why i hate the holidays,
not the holidays themselves,
as if assigned to remembrance
one day only, "the auto-mode hell"

"these are the doors, these are the hallways",
reminders of things,
we should remark,
remember,
in the allowance of always....

every day is a valentine
for the ones' you adore
beyond yourself,
and not just "the sleepwalked"
so obvious, "please kill me"
cheap syllables, sentenced, "happy happy", i abhor

all you "oh so lucky ones"
so blind, in your selfish, little worlds
of well paid careers, botoxed bodies, minivans carrying
your god forsaken zombie-privileged
monster-in-the-making, boys and girls

technology tainted
aka, "brain dead"
you've trained them to froth
like your perfect latte'
for social media "likes"
only alive, on the camera,
for without, it's a "not" day

as in
it can't be real
if it's not filmed
and it can't be felt
if not exploited and shared
with the "who the fuck are you?",
"just glorify me", everyone else

everyday is valentines
if you carry love in your heart
as in, be fucking human
to those around you, "social climbers", its a dying art

one that demands you realize
you are not, a god damned star
just because you think so
welcome to the age of
spoiled rotten entitlement scars

that's all they are
vestibules pussing, nothing but ego
opinion wars and blinders on
if not "social media influenced",
then the rest, what do we know

nothing, of course
if not followed by so many
so many, just as drained as you
of humility, intimacy
like a body-blind screw

fuck it, plow it, pummel it,
to boneless
if we're gonna live as narcissists
at least we gotta own this

that the camera, turned on self
is now the god, we worship,
define, inner wealth

and nothing is,
if its not being filmed,
the latest meaningless fuck,
the latest laugh-tracked kill

"applause, applause",
with an easy-baked affirmation
screw complexity and nuance,
real thought, it brings that
"my head hurts" sensation

and that's not "hot"
and that's not pretty
and it wont get you loved
by the "no one", called many

so just keep on,
delusion, self importance

this is why i hate the holidays,
i thought, the heart of human,
it could be more than this...

told.

when to care, called pretend, all around
when to acknowledge others,
but not really, clock rewound

back to, "ahead",
faster, faster
we, the consumed, walking dead
onto the next,
before even living in, what's called this moment, now bled...

everything,
for the excuse, such abuse
and everything more
for the "offended",
"poor me, affected, and victim"
juiced, blended

so after the reminder,
set to "now lets all think and lets all pray"
lets get back to the truth,
disembodied, disemboweled ways

the one who is "loved"
is the one who plays
as the one, most the liar,
is the one who is praised

not that i would know,
on "left over cock", i was raised
just a "latch key kid"
better done, as in "did"

but i learned to survive,
in the dream, "one day thrive"
and it may have never happened
but to give love, i tried
non "holidayed", futility fought
the beginning, i learned, is always the end

but know this, please
from the ever tortured by hope, ripped away, tease
i knew christmas, once he came
and it was down on a pair
of well equipped,  bruise born knees

and his name wasn't santa
and his name, not "saint nick"
just some asshole, in "creepy cute"
with a throbbing gift, not a heart
but a prick

i learned to pull up my pants,
block it out
and just get on with it.

life,
as i knew it
not a holiday, "hallmarked"
but a quest to love
passionately,
in a world
called few, if any,
really give a shit.

(i found them)

thank god.
or I would not be alive
my tribe, my angels,
the "up fucked" beautifuls

and

I found this,
for a visionary friend,
real joy, not a holiday,

but the light, electric
filled, his alive, excited, hopeful
childlike eyes

(I did feel them)

and I knew, for a moment,
that
I'm still alive.



bowen hart roselli
7 november 2019  ringwald love

live your life for yourself
they say
but i've found no greater heaven
than the bliss and purity
of truly loving another
elevating the static, the "same" that suffocates,
the sunshine from the soul, in the "just another day"

offerings of praise and passion
goodness in a robotic world
the touch which remains, everpresent
and everlasting

and with the goodness
comes the misunderstanding
one shouldn't weep upon a mere
mysterious strangers' goodbye
and in the eyes of others
i've seen and felt, reflected shame
too often, when i let myself cry

and then there is the bludgeon
of the beasts and chameleons
who seek to drain those
of the giving heart, willing

i and we and you and me
have all been used
manipulated, teased
into the lull of false beliefs
seduced
then awakened, to empty, cold sheets

but again, we try
fear, the cycle, repeats
and sometimes, it does
but we still care, why?

what other choice, really, could there be, or is there
to become the "too many", of the "walk on by stare"
it's too easy not to
and too hard tot try
sometimes, most often
i sit with myself
and wonder of this confusing place
the "what is the purpose", if alone, is the "die"?

not all of us have things come to us, pleasing
like life long loves, or the stability of feelings
that come from a strong foundation, of self
surrounded by family, success, call it "wealth"

this war is ultimately us alone, with our gods
needing so desperately, signs of comforting nods

that our lives, did mean something
more than just a selfish reflection to ourselves
we were felt, seen and heard
not just momentary objects, bought and tossed on the shelf

of life
amongst the "everyone's"
to most we mean less than nothing at all
look around, those there for you, in soul
when you stumble, and apart, do you fall

my loyalty is deep
and to those i love and loved, i never leave
but the fact that i have been left, by many
is the alter of the ache in me
upon which this deep cut, follows and bleeds

just because you are true to yourself
you must never expect it from anyone else

loved today and then thrown aside, tomorrow
love, a commodity, which most trade, steal or borrow

but the handful of my "heaven blessed"
that have not strayed from my side
these are the treasured, chest
the pulsate of life, the divinity, in pride

attachments
are deemed as devalued and disposable
by those, again, "the lucky ones"
whose foundation stable, secure and immovable

parents and brothers, sisters, community
for the unlucky, like myself
they have contributed to the "ruin" in me

in the strain, that i let them
and the "cannot forget", sin

and in the reflection of loss
i see when faced with those, so fortunate
not know, the reality, of being left alone in the darkness
understand the shame, feeling helpless and lost

i've lived there
and i've known others who've too
and to those that have not
i say and pray, "lucky you"

for every clap,
there is a "boo" in the shadows
for every "cherish", to one
for another, it could perish, no matter

i am alone
and in love
with another mystery, unattainable
yet somehow, familiar
his utter beauty, tumultuous,
dominant, soulful, inescapable

attachments
are best
when attached to the purest, in heart
to love him is painful
 and strange, came the stranger
but it is palpably real, he
the two letters attached to the art,
heart impart, "we"

(this is all)
i have to give him
or you, the few i call my sacred,
as in others

attachments
bathed, hue and hold, of hope
love and fury,

stripped naked.

(yes, for him, here i wait then, silent, unspeakable, "knowing" swells, come, came him)....


21 june 2019
ringwald love

inappropriate, in the scope of it.


julie w: "transference is thinking inappropriate thoughts about your therapist."

me: "my whole life has been an inappropriate thought."


from the beginning.
i wasn't thinking anything
but the world and everyone around me, they told me i was

told from the beginning
i was a faggot
and a girl.

i never thought about boys when i was a little kid, not that way
except for living in fear of the next belittling, beating or bullshit to come

but that was just life.

yes, i did think about listening to music versus playing with  toy train set
or wishing i had the barbie dream house, because the damn thing looked cool
thinking thoughts of a "girly boy", then.

inappropriate,
apparently.

but perfectly natural to me.

and yes, i fell in love with the divine mr. harry reems, at 8 years old
and starting renting his films at 12.

but it was based in the purity of love and longing, hope in heart, of belonging.
he was the ultimate man daddy hero angel.

to define the path forward, poetic, inside.

inappropriate.
the people renting me the porno films or me for needing Harry to gaze at, dream of, feel safe, in this world.

and there lies the beginning.
of an "inappropriate" life.
always wrong
at everything i felt, was or did

sucked at sports.
let's force him to play more!

hated having to endure the strain of not being able to talk or move at the dinner table.
damn him, let make him eat off the floor! (yeah, that helped)
i was obsessed with being perfect.
that's where i first met my lifelong companion, "Mr. O"

collars closed.
buttons tight.
cords pressed and never dirty,
and if they were, out would come my little psycho self.
my sister would beg me to get dirty.
"come on, just come out and play for a little while", she would plead, trying to tear me away from my savior, tv.

i would change my clothes and try to let go.
for awhile i could, but if i looked down  to see how dirty i was,
i would get shaky and nervous and need to go get clean.

inappropriate thoughts,
boys shouldn't care if they get dirty,
that's what a boy is supposed to do,
screwed.

who made the rules, while us children of the 1970's
were pawns and pretzels for the witness of all kind of "inappropriate" things
masked, back then, as just a part of normal reality.

time to go to grandma's house..
bored out of our minds and terrified of our grandmother's preying eyes..

"let's play bar!"
that was fun.
and the bottles of jack and vodka
they were heavy, but the thrill was just trying not to drop them.
(i never got to play the bartender part, but i made for a good patron,
swinging around in the bar stool til i was dizzy, therefore "drunk")

those playboys of grandpa's we found in their bathroom.
it's not like he worked very hard to hide them.

giggle and blush.
but damn, they were boring
who wants to look at a naked girl, like that?
besides, she'd do herself justice, look so much prettier if she just kept her clothes on, right?

then teenage land hit
and boy did i ever explode, as in break apart and implode

just a little public ousting from the crowd i enslaved myself to belong,
"oh, the pretty popular ones"...
shamed and humiliated.
and then i was gone.

from their world.
left lost and forever altered, the state of being totally and completely alone.
how i would show them
those pretty, perfect, "fit in" kids.
already fucking and groping and "slutting"
as all i got to do was watch them from the sidelines, the outside, "the wrong side"

inappropriate.

and then there was christopher.

"hey, why don't you tell your boyfriend to get me a coke"
they would yell, standing right next to me, as i checked them out at the movie theater concession stand.
"he's not my boyfriend!", i would say, exasperated and pissed.

and he wasn't, but i loved him like all heaven and the stars.
the most beautiful guy i'd ever lain my lonely geek and faggot eyes upon.

but it was just love and worship and affection and adoration.
non-sexual, even if a bit "crushed out", was i, in the beginning.

...tales of ketchup being thrown all over me, while sitting with my friends at denny's, after midnight,
by a stranger who looked at me, literally, like he wanted to beat me and kill me.
and he did it, simply because i glanced in his direction from across the room.
(i have eyes, and they are prone to looking around the room, my surroundings)

"what the fuck are you looking at, faggot" or something to that disgusted affect.
and then, just walks up with the bottle of ketchup, opens and flings it all the fuck over me.
and done, then walks away, happy day.
(fucker ruined my outfit, that's all i cared about)

was that inappropriate?

of course not.
it was my fault for looking like a total freak, back then.

"boy's don't wear makeup and lipstick",  i was often told, with a disgusted scold.

boys who hate themselves and don't want any living soul to see what they really look like underneath do.

and then there was the bar world
who was i to think i could find true love in a world of drunks, drug addicts and cock whores?
(i turned into the third, no saint was i, ok)

that was the most inappropriate thought to last a lifetime.

to find the angel in hell.
and i spent my life crawling on my knees (hey, that's inappropriate!) literally and poetically, in honor of that vision of which
i enslaved my psyche and soul to....

i could go on and on..
(and you know it, don't you?)...

bottom line. (get it?)

i will never know "normal"
and it will never know me.

(and why tatum o'neal is the the heroic goddess she is to me, see?)

lesson learned whenever i remember never being held lovingly on my father's prideful knee..

"i told you that little faggot should've been aborted!", he would scream at my mother.
leave out "little faggot" and insert various insults and put downs, or sometimes simply, just "he", now and again,
and you've got the same old tired story he would shout at her when they fought about me and my endless
inefficiencies.

inappropriate?

what do i iknow.

all i knew was that there was some good tv on, time to run, when i heard that broken record on repeat time and again.

god bless channel 36!

bad ronald
dawn, portrait of a teenage runaway
alexander, the other side of dawn

they played all the best, great, good, good shit.

(and damn, talk about "inappropriate" for kids....)
how i always felt a kinship with poor, put upon dawn, and was a bit turned on by her pimp named swan.
now . that. was, inappropriate.

but i digress
to impress
the re-dress
of success...

in finding there is nothing wrong with me.
but everything.
so to speak, or not at all.

the mind thinks all kind of thoughts.
and wouldn't you love to know what they are?

oh wait, you pretty much already do...

i'm screwed.

(and we haven't even covered all the inappropriate shit i did to get a man to "love me" back then.)

but enthused to say,
and i'll say it again.

the most inappropriate thought
i ever do think.

is the one called love
and it's my defining obsession
like the divine, from above.

never enough.
good things to praise
upon those that have touched me
and moved me, my soul
as
most don't even stop to notice or think of such things
it seems..
the tiny flickers of joy and magic, hope, heart, it brings..
in the everyday nothingness of the wheel of society, what it means.

(to deeply love and care, to behold the magic of the truly beautiful few, or the rapture inside a mystery man's
oceanic stare, melts my heart and strips me bare...)

now that is inappropriate.

time to go think of him, and not share....

thanks.



2014 / 2019 ringwald love.