Categories
Poem

Land Mines in the Carpet

Today

In some weak attempt to meet someone I spoke to a prospective date yesterday.  He sounded masculine, looks attractive, seems intelligent, good job, own house…blah blah blah.

After a short while I despaired.  Why bother?

I am not going through what I went through last year.  I refuse.

I hung up.

This is the legacy of hopelessness that I am left with after my time with Jake.

I am not going to have a relationship any time soon.  If ever.  I am not going to risk falling in love with and painfully out of love with anyone ever again.

“Into love, and out again, Thus I went, and thus I go. Spare your voice, and hold your pen — Well and bitterly I know.  All the songs were ever sung, All the words were ever said; Could it be, when I was young, Some one dropped me on my head?”

Dorothy Parker

I reread his final letter to me yesterday.  I hadn’t read it for some time.  If I had received that letter now it might have meant something.  It might have put to bed every miserable resentment that consumes my brain like so many flesh-eating maggots.

I want to believe that he was sorry but he lied so often and so deeply that I simply can’t forgive him.  I want to.  I really do.

He just lied about everything.  He trapped me and toyed with me and used me then at the crucial moment he tossed me aside.   This doesn’t get any better.  Why?  Why do I remember him?  Why when every other man I ever loved can be stowed…do I remember him?

Perhaps because it was this time last year that we were in France enjoying/not enjoying out road trip.  Walking on egg shells because he had said that we were not lovers.  I scarcely touched him until he invited me to have sex.  Because he was running the show I just bought the food and chauffeured him.  I just served him when ever his ass itched for attention.

Jake this time last year contemplating

I imagine him in some chic Nantucket house with his new Daddy boyfriend.  The same one he began seeing before we went to France?  Telling him what to do.  Demanding that he take it, suck it, open it.

I imagine him with that cute blond boy he liked.  I imagine him.  I imagine him living a full life because I helped him over the rubicon…where he left me.  So I could never celebrate what came next.

Yes, he apologized for his cruel words.  Yes.  Did I believe his self-serving apology?  His fake contrition?  No I did not.

I am scarcely speaking to the twins.  I have run out of fuel.   Like a ghost in the house I tread carefully around them.  Land mines in the carpet I am that close to triggering a tantrum.

Whenever I get close to anyone, when I feel myself tip toward feeling love in any of its many disguises…I stop.  I run.  I hide.  I push them away.  That is his legacy.  I hope he is proud of himself.

Robby says, “I love you man.” and I wince.  Leave me alone Robby.  No more love.

The book continues to be written.  It’s hard.  Very hard.  Prose is a bitch.  I would rather kill gophers.  I would rather walk around the garden tending the plants. I spend all day in the garden rescuing old-fashioned tomatoes from being savaged by critters.  Consequently the garden looks amazing, like it never has before.  I spend so much time tending it.  Trimming.  Weeding.  Lopping.

The Chinese say: “If you would be happy for a week, take a wife.  If you would be happy for a month, kill your pig.  If you would be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden.”

In the novel I get to contemplate murder but the only person in real life that I want to kill is myself.  The twins will move out soon.  Perhaps, just perhaps I will muster up the courage to finally do it rather than just write about it.  I don’t want to make a mess.  I will have to take care of the dog first.  So he isn’t left alone.   He will only pine for me.

I understand now how and why Issie Blow was so determined.   When death calls your name.  When is it time to make death your friend?   I am running out of fuel, not just for the twins…but myself.

Categories
Love Poem

You Are Gorgeous

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I had a lovely time today with you.  You must have been twenty years old when I first met you.  Now look at you.  I like when you wear your jeans tighter.  Cargo pants really don’t suit you.  I like when you read poetry to me.  I like when you crack my fingers.

Help yourself.  You can have whatever you want.  Take what ever you want.

Categories
Poem

Whitstable

On my way back to the United Kingdom.  Even though it is to deal with very bad situation at home.  Includes a long journey so I can travel with the little dog: New York, Paris, Calais, Dover, Whitstable!  One month before I leave-will arrive there May 30th.   I am excited.  I will stay there for three months-one of the many benefits of not having a career!

Anyway, a great deal to sort out.  Nothing much to write or worry about today.

Will make film in London rather than LA.

I found a charming little video for you to watch.

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Categories
Poem

LOVE POEM

London.  I crave the capital of my Island jewel.  I am too far now from cream teas, steak and oyster pie.  Oh London and the Home Counties I miss you with all my aching heart.

I am tired of selfish boys.  Tired of his jet-black hair.   Tired of waiting.  Tired of mistress censorship.

I want to see Amanda, Tim and banter; with Simon Finch and hold my nose in the air.

I want to stroll down Old Bond St in my red suede boots, visiting Patrick in Hanover Square.

I want to smoke cigarettes in West London with Katrina.  Let me ride horses in Hyde Park with Martha; explore electrical hardware stores with Toby and Arthur.  Clandestine giggles with Joe and Adam and Eve, cottage amusements with George.

The train to Bromley and Chatham through the Garden of Eden.  Where the Thames meets the Medway and the Swale beyond.

I am tired of you because I don’t trust you, but I know very well what it is to lie to some one you say that you love.  To meet in some dark, wet guinnel, to feel your warm body under your navy blue coat.   To feel your lips and always your lips.

Oh I miss you so much my darling hometown, and wish you invited me Whitstable style.   Up on the downs overlooking the sea.  Turbines, the horizon that chased me away.   I have arrangements with banks to consider and beg that homeland security take me away so decisions are easier where no choice is to stay.  Wholesale foreclosure, redistribution of wealth.

Take me.  Take me away.

I am tired of selfish boys with raven black hair and myself in every one of them.   Just you.  I met just you.

Let me forget these people, struggling with prosperity and stemming the tide.    Seeking solution and tanning the hide.  Let me go home. Let me go home.  The 12 step recovery clichés that keep me in purgatory with less time to go than one hundred years of perfect sobriety.  Oh please send me home to smoky church halls and WI and no multi-malls.  Remind me of jet beads stitched onto her bodice, of peplums and bagels and tottenham forest.

I am TIRED of you showing me men that are hot, hotter than me or you for that matter.  I am tired of boasting to keep us alive, to stimulate interest and punish my precious child.   I am naked before you my darling creator.  This and more like it is all I can offer.

So take me away with you darling Ophelia on the Thames and the Medway and the Swale far beyond.