motorcycle rides

I liked the days you rode your bike places. I liked hearing you from down the road. I always got excited, and, sadly, I still do when I hear one approaching.

reach back. rub your fingers down my leg. I clinch onto the roll around your waist.
fingers creep up and down,
up and down.

look back, to make sure I am still there. I smile, I fucking can't help it. happiness is motorcycle ride days. riding down the roads, sun beaming through the trees.. blinding, invigorating.. I plan my escape. a rush through my whole face, where should I jump? I never got the nerve to do it, but I would now, if I got the chance.

that time you stole colored pencils, one hundred and eighty dollars worth of pencils. karma, hello, it's me. I called and called, but you couldn't answer. your brand new phone was in the backpack that fell off the back of your bike on the way home from work. the pencils. the phone. the backpack. a certain amount of your dignity...gone, lost forever somewhere on chapman hwy.

goddam what I wouldn't give to be riding thru the streets of our neighborhood, waiting on you to cruise by on your new bike. I got on the back with you the first day you got it. you fell off the bike earlier that morning at motorcycle class--but I still got on. I was not scared. I wasn't ever scared with you by my side.

forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

wal-mart

is depressing

existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.
[vladimir nabokov]

most of american life consists of driving somewhere and then returning home, wondering why the hell you went.[updike]

what is even going on anymore??

because i'm not sure..

cynical

Cynicism (Greek: κυνισμός), in its original form, refers to the beliefs of an ancient school of Greek philosophers known as the Cynics (Greek: Κυνικοί, Latin: Cynici). Their philosophy was that the purpose of life was to live a life of Virtue in agreement with Nature. This meant rejecting all conventional desires for wealth, power, health, and fame, and by living a simple life free from all possessions. As reasoning creatures, people could gain happiness by rigorous training and by living in a way which was natural for humans. They believed that the world belonged equally to everyone, and that suffering was caused by false judgments of what was valuable and by the worthless customs and conventions which surrounded society. Many of these thoughts were later absorbed into Stoicism. [wikipedia]

someone the other day was trying to convince me that I was too cynical. I felt guilty, at first. then I thought about why feeling guilty was silly. what's so wrong with being cynical? I don't think i'm perfect, trust me. but I certainly won't think you're perfect either.. forgive me now. perhaps, my whole opinion on this matter will shift someday. but, for now, this is how I feel.

and only control freaks can't handle a cynical person. these people put a negative label on the word. cf's:: if i'm not happy with a situation, please remember that my feelings have nothing personal to do with you. I let you feel. let me feel..

frustrating, no?

"Directions: Heat and serve. Please do not overcook."

someboy

some boy, in some town was in some house. in a room, a small, foggy-smelling room. he thought about cliches, as he felt his heart pounding back and forth against the walls of his chest. he licked his lips, laid his head back, then shook it furiously. there was no use, he thought. this wouldn't ever work. no one would let it.

someone else walked in. the door creaked as it shut. in some room, he was about to come alive. or he would die.