Archive for love

I Don’t Engage

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by JC

I was out tonight, and she was thirsty,

Her man right there, she came,

And offered me…a smoke so hot…

I said “no thanks, I’ll not,”

I don’t engage in horn the fool–cuckold, that fool–that fool.

I don’t engage in horn the fool, let time set that fool free.

This was not nice, you know,

No slice, you know, of pie.

But she stepped off, to stay,

Now all I say, is “k.”

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Time to get a Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by JC

The building I’m in looks just like the city outside. It’s a library but it’s full of people, stone, glass, and metal, and the shelves are heighted and arranged just like the structures off the street.

This is my sandbox. I’m trying out a new self, and I want to keep the experiment contained, focused for now.

There is an architect named Rich Shepherd my age who looks just like me in the same city. I’ve always had a visual way of interacting and an appreciation for space. Good find.

“Hello, Maggie,” I said to the  the curly-haired, ginger, early-forties librarian behind the counter.

“Sih-r,” she broke during that single syllable like: sih-she took off her glasses and dipped her chin while keeping eye contact-r. Her shoulders jerked up and down a bit, along with her hips. This one’s sensitive, potentially attracted, and/or neurologically defective. Any case, she’s a find!

“First, I like your scarf—it looks breathable. Second, I’m an architect and I can’t help but be inspired by this place as such—or you.” I smile.

She dries up instantly—it’s obvious.

“Just saying.” I walk on to fiction.

There, I see a girl. I say she’s a girl because she looks about twenty. I’m twenty-seven at the time.

She’s reading Cat’s Cradle, which I don’t like at all—too “why did he write this,” for me. But I understand the need to taste overrated stink in order to recognize it, and that’s where she is at. She’s cracking up laughing.

“I’m reading The Da Vinci Code. So exhilarating.” I wasn’t, and it sucked; I just took a cynical, sixty-forty chance.

“Fuck off, bitch.” She says, never taking her eyes off the page.

“I’m an architect, you know…”

She’s not listening.

On to self-help; desperation can’t hurt.

There she is—reading Dr. Phil, around forty-six years old, no ring on her finger, once attractive but rendered underwhelming by excessive empathy. I’m gittin’ laid tonight!

“I love him. I love the suspense element of his show: ‘what you nied to do is…more Dr. Phil after words from our sponsors…Welch’s grape juice is now fortified with chia seed <lip smack>…what’s right for you!’  that bitterness of minor abandonment warms my heart and sweetens the inevitable sweetness every time.”

“You’re a sardonic dickhead. Dr. Phil is a genius. Why are your pants stuffed? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a fake torso that makes you look forty pounds heavier than you are? Seriously, who does all that at the same time?”

Time to get a dog.

Enough

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on February 18, 2013 by JC

Will I always need a fucking blue book to break up with someone?

The desperation I’ve seen recently puts my d down like near-freezing water.

What’s with this need to have any relationship as long as it’s defined that way? Do they grow out of it?

In Love on a Boat

Posted in literature, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2013 by JC

I

It’s fun, being in love and on a boat. I was, a long time ago. That was when I knew a woman who was happy to be in love and on a boat. Now I do not, and I do not know where I will find another, but I know where it is most likely to happen.

By the sea there is a boat on which I have been and seen women in love with men. I cannot be sure that the women on the boat who do not appear to be in love or who are in love but unhappy would be happy if on a boat and in love, and so I will horn a man or I will steal his woman without horning him on this boat if she looks happy and in love and I would like to be with her.

II

I am on the boat and we are in the water. I am approaching a man and a woman who appear to be in love with each other and happy. I would like to be with this woman but she is currently with this man and so I will separate them or wreck their home.

“Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” says the woman I would like to be with.

“Yes, it is. Rick Shaw.”

“Rick Shaw? But we’re already on a boat!”

She laughs and I can see that Rick Shaw feels threatened but does not want to project that emotion. We shake hands and the woman looks at me with attraction.

III

It is now dinner time and I have been with Mr. Shaw and the woman for several hours. The woman continues to ask me questions as Mr. Shaw continues to buy me drinks.

“So you said you are from the port city?”

“Yes. I used to be a fisherman but now I am retired.”

“You look fit. I would not have guessed you were old enough to be retired.”

“Margaret!”

“That’s still my name. So, Mr. Coyle, are you married?”

I imagine Mr. Shaw did not feel good by this point.

“No. I have several children but I have never been married.”

“We do not have any children because Richard is sterile and I do not enjoy having intercourse with him and I do not want to marry him. I am glad you are here.”

THE END

Natural Mess (companion to Only What’s Real)

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 12, 2013 by JC

Dishwasher-bound glasses crashed chinkily. It wasn’t a wine bar—it was a coffee shop, The Drippery. I was sitting alone by the half-octagonal window outside which the city awaited me, or would have awaited me if I were that type of guy or it that type of city. The city was doing, that city of people and their projects. About seven cyclists rode by self-righteously in competitive gear, stopping traffic, prompting HOONs, BEEPS and, of course, as this is The City and its people are so important, bird flippage and a dissonant chorus of fuck-yous interspersed with at least one “this isn’t fuckin’ Westchester!” The hot-dog man brazenly pitched his stand at 9 AM and hid his lower face behind a newspaper as he scouted for incredibly eager business. Business men, like my father, talked their way to work cellularly or otherwise.

Inside the dark-wood-paneled-and-floored, red-brick-faced affair, typists typed—soul-patched guy, eyes crimped behind heavy frames; hemp-hatted, moon-faced co-ed girl versus a daunting cup of plain oatmeal, the latter was clearly winning; guy who resembled the lecturer who made me fall in love with philosophy, the cupid of discourse I might say if I were desperate enough to quip. There was a sexy, exotic-looking mocha-skinned lady behind the counter that day. I’d never seen her. I took a shot.

How to go about this, I wondered? Was it different? No—that’s racist. Just be natural. Just go. Just do. Just man up.

So I went up to the counter and ordered another coffee.

“Hey, I’ll take my regular.” I thought that was funny.

“This is my first day. What are you having?” She said, deadpan.

Ouch! Strike one, or was she playing? I called ball one—I pitched too high (low?) and she didn’t swing.

“I’ll have a medium Costa Rican and a formal introduction, pretty lady.” Nailed it!

“Okay, one Costa Rican coming up and then you should leave.”

I’m not a ten. All things considered I’m probably an eight-and-a-half. They say a confident male seven can bag an unconfident female ten. What does that say about a confident male eight-and-a-half and a confident female nine-and-a-half? Any case, I was undeterred and, frankly, falling in love with every further bit of data I gathered about this precious beauty—every bit of evidence suggesting towering self-respect and –esteem; restraint and skepticism in matters of love; oh-so-endearing and oh-so-deadpan coyness; and, of course, the sight of her made me gaga.

“You’re right—I have to go to work. But I’ll be gentlemanly calling again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that and so on. You’re a gem, lady, and now that I’ve discovered you I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to coax you out of your native mine. Have yourself a good first day.”

She overfilled my coffee cup. Nailed it!

That Night–Happy Anniversary–Desperation’s no Reason to Keep at It

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 10, 2013 by JC

I’ve been struggling at this, and I think I’ve got it now, my Mrs.

Flowers flatly fell to the ground that night, that night when that light, that hot garage light lit our love. That night when the wind washed the trees, swept the leaves, and cooled July to our comfort–we both remarked on it that night, remember?

You remember, don’t you? Promises abandoned but no harm just laughs, nervous, socially agreeable laughs. We laughed about how we always said we’d stop promising but kept on with it, how we kept wasting time, to translate. Seeds budded, falling flat. Falling flat but looking alive, promising, because we, you and I, were alive, promising.

But we’ve stayed together, and all that promise is gone. Now all we have are our fat, our regrets, our hopes of life beyond life, and each other.

Happy Anniversary!

The Pinnacle of My Current Self

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 4, 2013 by JC

The day I forget the subjectively proclaimed tragedies I’ve suffered is the day I lose my impetus, my fire, my soul. The day I forget the passions associated with those tragedies, those events that were inconvenient and upsetting in their own time, is the day I lose this, this ever-giving gift, the blood of passion that bleeds, bleeds, bleeds from pen, fingers, mouth, body, onto paper, digital substitutes, into the air, onto, into or in other relation with sweet-smelling, straight-talking, fine things that think the same of me and bleed similarly.

The day I lose the sometimes infuriating, sometimes heart-wrenching, sometimes comical, sometimes contemptible, sometimes emotionally vacuous memory of myself as a boy, a lovestruck once-future, then-present, and now-past cuckold, and the similarly volatile memory of the then-wicked, then-selfish, then-confused, then-irresistible, then-in-my-mind-deified girl who made it so, is the day I lose the perspective I’m so proud of today, the day I lose the attachment to and love of me I now possess and rely upon, and it is the day I lose the ability to make do with only that, to anchor my state of mind by the weight of that alone.

I can take on anything, ANYTHING, as long as my passion bleeds for or against it, whatever the case should be. I have my failures, my sufferings, my detractors, my supporters, my lovers, my acquaintances, my friends, my family, my training, my mentors, and the random but unmistakably human, living, feeling, learning eyes and ears and brains I meet anywhere to thank for how I burn today and for how I’m positioned and poised and ready for the next poppage of passion accumulated that will no doubt occur, the next shedding of an underdeveloped self that will no doubt occur.

I love life. I love failure. I love the small tastes of success I’ve had and, at least as much, I love the reminders that they’re fleeting, that I must continue to succeed, to try, and I must live and fall in and out of love and suffer in order to keep moving toward better passion, more complete self-love, more complete love of all, and of someone in particular.

I love; thereby and therefore I burn. I fuck; thereby and therefore I burn. I touch; thereby and therefore I burn. I hurt; thereby and therefore I burn. I write; thereby and therefore I burn. I read; thereby and therefore I burn. I learn; thereby and therefore I burn. I converse; thereby and therefore I burn. I connect; thereby and therefore I burn. I run; thereby and therefore I burn. I lift; thereby and therefore I burn. I see; thereby and therefore I burn.

I know I am because I burn, and I know I burn because of this and other outpourings of stuff one can only call scintillating interactions of humanity and experience. I can’t imagine better points to know or better chains of conditionality to make them so.

When I burn, and only then, I am the pinnacle of my current self, the pinnacle of my example of humanity.