Roads

There's this lady.

I've seen her before, I'm sure of it.

Sixties, white/grey hair, black rimmed glasses, potentially liberal Jewish type of face. She wears a white long sleeved shirt. Her husband is slightly taller, white balding hair, glasses.

She looks happy at the Italian restaurant; so perfectly Californian.

I imagine she has a garden. The kind that's perfect. She grows all the things she wants and they turn out just right. She reads intelligent books on public policy and Hemingway. She hardly uses the television. Her kids are grown. They do important jobs in San Francisco.

I look at her and want to cry. She's so perfect. I'm sure she's not, you know, no one is. But still.

She and her husband are discussing...presidential candidates? The new tax code? Anything, but important.

I want to be them. To eat pasta. To have the security. To be done with it all.

All in good time, my dear. All in good time.

Symphony 6

My house is light

Behind my eyes, where everything is real
The garden grows well but nothing is ripe
It's always sunny in those rooms
The colors are perfect
The decor is messy flawless

Such am I.

In the Barrel of a Gun

In my head this post makes perfect sense.

I've been wondering lately what it means to find your "place" or "purpose" in life. It's been an introspective time. A time to chide myself for thinking all these grand ideas without ever acting on them. A time to write down all the things I want to do and how I want to shape my life. And most importantly, to actually fucking do them. It's changed a bit over the past couple months.

You've made me rethink a lot of things. Learn some patience. Look deep inside at what makes me tick. I think that, above all else, will be the hallmark of this...relationship?

You told me you found your purpose. Are you sure? Or did you just find some activities and people that make you happy? (Or is that the purpose?) Does anyone ever truly find it? Especially in this medium-big city, with all these damn people, our meaningless jobs, and constant search for companionship in the futile attempt to prevent loneliness. Because for some reason, being on our own is ultimately scary. Why? Some evolutionary yearnings?

I have the best life. But it still doesn't feel like enough. I'm constantly rattling around in my own head. When is enough enough?

I need to step out of this for a bit. Take a physical and mental vacation. I need to step out of you.

Out of my head.

For You

There are spikes in my seat
I can't sit here
I can't sit still

I'm buzzing

Be quiet so I can concentrate.

Sun It Rises

I can tell you the way it'll work out.

I want summer breezes through four open car windows. Slushies, ice cream, craft beers on bikes, fancy cocktails when we decide we need a dressed-up night. Jazz at Brown Palace, dancing at Skylark, brunch at Racine's.

Camping in the heat but we still don't let go of each other. I'll think I hear a bear and you'll cuddle me til I fall asleep. We'll watch the stars and I'll point out what I remember from high school astronomy.

We'll get lost in each other's words and attempt to comprehend the recesses of the other person's equally complicated mind. We'll marvel at how we're the same and yet so very different. We'll discuss politics, the suburbs, where we want to vacation next.

It'll be my hand in yours through rain in Seattle, on a boat in Maine, on a country porch in Texas, sipping sweet tea and enjoying the simplicity of the moment and life's wild ups and downs, like the back and forth of the porch swing.

It'll be rock concerts with happy endings, the piles of earplugs on the table when we get home and we'll laugh at how fucking old we are. Then we'll retreat to the bedroom and prove ourselves wrong.

Heartbeats

It's the bubble.

It glows a little
Rainbow colors on all sides of this situation
It floats the way it wants
Moved by wind
Or the same hot breath you blow when we talk close

Don't touch it
You can't alter its path
The bubble is bigger than you
Step back

Step. Back.

You know what'll happen if you touch it.