ledtkey

this is a first draft from today....any and all comments are appreciated

Fact vs. Fiction

"Depression: Fact vs. Fiction"

reads the subject line.

I've read it a dozen times.

Not the email,

the subject line.

Why I don't open it,

Why I can't open it

I do not know.

Am I afraid I'll

discover I am depressed?

Am I afraid I'll

find i'm just self-indulgent?

Am I afraid I'll

find neither.

No answers, only questions.

The light

I love it when

the light appears

at the end of

the tunnel.

sometimes it's

predictable

like the rising

of the sun.

other times,

abrupt

like a meteor

tearing across

the sky

at midnight

whichever,

deliberate or

spontaneous,

affords me

the light

to see my love.

OK, here's something I wrote a couple years ago after a bad break up. Came across it today and thought I'd share. Hope you enjoy.

trailer park heart break

my heart is held together

by baling wire and duct tape.

rednecked to keep beating

but not in what i would call

one piece.

There is....

there is peace in

doing

what you should,

when you should.

there is fulfillment

in knowing

you've done the right thing

in spite of yourself.

no, i don't want

to do what is right.

no, i don't want

be be a good man.

i want to be selfish,

i want to be arrogant,

i want what i want

because i want it.

but i know,

i don't think,

i don't feel,

i know there is more

than just me.

there is goodness

there is justice

there is decency

that is only found beyond

my world,

beyond my rights.

and that joy

is sweetest when

it is freely given

when i don't

want to give it.

I'm not happy w/the ending at this point, but like i said this is a first draft. all comments welcome.

The Second

Sitting here composing,

myself,

I realize

I love the second.

Though never as bountiful

As the first

Obviously,

It is more rapturous.

It is the focus,

The attention to

Every touch,

Every caress.

The sheer intensity it takes

To reach that point again

(and again?)

Yes, I love the second

Almost as much as I love

That you take me there.

Gone, just Gone

I once had

a great poem.

A beautiful sonnet

composed in

my head.

But when I

sat to write it out

the words were gone.

I like

i like messy

sweaty, groaning,

moaning,

those moments that take

you right to the edge

and then make you

finish yourself.

make you fill

in the gaps.

or is it feel

in the gaps?

i like to be

thoroughly exhausted

and refreshed

at the same time.

i like to sit,

to lie, to relax

in the consciousness

of knowing i have

been taken to a place

few know and

fewer truly

appreciate.

that's what a good

poem does for me.

A friend of mine e-mails me words of the week from her office. Today when I got them I decided to see if I could write a poem containing each of them. The following is the result. Hope you enjoy.

A Poem with Your Words

My excitement

palpable

A few days

w/o affectation

a few days

w/o delusion

my heart

enfolded

in your

enclosure

those outside

listen

envious

of our

hermetic whispers

I miss my Daddy

I miss my Daddy.

Not my father

he's still alive.

Not my Dad or Pops,

I play golf w/him

as often as possible

or watch football

with him on holidays.

I miss my Daddy.

The bold confidant

man I could turn to

when I was scared.

The man who had all

the answers,

even when he didn't.

The man who,

with a single look,

could tell me

everything was going

to be ok

or that I was in trouble.

The man i never understood

but always loved.

I miss my Daddy

Come in, Sit, Relax

You've made your writing to difficult

i say to myself.

it's become a task,

an undertaking

a chore like paying the bills

or trimming your nose hair.

relax.

the words are your friends

the paper their home

into which you are

readily welcomed.

go, visit, relax

breathe in their scent

savor their offerings.

find the right words,

the right friends.

and when you find them

enjoy their company

Untitled Crazy Mom Poem

Your mom only acts sane

because her thinking is not cluttered

by this myth called love

that first screws with your heart

then your genitals

and finally your head.

(ofcourse sometimes the first

two are reversed)

regardless the point is

your mom, my mom

are as crazy as the rest of us.

I shot her.

I walked in and

found her sitting there.

The way she always had.

Only today, I looked

at her with disgust.

She had changed.

At first it was slow,

A phrase here,

A gesture there.

Nothing I could even

put my finger on.

Only I could feel it.

I could feel her teeth

Eating my soul away,

Trying to change my values,

Trying to change my life.

Today, I couldn’t let that happen.

So I did it.

I reached in my drawer

And pulled out “Little Elvis”

The .25 caliber pistol

I keep for protection.

I felt my arm rise

But not the weight of the gun.

I heard the pop

But didn’t feel the recoil.

I saw the smoke

But couldn’t smell the powder.

Then I sat, confused,

Alone, terrified.

I did it.

I shot her.

I killed my effin’

Television.

I wish

I wish

I were texting you

to tell you how my day is,

how much i loved

holding you last night.

How I can't wait to

come home to you,

to talk with you

in the kitchen

as we make dinner.

To go out on the patio

and talk over a glass of wine

as fireflies dance

in the waning light.

To lean over

and kiss you.

to lead you upstairs,

draw your bath,

wash your back,

watch you shave.

To help you

out of the tub

dry you off

not let you dress

Because I'm leading you

to our bed.

To lay you down,

kiss you from

head to toe,

make love like

this is our last night

and then wake with the dawn

to begin the perfect day

all over again.

Dad's Paying for his Mistakes

I hate being alone

I hate feeling like…this.

I hate feeling like if I give

You the option you

Won’t want to see me.

You say that’s not it.

But the fact of the matter

Is given the option

You don’t come.

So I won’t make you.

I won’t make you spend time w/me.

You hate me when I do that.

And I would rather be alone

Than make you hate me

Good Poets

I hate good poets.

Always reminding me

Of what I cannot say.

I hate their metaphor

I hate their flair for words

Their turn of phrase.

I hate them reading my poems

Looking down upturned noses

With permanent sneers

Where their mouth should be

I wish just once

They would write something crappy.

Maybe then I could stomach them.

Lord Henry had it right

Good poets are boring

Slaves to their lexis.

Give me the bad ones

Ones with passion

Who rarely venture past love.

Those are the ones I like

The ones who aren’t afraid

To go out and live the life

They can not write.

Dumb Sometimes

I spend the lions share

of the morning on the phone

frustrated,

just this side of angry

because no one will,

can

answer my questions.

to me it's simple request

change the date,

change the amount,

you're my bank

you can do this.

no, i can't understand you.

will you let me finish?

i need to call who?

Fine, through gritted teeth.

leave a message

and you'll call me back when?

GREAT!

yeah, thanks for calling me back.

this is all i need.

oh, wait, i need to call who?

but i...i just talked to them

they said call you.

thanks for your help,

none of it.

check the website one more time

i don't think i clicked this tab.

oh...damn...is...this what i hope it is?

man, i am dumb sometimes.

And with

and with a whisper i heard you shout to my heart.

and with a caress i felt you pull me towards you.

and with a smile you brightened all that had become darkened.

and with a kiss i became eternally yours.

Alright, this question is race related so if you're easily offended please go away. Ok, for those of you who are still around and who are non-Native American, Indian, etc. I'm a Native American male and am just interested in perceptions. So, when you hear someone say they are Indian what is the 1st thing to come to your mind. Please be honest, even if it's unflattering. I'm a big boy, I can handle it. Besides that, I asked right?

Love on a Thursday Morning

Love on a Thursday morning

is a quick peck on the lips

as I get out of bed to brush

my teeth.

It is bringing you a cup of

coffee, just the way you like it,

to help you get warm and

get out of bed.

It is making sure the kids

have their backpacks, with their homework,

lunch money, coats and hats

as they head out the door.

Love on a Thursday morning

is boring, it's routine, it's mundane.

It's life. It's our essence.

It's who we are and what we do.

And it's one reason

why I love you.

Right, Left and Indifferent

today i'm tired

i'm tired of the

reved up

souped up

sexed up

hooked up

pimped out

cookie cutter

plastic mold of life

i'm being sold.

i've eaten the

grilled chipotle

chicken caesar salad

of american life

and found it bland.

i've had my fill of

non-fat soy decaf

half milk

half foam lattes

and i'm neither awake

nor refreshed.

i've written

in starbucks

and not impressed anyone

let alone

myself.

my ipod plays

the right songs

as i watch myself

in the mirror

of the gym.

i look right

smell right

dress right

think right

still i'm left

left alone

left wanting

left empty