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Archive for the tag “love”

The Gift of Universe Song

the-gift-of-universe-song

Give no love to the poet. 

This frail,

flaming human,

is not the gift of

universe song,

sent to rain life down on

all who thirst. 

Nor the giver,

that he might interpret. 

Flawed,

the object of the

world’s affection,

nothing more than a

splintered leaking bucket in

the rain-eternal. 

Well-placed in

time and space

to hold for a moment,

that which all

who thirst,

find. 

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

Dog

dog

I‘m not what people

look for in a blog. 

I don’t write about

my kids,

my wife,

my dog. 

My kids are all grown. 

One has a kid of her own. 

The other is gay. 

With his mother he’ll stay. 

But the dog,

purest love that I’ve known. 

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Superman

superman-png

“They used to call me Superman”,

he told me, sometime after midnight.

“They still do.”

I told him I could see that, not letting him know I saw his blue tee shirt, with the red ‘S’ on the chest, showing from inside his jacket.

He spoke no more intelligible sentences. He only looked at me, his eyes into my eyes, with an expression that made me think of Dave Chappelle, if Dave Chappelle was crazy.

Yeah, take that for what it’s worth.

And then, he put out his hand. Not to ask for money, but to ask for my hand in return. One man to another, like in the old days. Then he said,

“I’m an addict.”

I did not look away. Not to the security guard off to the side of me, too far away to have done anything, if anything needed doing. Not to the hospital in front of me, and the ER he was visiting. And not to God, who at that moment seemed to leave me to make up my own mind about what to do with the drug-addled superhero standing in front of me.

So, with my eyes never leaving his, I shook his hand, in the way men shook hands in the old days of superheroes in America. Strong. Resolute. With the understanding of what we were to everyone else in that moment.

Forgotten.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

Bukowski

nablo bukowski

I don’t want to be Bukowski
I want to drink and not get drunk
and have faith in something other than my own bowel movements
I want to love and not grow cold
and not end life writing sci-fi noir from a chair next to my deathbed

I don’t want to be Bukowski
Whatever others think and like to compare
and know that my life was worth more than a place in the Dewey Decimal System
I want to live and not grow old
and not have generations remember only for how Mickey Rourke portrayed me

I don’t want to be Bukowski
Because bitter doesn’t suit me
and the laughter in my soul is best expressed in joy and love
I want my words to be retold
and felt on the lips of others the way they lived in my own heart when I wrote them

I don’t want to be Bukowski
So I won’t

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Summed Up

Sorrowing Old Man (At Eternity's Gate) Vincent Van Gogh

Sorrowing Old Man (At Eternity’s Gate)
Vincent Van Gogh

 

So much of my life has been

summed up

in the words,

“I don’t want to be with you.”

 

My life is now

summed up

in the words,

“I don’t want to be without you.”

 

© Copyright 2015 Bill Friday

Older and Frailer

frail

 

I avoid thinking about my childhood

Unless someone asks me to tell them

Why I am the way I am

And then I’m forced to

Or I lie

 

And usually

When I talk about the distant past

I spend that time remembering my dad

Whose influence always finds

Its way to the surface

Of my thoughts

The quickest

 

He would yell when he got angry

Mutter when he knew he was wrong

And condemn

When warning me against things

That could lead to harm

 

But as he got older and frailer

With age and a failing heart

He also would

Own up to his yelling

Muttering

Condemning ways and speak

With genuine contrition

 

Until the last night I saw him alive

And I knew that he

Loved me more on that night

Than on any day

Which had preceded it

 

 

© Copyright 2014 Bill Friday

One of These Things

photo credit uvalaw.typepad.com

photo credit uvalaw.typepad.com

Johnny Cash covers

will never be better than

covers sung by Johnny Cash.

 

A home run watched

from the fifth deck at Dodger Stadium

will always be better than

listening to Charley Steiner

call a home run

on my car radio

no offense Charley

you’re not Vin Scully.

 

Sex without love

makes you common

love without sex

makes you a fool

sex and love together

makes you a porn star.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2014 Bill Friday

“… And I love you, fucking all.”

"Alienation Nightmare" © 1996 by Sabu

“Alienation Nightmare” © 1996 by Sabu

I have now alienated the entirety of my close friends, past and present, in the forty short days since I quit being a fucking drunk.

Atta boy!

I knew there would be changes.  Baseline changes, in the way I related to my depressingly unhappy life, the life I needed to deal with seeing sober, and not from the rosy view of the bottom of a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck.  No warming insulation, no softening cushion like strips of bubble wrap, or pale green packing peanuts, crumbling on the inside of a much-too-tightly wrapped package as it careens, out of control, down the UPS conveyor belt of life.  Broken contents, and useless measures taken to secure them.

Honesty and anger, brevity and elaboration, and an unvarnished way of being real… of being me.  And the alienation of so many, who with their words say that they approve of what I’ve done, but with their absence say that they don’t.  And I don’t blame them.  Because I don’t know if I like the real me better than the old… yet.  But I’m gonna.  Because this voice, this soul, this living, unprotected me on the inside of the crushed cardboard box of my existence accepts the leaky, possibly toxic truth that will, from time to time and from now on, keep spilling out.

And I love you, fucking all.

© 2014 Bill Friday

Coffee Mandatory

Coffee Mandatory

Coffee Mandatory

 

Just so you know… I never planned to fall in love.

It started out as nothing more than a relationship of convenience. Like sex for a green card or the wash of a windshield for a couple of bucks at a stop light in Santa Monica. A fucking transaction. No emotion… no feelings. Just a need meeting another need. No romance, no flowers… just the glare of a naked bulb at sunrise, and the grunting of guilty pleasure heard on the other side of a thin kitchen wall.

After a while, like with any illegitimate relationship… and enough lying to yourself in the mirror… eventually you decide that maybe it’s okay to take next step… the public step. A coffee house. The thought was innocent enough in your head, “It’s just a cup of coffee. What could happen?”

Until you get there, and you wonder if this is how they feel in Amsterdam… ordering heroin… in a brothel.

At first, there’s that self-conscious thought that goes, “people don’t really do this in public… do they?” Followed by a second thought that you should just go finish your business in the restroom like the upstanding citizen your parents always thought you’d be. But you stay… you take your seat in the big room with all the other upstanding citizens… and you lose yourself to the overwhelming urge that brought you here in the first place. To take this private need to the next level. So you do. In front of God and everyone… if only God were watching.

I never planned to fall in love.

Years pass, and things go on like always. Public meetings, intimate rendezvous, long mornings after a bad night’s sleep. Every encounter making you sink deeper and deeper into what was such an innocent addiction. Days and nights became the same to you. Multiple jobs, endless hours… and only one thing remains the same. The need. The intense need, the unsatisfied need… the aching need.

Until another comes along.

As the glare of the naked bulb at sunrise still calls after you like a line out of a song by Mumford & Sons, the something new doesn’t call like a selfish bitch… it whispers softly in your ear, like the one that got away. It draws me to a softer place… a darker place, later and later in the night… after the glare of day, and all its distractions, goes away. And unlike the whorishly obvious coffee brothel, it is subtle and almost… caring. And the scars of years are replaced by tender strokes to a raw-rubbed ego. The only thing required in return was to think, and feel… and write. And whatever words came out were good… were accepted. I was accepted.

I never planned to fall in love. Not like this.

More years pass, and things change… drastically. The flutter and surge of my heart, gentle ego stroking… the sideways-smiles-turned-lustful… change. Flutters turn to questions. Surges to pain. The lying, sideways smiles, with their promise of fulfillment… turn to insistence. And whispers turn to ice at the harsh dawning of a new day, when I know it has become… the same.

I look up from the computer. I see the light of morning enter through the fog of early June. “When did this happen?” is all I can say, in a hushed voice, raw from not speaking. I turn my head the other way, toward the kitchen, to the glare of a naked bulb at sunrise…

…just so you know.

 

© 2011-2013 Bill Friday

My Vices Are Relatively Few

my vices are relatively few 2

My vices are relatively few…

I drink too much
but at home, and not in danger
I sleep too little
because I drink too much
And guilt
Guilt at the things I’ve done wrong
Guilt at the things I’ve not done
Guilt at the things I’ve yet to do
I’ve been forgiven for all the things I’ve done
or not done
and maybe for all the things I’ve yet to do
but one
Because she is only almost five
and must first be hurt before she can forgive

My vices are relatively few…

© 2013 Bill Friday

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