I'm Not In Love

It was almost bar close.

I had met him and some of his co-workers at a local dive. The type of place that made your shoes stick to the ground, and was clouded with smoke. Back then you could smoke in bars, so I was generally used to it. 

I had never been there before, but did my best to play cool. He was three years older than me and none the wiser, but back then I believed he was.

I hadn't really dated since I moved up to the cities, due to the fact that I was still slowly coming out to some of my family and to myself.  I always knew I was gay growing up, but never wanted to believe it, in fear that God would strike me down where I stood and punish my family for it.

I had some grand idea that this so-called loving God would take the world away from me and my family by creating some sort of hardship or illness that would tear a hole in my soul. The effects  of twelve years in a private, Lutheran education. 

I walked to said bar, where he wanted to meet, so I could comfortably drink, and walk home after we were done.

I wasn't quite sure how things would turn out, but I had hoped for the best.

Back then, I was a fairly shy kid, who didn't like being pulled out of my comfort zone.

At the door of the bar, my ID was checked by a burly biker looking guy with a long grey beard, who sat on a stool. He waved me inside and I was punched in the face with smoke. It appeared to been cigarette night, because everyone in the bar was smoking. 

It took me a quick second, to focus my eyes and exhale the second hand smoke before I spotted him. 

Initially I thought we were meeting one on one, but it turned out he had invited some friends.

Our table was a large booth, made of splintering wood seats and a dirty table top. A plastic beer list with the words FAGGOT written in sharpie sat in the middle of the table.

The boy, introduced me to some of his friends he worked with. He explained that this was their local hang out. I considered making a "Cheers" reference, but quickly disposed of it. 

He got up from the booth and asked me what I wanted to drink. I told him I could buy it, but he insisted. I told him I'd be fine with beer.

He disappeared toward the bar.

I slid into the booth and looked at the beer list, while his friends talked to each other.

"I'm Afraid Of Americans" by David Bowie shouted out from the jukebox, which startled me.

His friends looked at me funny and laughed.

They offered me a cigarette, but I declined. 

The boy returned with a handful of shots and a beer bottle hanging out of his cut off jean jacket pocket. He insisted I take it, before it slipped.

He sorted the shots amongst us and moved in close toward me.

I really didn't want the shot, especially since the smell hit my throat before I could even pick up the glass, but I was completely out of my element, and I wanted them to like me.

The boy made a toast, knocked back the drink, and slammed the glass on the table.

The others followed.

I however, had a hard time opening my throat. It took me two attempts before the remaining liquid slid down.

I asked him what it was, trying not to make a sour face.

He laughed and threw his arm across the top of the booth, behind me. He whispered in my ear that it was his own concoction . 

I tried to make my wince into a smile, but couldn't get that terrible taste of the burning liquid off my tongue. 

I took a generous sip of the beer he bought me and sat back. 

The rest of the night I observed their brash humor. 

Occasionally they would ask me questions and I'd reply.

It wasn't until my third beer, that I'd realized I was drunk.

The boy had lit up a cigarette, puffed, and exhaled away from me. I took it from his fingers and generously inhaled. 

Everyone at the table was taken aback, but somehow I knew that it was the right thing to do.

When it came time to leave, I explained that I had walked.

He offered to give me a ride home, but I politely declined and offered to call us both a cab. 

The boy told me that he loved my innocence and that he had already intended on leaving this place in style.

He lead me to a bike rack and unlocked a vintage All  Pro bike. It was lime green with a white banana seat. 

He asked if I would pedal.

I agreed, so we hopped on, but I was way too drunk to get us moving. He laughed, trying to help us along, but it was evident that we weren't going anywhere.

He told me to switch.

I did, and began to worry I would fall off the back.

He told me to hold on.

We were off.

On the front of his bike was a transistor radio.

He flipped it on and fidgeted with the dial. 

I'm Not In Love by 10CC played.

He began to pedal more furiously.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face in his back as we cruised down a heavily populated street.

He told me to relax, and not be so embarrassed, but even the alcohol couldn't ease my insecurities in public.

We had finally arrived at my apartment.

He had offered to walk me to my door.

In the lobby we quietly waited for the elevator. 

Once it arrived, we entered.

I hit my floor.

Before the doors could fully close, I had him up against the wall.

I wasn't sure what came over me, but I couldn't resist him.

He tasted like menthol and the shot I had hated.

This time I couldn't get enough of the taste. 

 It was a ten second elevator ride, but to me it felt like thirty.

He ended up spending the night, but to this day I still recall that night as the night I let my guard down and began my transformation, into my true self. 

Walled In

I am stuck in the walls, cursed to move through this claustrophobic space.

My lungs have turned to powdery dry wall, and are splintered with wood.

I pray that someone will release me from within the walls of this desolate cabin.

Occasionally the rats come to visit me, but soon move on to bigger and better things.

Even the bugs from this rotting, infested place, have no interest in me.


I try to remember a life outside this place, but my mind is blank before now.


My only outlet to the outside is a small crack near the front of the house that sucks the air from my lonely catacomb.


The townies tried to warn us about coming here, but ultimately we got what we deserved.

Retribution, from the souls who once inhabited this place.

Now we too are one of them.

Dreaming In Slow Motion

It happened, as it always did.

My arms and legs were bound.

My body was tense, as if my muscles had died.


I was floating in a non-existing space,

moving slowly toward the eye of a needle.


The only thing left to dwell on were my thoughts.


I knew the inevitability of this situation,

and it scared the hell out of me.


Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.


I was covered in sweat,

as the needle drew closer.


I had had this dream before.

Each time, was the same result.

And each time, I pondered whether anything would change.


How do you fight something that smothers you, and pulls you toward your destiny?


It wasn't until I was Iris, to pin point, that my body would tremble awake.


Like in my dream, I was covered in cold sweat.


Water, eventually would calm my nerves,

but I would spend countless years trying to decipher this night terror.


Some theories of mine is that my mind  is recalling the act of child birth.

I am forced to relive the crowning process, over and over.


Another theory is a glimpse in to a past purgatory.


Whatever the answer is, I try and sleep off my nightmare,

hoping to rid myself of it altogether.

The Angels

Inside my belly lies a hidden treasure,
not seen by human eyes.

Only the angels can find it.

The angels and their weeping grins.

They giggle to themselves,
plotting to take what's mine,
and say it was the devil that provoked them.

I do not surmise,
that they will succeed.

I only cringe in anticipation,
hoping the inevitable won't arrive.

I shame these despicable creatures,
hiding behind false pretenses,
and living out their eternity,
double agents.

This is why I am on the run,
with a closed heart,
open mind,
and black soul.

To survive.

Words

It's not the words that scare me,
it's the criticism that follows.

Art is meant to be an expression of ones true self,
not a meaningless, drab, form of self congratulation and wealth.

Ever since I was young, I was left to my own devices,
exploring the beauties and sensory moments of life.

To make true art,
one has to open themselves up to pure insanity.

Sometimes, the depths of creativity,
take you to places you'd rather not explore.

Its learning to control ones madness,
that takes years of concentrated act.

I can't say I've gotten a knack for this talent,
but I have found something, and someone, worth living for.

I might never get the experience to bare my soul to the world,
but that doesn't mean I won't stop expressing myself.

Self expression, is free therapy.
Without it, I would implode,
and become as useless as a blustering winters day.

Dirty Floors

Brew, slung across a crowd from a plastic cup,

as Echo & The Bunnymen sway and crone on stage.

High hair, and black silhouettes.

Stilettos and anxious hollers.

Torn fishnets and sticky floors.

Blinding lights,

smoke machines,

stolen smoke breaks,

and a thundering bass.

I watch as an older gentlemen in the front row holds up his palm to the guitarists, during his solo.

These are the memories I will remember,

not the petty-mundane events that transpired moments before.

Music is the life blood,

and this is true evidence of it.

The way it entrances a soul,

and makes one forget all the unimportant events that transpire.

Doleful

Her eyes began to crystallize, as the moss grew tall and moist around her uncontrollably body.

The bones, brittle, yet vital, became an instrument of sound, as the wind passed through the trees.

The owls hooted as the moon began to rise, and the sun fell dead in its tracks. "Why me" the brain flickered as one last thought danced across the dying pink matter.

This one would no longer grow older, yet the nails and hair will continue to grow. The flesh will pucker and dry up.

Insects writhe and bathe in all its dead glory.

The purple nightgown, now torn and frayed, once an accomplishment of its own, no longer possess any threat.

Animals have come out for their nightly hunt.  In doing so, they will help dispose of the remains, that infect the earth.

A beautiful object, now dirty, doleful, and diseased. Every piece, carefully dissected by nature, and returned to its original form.