Warning: Nostalgia to follow

The last time I saw her, we spent an afternoon at the park. She was joining up with the Navy and her recruiter told her two things: chew gum, and start running. So we ran and walked, and chewed gum, and talked. We went to high school together, hung out, but I can't remember if she's two years younger than me, or three, or what. Don't ask why or how it came to it, but I threatened to throw her shoes over the baseball fence, to which she responded, "go ahead, I'm Mexican; we're good at climbing fences." A couple minutes later, as we walked around the park, she giggled, ran over to a drainage ditch and jumped it. I looked at her sideways and raised an eyebrow. "We're good at crossing rivers, too."

Whenever the word 'Mexican' comes up in a conversation (or on the radio, or television, or in print), some little part of my mind snaps straight to her. Some sizeable part of my heart goes there, too. I try to not regret the things I've done and try to not do things that I might regret, but I can't help it with her. I regret losing touch with her. I regret not being closer to her. I regret a lot of things when it comes to her.

We brought in a Colombian woman for portraits this morning for an upcoming article, and there was just something about her that threw me. I can't help thinking about her right now, and thinking about her means feeling that slow ache of regret. I wish I had a picture of her somewhere, and I might, but it'll be on film, which means it's somewhere at my parents' place. Mrs Pomare, I believe, is what she'll look like in ten years or so.

Janet, I miss you.

Spur'o'el'momento words

I get a dry taste in my mouth
when we talk on the phone
and there's a hollow behind my
eyes when I think about you.
It's sappy bullshit you don't want
to hear, but you were a home
for some part of me that's moving
around the heartlands.
Roaming is lonely, especially in
the ether of romance, so excuse
me if part of me doesn't vibe
right at night when we talk.
It's hard to watch a home
with new owners, when your
memories are still somewhere
in the attic.

Sigh...

Not my best night ever. I need more work on flash.

Sigh.

Anyway, something from three years ago.

Afraid of the Dark

Who am I?
Who the hell knows.
I don’t stand
in the light of labels
which fall and curl
like leaves in the fall,
when those “enlightened”
feel inclined to
fit me in their
design for life
like a purpose-built
part, no worries if it
breaks down,
we’ll just order
another up.
I see those
disparaging looks
from well-lit nooks
toward these few,
proud, old and new,
loud, soft, something’s
a little skewed with
these, those, us
that walk the
shadowed expanse where
the “enlightened” ones won’t
dance. But those and we that
walk the abyss
know life, know death,
know the kiss
that makes life livable
for those tight-lipped
ones in the light,
who can’t, ‘cause their
ethics, morality, mechanics,
keep them from
preaching truth from perception,
can’t shout about
life, liberty, and the hunt
for a dream.
Scared, meek, mild, wild,
it’s a generation
generating nothing but the
same damn people;
like masturbation,
we’re just screwing ourselves.
I’ve never met
a future Churchill
since being a bulldog
ain’t no thrill, but
too many Paris’s, Pitts,
Simpsons and gridiron stars,
“thugs” driving speed-bump
scraping cars,
people like scars
on the skin of
this society, skin
so thin you
can see straight through
and tell it ain’t so
deep; them I see
and they see me
and they’re scared
because I’m invisible
here in the dark.
Me and free, right here,
colorblind and politically
incorrect, perfectly uncool
rules that ain’t so rigid.
Love white, black, brown
and everything I left out.
That kiss in the dark
don’t determine by
color, creed, or clairvoyant divinity
but the “enlightened” types
shake fingers, tell me
I’m wrong for this reason,
that reason, any reason, just
don’t rock the boat.
I don’t need
diffused, reflected,
confused, rejected
light, it’s wrong.
And besides
I ain’t afraid of the dark.

Verbal meandering Numero Uno

Untitled (hey what'd you expect?)

I wonder if somebody’s watching me
As I sit with a wine-flushed face
In boxers too tight around the thighs
Watching my blank computer screen
On my table that doesn’t fit my apartment.
I wonder if they’ve been stealing
Some of my wine as too much
Is gone for a single night’s glass,
Or maybe it was just me
And I’ve lost the notion of moderation.
I wonder if they’ve been watching me
Watching the stylus and pad
And the blank slate on the screen
That refuses to be trampled over
And prefers its perfect white.
I want to know if anybody’s watching
When I finally take off the boxers
And resign myself to another night
Of long howling music and a cold bed
After a warm shower and a cold walk
Across a cold hard floor.

And why won’t they say hello?