Morning Monologue

I woke up before she did so I made sure to not disturb
her as I got out of bed. Standing in our room I felt the
slight chill of a winter morning that had been staved off
by our bodies beneathe the sheets. The traces of light
that would become the dawn were making themselves
known. She was breathing softly and no doubt warmer
than myself. What was she dreaming? Even if she woke
up right then she might not remember or might not want
to say. I know that would have been the case with me. I
do not usually remember dreams but on occasion I do.
Our minds are ceaseless in their inventiveness and work.
But are dreams merely that? Are they truly just the mind
unbound playing self-generated films for us? Would it be
too strange to perhaps interpret these as visions of past
lives or other states of existence for which we have no
rational explanation? I surely don't have an answer for
that. She sleeps and dreams. I am awake and no longer
dreaming. What if we were merely lives caught in the
dream of some other sleeping being in the universe?
That might be a stretch but I cannot disprove it. Then
again, a rational mind has no need to worry but how
rational are we at any given time?

King of Los Angeles

You could often see King roaming the streets
of Los Angeles during the day
and taking up residence in one of its bars
during the evening. His shaggy beard
hid his face well and grew
up to his eyebrows. He didn't really have
an apartment-
he mainly crashed on couches when he could.
His backpack held almost all
of his belongings. He didn't feel too bad
about it. He was out here and he had made
a go at it, had tried his damn best
at being in a band, at singing his fucking
head off about his life, his drinking,
the women he fucked, the women
he loved, the women and friends
who eventually grew to see through
the shit and moved on.
He was a nice guy-
it was hard to argue that he wasn't,
he just fucked up a lot.
Whenever I would see him
he was usually drunk
or on his way to getting drunk.
He was always coming and going.
I stopped paying attention to his whereabouts
because honestly
I had my own shit to worry about.
I hear he's still in town,
still singing, still drinking,
still fucking
things up on accident
and on purpose.
I can't encroach on his dreams
and methods,
I barely know what mine are
or if I even know what the hell
I am doing. Chances are
the next time I see him
I'll pull out my flask
of cheap whiskey
and offer him a long pull
on the only burn that seems
to pull us back from the darkness.

When a secret expands it can never contract.

Blurring

I texted C. to find out
if it was true about M.
She texted that it was.
I asked if M. was ok. As good
as she was going to get, she said.
C. and I were meeting that night
in downtown to get some drinks.
I always thought she was amazingly
beautiful, the kind of beauty
you couldn't help but think about
over and over. There was never
any real chance for the two of us
to go beyond our established norm
and that was fine. I loved her company.
We ended up meeting an hour later
than we had planned but given
the circumstances, understandable.
I told her I would be sitting out back
when she arrived.

She set her purse on the table.
Are you ok, I asked.
Yeah, she said as she reached
for my pack of cigarettes.
I pulled out my lighter
and flicked it to life,
just below the tip.
C. and M. were very close,
they were family.
M.'s life was inversely
proportional to her beauty.
She was never content until
the candles were a melted
waxy mess.

I don't know what else I can do
about her. I love her so much
but she keeps doing this.
I worry but I don't know if I can
keep this up. It's exhausting.

She looked away and took
a long drag and held it in.
I told her I'd be right back,
that I was going to get us
some drinks.

As I waited for the bartender
to bring me my pint of beer
and her whiskey coke (her drink
of choice), I thought about
all the times I had been around M.
I first met her at a birthday party
for C. a number of years back.
She wore fishnet stockings
that rode up under a clinging
leopard print dress.
We both got drunk that night
and chatted away.
I was smitten. I asked
for her number, she gave it.

I took the drinks back to our table.
C. was fidgeting with her phone.
Any new news, I said.
No, she said.
We held our drinks and I said,
to better days.

M. and I eventually wound up
going out not too long after.
I remember picking her up
from her apartment
and seeing her walk out
in a beautiful mod dress.
I had never had a woman
carry herself with such determined
confidence. She would tell me
soon after that she was not ready
to date anyone so soon after a breakup.
It may have been true
but I think it was her way
of rejecting me without having
to be unkind. In any case,
I appreciated the lie.

After a few more drinks
and a few more hours
C. asked me,
do you think M. will be ok?
I mean, not just after this,
but in the long run,
do you think she'll be fine?

I looked at her, too drunk
to be anything but honest.
I don't know
but I hope so, I said.
I hope so.

Myth & Fact

Perfection is a non-
existent state.

It's attainment, myth.

Death is constant,
endless, impartial,

a transition, to what?

Silly me, silly you,
silly, fretful creatures.