Hi there. How are you? I’ve been good, just busy. Yea, I know, I should have called, told you I wasn’t going to be around the blog much, but I was concentrating on filming a little movie and it got away from me… I swear I wasn’t cheating on you with another blog! I’m not saying I don’t think about it occasionaly, I mean, don’t you visualize about reading better blogs sometimes, maybe ones with more insight and less immaturity? Anyway, I’m back now, for the most part, and I promise I’ll try to be around more often, you know, for the kids. I’ll write actual things later, but for now, have this.
A crying poet laid on my chest and told me my heart didn’t sound like that of the man she loved, that mine was louder, and it got me thinking of the girl I saw to get over you and how she will never know the difference between two men’s hearts, how the sailing man she’s seeing now will be as transient as I was, and how her mousy features and big tits will do little for her when she realizes the most profound effects of love will pass her by without recognition, leaving her withered and alone, but you and I don’t have to worry about things like that because we’ve talked, and I know you’re a real person in that you could never be written, you could never be the concoction of an artist’s mind or the creation of some fledgling author, your authenticities are etched into the ghosts of your face and the shape and form of your words, branded into how your laugh sounds like bounding down a staircase, how you pat your arms on your hips when you’re looking for a hug, or how you cry in front of someone you care for the way most people cry with their faces buried in pillows, and that’s what makes you a person unlike so many people around me, and it’s probably what makes me love you but maybe that’s not a flight for my wings, not until I lay with you in a damp, laden field and get out of you all the misery, woe and heartbreak that makes you the kind of girl who defends the man who hurt her because she believes in first loves being true loves, not until I stand with you on top of an impregnable castle staring into the Pacific and spouting poeticisms written before we were born by men and women we miss but have never known, not until I see you in my dreams only to wake and see you in my bed will I ever be able to talk to you about time, about my time, the times I’ve stuffed into my socks or rolled up in wet newspapers and thrown to the dogs, the times that remain no more than half-memories I pin to the planks of wood above my bed, times I share only with phantoms and specters, knowing they’ll be all that much more spiritual when I give them to you, like when I left the girl that hurt me and went running through the streets singing born to run, only to fall on my ass, and see that I had bruised my knee, and from then on wore it proudly like the purple heart of a Vietnam war veteran who never learned how to properly fire his gun, or the time I told you a parable when I was without wisdom or ingenuity, and more, I’ll be able to tell you about all my times yet to come, the ones I won’t just give to you but dedicate to you, along with my words, my opinions, my reactions, my emotions, my sanities, my replies, my defenses, my sense of righteousness, my obligatory riddles, my meanderings through the past, my visions of a higher purpose, my incessant need to capture those goddamn moments when everything is alright, not just beautiful or perfect, but alright, and they’re mine and they’re no one else’s, yet I would do or give anything to share them with someone I could easily share those kinds of things with, and not wonder secretly to myself if they were just indulging me, no, but understand it’s as much for her as it is for me, and reach an unenlightened state of nirvana, the kind where the only knowledge you have is the fact that you prefer to love someone than to spout your declarations of dedication into a void, that it’s better to spin and circular and surge through the infinite night space with someone next to you
It’s good to be back on Grub Street