Posts Tagged ‘thoughts’

I don’t want to feel the shame,
To feel the same,
Don’t want to be in pain,
Ashamed,
Inside myself,
Feeling rage,
Against the stage,
Trying to stop the wars,
Inside myself,
A memory,
Of whispers,
A sigh,
In that rain,
Against the broken showers,
In a tower,
A nightmare,
Of dancing metal frames.

I held your face,
In my hands,
A dream of breathing shallow,
It was my decision,
Oh how I kill myself for it,
To pull that plug,
My dear love,
To live with that decision,
I fell to pieces,
That unholy day.

Here in the tall willows, away from the eyes, the mockingbirds dare lie, they whisper in tunes, a hi, a hi.

Cindy laid in the tall grass, holding her doll, wishing it was real or this whole life was a dream.

Her brother had been killed in a war, Vietnam, her mother had cried there in the kitchen.

Cindy tried not to cry as she ran out of the kitchen, the tears were beginning to fly.

It wasn’t fair.

He was only 19.

He had told her he would come home alive.

He promised.

He lied.

There he laid, in that box, a shell, a corpse.

Cindy didn’t want to go to his funeral.

But she did.

Mother needed her support.

She had told Cindy that as Cindy sat in the back seat of the car, heading to the funeral home.

A flag covered the casket as it sat there, waiting to be lowered into the grave.

Mother never spoke of it again.

Cindy would hear her late at night, crying, for many years.

“I’ll be okay!” she told Cindy as she prepared to leave for her college.

Cindy got a call from her town’s sheriff, her mother decided to join Cindy’s brother by overdosing on sleeping pills and alcohol.

Another head stone to wait.

Cindy didn’t cry.

She shook friends’ hands at the wake.

“She was a good woman, she was strong…”

Cindy hated it, standing there, pretending her mother was strong.

Cindy was the last of the tribe, didn’t want to be, her father died before she was three.

She shut down, closed up, lied, said she was okay, Mother was with God and Cindy’s brother, but she wasn’t fine.

Mother lied.

Everyone dies.

She sat in the lonely quiet home, sitting on the floor, playing with that same doll, wishing she was real.

Was this life?

Just to lie, “I’m okay, don’t worry about me!”?

Cindy went to bed, to dream of a better time.

1684,
Number on the door,
Wine,
Drunk like water,
To drive that madness away,
Angry young men,
Waiting for the end,
A somber moment,
Oh drifting softly by,
To see,
That sea,
Oh hairy lies,
To feel alive,
In cosmic lights,
Drifting through angels,
Alive,
Oh beauty,
Oh father,
Oh mother,
Dying
On the vine,
A herald,
To hear,
A final sigh,
Angry young fucks,
Crying in the night,
Blasphemy,
In midnight hour,
To revel,
In made up words,
Of life,
Lies,
And simple things!

I laid there,
Melting there into the carpet,
A dream like trance,
A nightmare in fantasy land,
I felt the world spinning around me,
Chaos,
Madness,
Jesus was there,
Melting into Heaven’s gate with me,
We were souls,
Drifting through time and space.

The light began to fade,
I still thought I was a shrimp,
In a stormy sea,
Being eaten by Moby Dick,
Oh Henry,
My Henry,
Did you see the dying of the light?
Margie died,
Last night,
Cancer took her brain,
She was only 45.

I tried to stand,
But fell back to my knees,
Wasn’t a prayer I uttered from my dry lips,
Cursed be to any God,
As Jesus swore the same,
We’d never die again!

Somewhere outside of a bottle of a tequila, a monkey decided to grow wings and become a fairy of mass portions.

Little Rock was dying, Tulsa was next, America was a scene, somewhere outside reality, as I sat there, after taking a few edibles of various strength.

“Is this death?” Mary shouted from the top of the tower, leaning towards the right.

I shrugged as the world span out of control into the sun, seconds at a time.

It would seem the world would end in 30 billion years or a month, matters on how fast it could spin, fleeing, into that fiery ball of enraged senators.

Henry Parker, the man behind the illusion of reality, was sitting here too. His hands grasped the bottle of tequila like it was a religious experience.

“I saw Jesus back there!” Mary said as she settled back in the back seat of the car. She was high or so said her agent as he put her into the car.

Vegas, land of the unholy wild chief iguanas was boiling in its own skin.

“Beer!” Mary roared as she fled into the casino.

We never saw her again.

There in the darkness,
A light did try to slay,
The madness swirling around in their heads,
The world was still young in her eyes,
Fly the morning light,
To break that cursed pain,
To be seen,
To be heard,
To know the touch,
Of love,
Boiling deep inside,
There was no time,
Now that father is dead,
That scene,
Took his own life,
I found him there,
Hanging in the attic.

Prayers of Saints,
Do they even hear?
I pray,
I pray again,
Do they even care?

Ice cold beer,
What the fuck are we doing here?
Mother is dying, somewhere,
Maybe father knows where?

Trumpets blues,
Harvard and 9th,
Jesus died for somebody’s sin,
Who here is revealing sins?

July 12th,
World is pulling apart,
Reaching for the top,
While sinking to the bottom.
We were standing there,
Waiting for a bus,
Never comes,
Doesn’t say much,
For our transportation!

Rust,
Lost in trust,
Who here has a buck?

Gives a fuck?

Balloons falling through the waterfall,
We cannot see the bottom,
Trust faith?
Die before you hit the floor.

Type,
Type,
Words on the screen,
Jesus,
Who sees?
Who hears?
The blind lead the dead.


The year was 1997 and everyone was dead.
Welcome to the future kids,
Come on,
Stay awhile,
Everyone driving Buicks through the desert!
Welcome to the madhouse,
Nobody gets out alive,
The world is an oyster,
Flying through a cloud,
Distant memories, stacked,
Like cement blocks on our graves,
I love you Rio,
Bravo,
Cheap sheets on a broken bed,
Mama can you hear me crying in the storm?

The man was a great man,
So the pastor says as he performs the last rite,
He’ll be missed,
Dissed?
He’ll be something.
A writer?
Nah, too fat,
Writers have to be skinny,
Hungry,
Haven’t ate in days,
Weeks?
They should be high,
Write!
See the sea?
No?
Lie!!
The waves rolled in,
To the sandy beach,
And we all laughed,
Ha!
Red balloons falling from the sky,
Jesus ain’t here,
Come on Jack!
Come on back!

In a few years, I would be dead, a memory in some data bank, possibly even erased, to make room for those still alive.

The sky was gray; overcast, as I walked the two miles from my house to the beach, the wind hitting my face hard.

“Lyle?” a voice crept from my memories; July 12th, two years, maybe three years ago, I was seventeen, Aunt Tilda was dying; I couldn’t see her then, there at the hospital.

My mother was dying too, both of cancer. I tried to see them but I couldn’t, I was sick, the flu, I think, my father let me peek at them through the window of their rooms. Both laughed and waved.

I waved back.

When I die, I hope there is someone there to wave at me; a small glimmer of hope before the end.

I wrote a letter to mother; father gave it to her, please come home, I will make Chester pudding for you and father.

She never came home; died on the 20th of July.

Aunt Tilda on the 21st.

I sat there on the beach.

I did not think about death as the waves crashed to the shore.

I thought about life.

It was a good day.

We flew,
To touch the sky,
To go where no one could touch us,
To bring us down,
To fly,
To sing,
Upon gilded wings,
We flew,
To find ourselves,
Among the clouds,
We saw,
The Heaven’s angels,
Singing to us,
As our wings brought us,
To that bliss,
Among the clouds,
So high above,
To softly drift,
Our life was ours,
To do as we wished,
To fly,
Dear ones,
To fly.