When I said I needed you…You said, ‘I’ll always stay!’
It wasn’t me Polly, who changed…but you…You and your condescending ways!
No matter, smart ass cat…because now you’ve gone away!
I sit knitting and collecting dead butterflies but…it all circles back to…
Now you’ve gone. I am left here on my socially unfriended own! Ms. Pissy Pants…you’ve catted ’bout town and I’m left here on my own…Now, Bitch, I can’t watch Ellen…I have to follow your in ‘Heat’ ass! Follow your ‘Holier Than Thou’ scent…And, beg you to come home!
Diva on Demand with a fur coat…You don’t have to say you love me…Just be close at hand! You don’t have to acknowledge I’m in the room…I will understand!
Polly Anne, dear, over the top, Polly Anne, believe me, believe me, I can’t help but spend my misguided love on you! But believe me…I will hunt you down!
I’ve been locked out of Facebook and Twitter and left with just a life-size portrait of you and me an a memory! Life seems dead and smells like a used cat box…WTF…What’s the deal? All that’s left is loneliness and there is nothing left to feel!
So, in ending, Ms. I Breed Better, you don’t have to say, you love me. Just let me be a fan! You don’t have to stay forever. I know I’ll never land a man!
Yours in sisterhood, devoted and with your best interests in mind-
I ask, who really cares?
Is it the young adult who throws love around like a tit full of cellulite?
Is it the middle aged lesbian who is compulsively aware of her plight brought on by ignorance and therefore, abides by no rules?
Are people basically good?
And, what is love?
Some of the most important questions we will seek answers to…We will continue to search out…Our whole life…Only to come out emptied handed.
Driving amongst the pouring rain tonight, the moon hidden by the sick sense of astronimichumor Mother Nature bestows upon us from time to time. In the sweep of my truck tires and the sounds of Adele, a distant and somewhat comical memory came up to me and shook my hand.
My mother, bless her soul, years before the anti-smoking fashion became all the craze; had been accompanying me for a quick toke off a Marlboro Red in a vacant parking lot…one awful, over stuffed Thanksgiving.
As we coughed and spat and enjoyed our cancer stick. A car of unknown not made in America origin strolled by…on the back were these words stamped out in red, white and blue.
MEAN PEOPLE SUCK, NICE PEOPLE SWALLOW.
Being a devout catholic who insists in finding the good in all of us, my mother stated, ‘how nice that is!’
I choked and hammered and hawed, ‘what do you mean, Ma? You mean that bumper sticker?’
She smiles from the inside out and states, ‘yes, isn’t it nice for people to promote such a thing? To get over your differences and swallow your words…I’ve always believed in that!’
At the time, back in the good old not so far from today…days, good ole Ma had an answering machine. And, I knew without posing the question what the next remark would be from my saintly mother.
‘I think I’ll use that saying for a new message on my machine!’
It was then and there that the roles reversed themselves and got twisted up in the game of life and sex and right and wrong.
Gently and with a newly lit cigarette in hand, I explained the facts of life to my mother. A situation I have been able to avoid ever since. To this day I wonder, what would Father John have said, if he called upon my mother at home to possibly come in next Sunday to hand out the sacrament and only got the answering machine? What if Sister Pat phoned and inquired about the new Bingo machine that had been on back order for months? What would her habit have thought of such a message?
Fun as it would have been in my own catholic girl’s do not start much too late, mentality. I had to burst my mother’s virginal bubble.
Tonight, though, while heading north of north. I smiled and thought, wouldn’t it be nice to feel that naivety again? To believe in the good that resides in all of us. To enjoy the love I have waiting at home with me. A partner who rises early and beds down at the crack of sundown. A lover who awaits me with open arms and a caring and comforting charm.
Thank Christ for memory it prompts the jaded edges of my composure to tread lightly when it is graced by the beautiful women in my life.
What I see for tomorrow has all been a broken borrow.
Insanity laughs under pressure we’re cracking
Can’t we give ourselves one more chance?
Why can’t we give love that one more chance?
Why can’t we give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love, give love?..
‘Cause love’s such an old-fashioned word
And love dares you to care for
The people on the edge of the night
And love dares you to change our way of
Caring about ourselves
This is our last dance
This is our last dance
This is ourselves
Why should we love an artist? What the hell has Picasso, Hemingway and O’Keefe given us what we didn’t already have?
In a world of 90 percent conformity amongst the blacks, white, Hispanics and Canadians and/or every country on the map: there is nothing we have not touched or over turned in our attempts to combat boredom.
Books no longer sell on shelves…they don’t live on in E Books. Newspapers are vacant and devoid of anything that isn’t marketable or stained yellow from propaganda. Politics are what they always have been dirty and cheap like the whores most politicians state they never went to bed with.
Artists for centuries have taken the black n white, the good and the ugly, the dispassionate and the young and the dead to levels of uncertainty. Plots buried in the minds of the seekers. Seekers who desire more than being tuned in, de-friended, tweeted and plain old, beatin’ down by the beatniks of regulatory mindsets.
If one friend told one friend and another person listened in to ‘did you see what Snooki‘ was up to last night, at the local fill ‘er up and put more money into a squabbling with chemical weapons country, convenience store; the urbane and urban jungle of a small town in everyone’s back yard would wait to find out the rest of the story on Entertainment Tonight. Baited breath…what could be wrong with the Snook? What was she thinking fuckin’ that guy from Jersey? Did you see what she was wearing?
Art is a form of expression that seems to have made it out of the trenches of this and every other generation’s idealism of ‘are you really that transparent?’
Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life. –Pablo Picasso
To the acute follower of passion on paint and verse…art is everything I can and cannot imagine. It seems to be the only way out is through art.
In the end, a writer, a free thinker and a confidant to non compliance is the hope for a future revolving around the unseen…the unseen that can only be imagined.