I stare at two photos she posted over herself, unable to
tell which one is the real her, it either is – one, the happy-go-lucky gal she
most displays in the videos she posts, the other, darker, cautious, maybe even
scared, as if we have both traveled back in time to when she believe she had
every right to be, hair pinned back, head slightly turned, as if she felt the
need to be ready to run if she had to.
The brighter picture has her hair down as she smiles, both
bearing the same intense stare, eyes so deep I drown in them. I’m not sure
which one I believe though leaning towards the darker face as it face is the closest
I’ll ever get to the real her.
On the verge of breaching the quarter mark of the 21st Century, I’m somewhat depressed this Christmas. Not just by the fact that the most intimate members of my family have passed as have my closest friends, but also by the realization that what we thought would occur this far into the future did not. Our dreams, the high hopes of living as artists or songwriters or poets or such, never materialized, dissipated like smoke. Unlike my closest friends, I never hoped for fame or glory (although I might have settled for fortune), and so, I’m less disappointed in how my life turned out than I am with the failed expectations I had for my friends, each of whom had much more talent than I ever had, and so had more of a chance to achieve. They say don’t put all of your eggs in one basket, meaning if you have multiple talents, the more likely you are to achieve success. A fallacy when it comes to my friends, each of whom had potential in music, art and other fields, while...
We live on the verge of self-annihilation And still sing songs promoting peace Or appeasement, Blaming everybody but ourselves, While whacko Jane Fondas Rant about racist climate change While basking in the lap of luxury, Never changing, Paper radicals ranting about What the rest of us ought to do While doing something else themselves We, sitting on the edge of global war, While spoiled children rant on campus About unjust life is About diversity that is not diverse, About gender designed to humiliate men About climate change that is mostly myth, While we all wait for the body bags To wash up on our shores at in time past, Not even knowing whose bodies they contain, Draft dodgers finding new ways to dodge Overweight, brain dead idiots, Waiting for the world to end so that they can say, “Told you so!” 2024 journal menu email to Al Sullivan
I toke It makes it worse, A legalized dream machine That manufactures Dreams of her, Waking me In the middle f the night I know not Where I am Or who I’m with, Only not with her Wherever she is. An old man’s fantasy, Stirred up with the coals Of a now-distant past I can’t forget Or let go of, I toke; it gets worse Strolling through A dreamscape That resolves nothing, Only makes me wake With the same ache I had and will always have But must endure A high that makes me Feel so low, I toke; it gets worse And yet Despite all this, All of what once was And can never be again I would have it No other way Manufacturing dreams from which I never actually wake And wouldn’t want to, I toke, And toke, And toke. 2024 journal menu email to Al Sullivan
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