How is value measured?

I linked something I wrote rather than explaining that something. And that person found themselves on the page, reading multiple posts. And they ask me, why aren’t you a writer. Which is kinda insulting. Well meaning and I understood what they meant, but insulting. Because, I am a writer. Obviously.

But what they mean is why am I not doing that for money. For a career. And I said, well it doesn’t pay well. And that’s true enough that people accept the answer.

And in some ways, I do wish it were my career but not if I was made to write at the behest of others. And that limits me. To the rolls of the dice. Because the things I best write are rants and poetry.

Though the better reality is that I’ve been paid beyond funds by my writing.

It’s been my therapy. It’s been the only constant that I count on. It has brought me to many people who I love. And some are still in my life.
More than that, I’ve been told how what I’ve written meant something to people. That it made their lives better. And even further than that.

So, as an artist, what else could I really ask for?
Financial success doesn’t make an artists career. Instead it’s those lives that the art has touched.
And I know in that regard, at least for the past, I am successful.

Not by finances or by standard measure. But in truth. In the lives who have been positively affected.

I am a writer. I am a poet.

It’s enough, I think.

Dream within dream, awake whole

It is first through the dissolution of self which allows us to become truly individual. When we cease seeing through the singular lense of our ego, when those concepts dissolve, we are free to be our truest selves. Both connected to the all, the totality of being, and as a self defined beacon of being. Found at last, without selfish desire. We are allowed behind the scenes and setpieces of physical reality and instead can experience the endless wonder.

But the most important bit, is to come back. To once again inhabit the physical self, limited, but with a knowledge of the possible. It is in the knowledge of the possible that we can begin to see the impact the all.

In the infinite expanse, sentience may not be unique. But you, the individual you. The truly connected and, most importantly, awake dreamer are. You are unique in all the worlds. Each of us is unique in all of the worlds. Don’t see this as platitude. As opiate dreams for the positivity mindful mafia. Instead, hold a truth inside of you.

Carry it with you. Each day you are aware, is a day that you are perfection. The perfection of being singular. Of being all. Each day which is too hard. Too rough. When external life and the demands it places on us for mere existence. When these things drag you away, dream. And remember. You are more than your shell. Than this vehicle of meat and sinew. Revel in being.

You are alive!

I missed a post.

It occurs to me that I missed a post on Monday. For the first time in more than 3 years…

On the one hand, I can justify it by saying that yesterday was a crazy day and I stopped at the end and just passed out.

On the other, I have to decide if that is just a bullshit excuse. If being tired and busy excuses a failure of honor. Of a promise made.

And I have to say, it does not.

That may seem harsh. That lapses occur and that things sometimes fall apart.

But

The reality is that I thought several times yesterday of writing or posting something and I chose not to.

We make time for the things that matter to us.
Fundamentally, that is what this is.
While my writing matters, it is the interaction with others that I miss. And my page has become a ghost town of likes thrown out like flowers. And I sit by the passing parade, alone.

I’m more connected now than I have ever been and yet I feel so alone. I feel like I’m just getting my feet as those that I love are moving into new phases. And leaving me behind.

And I feel no jealousy for them…but I do feel this dull ache of everything changing and being lost in the background.

A fallen leaf, once part of the community, drifting down, away from succor into the dying light of autumn.

Hard to build a future on the too live sea

I can’t let go; It’s a problem
Or it’s not; I don’t know
There are those won’t ever leave
Even if we’re never together
They are mine
Even if I’m not theirs

Does that mean that I’m too tethered to the past to move forward
I don’t think so
I hope not
Even though I ache with the thought of somehow moving out beyond their ability to call me back

These aren’t beautiful words or artful phrases
Just a baring of heart and soul
It’d be simpler if I could hide behind the lilt of wordplay
I just don’t have the energy to do so

When I love, I love complete, complex
And with gleeful discovery
And when I’m without
Never without love
Without partner
I don’t know
Sometimes I become stronger and more able to take the world on
And sometimes I’m just a small boat on a infinite ocean
Seaworthy but at any given moment, taking on water

I suppose I’m just a shifting sands dancer
And lately I’ve lost the song

Last chance to close my eyes

I have the easiest time connecting with people who read my writing. Because in my writing, with how I write, there is no place to hide. If you are afraid? Write it. Feeling something? Write it. Thinking about anything? Write it. It’s all there. Years of me. Thoughts and feelings. So people come to me past all my defenses and pretenses. And I think are probably surprised. Because all that writing is just me. Without exaggeration, but at a distance. In person it’s more. Without the intercessor of the screen or the page, how can it be helped but to be even more real?

Long sharp note, played slowly underpinned by minor key resonance

Feeling tired
Too tired to wake up
Back hurts from work out
Stomach empty and cramping
Back into a groove of hurting to be normal
This normal
My normal
Loving all my people
Fumbling to help
Sitting alone
Hoping to hear from people you’ve reached out to
Never really expecting an answer
But stopping myself from wandering down that razor blade road
Just wanting more sleep
Just wanting to get going
Get the day of work over with so that I can get on living
Hoping when I get home that someone will be waiting
Knowing they won’t be
Can’t be
Physically gone or physically distant
Doesn’t matter
Same result
Talking on messenger
Only connection from day to day
Broken lines of communication
Needing to hear from you
Knowing it won’t happen
This is my normal
Walking tall
Slight smile on lips
Meeting eyes
But not intruding
Going home alone
Wondering
Calm strength hiding the churn of yearning
But it’s normal
My normal
Ready to be broken again

Waking from a dream, realizing a truth

Have you ever remembered something that changed how you thought about your past?

I know that many of my readers have. Generally those memories rip you apart. They are wounds hidden by scars that the mind has hidden.

My dream this morning featured a man from my past I hadn’t thought about in a long time. We fell out of touch. Basically because I felt he was using my generosity too much. Something that was probably true but I never told him about it. I just let the friendship drift off.

But this man was someone who I was kind to for no ulterior motive. No profit was to be had from helping him out. And we used to hang out and talk and go to raves monthly. This was when I was much younger.

I’ve always thought that the man I was prior to Morgan was a monster. And, viewing things from a certain, even common, perspective that’s true. But there were also this man and a few others who I was generous with my time and availability.

My friend had a bad home life. He was homeless most of the time. I can remember, at the end of some nights where we had gone out, that me taking him home consisted of taking him to a particular dumpster behind a office building. Because that was where he was living.

I would buy him food. He would shower at my house when we would hang out there. For a couple of years there he was one of the few people in my life not tied to family or the job.

One day he told me that his uncle had died and left him a place in Hawai’i. I hope that was true and that he is living there off his uncle’s money, like he said. After he told me that, I never heard from him again.

I can picture everything about him. Where he lived, all the various places. His presence. His laugh. The sound of his voice. But I can’t remember his name.
That makes me sad. Like he’s lost somehow.

But he was in a dream tonight. And despite the content of that dream, which is complicated and I won’t get into. Despite that I woke remembering all the little things that I did to try and help him. And this was pre Morgan. So, the generous, kind man. The man I’ve thought for years was the product of my harrowing. Existed before her.

Maybe that’s who I am. I won’t say that I am not the other, the man of darkness and blood. But that it was, apparently always tempered by light.

I’ll never be a sunlight creature. My heart and thoughts churn too heavy and turgid. But neither am I a creature of absolute darkness, nor(apparently) was I ever. So here I am. A creature of the twilight.
The grey. Between one thing and another.

But knowing that if I fall, it won’t be into complete darkness. Instead, there will be a path out. Forged of the things that I am.

Knowing your experiences, your memories. Accepting them. Sometimes they burn away who you are and break your mind and world. Sometimes they remind you that the false image built on fear and despair is just that, false.

Is this some weird form of insecurity?

I think I may be bad at flirting
But not really bad but just because
I’m not flirting
Or I am but I’m not playing games
or something
I’m just talking and saying what I’m thinking
And what I’m thinking is that I see you
And in seeing you
I see something wonderful
And I say hey, this thing about you is really awesome
But I don’t follow up because I’m not flirting
Not to say not interested
Just not playing a game
I know that sounds like bullshit
Or like a game in and of itself
I’m just being sincere and people say kind or nice
And I am just like, ‘huh?’
Cause I’m just saying what I feel
Not trying for an outcome or to be seen
I’m a weirdo
I’m aware

Slips the day

Waking up regretting the decision
Mind churning for what it doesn’t have
Reliving past mistakes as a movie reel
Procrastinating
Drawing out the time before getting out of bed
Cool air conditioned fan sped wind
Warm blankets
Dreading the day

Flipping up out of bed
Padding into the bathroom
Shower almost hot enough to burn
Water off reminded of the difference between winter and this artificial cool
The difference between dreading that forgot to turn off the fan and reveling in it

Sitting on bed
Combing out hair
Losing time to jotting down just a few words
Feel of cloth on skin
Smooth and welcoming
Dry and warm
Button up dress shirt
Scuffed shoes needing a shine
Heart heavy remembering waking up to a text from you
Nothing today, yesterday
Tomorrow?
Diet coke in a metal tumbler
An extra for later

Brief war with self
Music, too heavy with emotion, no time now to rage, scream or cry
Audiobook, lose self in another’s fantasy problems
Truck idling rough
Engine problem? Simple or expensive
Or just old

Driving in
Core self falling away
Sharper edges press forward
Compartmentalization
Existential pain hides beyond alleyways of doors
Emerge darker
Deadlier
Without care
Come against me now
Know painful failure

Work
People I love being ground away
Office drama
Bad people rising to the level of their incompetence
Bad leaders
All a slow burn

Done

Dreading going home
Going home means empty
Means that this powerful version of self slips
Piece by piece
But my cat is waiting
At least she loves me

Annual reexamination ’18

I’ve been reexamining things. What I want and what I want to do. And my thinking is this, maybe I won’t be a commercial success. Hell, how many poets are commercial successes? And that’s what I am. A poet. Sure, I write short stories and erotica but that’s not what I come back to. It’s poetry. It’s always poetry.

So what do I want?
I want two primary things for my life. I want to be with someone who falls as deeply in love with me as I fall for them. And I want to be with them. I’m pretty good at finding the former, it’s the ‘be with them part’ that gives me trouble.

And my complicated love life notwithstanding, I want to write. I want to write poetry that has people saying, “yeah, me too.” That causes goosebumps when you hear me speak it. I want a poem I write to be some piece that lives with someone. That is what I want. Money and fame are not worth what we ascribe. I want to be impactful to the lives of the people who read my work. Maybe not all, probably even not most, but to the few that read and this poem is what they needed. This resonates.

I suppose I want to create beauty. And connect with people who connect to my work.