hiding. I don't understand why people take this power, this feeling, and this wonderful ability for granted. We constantly pass up chances to be with people because of a minimal feeling like fear, and I just do not get it. The only fear you should ever have is not death itself (because dying is inevitable), but to die before you ever love, before you ever take a chance at it, especially if it's right in front of your eyes. Although I'd like to believe time means nothing, it still is always counting down, and when that time stops is truly unknown. But are you really willing to risk the wait?

All around us is broken love, mothers and fathers who have forgotten why they are together, and lonely people just waiting to die. Fate is a funny thing, and though it makes sense to believe we are all connected to someone else in someway, who's to say that person will always be there in the end, like, maybe their time was cut short, and then what does that mean for you? Love is not just a feeling, it is a destination, and accepting the paths to reach it, is how we return back to a world of romance, a world of love (if there ever was one...).

For this, for love, and for every misunderstanding we so often feel, I donate my heart. I give this heart. I think my friend gives his heart too. I'm not saying we are right by any means, for that would make me a hypocrite. But I am claiming that if you study our hearts, you'll feel gravity pulling you, as if the universe wants you to do much more. As if something believes that you were put here for much more than the idea of living. We give our hearts to the world, in hopes they explode and cover everyone's chests, to maybe return to the true idea of love. We give our hearts, because they're something to learn from, something to believe in. Although bruised and scarred they may be, they have touched love, and felt it's pull. We were all put here to break... and to find the pieces in anothers soul- these pieces that can make us whole again.

This Is Not a Blog Post (what exactly is writing?)

This pen begins to write, 
with no direction, nor cause.
What makes it move, 
is far beyond my knowledge,
as well as my control.

I've been writing for some time now.
Much older today then I once was,
yet just as lost, if not more, than before.
Writing, creating, and story-telling...

it's much more liberating, 
when you're closer to death.
Although death itself may be far away,
or much nearer than expected,
I cannot help but wonder,

will they give me a pen in the afterlife?
...Wherever it may be.

Like I've said before, many times, I enjoy starting off these posts with a poem (at least I think they are poems?). But having said that, while considering the title, is there truly anyway to determine what style of writing we are doing, or reading, at anytime? Of course, you can approach this question and just clap me quickly by claiming that every style of writing has distinct characteristics and requirements in which make it unique to its type, but I invite you to join me in a different approach.

The main questions to focus on here is, what is the purpose of writing in general? Is it to focus on the tedious parts that will make it a specific piece of writing, or is it all about what the reader will take away from the words, no matter its style or type? We writers (I think I'm a writer...), we fall into different categories nowadays, some professionally-based, others just crying to be heard or to "make it", and then there is also that group who keep their composition notebooks or diaries tucked beneath the quarantining likes of their bedposts. But it's not about what kind of writers we are, it's about why we feel the need to release our words, why we want them to be read (or not ever seen), and it's about what a reader can take away from them, that truly defines our purpose for ever creating them in the first place.

You wouldn't expect it, but English was never a strong point of mine in school, along with every other subject as well, so making it through twelve years of pure nonsense, and another four years of college (in which we like to believe serves a purpose, but deep down we know all too well, this is also arguable), has been nothing short of a struggle for me. Anyway, I did it and graduated blah blah blah... but this is not about academics, this is about the things I've learned along the way, in terms of writing and reading in general.

I've read countless books of poetry over the years, whether they were the ancient words of Dante', the twisted and uniquely structured stanzas of E.E. Cummings, the frowned upon yet beautiful thoughts of Tupac, or the modern styles of my favorite poets- Anis Moijgani, Buddy Wakefield, and Derrick Brown. Although all from different eras, different backgrounds, and among different styles of poetry, at the end of the day, they are all poets, all writers, and they all are just creating, or have created, words for us to simply read.

This is not just limited to poetry though, I have also read many different types of writing too.
Lately, I have been trying to read more novels, especially ones written by my favorite authors like Chuck Palahniuk, Hunter S. Thompson, and many more, and although I have learned that it takes me much longer to read a novel cover to cover than it does to read a full poetry book, I still walk away feeling the same. Also, from time to time, I enjoy reading some Shakespearean plays (even though most of the time, it's hard to understand what the hell he is saying), because it gives a complete different outlook, as if it brings the story to life for you, like watching a movie or something?

So, now that I went on that virtually pointless rant about what I read on a day to day basis, or what I have read in the past, let's talk about the title "This Is Not a Blog Post...". I called it this because of my obsessions and new love for not only reading blogs, but the confusions I face when writing them as well. After keeping up with the brilliantly written posts of AJ Leon's "Pursuit of Everything", and occasionally looking back at the earlier posts of one of the most amazing minds, Seth Goden, I have learned that even writing as free as you can when blogging, still this has some sort of structure to it as well.

In conclusion to the reading aspect, what I am trying to say here, is that everything I have read is different in many ways, but the lessons I take away from them are all the same, yet extremely different, but all useful and enlightening at the same time.

When it comes to my writing (you know, that thing I have done with every breathing-second I have had since I first learned how to use a pen), this is where I have really found the purpose of words. I recently thought that I wanted to write professionally, and since I landed a writing job as my first source of income right out of college, on top of the fact that I did it as a Marketing major, pursuing a lifelong career in writing seemed nothing short of ideal. But once I returned to reality (a reality in which is most likely very far from yours, filled with crazy dreams, and frowned upon thoughts- a different world, if you would), I have come to the liberating conclusion that I do not exactly know what writing is anymore, what it ever was, or what it will become.

They say that poetry has structure, some rhyming and metered, and others written in pros or more freely. They say that authors must understand storytelling, and have a great understanding of grammar along with some type of background knowledge of writing. They say that not everyone can be a blogger, and it takes a specific person to be able to get their point across in only a few paragraphs before completely losing the readers attention. Although these are great thoughts, but like many other situations, I must respectively disagree with their every claim.

In conclusion to the writing aspect, I'd first like to start off by saying, I'm not quite sure if I am a writer of any style, especially when it comes to the "typical" characteristics of certain types of writers. Although I have grown as a "poet", my poems have been said to be much too unorganized, unstructured, and different. But what does it really mean to be "different" anyway? I'm currently working on a novel, but like I said earlier, I simply sucked at English growing up, but does that mean I don't understand the simplistic concept of storytelling? I think that life is a story in itself, so if you allow yourself to live, you have a story, or at least know how to create one. I'm not claiming that everyone is a writer, because that is far from true, but I am attacking the point of what it really means to be a writer. Think about it, this blog post that I hope you're reading right now is far from the normal idea of a "blog". It's much too long (as you probably know, if you have made it this far), and it has poetry at the beginning and at the end of it, so how could it be a "blog"?

The main point here is, I still have your attention, and you are going to think about what you just read. I am not making any money off this, but I am gaining satisfaction from writing it, from completing it. So, the style of writing you are reading right now is completely up to you, why you are taking the time to do so, what you will take from it, etc.

We write so that you read it. How the words are laid out and how the sentences, paragraphs, and thoughts are broken apart, does not serve any true purpose in the end. We write 'cause we ourselves have thoughts and hope you are thinking the same things too, whether you agree or disagree with them, it does not matter. We write 'cause these words so often hurt our insides, stabbing our hearts, or circling our heads. We write simply because someone will read it. Someone out there wants to read it, wants to feel it, wants to understand it. We writers and readers are one within the same, both merely searching for answers...for purpose.

Wherever it may be,
above the clouds,
beneath the earth,
stuck here as ghosts,
or diminished to dust

...I will find a pen,
to write something,

from my heart.

Last Call

The loneliness lingers,
it swims through the bar
like a disease from hell.
We drink it away...

For starters, between the overly prescribed amount of muscle relaxers I am on, combined with the amount of alcohol I have consumed tonight, it is safe to claim that I am fucked up. But I met a man tonight, excuse me, we all met a man tonight that made us think a lot about life. Well, he at least made me think? I cannot speak for the others... The only thing I do know, is the saddening site of loneliness can make a man sober up within seconds.

Earlier tonight, my friends and I were having drinks down by the water. But seeing as how I am speaking of Charlotte Beach, that statement sounds much more beautiful than it really is. Anyway, we were just sitting there outside underneath the tent to protect us from the familiar falling rain that Rochester often loves to drown us in, when an old man decides to roll up on his scooter. You know, those scooters the elderly use to get around with. He parked his scooter right next to us, mumbling something about how amazing it is to be right by the water. It's the little thing in life, right?

His name was Jeremiah, which I found a little odd, seeing as he was just an ordinary looking old white fella. Jer' (what his friends call him, or.. once called him) wore rugged clothes that smelled of heavily smoked cigarettes and cheap beer, grayish-whitish locks, and a hat pinned with old U.S. military symbols. He had dog-tags that hung loosely from his neck, and a smile that I just cannot forget. He was our entertainment for the night. Well, at least some of us were paying attention to his elongated stories about fightin' in the war, and about the women he once loved. I bit the bullet and just sat there, listening to story after story about the many experiences he had, and about what could have been. I sat there an listened because I think that's all he wanted out of tonight.

He showed us a picture, a memory of before, back about thirty-somethin' years. It was a picture of him holding his daughter- his "pride and joy, reason for living, and purpose for breathing". The picture looked like a photo, that today, only a filter could produce something so antique yet wonderful. He also kept repeating the sad story of how he never got the honor of walking his daughter down the isle at her wedding, primarily because of some stupid fight that they were in at the time. With this story, I once again thought about how minimal certain things are in life, and how focusing on these silly moments could potentially cause extreme heartache and sadness in the long run. Jer' and I both agreed that this little thing we call life, is much too short to not live our days with love.

No one heard me say it, but I told this man something, I whispered to him, "I wish everyone enjoyed the beauty of life like you do". Hell, the old man deserves some recognition, he was just sippin' a Heineken, telling stories, and trying to kick it back with some youngsters down by the water. It's people like this guy that make you appreciate certain moments.

The hours counted down, and this old man who rolled up to the bar on a red scooter, was still just chillin there' aside our table, babbling about life, and all it's ups and downs. I got that feeling again, the one inside my heart, that racing sort of sensation I begin to feel whenever my mind cannot conquer my thoughts. I began to think about life again, why we're here, our purpose for taking breaths, and what it truly means to live. But then it all just came to me; it all started to make sense...

...We are simply here to live, to enjoy every moment, for our moments can be taken from us at any point, any second, during any blink of our eyes (...and O' how badly I wish our eyes never had to close). It's times like these, people like this, or the man that rolled up to bar on the red scooter, that make you realize how significant each little breath we take really is. Although i was truly trying to pay attention to his never-ending stories, I already was drowning in his words from earlier, back when he said: "this life is nothing, unless you allow yourself to enjoy it", then went on shouting something  about War, Woman, and Wounds (he said that all three make us stronger as people).

I must admit, I may have dramatized this situation a bit, but just because we were all laughing and enjoying the moment, doesn't mean that I didn't feel the deeper meaning behind all of the entertainment. Everything in life, to me, is poetry. Moments are just metaphors for us to either understand and remember, or to simply look over and quickly forget. But to me, the minimal moments spent with this man made me realize certain things about life.. all of its crazy ups and downs, its pain and suffering, but most of all, its tiny beauties and loveliness that shines through simply through a brief interaction.

Jer' went on and on, smokin' cigarettes, and sippin' beer, something about how happy he was that we talked to him. On the more depressing side of things, I thought about how lonely this man seemed, and why he felt the need to ride his scooter to the bar by the water after drinking all day
(he claimed he had started drinking at 3:00 pm, but who am I to judge? Who are we to judge? We have all started much earlier). On the more depressing side of things, I guess I realized how lonely we all are, sitting there sippin' whiskey after whiskey, beer after beer, searching our glasses for answers, in which we all know too well, will never come...

...But this is the moment when I looked around at all of my friends, my best friends, my brothers and sisters who were always there, night after night, drinkin' below the moonlight with me, talking about little things like life, and death, and War, and Woman, and Wounds. The scars we ware are nothing but tattoos of memories that we'll never forget

Did I mention that Jer' had throat cancer? He told me this while smoking a half-a-pack of cigarettes, which I just didn't understand (but once again, who am I to judge, right? Every man has a muse, some even 'til the day they day). This man has been through some shit, he has seen the darkest days of life, and he has embraced those times when even the sun has had the guts to shine at night. He knew much more about life than I did, so why wouldn't I listen?

Jer' thanked me for allowing him to sit and drink with us, and said that we were nice kids for listening to the rambling nonsense within his stories. Most people would've just ignored the poor man and sent him on his way to drink by himself, against the railing, overlooking the water. But not my friends, not my friends I tell ya', we embraced his presence and listened. We learned tonight, about all of the aspects of life, and I guess what I'm saying here, is that I won't ever forget his words. Lastly, a toast to the old man that rolled up to the bar on is red scooter: Thanks for talking to us. Although the stories were just your memories that one day we hopefully can talk about too, I hope you know we all took something away from it.

On our way out, Jer' shook my hand and gave me a hug, and I told him thank you for telling us all about your life, it was very fun and interesting to listen to. He then told me that he should have written a book... I told him something cliche like, "It's never too late", and he laughed. This is where most people would go there separate ways, but not me, not me. As a writer, or whatever I am these days, I had to ask him what the title of the book would be, if he ever wrote it. He told me, "Last Call", and I asked him why...

..He said, "In all my years of going out, and all those nights when I was bar-tending, the worst part was when someone screamed out Last Call, because that meant that everyone had to stop drinking, and had to stop talking to each other". I didn't really react. I think it's because I understood exactly what he meant by it, and I had nothing else to say. We both smiled and made our way home, he on his red scooter, me in my buddies car.

It was still raining...

Sometimes we swim in the rain,
and sometimes we drink too much.
But often, we interact with each other
to feel alive, to feel hope and happiness,
to fill that little space called loneliness.