notaprizebutperfectinastrangerseyes

I am not a bad guy

I have my moments, at least

not a bad guy

flawed

duh

Everything Must Go...

I wrote about this in many furious moments scribbled down shorthand with a full heart and a full head of numbness and cried and cried and spun around and argued and fought and fucked you and with FUCK YOUS and WHY MES? and WHY US AND ME WITH YOU AND WHY AM I HERE AND I DONT WANT TO BE HERE ANYMORES

and all of this
and of this all of this
started to make sense even when it continued to not do so
and my fingers and my eyes would crackle the nails would bleed and the eyes would start to tighten

and im still here
and im still doing this
and im different and not cool for you or anybody and ive compiled so many regrets and beat myself up so much and I know that you all might want to beat me also

and
please forget me all if you need to you
its best
i understand
but understand
that i never will...YOU.

all of this. EVER.

Cake When I'm Hungry/Astroland Tower/Border Radio?

Do I need to be here?

Daymares...

Your wooden bowls
my pictures of lost pets

bad reams good reams

There's no hope for me. Let's be friends.

repost = compost

repost = compost

Maybe Deja-Vu Is...

That somebody in an alternate universe is reading that book about you, the comic book or watching your movie and either had to re-read that sentence, chapter, etc. or rewind to the last part before the phone rang or having to feed the dogs.

Some Pig...

Flu
Viruses
Diseases
Nature's version of population control
Romona
Beezus

Jesus

RELAX

nononoyeayyeayyeaymaybemaybemaybe

I'm peckingly typing while giving you second hand smoke/cancer company.
You're sleeping when I'm waking up.

Two houses alike in dignity.

You are solar panels and I am The Vampire Lestat.

Just not as gay.

The Vampire, not the alternative energy source.

This was stupid.

It was a long work shift, forgive me.

Researching Buddhist temples and old houses of PKD's right before my rebellious shit started to foment...

I ended up standing in the exact same spot as Philip K. Dick's apocalyptic life-changing courier. But I didn't ring any doorbells because I kind of wanted to open new doors instead of being a ghostly bell ringer...



vesicle pisces or bust!

HANK RIP

Early life

Charles Bukowski was born in Andernach, Germany, on the night of August 16, 1920, as Heinrich Karl Bukowski. His mother, Katharina Fett, a native German, met his father, Henry Bukowski, a Polish American serviceman, after the end of World War I. Coincidentally, Bukowski's paternal grandfather had also been born in Germany, so Henry was fluent in German and managed to woo Katharina's reluctant and undernourished family by bringing them rations of food and speaking German. Bukowski was fond of claiming that he had been born out of wedlock, but Andernach records show that his parents were in fact married on July 15, 1940, a month prior to his birth.

After the collapse of the German economy following the war, the family moved to Baltimore in 1923. To sound more American, Bukowski's parents began calling him "Henry" and altered the pronunciation of their last name from Buk-ov-ski to Buk-cow-ski. After saving money, the family moved to suburban Los Angeles, where Bukowski's father's family lived. During Bukowski's childhood, his father was often unemployed, and according to Bukowski, verbally and physically abusive (as detailed in his novel, Ham on Rye). When Bukowski's mother, Katharina, was called to the school nurse's office to be informed that her son had dyslexia, her immediate reaction was fear of her husband's disappointment in Bukowski.

During his youth, Bukowski also suffered from extreme acne vulgaris and shyness. Bukowski was a poor student, partially on account of his dyslexia. He claims that in his youth, the only award he ever won was for an ROTC drill at his high school, which he described in a book of collected essays entitled, Notes of a Dirty Old Man. After graduating from Los Angeles High School, Bukowski attended Los Angeles City College for two years, taking courses in art, journalism, and literature; however, as in high school, he was a poor student. Around this time he spoke of fascism and Hitler, causing his family to worry. He later attributed this to a case of childhood rebellion, claiming that he never had any affiliation with any political ideology.

Early writing

In the early 1940s, Bukowski traveled through the United States, taking odd jobs and then quitting them to write (and drink). This lifestyle led him to near-starvation, and eventually he wrote home to his family for money. All he received was a letter from his father stating how ashamed he was of Bukowski. According to Bukowski, this was when he first knew he was destined to be a writer. Upon receiving the letter he was depressed and contemplated suicide, but even while having suicidal thoughts he couldn't crush his desire to write. Feeling both an intense desire to kill himself, and an intense desire to write, he started scribbling in the margins of a newspaper.

At 24, Bukowski's short-story "Aftermath of a Lengthy Rejection Slip" was published in Story Magazine. Two years later, another short-story, "20 Tanks From Kasseldown," was published in Portfolio III's broadside-collection. Bukowski grew disillusioned with the publication process and quit writing for almost a decade. During part of this period, he went on living in Los Angeles, but also spent some time roaming around the United States, working odd jobs and staying in cheap rooming houses. In the early 1950s, Bukowski took a job as a letter-carrier with the United States Postal Service in Los Angeles, but quit after less than three years.

In 1955, he was hospitalized with a bleeding ulcer that was nearly fatal. When he left the hospital, he began to write poetry.

By 1960, he had returned to the post office in Los Angeles, where he continued to work as a clerk for over a decade. Bukowski lived in Tucson briefly, where he befriended Jon Webb and Gypsy Lou, two people who would be influential in getting Bukowski's work widely published.

The Webbs published The Outsider literary magazine and featured some of Bukowski's poetry. Under the Loujon Press, they published Bukowski's It Catches my Heart In Its Hand (1963) and A Crucifix in a Deathhand, in 1965. Jon Webb bankrolled his printing ventures with his Vegas winnings. It was at this point that Bukowski and Franz Douskey began their friendship. They argued and often got into fights. Douskey was a friend of the Webbs, and was often a guest at their small Elm Street house that also served as a publishing venue. The Webbs, Bukowski, and Douskey spent time together in New Orleans, where Gypsy Lou eventually returned after the passing of Jon Webb.

Beginning in 1967, Bukowski wrote the column "Notes of A Dirty Old Man" for Los Angeles' Open City underground newspaper. When Open City was shut down in 1969, the column was picked up by the Los Angeles Free Press. In 1981, he published a book, Notes of A Dirty Old Man, which contained several of the pieces he wrote for the column.

Women

Bukowski often writes and speaks extensively about his relationships with women and his sexual encounters, often humorously. In the documentary, Born Into This, he speaks of losing his virginity at age 24 to a "300 pound whore" and breaking all four legs of his bed in the process. In an essay, he described the experience as terrible.

On October 29, 1955, Bukowski and writer/poet Barbara Frye drove to Las Vegas and were married there. Frye was the editor of Harlequin magazine. During a period where Bukowski was having trouble getting published, he sent a stack of poems to Frye in response to an ad requesting submissions. Frye accepted several of his poems, responding that they were some of the best she had ever read. They corresponded through letters for some time. Frye would often lament about her spine deformity and how she would never find a husband because she was missing two vertebrae in her neck, causing her head to practically rest on her shoulders. Bukowski said he'd marry her, so she responded with a letter telling him when and at which train station to pick her up.

Frye wanted a child. Bukowski didn't. When she finally became pregnant, she miscarried. The young couple was convinced that it was because Bukowski drank so much. They divorced in 1958, on March 18. Frye insisted that their separation had nothing to do with literature, though after their marriage she often doubted his skill as a poet. As she continued to edit Harlequin, Bukowski insisted that she not publish certain writers, often out of revenge for those writers not publishing him in their publications. Following the divorce, Bukowski resumed drinking and continued to write poetry.

Jane Cooney Baker was Bukowski's next girlfriend, an alcoholic. She died in a hospital on January 22, 1962, after going on a severe alcohol binge. With cancer, cirrhosis, and hemorrhaging, there was little that could be done. Her death sent Bukowski into a long bought of depression; he continued being an alcoholic and suffering from a suicide complex.

On September 7, 1964, a daughter, Marina Louise Bukowski, was born to Bukowski and his then live-in girlfriend Frances Smith. Marina's conception had been a mistake, due in part to Bukowski's hatred of condoms and the expectation that the 42-year old Frances Smith was too old to have a child. Bukowski proposed to Smith out of a sense of responsibility, but she said no, opting rather to live together and raise the child together while out of wedlock. She later remarked that he was a wonderful father, constantly attentive. Whenever Bukowski had suicidal thoughts, he now had two reasons to continue living: His daughter and his writing.

Bukowski also dated fellow writer and sculptor Linda King for some time, despite being about twenty years older than she. Although immediately repulsed by him, she sculpted a bust of his head and slowly became attracted to him. She encouraged him to write about the women in his life. Between then and his second marriage, he had a strong cult following and lots of young female fans would show up to his readings and insist on having sex with him. At the height of his sexual popularity, women would show up on his front porch and wait for him to wake up (often in the afternoon) so that they could could have sex with the "famous writer."

In 1976, Bukowski met a fan of his work that caught his eye: Linda Lee Beighle, a health-food restaurant owner. She was different from the other fans, particularly because she refused to have sex with him for quite some time. Two years later, the couple moved from the East Hollywood area, where Bukowski had lived for most of his life, to the harborside community of San Pedro, the southernmost district of the city of Los Angeles. Bukowski and Beighle were married by Manly Palmer Hall on August 18, 1985. Linda Lee Beighle is referred to as "Sara" in Bukowski's novels, Women and Hollywood.

Work and death

Bukowski published extensively in small literary magazines and with small presses beginning in the late 1950s and continuing on through the early 1990s; the poems and stories were later republished by Black Sparrow Press (now HarperCollins/ECCO) as collected volumes of his work. John Martin, who started Black Sparrow Press, visited Bukowski in search of material for his publication. A nonchalant Bukowski invited him in, offered him a beer, and told him to look in the closet, where a waist-high heap of approximately 5000 manuscripts were waiting to be discovered. Later, John Martin would offer him a $100 monthly stipend "for life" for writing pieces for Black Sparrow Press. Bukowski quit his job at the post-office to make writing his full-time career. He was then 49 years old. As he explained in a letter at the time, "I have one of two choices—stay in the post office and go crazy … or stay out here and play at writer and starve. I have decided to starve." Less than one month after leaving the postal service, he finished his first novel, titled Post Office.

As a measure of respect for Martin's financial support and faith in a then relatively unknown writer, Bukowski published almost all of his subsequent work with Black Sparrow.

Bukowski acknowledged Anton Chekhov, Franz Kafka, Knut Hamsun, Ernest Hemingway, John Fante, Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Robinson Jeffers, Fyodor Dostoevsky, D.H. Lawrence, and others as influences, and often spoke of Los Angeles as his favorite subject. In a 1974 interview he said, "You live in a town all your life, and you get to know every bitch on the street corner and half of them you have already messed around with. You've got the layout of the whole land. You have a picture of where you are. …Since I was raised in L.A., I've always had the geographical and spiritual feeling of being here. I've had time to learn this city. I can't see any other place than L.A."

One critic has described Bukowski's fiction as a "detailed depiction of a certain taboo male fantasy: The uninhibited bachelor, slobby, anti-social, and utterly free."

Bukowski died of leukemia on March 9, 1994, in San Pedro, California, at the age of 73, shortly after completing his last novel, "Pulp." His funeral rites were conducted by Buddhist monks. His gravestone reads: "Don't Try."

Please look into the trashcan in your garage and maybe take out the new Converse box with the old shoes in it. There's our tickets for the show that we saw tonight and also for the baseball game that we saw yesterday. I've stuffed mementos in a drawer of mine in the house that I never seem to be at anymore. Keep them just in case, okay. Even if the best thing seems that we probably shouldn't be together. Why not? We all end up throwing away things inevitably, right?

I've never seen an ant stand still.

Baa...

baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full.

One for the master,
One for the dame,
And one for the little boy
Who lives down the lane.

Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes sir, yes sir...

Strike that - I don't.

Good Morning.

I didn't just wake up from a nap.

But will...soon.

Good night.

Old Post.

Frustrating not to be able to share my simple joys with complicated people.

Frankenstein's monster ended up confusing flower petals with brittle, little girl necks.

Lenny wanted to share the soft and soothing experience of petting cute bunny rabbits with hard, callused ranch hands.

The satisfaction that you get with filling a house full of new furniture does nothing to quell the vast emptiness of my soul.

Your fast food gives you ths satisfaction equivalent to my frustrated headache.

What noisy gardners give me before waking dreams is your extra hour to get a cup of coffee before work.

Nintendo to your Wii.

My Mad Libs to your Blackberry.

I breathe lung cancer.

You live.

I am too far-sighted and not hungry enough to follow a fucking carrot.

I see six million blind and beautiful shuffling mules.

Not even aware of the shit that they're leaving behind.

I see me forever mulling over the potential beauty of six million animals blinding me with their unstoppable momentum.

Frustrating

confusing

hard

nothing

headache

noisy

I breathe

You live

I am too far-sighted

and not hungry enough

blind

and beautiful

shuffling

behind

forever mulling over
the potential beauty of
six million animals
blinding me with
their unstoppable momentum

Frustrating not to be able to share my simple joys with complicated people.

Rigur Sos...

here i am
my eyes are Spider
I shiver like Chico
I am the crackling, feral, green parrots of downtown
here i am
me
my eyes are clouded
I focus
I don't miss this
runrunrun
fizzled roman fireworks
here i am
am i here
nevernevernever
unfocused
donedonedone
you said
FOCUSFOCUSFOCUS
you said
cataracts

I'm not ignoring you and I'm not being rude. You're on the phone. I'm okay with that. The reason that I'm writing now is because I just really wanted to write something.

repost = compost

Maybe Deja-Vu Is...

That somebody in an alternate universe is reading that book about you, the comic book or watching your movie and either had to re-read that sentence, chapter, etc. or rewind to the last part before the phone rang or having to feed the dogs.

You

are lemonade
and I am the hot, summer day.

My Eyes And Soul May Be Tired...

but the fingertips itch a bit
and I have so much to say
and
I'll never be able to get it all down

I've written about this for years

Stop Being A 3===D

One of these days it will all make sense.
One of these days I'll miss these days.
One of these days I'll be better than before.
One of these days I'll be in Ireland.
One of these days I'll go back in time and make it all right.
One of these days I'll remember everything.
One of these days I'll breath deep
and
It'll be too late
to look back.

Atari Teenage Riot...

Took all of my action figures out of their packages.

I know.

Pig.

If I had a dollar for every pen that I've stolen from work - then I'd have a lot of money and a lot of pens.

...

I was getting ready for work and sat down in my chair to put on my shoes and thought that I sat on my dog.

But then I remembered that I didn't have a dog anymore.

The District Sleeps Tonight..

I just started to write three totally different things and saved them all for later.

But I'm fine, thank you.

Dandy.

Fat Free Milk.

I like talking now.

A Collection of Abject Musings ...

I think I could do this for the rest of my life. I just opened a beer and have adjusted myself properly in my chair. Guitars and violins are running through choruses to my left outside my door. Really. It’s amazing to live in a house filled with musicians. They’re wheeling in a xylophone now. It’s also raining – can you believe that?

I know I’ve written about it before but for every bad day there are days like these. Completely wasted, lazy days or nights with no ambitions. Nothing but the next five minutes of your life planned. Floating, vaporous days turned into solid joy.

I spent a year watching sunsets in my old place on Commonwealth, spent years walking my dog in the vast park at the old house and maybe in this house, after all of the heartache, confusion and mistakes I’ve made – maybe what I’ve been practicing slowly will finally turn into one big smile instead of the minutia of tiny smiles that I’ve accumulated here. Maybe in the next place, I’ll look back fondly on days exactly like today.

Kmalo

So, I was going to tell you about how I needed more time to myself in front of the computer and maybe to write and needed a little bit more time to get work out of system and that my friend, Pat invited me down to his work and I thought that it would be nice to get out of the house because everybody else seemed to be doing something either interesting or NON and why not, eh?

And as I was about to write this, he just texted me to come down and I think I might so I better hurry up.

I just wrote this post in two minutes, me thinks.

Bye.

Lovelove

Just Found This On Somebody Else's Website?

I barely remember writing this. Neat.

Bye.

fatfreemilk@gmail.com

There will never be enough time to

A Journey - By Edward Field

When he got up that morning everything was different:
He enjoyed the bright spring day
But he did not realize it exactly, he just enjoyed it.


And walking down the street to the railroad station
Past magnolia trees with dying flowers like old socks
It was a long time since he had breathed so simply.


Tears filled his eyes and it felt good
But he held them back
Because men didn't walk around crying in that town.


Waiting on the platform at the station
The fear came over him of something terrible about to happen:
The train was late and he recited the alphabet to keep hold.


And in its time it came screeching in
And as it went on making its usual stops,
People coming and going, telephone poles passing,

He hid his head behind a newspaper
No longer able to hold back the sobs, and willed his eyes
To follow the rational weavings of the seat fabric.


He didn't do anything violent as he had imagined.

He cried for a long time, but when he finally quieted down
A place in him that had been closed like a fist was open,

And at the end of the ride he stood up and got off that train:
And through the streets and in all the places he lived in later on
He walked, himself at last, a man among men,
With such radiance that everyone looked up and wondered.

Nothing makes you feel weirder and older
than singing in a laundry room with a gaggle of underage girls
Thank you for the Disney songs, kids
Thank you for saying that you thought that I was twenty-five
and maybe no thank you for saying that I looked like Luke Perry from 90210

I shouldn't have been there, I guess.

You forgot your Gnome.

We have more bikes in the backyard than monthly visitors now.

Tonight, the moon was bigger than I've ever seen it before.

My ears have been plugged up for days.

I played a video game for six hours today and didn't pick up ONE book.

Thanks, Kyle.

on a beautiful, deserted island
building a boat

slowly

Now I saw,

though too late, the folly of beginning a work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own strength to go through with it.


1. The only reason that my name is spelled “Kevynn” sometimes is because I started it when I was 16 and really started to write a bunch of Emo thoughts, poems and stories into notebooks. Back then I only spelled it with one “N”. I kind of helped me out when I started doing a lot of Content and PR work for a bunch of failed TEH Interweb/nets companies and embarrassing music magazines. Nice to use your real name when you’re writing for new companies and not to be Googly-haunted by Bloggy, random articles, posts and blargh blargfh with the Emo one.

2. I only reason that I exist is because my father worked doing secret, secret stuff for an agency that only has three letters and because my mother was super hot and because he knocked her up. My brother was born in Vietnam and my older half brother was born in Bolivia. I would like to thank Che Guevara, Ho Chi Minh and all of Communism for this award.

3. I wear contacts and hate wearing glasses. Even though I like how I look in glasses. Sometimes. Glasses suck. Try to lay your head down sideways and watch 30 Rock with glasses, bitch.

4. I’ve always been this thin – but my weight fluctuates based on what’s going on in my life.

5. I hate talking on the phone. Hate it.

6. I usually don’t know that I’m speaking until somebody asks me what I meant, laughs or frowns.

7. I will die on the freeway sitting in the passenger seat.

8. I’ve lived in haunted houses more than once. I’ll tell you stories if you buy me a comic book and tell me that you like my shoes.

9. One of my eyes is lighter than the other.

10. I like Atari Teenage Riot and Crass.

11. I don’t know what I’m doing.

12. I miss playing in punk/surf bands.

13. I’ve always had Deja-Vu. It gets so bad sometimes that if I shut my mouth than I can silently watch everything that I know that will happen…happen. It drives me nuts but at the most, it only goes from 15 seconds to 30 minutes. What do you do with this? Nothing. Sometimes I know what you’re going to say. If you’re by me next time, I’ll write it down and show you later. Lame, I know – but true.

14. I never had much but AMAZING friends. I’ve never had any guidance. Especially in the last 15 years. I’ll take this over a solid family structure anyday.

15. I was homeless more than once and traveled via Greyhound across the USA and used to sleep in parks, friend’s cars, schools, park benches and used to sray up at 24-hour donut shops. AND more and more and more awesome places. Yay!

16. I have bad knees because of skateboarding when I was a wee tyke and have crappy, broken ankles. I walk like a young Benjamin Button when I wake up but it gets better in about fifteen minutes and I don’t hobble so bad.

17. I don’t have any family that lives in California.

18. I have amazing hand/eye coordination and amazing balance and aim. Really, it’s uncanny. I’ll show you…

19. I am a horse whisperer.

20. I always have to have something to drink. Water, juice, soda – anything. I can’t not have water or something by me. I’m either weird or OCD or my kidneys hate me or all of these things combined.

21. I have probably fallen asleep to Empire Strikes Back 300 and something times.

22. I paint about ONE picture every year.

23. I know a lot about comic books. More than anybody that you know.

24. I believe that right now, things will make themselves right in progressive, snail-like increments. I hope to look back on my newly-created phosphorescent trails and smile…happy to see how far I’ve travelled.

25. I am Jane Goodall's Tanzanian monkeys typing about bananas. My fingers are Santa's little helpers. My hope is a sporadic rainfall - yet a torrential downpour in all creative environments. I am Theseus, unspooling golden yarn. Sisyphus, sweating uphill. Bukowski, scribbling away in rooming houses. A river always flowing. I am the nightmare of stagnancy and the god of imagination. Not really... I'm just tired And Full Of Poo...

Who's scruffy-lookin'?

I'm a hungry Wampa without a Tantaun
Chewbacca without a Bowcaster
Greedo with good aim
Salacious Crumb without the cackle
A Sarlaac without a pitt
Boba without the jet pack
Echo Station without a shield generator
A Snow Speeder without a tow cable
I am Dantooine without the millions of voices suddenly crying out in terror that were suddenly silenced
I am a Land Speeder without the vaseline smeared glob beneath my wheels
R2-D2 incessantly chirping
I do not know how big I've grown eating food of this kind
I am the crying Rancor Keeper
I am Yak and Prune Face
I am Sy Snootles without The Max Rebo Band
I am a Gundark without ears
I am Darth Vader without asthma and an Emperor without finger-tipped lightning bolts
Jabba without delectable frogs and Bib Fortuna without the head tentacles
Watto without wings
John without the Williams
Leia sans slave outfit
I am Dagobah without its swamps
Bantha without the poodoo
and I'm a dud of a Thermal Detonator
I have convinced my new master to take of my restraining bolt
I am Aunt Beru and Uncle Owen without Tupperware glasses
I can't make the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs
I am the ninth moon of Endor
I am Jimmy Smits as Bail Organa
I am Kit Fisto, Plo Kloon and that other Jedi guy dying like bitches
I am the fat, dancing Twilek in Jabba's Palace
I am the bone in your Rancor's teeth
I am Jek Porkins dying in a shower of sparks
I am Industrial Light and Reality
Luke screaming, Yes! That's true! Yes, it is possible!
A tank without Bacta
An AT-AT without armor plating
Ewoks without a village
and Han Solo without a bounty over his head
4-LOM without Zuckuss
I am a canceled Boonta Eve race
and a quadrapelegic Wookie wanting to rip off your arms
I am the Star Wars Holiday Christmas Special
and a swarm of sucking Mynocks
I have a bad feeling about this

and

I am not the droid you're looking for.

Thankthegodsfortheglimmerof hope
atleastinthenextpairofeyes
thatlookat me
they'llsee you
andmycataracts
andispeakslower now
withlessenergytheysay
Thankthegodsfortheglimmerof hope
atleastinthenextpairofeyes

Mark MacGavern

is the homeless man that I met tonight as I was walking home
he gave me a good book list
was calm and pleasant to talk to
I told him that I had tried to volunteer at one of our local churches
I was curious what he needed and invited him to my house
I have all of my old clothes that don't fit me anymore, canned goods and a lot of Hagan's old camping equipment, a sleeping bag, etc.
I gave him money that he reluctantly accepted
and tried to give him my Steinbeck
he wasn't interested and showed me what he was reading
All he needs is hot, washed blankets
Now, I have that covered
and I spent two hours in the cold on a bench with him
just because I said hello
Mark looks like Rasputin and Zack Galafinakis
we
talked
man to man
about words
books
family
feelings
regrets
we are
both strong men

I'm sorry to see how things have gone in my life lately
but I never would've had this moment tonight
if I hadn't already fucked up the one I had

good
bad

but I remembered the old me from a long time ago
and I think the one that you loved

The one that I LOVED

Thank you, Mark.

Bukowski? You're still not my friend. I've re-read this eight times and don't know how I feel about this...

blasphemy of love

in my beginning
as with every human
being, we're
born early
into the truest sense
of the word NEED.

I was given the sustenance
of existence
until I was able to live without
any further original need
and so I boldly, naively believing
and brightly blazing
thrust myself
forward into life, filled
with an insatiable apatite
for self reliance, with
an almost curiously anti-dependant
desire; to be whole
without any outside force,
to rely on nothing
and no one else.

I searched and settled
and pondered and cursed thin air
and most often through the years I've
found myself in life
continuously fighting an almost
insurmountable surreal desire-
to be
needed by another...
I've finally come to know now unequivocally
that I am NOT, never
have been
and never will be.

I am a man, but I am not a leader
nor a follower or a Father.

through disenchantment and heartbreak,
through disappointment and
disillusionment, through false promises
given by and taken from me
through the whole of my
self-sustained life
it has ultimately
led me back within myself-
clarity has come for me
through a disintigration of truth
an obliteration of hope
a caricature of self
a malignancy of soul
and a blasphemy of love
most people know
every fire needs fuel
to continue,
or it must succumb
to an inevitable
cool weightless ash
and a dissipating smoke.

my dilemma has been that
I feel no need to seed
another human
into being
in need
of
original love to survive,
to endure another plight of life
in utter ultimate
useless
needlessness...
so to those I've loved I can only say this:
"I knew I wanted to be with you,
but I never needed you,
I thought you might have needed me,
but you didn't and you don't.

I apologize for not knowing that
better back then.

but I promise you this
My Loves,

it'll never happen again.