the banality

The banality of existing
without purpose
is killing me.
I have nothing to live for
and nothing to die for.
How many great people
have done great things
after they turned 40?
Please tell me.
Give me something to live for.
Give me something to die for.
Because right now
I am just looking for
something to die for.

Something is wrong

My days are not the same
as they were
just weeks ago.
They are darker.
They are dimmer.
They are not
my days.
They are not the same.
My mornings are harder.
My comforter
does not comfort me.
It smothers me.
It makes these strange days
so much harder to begin.
And when I do extricate myself
from my downy prison
I am hours behind
an unfamiliar schedule.
The person I see
in the mirror
is not the person I know,
but it is the person
who leaves my house
and tackles the day.
I function.
I work.
I relate.
I meet deadlines.
But when I return home,
My nights are not the same.
They are darker.
They are dimmer.
They are not my nights.
They are not the nights
I have known.
I cannot rest.
I cannot relate.
I take a drink
and another
and another.
I pop pills.
I smoke.
I look around this house
I used to know
and try to feel
things I used to feel.
I cannot feel.
Something is wrong
and I don't know
what it is.

Half

How did we get to this point?
How did 20 years become
so insignificant?
In 20 years
I never cheated on you.
I never chose alcohol over you.
I never chose drugs over you.
I put up with your judgmental parents,
and your antagonizing brother,
and your supercilious friends.
I held your hand
and brushed your tears away
every time you felt slighted.
I paid for your education
and carried us through
your unemployment.
I pulled the strings
to get you a job
and put up with your late nights
and your traveling.
I forgot our plan
to have three children
when you decided on none.
I never questioned your commitment
or fidelity,
but I wish I had.
Now you want to leave.
You are in love
for the first time
in your life,
or so you say.
I was 20 when we met
and am 40
now that you want to leave.
I gave everything I had
for twenty long years
and you didn’t.
Your contribution has been
so small
and now you want half.
Half of everything
we have,
half of everything
I built,
half of everything
I gave.
Math was never your strong suit
and half of our imagined life
isn’t worth
half our fractured reality.
How did we get to this point?
How can 20 years be perceived
so very differently?

inconsistent

Jesus Christ,
You are as inconsistent
as the Texas weather.
Hot one day,
cold the next.
I want to ignore you,
but I can't.
Release me.
Just admit that you
have no intentions
of ever being loved.
Don’t play with me.
Don’t pretend that this night
means anything more
than a pedicure
to you.
Don’t kiss me
like there is more than a kiss
to come.
Just be a friend
and admit that we are friends.
Don’t dial me up
when you are lonely
and play it off
as if you want me.
If I were stronger
I wouldn't answer.
I am busy
with life.
But I want you
in my life.
In the end
we will both be disappointed,
but I will be hurt
and hurt
lasts longer.

Faults

Stop.
Just stop.
Your list of my faults
is endless.
And mine, of yours
would be too.
Take a breath,
a deep inhalation.
Remember the first night
in an emptying bar
when you saw me
for the first time.
Remember when our eyes
Met.
Remember the first words
We spoke.
And the first time
We touched.
We had no faults then
yet so many now.

Moving on

We’ve been dating for weeks.
I’ve lost interest daily,
But I’m the only one.
She’s quick with a hug
And a kiss.
But her kisses
Taste like bubble gum
And her perfume,
smells like anise.
The sex is good,
But my comfort zone
Is not hers
And she’ll be bored soon.
Her fantasies are shocking
To me.
She wants to be choked
And slapped.
And I don’t.
She’s sweet though.
She loves football
And thrillers,
But hates horror movies.
She can read,
But doesn’t.
Reality tv is her opus.
Poetry is as foreign to her
As hieroglyphics.
But she is persistent.
She calls every day
And texts between.
I am with her
Because I am lazy
And the sex we have is good.
I imagine her past relationships
Were very bad
And the men she sought
Were very different.
I enjoy the worship,
But I feel disingenuous
I have already decided
To move on,
But am not sure when.

there are no tomorrows

I sit in yet another meeting
Listening to someone I have no respect for
Drone on and on.
I’m not interested
In the meeting.
I am trying to figure out
What you meant
When you walked by me
And said there are no tomorrows.
Are you mad
Because I wouldn’t watch
Your reality show?
Or are you couching
Our relationship
In ambiguities
For the hell of it?
We’ve dated for a year.
Past the pleasantries
To the compromises.
You have such a very high
Opinion of yourself.
You’re a catch
You’ve said over and over.
So much so that I’m beginning
To wonder what I’ve caught.
The meeting is open
For questions.
I have no idea what this moron
Has been saying,
But I feel compelled
To vomit a question
To make the group think
I’ve been listening.
How does your theory
Apply to our deliverables?
I ask, smiling.
The speaker stutters
And looks for another
In the group to answer.
He is met with blank faces
And searches for his anwer.
I’ve forgotten my question
As soon as I ask it.
I am thinking about
The dinner you made
And the portion I ate.
And wondering if it was enough.
You are not a good cook.
But you don’t know this.
You are unaware of any fault
You may have.
There are no tomorrows.
Did you read that somewhere
In your self help books?
I realize that everyone
Is looking at me
Because my question
Hasn’t been answered.
I am forced to answer
My own question.
Perhaps this
Will help with that
And everyone wins.
The speaker smiles
And the group disperses.
I walk back to my cubicle
And wonder
Why I am with you
And not the thousands of women
Who can cook
And don’t seem to be building
their case for sainthood.

She’s wild

She’s wild.
Says what she wants
When she wants.
And always looks for
A reaction.
I don’t react.
I listen.
She’s not always
Saying what she
Wants to say.
I listen hard
And give the most unexpected
Reply.
She draws closer
As if she was only waiting
For my answer.

The Missed Shot

We were there for a party.
But not everyone was.
I stumbled by a pool table
and upset the shooter.
He spun on me
with venom in his eyes.
I tried to apologize,
but my apologies fell
on drunken ears.
I narrowly missed
a punch to the jaw.
Never shying from a fight,
I spring-loaded my elbow
and struck the asshole,
The palm of my hand
finding his soft wide nose
and breaking it.
He screamed
like a monkey
And tried a bear hug.
I grabbed him
by the insides of his arms
and drove my knee
into his crouch
several times.
He collapsed
When I released him
And rolled on the floor
In a fetal position.
I looked around for you
and met the eyes
of another billiards hood.
He swung his beer bottle
and I blocked his blow,
stepped inside
and punched him
in the throat.
He slumped to the floor
grasping his neck
and rolling back and forth
beside his buddy.
After accounting
for both pool players,
I turned again
to look for you.
But like a B movie brawl,
one last jackass
stepped out of the shadows,
swinging a pool stick.
I took it from him
and set it on a pool table.
I made it perfectly clear
that this fight
was mano a mono.
This idiot was not as drunk
as his cohorts.
He approached carefully,
subtly circling around me.
When he finally swung
his head-sized fist,
I pushed it past me
and moved around him,
striking both kidneys
in rapid succession.
He started to fall forward
and I swept his legs
to help him
to the floor.
I finally found you
yacking on your phone
by the bathroom.
Is my fighting
so blasé now?
I drag you to the bar
where I pay our tab
in cash.
and give the bartender
a hundred
to forget what I look like.
I leave the parking lot
with my lights off
and you’re texting Suzy
to tell her what an ass
your boyfriend is.
I sigh,
put the Jeep in gear,
and take us home.

The soft edge

The soft edge
of inebriation
greases the wheels
of imagination,
loosens the bolts
of fear
and moves me away
from myself.
I'm funnier
and tell jokes.
I'm smarter
and crack wise.
The rough edge
causes problems.
Blurred vision.
Slurred speech.
Poor balance.
Awkward exchanges.
And Violence.
I just wish I could tell
where the soft edge ends
And the rough begins.

love at first sight

what is love
besides first sight?
is there love
after two hours?
three?
is there love
after thirty years?
i've never known
love at first sight,
but i've known
love when it happens.

our date

our date
should probably
have been one hour,
or two on the off chance
it was going well.
yet our date
stretched 11 hours
and the end
still came too quick.