I'm done.

Post Reply
User avatar
KB.
Posts: 1562
Joined: Tue May 22, 2007 10:20 pm

I'm done.

Post by KB. »

Muse,



You started it you might as well finish it. It's been a little over seven months since I put that first story up. The one about that old uncle of mine I called my grandfather, how he died on Mother's Day and how I couldn't even mourn because I was already mourning that woman in Houston.

I looked at you that night in Nadine's, and I told you I could write a book about you, or for you. I guess I did a little of both. All you could do was say, "Don't look at me like that." And you smiled as you said it. We sat there and drank Blue Moons until we were both drunk, we talked about us and as you talked about all that would go wrong I talked about all that could go right. It was a good night, but at the same time we both knew it was going to be over soon enough. Then we drove back to my car at Joanie's and we parked in the middle of the street and kissed like we knew it would be one of the last. It was cold outside, but it was damned hot inside. We did well together if we were both drunk or if we were both sober. It just usually didn't work out that way.

I could use you right now, the sober you anyway. It's been a rough last few days. I feel like I am seeing another good woman, young, smart, and kind hearted; I feel like I am watching her wither up and being swallowed by the world. She's afraid she is going to break. I told her she had better not break on me. She had better not break on herself. Not to give up, not to lie down and die. I told you the same things, and I told that woman in Houston the same things as well. It never worked out. I'm just a story teller; I ain't a prophet or a priest. I don't have the answers. I don't know what is wrong or right, not any more.

The stories are getting old and tired. I'm tired of telling them. No one reads fables anymore. None of the things I have seen kept anyone from having to see the same things. It's just a bunch of too personal ramblings on Myspace. Big ****ing deal, right?

I told a few good ones though. Told a lot about you and me, and just you. There were those great stories about the Sunshine, strawberry ice cream, and trips to Rosedale. There were stories about women singing to me, about cold nights on a third floor balcony as we melted the snow before it even landed on us. Stories about mocha colored women coming home with me and never leaving. There were stories about strippers who wanted to be librarians and talked to me about philosophy, naked. I wrote about Sophie singing Into the Mystic to me, and how that nasty bitch Katrina took her away. I told them about you singing Natural Woman to me the last night we spent together. I talked about Lorie and how she accepted and replied to a random email sent in the middle of the night. I bet you have seen her and you don't even know it. She goes to Joanie every once in awhile.

I wrote about planting gardens and building swing sets. Hell I named kids I'll never have. I wrote a story about a beautiful young baby girl, the most amazing blue eyes you can imagine, darker than yours but she will have that same look I saw that day last year in May. The same look I saw in your eyes. I wrote about the first two times someone asked me to marry them and the time I asked someone to marry me. Still not married, but you know that.



I'm not a savoir and I'm not a saint. The man with the answers I certainly ain't.

I told stories about the best southern food I ever the pleasure of eating, and how I heard that favorite Zeppelin song of mine for the first time. I'm still looking for that girl with the flowers in her hair. I ain't seen any around here. Sometimes the details were more my imagination than a recollection of factual happenings, but I don't believe in pure fiction. Nobody really wants to hear the boring straight truth. I wrote about those haunting train whistles that seem to just emerge from the darkness. I wrote stories to Johnny Cash songs. I'm writing one now.

I can help you hear a baby's laugh and feel the joy it brings. Yes, I can do it with the songs I sing.



I talked to good old Sunshine tonight I told her some things going on right now. Told her I spent too much time trying to save people that won't be saved, that I can't save. Told her it was consuming me and I needed to let it go before there was noting left. She asked me what I was going to do now, and I'm sure I responded just how she knew I would. I told her I would keep on doing what I was doing. I just can't though. I'm tired as hell.

I wondered how these stories were all going to end; what would happen to make me close it all up. I wanted a happy ending; no one wants to read a shitty ending. This chapter I'm in right now. If I don't put the pencil down it is going to get a lot worse. Tragic. I'm not up for it. I don't want to turn my back on it, and I won't, but I'm not going to write about it.

Rose of my heart; I wish it was last October or November when we used to sit there and tell our stories to each other. Those were probably the best days of my life. No expectations, no worries, no looming cloud. Just stories told out loud. I felt good all the way around. I'm glad I walked into that little corner bar, the center of the universe.

I've done alright; I've made some good friends through these stories of mine. Good people. I met a love or two, remembered some old ones, and came to a scary realization concerning one in particular. Muse, I wish you'd answer that phone just once. Quit making me talk to that damned voice mail. I know you listen to them. It's been a month since I have even done that. That's my fault. Tired.

I feel like I'm dying most days, but I'm a master at faking otherwise. I can feel it inside me though, something ain't right. I've been to the doctors, spent way too much money; well owe way too much money. Nothing can be found, nothing new any way. I figure maybe it is just the disease in my imagination creeping its way into reality. I've got to put an end to it. Time to close it up. Free myself from it all.

I'll go back over them, and maybe by the end of February this coming year I can bring the edited, revised, and updated version to you. I think there is more this time than the first time. Another book for you. I'll probably give it to someone else that lives here. She reminds me of you. Not completely, but in ways. Given time maybe she will try to climb out of that hole and instead of making it all of the way out she will find a ledge half way up like you did.

I'll see you in February, around Kirby's birthday, that was a damn good night, remember that? I wrote about it too. Not too long ago actually. Take care of yourself. I Love you Muse, remember to love yourself every once in awhile. I'm done.

I'm not a great man. I don't claim to be.

But when I meet my Maker and He questions me,

I won't hang my head. I'll stand proud and strong

and say, "I was a singer. Lord, I was a singer.

Yes, I was a singer of songs."

Kevin





Do yourself a huge favor and click the link.

Life ain't linear.
Post Reply

Return to “Poetry Writing Forum”