Robbing the cradle June 31, 2024

 

She is young enough

To be my daughter.

Oh, what a twisted concept,

Oedipus brings us,

An old man

Struggling with

Teenage urges,

She eight years junior

Of my flesh and blood

Off-spring,

Retaining much of

The charge,

My real daughter has not,

For all that has transpired

In her life,

The essence of who she is

Clings to her,

If not quite Ponce de Leon’s

 Dream made real,

An abbreviated version,

even if she sometimes

Goes on about her

Her middle age.

She could have been

My daughter

Though I dare not think

Of her that way,

Clinging to the illusion

Old men get when

We think we have

Missed out on

Something in life,

And rob the cradle

To make up for it,

Doing the impossible

Going back in time.

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Still struggling July 7, 2025

  

three kittens in the yard; life used to be so hard, the old song claims, this, the third batch of one cat has produced yet not without flaws, the one week old from an earlier batch she abandoned, never meant to live, even when we struggled to keep it alive. Now, another troubled kitten with the latest batch, with non-functioning front legs, she kept rather than abandoned, we determined to fix it and release (nobody would adopt it), but no able to survive out of doors with our without us, the way his more sturdy siblings can looking, up at me with utter sadness when I come near, as if it knows fate is against it and yet tries to thrive, hobbling after the others, trying to take part in a life that may end up too short, yet still struggling

 

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A street car named desire Aug. 18, 2014

  

Out there, where I stare, buried in the harbor of the city that never sleeps, the street cars of my father's time reside, dumped there by well meaning people, who assumed we might never need them again when a wiser man knows we always do,

 I feel like a streetcar abandoned, no longer on any track to anywhere, lingering under the waves of passing ships and unable to lift myself out of the muck to feel loved again; this is nobody's fault, just the unfortunate circumstance and the inability to live up to what is most needed, and she must seek that love where elsewhere with someone else, the old play coming to mind about desire when the street car can't take me there, and I do not have the Ferrari that will, this is not to say I'm not good enough; I’m just out of touch, out of time, the way horse and buggy became obsolete with the automobile came, the streetcar unable to carry me to where I most ache to go, to arms who are open for anyone else but me, and I feel each wave passing over me here in the river near the city never sleeps

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Scared at 12 Nov. 20, 2012

  

I still hide in my room sometimes, the way I did it 12, scared to come out, to hear the bickering of the real world, to be face to face with people who may not like me

At 12, girls still scared me, maybe because I did not want to admit what I wanted from them, maybe just another lie like the one I told earlier this year when I claimed I could take the High Road, when I knew from the start I could not, and you all dressed up as if on a date, a vision I see when I close my eyes, the devil in the black rather than red, as I ponder what color lipstick you might wear on this day or that, and whether you chose to polish your nails, and what exactly goes on behind those dark eyes of yours, what exactly do you want from me, at this moment or that, though now after the wind has cast you adrift like another fall leaf, none of that matters, and once again I hide in my room, feeling as ready as I did at 12, yet without any way to do anything about it, scared not of all girls these days, just scared of you

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Steam June 17, 2025

 The pavement steams, blistering sun after a torrential downpour, smoke rise and bright daylight I feel it all deep inside, at a loss for something missing; I am steaming inside as much as the street is, from a deeper heat and heavier drenching I have brought upon myself, unable to cure the ache that inspires this fire in me, clutching the cause, keeping it from exploding in my hands when my minds eyes sees something else; this spark that starts this fire in this dark place, with no other way to keep it contained, steam rising out of me first, then it bursts through, and having no one else to touch, I must touch myself, slowly, winding it up until the downpour comes and the steam dissipates

 

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Lost in space May 8, 2015

 

when I ease the head of it inside I lose my mind; I lack control as to where it goes, that head taking deep dives that my logical head tells me I ought to avoid, yet can not, don't want to, easing into all those forbidden places until I am completely lost; there is no road map to wrap my mind around, no landmarks to guide me through those dark spaces, no logic, only the feel of it around me, sucking me deeper into the great divide until I can't escape again, the in and out of it, the pull away only to get yanked back inside, again lost abased by my own desire, unable to say no; once my head eases in, I am again lost in space again, losing my mind

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Target practice May 7, 2015

 

I do target practices in my mind, my dart aiming for the center she exposes, a bullseye on this attempt or that, leaving a stain at the end, white not red, not blood, but just as precious. I am more than half drunk on wine when I do it, which always affects my aim, and so I have to clutch my dart with both hands to assure that I hit what I aim for.

They claim practice makes perfect, though I still crave for the real thing, doing it when it matters and not just in my mind.

Does it count if I only get a rim shot, or come close, but not quite all the way the way they say with horseshoes?

To east it in and move it around so that my dart hits the hot spot beyond the center circle, to that place deep inside, which I pound out, practice I know will never be real.

 

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