I’m a terrible painter I know
though I paint out of passion
I also paint without skill
all my best brushstrokes are mistakes
I leave alone
my one talent as a painter
is recognizing when my fuck-ups
are strokes of luck.
It’s less than two hours into 2022
I’m playing guitar outside under the public shelter by the beach
and out of the corner of my eye
I see two silhouettes – a man and woman walk out of the night
and I thought to play them a song I thought they might know
Time of Your Life (Good Riddance) by Green Day
I played that song as well as I have ever played it
I saw the man get down on one knee
then I looked away
the same reaction I have to passing car accidents on the highway
I’m no rubbernecker
I have seen marriage proposals go south
but when I was done playing the song the man yelled to me, “She said yes!”
“Congratulations!” I automatically yelled back
and then his silhouette walks across the shelter until it appears in the flesh before me
sitting cold and alone two hours after midnight New Year’s Eve
and I get a look at this kid now under the light
and though he is sporting a moustache
he can’t be more than nineteen years old
and now I feel both flattered and guilty that I could have helped inspire the kid’s
proposal
and I look at the kid’s face
and he is smiling like I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that
and either he knows something I don’t
or he is an idiot
and when I see his baby face in the light thanking me
for playing one of his favorite songs
I wanted to apologize and warn him that he was making a terrible mistake
and he shouldn’t let simple sentimentalities such as New Year’s Eve
and a silly song by Green Day define the rest of his life
then I see the young man’s smile
bright as the last star to cling to the dawning sky
and I suspend disbelief for the sake of romance, New Year’s
and the hope in this young man’s eyes reminds me why I write poetry in the first place.
That’s the scariest part
the start
not knowing where you’re going
not knowing where you’ve been
only knowing you are into something bigger than you’ve ever seen
babies come into this world crying
but who knows how you’ll go out
I hope giggling
and isn’t that the advantage of death over life-
we can always choose death
but, does a newborn choose life?
Aren’t we just due to be born one day?
And when you die-
at least you can draw from some memories-
you had to know it was coming eventually
even if death caught you by surprise
imagine the surprise a baby feels opening her eyes to this world for the first time
dying is easy
comedy is hard.
Imagine life was something you bought on Amazon
and you could rate it
would you give life five stars?
we would want to
but on most nights, no
so on those four, three, two and one star nights
we pray to that five star hotel up there
to let us climb this fire-escape from this inferno below
to go from the words of Homer to Thoreau
to
Our truest life is when we are in dreams awake.
What if everything we’ve read is a work of fiction?
The Bible, The Inferno, The Bhagavad Gita
all written by mad men novelists
pawning themselves off as memoirists
then who are we praying to?
what are we rating?
nothing and everything is relative to nothing
when everything is nothing
and I rate life three stars-
good show, but I know there must be something more-
meaning I can’t wait for the sequel
I lost 45 pounds this year
attacking myself
beating myself up
running till the verge of heart attack
I throw myself at dangerous situations like a two year old
throws himself at death
leaping from the banister trusting someone will be there to catch me
I get death is out there
but
not yet
not for me
death is someone else’s problem when you’re two
I haven’t lost that optimism
I’ve just lost that innocence
I should know better
after gaining 45 years
and 45 pounds
now I know where gravity goes
so momentum is ultimately against me
but still in this still science
I resign myself
to gravity
knowing enough not to fight it
but go with it-
we don’t intentionally hitch hike in the wrong direction
do we?
And then again when the membrane between us and them
is as thin as skin when you and me become we
that split second before we choose to be
or choose not to be waking to reality
where we are free to dream
till we see the gleam
and we open our eyes
is simply training for when we are free not to be
and eventually the light at the end of this tunnel will be a train
taking us to this afterlife’s refrain
and
when we cash in that capital gain
we’ll stop referring to this domain as our “afterlife”
just life
Time flies then falls when
now always migrates to then
these geese this Autumn
All the science in this universe cannot conquer chaos
and vice versa
like why the sky is blue
until it’s sunset
and colors you’ve never seen streak across the sky
and nothing is completely anything
when even the night sky undresses some naked light
why do I feel I have to say anything at all?
why did the first caveman think to say anything at all to the second caveman?
my guess is that the first word was “no”
because “yes” is implicit
and everything in between isn’t really what you want to say any way
Being cooped up in your apartment for weeks comes naturally when you’re a writer.
I’ve been practising social distancing since high school.
Back then I was a nerd when I said I couldn’t go out because I had to stay home and write.
Now I sound smart.
Now I am writing and I’m missing my friends and family.
I saw my mom today from the prescribed two meters away. It was the first time in my life that I did not hug or kiss my mom hello or good bye.
What the hell have we come to?
This is the difference between writing and living.
This is the mucosa between wrapped in a dream and a comforter a second after the alarm sounds.
This is the placenta between not knowing you’re drooling in your sleep and rolling over and waking face first in that pool of drool.
This is the distance swimming the lake when it’s ten miles to either side and like newborns, we just keep kicking.
cottonbombs 