Friday, January 28, 2011

Behind closed doors

I feel like my entire life has been conspired upon

Behind closed doors

My fate, my future, my present, my past

Whispered over, scrutinized in secret

As if I, the steward of my own existence,

Would deign to be informed of its direction

Behind closed doors, behind the veil, behind my back

-What will we do with him?

-Where will he go?

-Why is he here?

-When will he go?

Leaning-on quickly becomes burden-to

Quickly becomes beholden-to

Quickly becomes resentment

I’ll have to stand on my own or fall to the side

Relying on no other prop but my pride

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

I swear I’m not heartbroken

I have no heart to break

No words left to be spoken

Nothing left for you to take

I’ve kept my love frozen

And bury it should it wake

Now each day keeps on going

But I can’t shake this ache

I swear I’m not drinking

Only drowning in sorrow

My head is quickly sinking

My life becoming hollow

The other day I got to thinking

What’s the point of tomorrow?

What would I be missing

That I couldn’t possibly borrow?

I swear I’m mistaken

Must have gotten my lines crossed

Believed there was a connection

Somehow the message was lost

Never thought I’d be heartbroken

Never knew we couldn’t be

Never knew you had already chosen

Why couldn’t it have been me?


I always said I’d never go home

Once I got out, I’d continue to roam

Wander everywhere, I didn’t care

Not a penny to my name, pockets bare

All that mattered was I wasn’t there

Everything else was laissez-faire

But the return home was inevitable

This son’s set to be prodigal

With misery in my heart, the past on my mind

I board the train home, made it just in time

Though these tracks don’t have beats inside

I ride to the rhythm of what I left behind

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Nothing (and Nobody)'s Working

We're all in need of repair
Haven sunk into despair
Cuz nothing's working
And don't nobody care
The harder you try
The quicker you die
So why bother
The dream's just a lie

Unemployment's on the rise
Nothing and nobody's working
Each day a loss of lives
And the world keeps turning
(Turning) Into hell on earth
Where nothing and nobody works

God has been objectified
And human cruelty deified
Cuz nothing's working
Nothing's realized
Greed is the air we breathe
Hate is all we believe
"Nothing" is better
Than what we have conceived

A Love Song

This ain't a song about love
I just don't know what else to sing
This ain't no song about love
Cuz there's no love for me to sing

At night I lay my head down
There's no one there
Nobody else around
Clutchin' my pillow close
Tear-stained case
Holdin' nothing but a ghost
A pillow can't kiss
Or give affection
It can only show what you miss
Remind you that no one wants you
A pillow can't kiss but can taunt you

This ain't a song about love
Cuz there's no love for me to sing
This ain't no song about love
Only about the pain that life brings

All day long I pretend I'm alive
A grand illusion
A delusion I use to survive
But look in my eyes
There's no one there
The days are simply lies
Should I catch anyone's attention
Hope awakens
That he'll show me some affection
But the moment passes as quickly
As it comes, if not more swiftly

This ain't a song about love
Cuz I can't sing about nothing
This is a song about heartbreak
About how hard loneliness stings
This ain't no song about love
Cuz there's no love to sing

A New Life

Where have I been but laying in bed
Contemplating a means to an end
Til I came to realize there's no end to strife
And what I've needed all along is a new life
One I can bear the weight of without strain
One with just enough suffering and pain
Instead of this misery that breaks me down
This agony that has and will always abound
I need a new life, not this hellish prison
I need a new life lest I drown in crimson

What have I done but suffer for art
But art has failed to play its part
Leaving me empty and battered
My cupboards bare, clothes in tatters
I live in a world bereft of value
What's a new life when the old is still true?
When innocence dies for all the wrong reasons
And those of us who seek it must play out each season
A new life, no I need a new existence
New humanity, new gods, a whole new consciousness

4 Meditations On...

Ambition exceeds talent
Emotion exceeds expression
Lay the pen to rest
And let the artist die

If dying were more pleasant
And the outcome guaranteed
Could I tie the noose about my neck
And jump into eternity?

Futile, it seems, to continue on
Futile, my soul whispers within me
Futile! common sense demands I admit
Futile, it is, life's charms to resist

This too shall pass, so I hope...pray
Even now it feels like a lie
Only to return a new day
And with it the Wondering Why

Friday, July 30, 2010

Waking Life

I may look alive

But I’ve been dead the whole time

The walking dead passerby

All look alike but for the eyes

Vacant and staring at nothing

At no one, all assumptions

Based on brain and heat beats

But the soul retreats

My life has gone away from me

For everything I am has killed me

A placid ocean in the mid of night

A sole figure bobbing in moonlight

Arms flailing, no one for miles

Goes under and then slowly dies

Life has washed over me

And no one ever sees

Me drowning in my own mind

Sees me slowly running out of time

My life has gone away from me

For everything I am has killed me

Can we still love after death?

Is there anything left at last breath?

If I am dead, my heart is too

Turned to stone just to get through

The waking life and the everyday

To pretend that everything is okay

That I am alive and all is well

All the while I’ve been dead, can’t you tell?

My life has gone away from me

For everything I am has killed me

Friday, April 16, 2010

Final Frame : Part 2

There’s nothing sadder than a group of has-beens, never-weres and never-will-bes in one room together. Add an open bar and you’ve got the formula for first-class entertainment; overwrought tension, whiny commiseration and vicious diatribes. And that was just when we were filming. Backstage, the drama was all the more heightened and feelings were often hurt, but then again, most of us had lost feeling below the eyebrows, have climbed — fallen — all the way down to the daytime game show circuit. Before the camera, the smiles were painted, often plastered, and every insult was softened by the laughter of our dear, dear audience. But without someone there to yell ‘Cut!’, there were no limits, nothing keeping the line between real and imagined discord. I was halfway through my third Dark and Stormy when the familiar clouds of malice began to gather over the green room of my current place d’emploiBelow the Belt, the game show where the best cheater wins, with your host, Chett Riley! It was a rather convoluted and completely uninteresting game in which two souls plucked at random from the bosom of America would cheat and lie their way to victory with the help of a panel of celebrities. Each player started off with $5000 that they would use to buy answers to obscure trivia from any one of six celebrity guests (as in real life, some people could be bought for a lot less than others). The winner would get to keep whatever they were left with, which was certainly not their dignity but usually significantly less than their initial $5000. From my limited — and, quite honestly, inebriated — understanding of it all, players could bribe celebrities to give wrong answers, outbid their opponent for the right answer and steal money from one another, whatever underhanded, despicable trick it took to win, a true American pastime. All of this took place under the blank gaze of Mr. Riley, a former college football hero whose glory days were twenty years and a blown ACL (whatever that is) behind him, though he retained more than a reasonable semblance of his youthful beauty and virility. As a host, however, he was strictly for decoration — a handsome, broad-shouldered all-American type with very thick sideburns and a very thick neck — quietly encouraging the studio audience to settle down, or gently chastising the stars for their disorderly conduct. His beady little blue eyes would search for an answer to more than the capital of the Prussian Empire until 1945 (Königsberg for $300 to Mario the mechanic from Wisconsin), impotent and helpless as the fair land that sired, lauded then abandoned him. Don’t be mistaken, we were encouraged to hurl insults at one another in an attempt to discredit the potential validity of our answers and just to distract from the nebulous premise of the game. Before the show began taping, we lounged about in the green room, reviewing the answers we’d be charged with delivering. I realized I had the same answers as Susie Shewolf, star of the Saturday morning fixture, Susie and the Shewolves about a group of intergalactic Amazons who form a rock and roll band, naturally, and fly around the universe solving mysteries. Strictly highbrow. Susie, herself, was former adult actress Carmen Hidalgo, also known as Coco Corkscrew, star of the cinematic masterwork, A Screw in Time, virtually breathed whiskey. Innumerable were the times the director, the balding, high-strung and impressively hung, from what I’ve heard tell around the water cooler, Kevin Baumholtz, had to have her escorted off Studio D for violently attacking a grip, and/or gambling with the sound crew and/or falling asleep on the set of Maude and/or shedding the lining of her stomach all over the wardrobe department. However, she was sleeping with some low-level executive whose sphere of influence extended to Below the Belt and little else. Everyone hated her, for obvious reasons, and she hated everyone in return. Everyone but me, that is. After all, we’re both girls who like to have a good time. I could see that she had started her good time earlier than usual today, her large, beautiful and intense brown eyes bloodshot at only 10:30 in the morning. She sat down next to me, her Enjoli virtually overpowered by the musky sweetness of Jack Daniels.

“Carl, the bastard, broke up with me. Last night.” The bastard was the aforementioned low-level executive who had, apparently, gone onto greener pastures from this scorched earth who was now anxiously chain-smoking over my shoulder.

“My condolences, Sue, that’s really awful, but do you mind blowing your smoke upwind, dear?”

Oblivious to my request or simply unwilling to grant it, my head was covered in a halo of smoke as she sang out her heartbreak in her raspy tenor. Carl, from hereon referred to as “the bastard” has taken up with a younger, prettier and if I were to venture a guess, a decidedly more sane woman and poor, old (inching ever closer to forty) Susie, from hereon referred to as “the victim,” was distraught. She had little in the way of talent, though fans of A Screw in Time and its sequel, The Spanking of the Screw might disagree, and though the victim admittedly didn’t love the bastard, she had grown rather accustomed to him. Now with her contract with BtB almost up and SatS all but cancelled, the intergalactic Amazon rock and rollers market not being what it once was, Susie would have a dearth of opportunities available to her. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be flashing my pussy for a living, I’m a mother for Pete’s sake,” the victim clarified. Poor, old Susie was at the end of her rope, and not one to dangle alone, was determined to make the atmosphere as toxic as she could manage, and on her fourth cigarette in under ten minutes, was already doing a splendid job at it.

“These people make me sick,” seemingly out of nowhere, a parade of discord began as Susie slumped down in the chair next to me. She surveyed the room with a mix of utter disgust and ravenous hunger, the hunger for flesh-figuratively-torn-asunder. “They all think they’re better than me. All of ‘em!...Except you, Sanny.” She turned her left eye on me, the right one seemingly unable to keep its act together, “You always treated me like an equal.”

“Well, I hoped I had done better than that, dear. “ I gestured over the waiter, a short, nebbish little thing with glasses covering half of his face and asked for another of the same. “To be my equal is a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy.”

Expecting at least a chuckle, I was surprised when, with a start belying her advanced drunkenness, she flew over to sit next to Ginny Garfield, jovial star of her own cooking show, Cooking with Gin and, incidentally, a colossal bitch. It should be noted that the title of her show was less of a pun and more of a modus operandi, as she often had to be propped up during filming, having guzzled down a few bottles of Seagram’s while performing her BtB duties before stumbling over to her Day-Glo kitchen on Lot B. Mrs. Garfield was sitting at what passes for the cool kids table, if you, by any stretch of the imagination, consider a group of middle-aged, out of work actors cool, when Susie plopped down next to her.

“Oh, look what the cat threw up and dragged in,” greeted Phil Dunbar, best known for his commercials for Tide laundry detergent and a brief, wholly forgettable stint on The Patty Duke Show, with his typical, unimaginative cattiness. A pang of sadness rang through my entire body and I felt terribly sad for Susie. She had been such a nice kid when she first showed up on set, but her past indiscretions preceded her and everyone had already made up their minds about who she was. Of course I befriended her. I’ve been the outsider my entire life, because of my sexuality, because of my weight, which a diet of amphetamines and coffee eventually tamed, albeit temporarily, because of my heritage (my original surname being Horowitz) and have been lucky enough to have more than one person stand up for, or at least beside me. She didn’t deserve their ire. Not to say that she couldn’t hold her own.

“Zip it, Dunbar, as usual no one’s talking to or about you. I came over to visit y dear old friend, Ginny. You’re looking particularly bloated today, all of the crème Brule no doubt.” The battle lines were being drawn when my drink came thankfully in time. Ginny had been the most venomous in the assault on Susie, assuming the role of moral center for this immoral group. Not a day went by that she didn’t take the opportunity to degrade, embarrass and insult her, once going so far as to screen A Screw in Time to the entire crew of the show, though for most if not all of them, it was by no means a premiere.

“Shouldn’t you be spinning on a pole or lying face down in a ditch somewhere, Coco.” She also insisted on referring to her by her nom de scène and all the withered old witches cackled.

“You know, Gin, the last three years have been really eye-opening, not only because I have to keep them wide in order to take in your entire body,” I inadvertently attracted attention when I almost shot rum out of my nose at that, “but I know how this business works. The crueler you are, the more heartless, soulless and downright AWFUL you are to people, the further you get. It must kill you inside to know that despite all of that going for you, you’re still a nobody.” I was hoping she would just walk away after that, everything she said being true, after all, but I knew that this was the last time Susie Shewolf, aka, Coco Corkscrew, aka Carmen Hidalgo would terrorize and be terrorized on this set. And she was not one for subtlety. “I just want to thank you.” Susie grabbed Ginny’s ample cheeks and kissed her full on the mouth, leaving the other woman stunned. A collective gasp went into the air, then Susie clasped her hands together and swung them like a bat at Ginny’s temple. Ginny Garfield made a thunderous thud as she landed on the floor, her legs splayed beneath her. Susie then dug her stiletto into Ginny’s side and turned, relishing the bloodcurdling scream that she emitted. I went out on the pretense of grabbing a smoke as three burly security guards rushed passed me, my hand accidentally grazing one of their firm backsides.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

After All of the Pain Is Exhausted


It's gone
The fluid words
That would make
Of everything
It always
Escapes me
The nature of life is transient
And my mind
Is feeble
At best - weak and insufficient - pathetic
A would-be poet
Crushed by the weight of ambivalence

As I get older
I find it harder to find
A reason to live or love
Only that to die in obscurity
Having accomplished nothing
Of which to be satisfied, proud;
For which to be remembered and loved
Is a fate
Worse than


What cruel joke is this?
What horror is existence?
How awful are
The caprices of life?; how torturous
The machinations of the heart and mind?
What joy is to be found for one
Such as me?
Alone for lack of guidance
When words alone
Are as hollow as my soul
And assurances as evil
As the heart of man

There is no hope, only failure
Only disappointment
Only the face in the mirror
A mask of human suffering
A facade of morality
Hiding the true ogre of


As its influence runs through
Each limb; each nerve
Encouraging the cultivation of
Mind, body, soul and love
Only to snatch away its breath
Once all hope, all love, all joy, all pain
All the pain
All of the pain
Is exhausted



Friday, March 19, 2010

Reason Enough

Walking home from work, I was mugged last night

By two miserable Bronx children in the fading light

When pushed against a car and stripped of my things

A disturbing calm came over me that theft rarely brings

But with time and sleep, rage now rises inside me

At the little punks’ sheer, unadulterated audacity

The loss of my ipod, new headphones and sunglasses

Is nothing compared to the smiles of those asses

Broad and proud at the victory they had won

Over a tired little faggot all in a game of fun

I walked away unscathed with the air of a monk

In my mind wishing them both the worst of luck

That they should rob the wrong person some day

And end up beaten, shot dead or carried away

Their lives will lead to a misery that is thorough

Whilst I have reason enough to leave this godforsaken borough