Pleased to Meet You
Written April 7, 1999
Christ.
Back to the Numbers List.
Back to keeping track of numbers and dates and girls.
Back to meeting someone new every weekend.
Back to the 'Meet' Market.
I kind of like it for the newness.
But this time it seems old.
Aren't I suppose to feel the need to spread my seed?
Aren't I supposed to know how to sow those oats?
Aren't I supposed to understand why everything's a farming reference?
I found a shirt.
Hay and horses and a little bit of perfume.
What a woman it must be from.
Why did I have to find it?
Why did I have to have such a good memory,
with such a bad taste?
I could have just let the pleasant scents and dreams fade.
But no, I had to find this shirt.
Now I remember, even though it was but a few weeks ago.
What are those weeks to a nose?
A nose knows.
Why don't I?
Phantom Stranger
Written March 23, 1999
Again with the loneliness.
Why won't it just leave me alone?
So much work. Gone to rest, asleep in the bed.
Single to a point, committed like always.
Sharpening the pencil, eyes wandering.
Do I have to do this?
It bores me so.
Two together is all I wanted to hear, but one alone is what I'm forced to bear.
It seemed to work, but I didn't notice the holes.
It seemed to be what I wanted, but was all you could stand.
Didn't want to see the seams rip.
Couldn't let my principles slip.
Didn't want to see you fall from my ideal.
Share and share alike.
Decisions, love and pain.
Share and be shared.
Money? Materialism?
To a Jedi, these things matter not.
I didn't know I was being judged against something I could never be.
I didn't think I could or would want to be Him.
Even though I doubt he ever existed as you told me.
The glittering Gold Nugget.
With the Rapist Hands.
The trouncer of your pain and enflamer of your hidden passions.
I am just all that I am, all that you see.
Clear as mud, and twice as sticky, you slither in Immaturity.
Stable as a shaking leaf, you are young and far too green for fire.
Full of sap, and other semi-sultry, juvenile substances.
You know not what you are capable of, but it peeks out the edges.
This love that I thought I felt.
Was actually just some sort of attachment, some sort of Motown Jive.
Gone is it now, away with the willows.
But do you dream?
Go. In. Search.
Come. Back. Empty.
Where did everyone go?
You're. Alone.
Questioning the North Country
Written March 29, 1999
It's been a year, but still I wonder.
How is she doing?
Does she plow ahead, does she fall behind?
How is she doing?
Shouldn't I be pretending I don't think about her?
Isn't that my job?
I try to be a good ex, but sometimes I slip into Caring Mode.
Isn't that allowed?
Is her life full? Does she ever look south?
Would I care if she did?
I've seen and been with others.
Felt their cries in the night, but sometimes I hear her.
Of all, she came the closest.
To what, I do not know.
I think it might be my heart, or whatever is in its' place.
But she came so close.
I hear things.
I can imagine the rage she feels at the casual mention of my name.
Not so casual anymore.
It's a curse in their own language.
The Unheard and the Unspoken.
Hurts me, but you do get used to the pain.
Toon Holocaust
Written March 29, 1999
I AM an Autobot.
Never a Decepticon.
And if you follow this, you are part of our group.
A little unsung majority who watched and loved our escapist cartoons.
When did they begin to go the way of their predescessors?
When did we start to lose ground to Barney?
First X-men vanished, and then G.I. Joe.
Not the cheesy remakes, but the real gritty stuff.
Soon toons began dropping like flies,
like ACME-made rockets out of a Wiley-Coyote kind of sky.
It was a Toon Holocaust.
Tiny comic screams were heard nearly every Saturday morning, and we knew one more of our Toonerific brothers had been shot down.
To make way for the more Politically correct, cross-generational Barney-esque jovial wonders.
God, I hate that crap.
Didn't we already have a nutty-crunchy show or two to serve those needs?
Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.
Sure, he was Canadian, but that didn't make him a bad guy, eh?
We watched him push his train around all the same.
Who are we to deprive these 90's kids of their heroes?
Teletubbies and the other fruity toys fighting for dominance.
We need G.I. Joe kicking these kids into shape.
They need their US RDA of Voltron and Galaxy High.
Come on, join the crowd.
Bring back our toons.
Mind Meld
Written March 24, 1999
It flows.
It melds.
It thinks.
It blends.
It controls.
From where?
From there.
From whom?
From her.
To where?
You know where.
To me?
There, damnit! There!
The Masked-One.
The Controller.
The A.C.O.A..
Am I the One?
Am I the Prodigal Son?
It's not so fun.
To be that Sun.
Her entire world.
Ripped from the fold.
By myself, to myself.
I'm off the shelf.
Flying around.
Unbound.
Making headway.
Learning how not to obey.
Appearances are everything to nearly everyone.
And I've found the perfect mask.
Written March 24, 1999
It flows.
It melds.
It thinks.
It blends.
It controls.
From where?
From there.
From whom?
From her.
To where?
You know where.
To me?
There, damnit! There!
The Masked-One.
The Controller.
The A.C.O.A..
Am I the One?
Am I the Prodigal Son?
It's not so fun.
To be that Sun.
Her entire world.
Ripped from the fold.
By myself, to myself.
I'm off the shelf.
Flying around.
Unbound.
Making headway.
Learning how not to obey.
Appearances are everything to nearly everyone.
And I've found the perfect mask.
Growth Spurt
Written May 11, 1999
Everytime he needs to write, he's overflowing.
Everytime he needs to speak, it's a fight to keep it from spilling over.
The motion of the ocean may not affect him.
But the swelling of his heart makes him uneasy.
It's not easy being green .
Or purple .
But it's a long way from Kansas.
And he's running out of Stress Juice.
He's beginning a new trip.
A new journey.
And he's alone this time.
Nobody to watch over him.
Nobody to listen to his sleepy breathing.
It's just him.
At first, it was money for nothing.
A way to have something for the weekend.
Then, it was money for something.
A chance to be free.
Now that he is a bird, an eagle,
he's looking for a perch.
Somewhere to gather his wits and a place where he can shift.
Again and again.
Shifting seems to be the only way he can grow.
And it's right about now that he needs the Bionic to kick in.
It's right about now that the C h a m e l e o n needs to take over.
He always knows what to do, hiding among many as he can.
And this time, this place, will be harder to fit a wolf among the sheep.
Long Hard Loop
Written April 20, 1999
I know this has got to be crazy.
Must be insane.
I couldn't ACTUALLY think that.
There's no way I would actually want that.
Horse-Girl couldn't have been right.
There couldn't have been any truth to what she said.
It was just something to hurt me.
It must have been.
Right?
I got over you more than a year back.
Flushed your profile from my system.
Washed that girl right out of my hair.
But she used that shampoo that smelled so weird.
Pink and wonderful.
Weird enough that I wanted to sniff a little closer.
No damnit!
Stop!
On dangerous ground you now tread.
A slippery slope this is, indeed.
Something just tugs a bit.
A little memory.
A passing fancy.
That won't go away.
It wasn't like this before.
It's changed somehow, someway, sometime.
It's never been this strong.
She caused me so much grief.
So much pain at losing something so potentially good.
There's no way I'd want to change what I have.
There couldn't be a thought like this floating in my head.
It's getting closer to the top.
I can feel it.
It's nearly to the surface.
And when it breaks, I don't know what'll happen.
No.
No!
Maybe?
I couldn't want her back.
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