The Classic Fade

Early morning musing based on Mark Manson’s “Fuck Yes or No” philosophy. Gotta love smart, slightly vulgar men. 😛

Step into the Gray

We’ve all been there. We meet the guy, girl, they and we are just *a-ga-ga* over the thought that this is the one. We build castles in the sky and imagine a future of bliss It’s beautiful, wonderful, magical.

Just one problem. They are most certainly not that interested in us.


No, I’m not talking about dating, I’m talking about relationships. Mainly because I don’t feel like rehashing the dating stuff, mocking the “find true love” aspect, or revisiting that which so many others have done before.

No, I’m talking about relationships. It could be friendships, family, BFFs, friends with benefits, whatever.

For the purpose of this chat, I’ll talk from the friendship perspective. Crucify me.

Somehow, we just drifted apart

I mean, it happens to all of us. We go somewhere, meet people and then we find that one person, or more, who really clicks with us. This is awesome!! We chat, talk, laugh and just burn away the time. We start feeling live we’ve known this person/people forever.

And then the night ends.

We exchange numbers (or social media handles) and promise to be in touch. Soon.

A day later we message. They never respond.

A week later we get slightly ticked and leave a longer message. Again, no response.

Two years later, we’re cleaning out our social media and we can’t even remember where we met John Smith or who that even is.

Or maybe you’ve known someone for a long time, BFFs in high school, or college, and ya’ll used to communicate multiple times a day.

Then gradually it becomes once a day.

Then once a week.

Then once a month.

Then… nothing.

Perhaps you’ve both outgrown the friendship. Or maybe you just wanted it more than they did.

Mutual Interest

Would you invest time in a relationship that was going nowhere?

Let me ask a different way, would you give money to a habitual gambler? If the answer is yes, then let me introduce you to the saint of lost causes –You.

It sucks when you have a loved one or friendship where you constantly are the one putting in the time and the effort while the other party just seems to not give a shit. When you’re the one chasing them down, calling them, texting them, initiating the dialogue that they just can’t be bothered to sustain.

When you’re more into them than they are into you.

Or, my personal favorite, they don’t remember who you are and “forget” your number… until they are having a moment of personal crisis.

Then they call.

And you drop everything to play superman.

And much like that habitual gambler, once they get what then want from you, they are gone faster than you can say “call me maybe?”.

This is the worst. It destroys the relationship and wrecks your self-worth.

So if they aren’t as interested in you, spending time or at least letting you know they’re alive, should you be invested at all?


He moves with
coiled precision, skinned teeth
edged between curled lip

Blue chips of ice
determination and anger
carving through the snow with
a curved serrated edge.

Point a direction
and like a hound on the scent
the hunt begins with ferocious

intent. Blood spills, death
weaves in his shadow, the lullaby
of sharpening knives on the
whet of patient pursuit.

Her tears may wash the
blood from his hands
but the stains on his soul

only deepens. It never
stops the tide of all
who have died, but
he fights his way through

the cloud that consumes
the life source, draining away
every drop. Family fade one
by one, bodies swallowed

by the earth, one after the other.
He screams into the abyss that
answers with a cool resounding

silence. Awash in his regrets
the scribbles ache past the
skin, the farewells suffocating,
the failures compounding.

Put him down, they whisper
as he stumbles along, the
glint of final night devouring his soul.


The choke of exhaust, Jule vapor
seeping through my window.
Stop — go — stop
Assembly down the winding asphalt strips.
Gas — brake — gas — coast — brake
The prices go up as the peddle lowers.

I worry that I will die of lung cancer
from the land of second-hand smoke
or the careless distraction of the
nicotine crave.

By the time I arrive, I’m already
tired. The eyes of Osiris are
upon thee, Sauron watches
every single movement.

Accompanied with mouths flitting
like little birdies who flock and
chatter, swallowing the oxygen,
amplified the sensation of madness.

They are always talking, watching,
no action goes unremarked, my
bleeding ears and dying brain
exhausted in translation.

Oh for the precious, lovely silence
wherewith thought & logic can grow
whole & unhindered, uninterrupted
by gossip or complaint.

Carpal tunnels beneath calm steady
nerves, blurring vision from the
blue lit overlord, commands
issue feverishly from phone & coded

Outlook messages, barrage of request,
demand, emotion, chaos, confusion,
fear, excitement, anger and pride
gushing forth in uni-coded lines.

The tornado destroys, wreaking
havoc on the semblance of order;
devour my day, my thoughts, my words
with an unstoppable stream of consciousness.

Multi-armed attention span, picks up
and discards all within reach
coupled with a frenetic
schizophrenic decision-making madness.

The sun is long gone, I wind home
to the dinner plate, weary and
tired where I wonder again about
financial independence …retire early.

Last Saturday

“So, I read this and thought it was about a relationship,” he said, glancing up at me from the pages of my lengthy poem.

I stared back with growing horror. Relationship?

I flashed to the moment of penning the words, reviewing in my mind the emotions that birthed those lines as he continued. “Yeah, the moment I read the words ‘lies’, I think it must be about a relationship.”

He looked back at me, and I swear my mask slipped.

Fuck, he’s right. This is about a relationship.

Then I laughed. I haven’t been in a romantic relationship in my entire life. He probably thought it was about some ex-boyfriend or ex-girlfriend or whom ever. It was not, but just because you didn’t kiss or have sex with the person doesn’t mean that the bond was not significant.

I came to this startling realization in front of seven strangers. And in a split moment, I was stunned by the realization.

Then I quickly threw up a foil of humor to dispel the awkward moment.

But I kept thinking about what he said.

And this morning, I reflected on the fact that while the pain is less, and I’ve come to accept the finality of the end, I still write about it. Even when I don’t realize it, I am drawn by the familiar theme, and gravitate towards it even in my writing. Even when I don’t realize I’m doing it.


But the pain is less now, and I’m slowly getting over it. I can’t want someone more than they want me. I can’t force them to care.

And it’s okay because their acceptance or rejection of me has nothing to do with my acceptance of myself or my self-worth. I am not defined by their reactions or lack of reaction.

Self-awareness lets me know who I am and what is really going on beneath the top of the iceberg. It helps and I am grateful for these moments of clarity.

One finger at a time, I am letting you go.


Saturday in July

Scream a silence crunched
beneath cold finger tips shattering
the crystal beauty beneath the
presence of possession
crushing the fragile wings
cellophane promises, silhouette
pressed to the windowpane
pinned to the fantasy, curling
legs into bridged arches above
the sateen waves, uneasy
port-side dock invading the shore…

It still tastes like lemongrass

It happened again.

I sat among the group where moments before I had engaged, and talked, and smiled. Now I was removed, absconded, separated behind an invisible film of isolation.


The cold condensation dripped on my arm resting patiently on the napkin I’d placed beneath my mocha to capture the fluid and spare the sticky table surface. It was a vain attempt. I tried anyway.

Here again I tried, and yet I felt out of sync, like a dancer who for some inexplicable reason had missed the critical step and now pinwheeled and floundered out of sequence, twirling out of rhythm, collapsing in on herself.


This hasn’t happened in a while. Why did it happen again?

Did I give a fuck? I recalled Mark Manson’s book. I’d been listening to his audio-book as I drove to the meeting place this morning; Mark’s callous candor making me contemplative and hysterical in turns. Nothing subtle about his truths, no apologies, and absolutely not giving a raging fuck.

But here I was in that moment, wondering if I gave a fuck about my emotion right then, the feeling of isolation, the gulp of solitude that had captured me in it’s bubble like a force-field separating me from that inclusion, that feeling, that desire of just being with and not being alone.

As always, I smothered the feeling and laughed louder, smiled broader, tried harder as the mask of hypocrisy slipped up my face beneath the eclipse of the blazing sun.

They say that the mind cannot differentiate between emotional pain and physical pain; that both are felt equally.

So when I tell you that the emotion felt like a thin knife slowly sliding past my ribs and through my heart cavity; angled up from the bottom and slowly forcing its way up towards the center of my chest…

It is a familiar sensation. And there’s nothing to be done about it.

Yet it still takes my breath away.


I am resigned

I realize that time moves on
That we change, and nothing lasts
That the pages keep turning
No matter who is really deserving

A second chance disappears like that
Snap fingers before the moment lasts
Lingers and fades like our memories
I still remember, even though the story’s

Are old and worn and falling apart
Captured in a bleeding broken heart
The why and mystery
Continues to kill me

I don’t know anymore, why do I still care
Fuck you life, in a world so unfair
Why can’t I walk away for good
Should I erase my mind and start anew?

Because in random moments
I can’t breath through the torments
Then I scream till the blood runs
And my ears shatter beneath the wail

What am I done?
How can it be undone?
These chains reappear before me
And I can’t see to escape being a

Victim of circumstance and ineptitude
How do I regain the throne
When I was crowned in its ashes?
Who holds the reigns again?

I am resigned
To being broken and forgetten
To being the ghost in effigy
To being haunted by every fucking memory.

Anticipation tastes like sugar-high

There is this ache, a flame, a flash, an expectation for something different, something spectacular. Something not within the four walls of my room.


She spoke of loneliness, and all I could think was –ah, so I’m not alone then. I got that feeling from you. You felt what I feel every day.

I got used to it. You will too.

But that doesn’t underwrite the debt of pain stored, or loneliness gorged. Staying still doesn’t progress make. So I’m stepping out.

I want to write again and take joy in it. Like now, writing these words is something joyful and yet difficult in a way I cannot describe. Like relearning a craft, once so nimble it was like breath, now halting and painful with every keystroke.

If I can think beautiful words, surely then I can write them. Surely!

I found a writing group, I will attend a social and see what is there to be seen. Most likely to be crushed by the talent and subconsciously feel inferior and unworthy. But who fucking cares, I gotta go out into the light and leave Plato behind.

Lonely, lonely Plato, we hardly knew thee…

So there’s that.

A not really funny but amusing story

Since I have few real life people to share this with, I’ll write it here where NO ONE will ever see it. *snickers then weeps a little.

Names have been changed to protect the… what am I, Law & Order?

About two weeks ago, I’m vegging out after work in front of the box that never lets me get a word in, and the phone rings.

I don’t recognize the number, but I hesitate – it could be spam or it could be something.

My gut said answer. Hitting the green button, I greeted the phone.

It wasn’t spam.

Apparently, many years ago now, I’d given someone my phone number. Oh chill, I was in college, everyone was doing it! And there my number had languished until said non-spammer decided to dial just to see if this number was worth keeping or not.

Huh. That’s new.

So NS (not spam) and I got to talking. And talking. And talking.

Turns out we have a lot in common aside from graduating from the same institution. We ran the whole gambit from films to books, to jobs, to dreams, to goals, to beans greens potatoes tomatoes / YOU NAME IT!

3 hours latter, we hung up. I was smiling. Seemed like NS wasn’t such a bad guy.

Oh, did I tell you NS is a guy? Yup.

A few days later he texted me, and I replied. Then a few days after that he called again. Cool.

Except, now there’s a lot of sex jokes.

Which is a little uncomfortable, so I steer the conversation away. Again… and again…

I’m sensing a pattern…

At some point, I explain I’m not interested in sex. NS asks if I’m asexual. I say yes.

Later in the dialogue I disclose that I find genitalia to be strange. And no, I’m not interested in a show and tell.

My phone hasn’t rung since.

Long story short, I don’t feel any which way about it. It is just a sorta interesting experience. I wasn’t devastated, and I don’t think NS was either. We were upfront about what we wanted -and didn’t want- and I’m glad we didn’t waste each other’s time.

Per adventure NS got super busy with life and can’t talk, that’s fine too. We’ll reconnect at some point if that’s the case. And this isn’t meant to be a guilt-trip or anything. Just an observation on my end.

And from my perspective, it’s an amusing story.

Technically I could call him, but I feel like that would be a mixed signal. I’ll leave it alone.

Besides, I got work in 8 hours. Gotta get off this screen.


See everything and nothing is clear
Nothing like all the lies that appear
Brighter and higher than the stories could share
Somehow never caring that life was not fair

Chickens and onions supposed their place
Was somewhere else aside from your mental plate
Devouring and consuming all the sunlight
Like an eclipse of friendship before the fight

Bodies and blood to swim around
Screaming so loud there were no sounds
A betrayal purple tinged vision imprint to the eyes
Nothing left but horror filled cries

And the memories splash beneath the waves
Of bourbon and gin because no one else saves
The thoughts away although the urge to touch was there
These cursed palms were not meant to give a care

Kiss me foolishness and tuck away the sun
The demons descend as the world comes undone
Grasping and laughing, cackling maniacal
The faces of the dead never seem recognizable

In the end, just as in the beginning
The sickle arches down as the people keep singing
The face of God turns from right to left
From gold to dust a silence bereft

A messiah a savior anything to rescue from darkness
A star spilling over Midland a contrast in starkness
Allow the sheep to be lead to the slaughter
Marry off the devil to the precious king’s daughter

And somewhere above the lord of fate
Chortles to see all the lives left at stake
Madness consuming revenge aspired
Nothing like pain and anger to alight a world on fire

Sing to my ravenous soul a beat of thirst
Clinch this mortal coil to deliver the hearse
Nothing less than this swath of murder and pillage
Wolf of dragons consume this village

The world will never be his will never be mine
Losing our way chasing shadows through pine
A circular pursuit of predators pretending to pray
While some are born to die others are born to slay

Nothing more than ashes and salt across the earth
A subtle glance underlying at all that are cursed
Auction off systems with all the grief and pain
Auction my madness so I can pretend to be sane

Musings On A Saturday

“The purpose” is an elusive concept to capture in words or thought or even philosophy. Right after inquiring “what is the meaning of life” follows the second question”what is my life’s purpose”.

And answering “I dunno” doesn’t always feel so inspirational.

I was walking down the sidewalk this week towards work when I passed this chick who looked at that ephemeral age between 15 and 25. I didn’t pay her much attention in approach, but at the 7 pace mark, she removed her headphones, met my eyes, and began speaking.

Not that I got a word of it

I took my headphones out. “Sorry, what did you say?” I asked, eyes drawn down to her slightly anxious face and fastening onto her shiny silver braces. Maybe she is lost.

She proceeded to lay down her words at an impressive rate of speed, her lips accelerating faster and faster, the braces on her teeth appearing and disappearing within milliseconds like flickering Morse code. The words jumbled and nonsensical flowed into my ears in choppy bits of comprehension.

“Excuse me …. sorry to bother you … Was wondering … if you wouldn’t mind .. .(something, something) … Bible study …. completely free…. no money or anything… if you’re interested -“

It took me a few seconds to catch on that I was in the presence of a baby witness bird.

Baby witness birds (BWBs) are young awkward witnesses who have not yet learned the smooth, suave methods of their elder, fervent brethren. BWBs are moved to strike out into the world to witness in their peculiar, anxiety-ridden, way. And by witness, I mean church converting, soul seeking, hell fearing witnesses, not necessarily Jehovah witnesses mind you, just folks of any denomination with the burning urge to seize souls.

And mine is closed for search and seizure.


I wonder about the soul. About whether we as human beings really have a true match out there or if some of us never couple, triad, or quad up. If some of us are meant to be alone.

But I have hope due to the most… strange circumstance I encountered recently.

I made a new friend. And we fit like two peas in a pod. I mean, we really jive, and we have a lot in common, yet enough difference to be independent uniquely fun people.

And the only thing that hits me sometimes, when I look at them is… why?

Why did this person ask me to hang out with them? Why did they let me in?

Is that a stupid question to ask?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t say this out of self-deprecation. But I am surprised. After years of being alone, of being “left behind”, they come out of no where and… let me in.

I can’t fathom it.

But it gives me hope. If I can make a friend this kind, giving, caring and open, then maybe I can find my equal(es).

Oh, I didn’t tell you? I’m all for non-traditional relationships. In fact, if it doesn’t get crazy messy, I could see myself in a triad. Nope, still not mormon

But I digress.

I enjoy their company. We could hang out every day, but I am not even used to it. There is so much that folks take foregranted that is new and strange to me.

But I am the author and finisher, I can make my life something new and different. I can shape it differently. I can be someone to be proud of.

And I am proud of myself. For changing, for growing, for becoming a beautiful person inside and out. For forgiving myself and all my shortcomings. For letting go of perfection. For hanging on to the important things in life.

For being myself. Period.

I think I will change my name, after all.

Persona Non

When I stepped into the shadows
Father was there to greet me
Not with a hug or smile
But with the stern unquestionable command.

So I went, programmed as ever to
Follow, never given the option to
Lead, even when the madness took
Him, he puppet-ed me behind the ink stained mask

In ways familiar, the broad back
Hiding scars belying his apparent
Invincibility. He’s with the League
Now and I’m just his errand boy.

At the end, with barely any words
He sank back on his throne,
Leaving me with the turmoil, the
Bruises and laced disgust at my acquiescence.

He’s replaced me several times,
I – in a pique – struck out at the
Confinement. Something about respect
And caged spring birds, I abandoned

The folly of red, canary yellow and
Emerald, donning black and blue
In mockery of him, so that my
Skin would blend into the night.

It was foolish of me to expect
The sun, arching through the air
With glitter and lights, vaguely
The memory of my Dad sparkles.

But there is no room here for glistening
Trifles, and he is not my Father
He has a true son now, the final in
A line of sealed coffins that could

Not contain the burgeoning curiosity
That took the others away before they’d
Gotten mid-way to thirty-five.
He didn’t know how to raise us,

But he always knew how to bury us.
That impenetrable man,
I scoff at my weakness, then,
As a child, meeting him for the

First time, clutching the shreds of day-
Old grief, I thought he would embrace,
But his stern face abandoned such
Wishes. Nothing touched him and

Like a fool, I wanted to be him;
Willingly diving into the black,
Consuming every word as gospel
Racing into his shadow.

And now it stifles me, that
Cape overhead that blanketed the
City, sucking away independent
Will for I would never be anything

But Father’s tool, so I left
Him sitting on his shadowed
Throne, departing the city of my
Fathers and yet still I cannot

Escape; they call me, those
Followers, who never see the
Darkness of his eyes
And the eternity of his grasp.

Written persona poem of Nightwing, a DC character.