Reminiscence

 The things I've done for love,
If scrutinized objectively,
Fall somewhere between J.P. Dunleavy, 
And Henry Miller...
The Wildman archetype
Figuring in heavily
To any calculation...
I wanted what I wanted,
And could be very consistent, persistent,
And persuasive.. 
Few objects of my affection
Had the intellect,
At the time,
To see the darkness in me
Enough to do the prudent thing,
And run away...
I'd always needed "saving,"
And the objects of my affection
Always seemed to be the types
To want to save lost souls...
Just as I tried
To save lost souls,
A collection of empty shells
Littering the beach,
Their pain glittering in the sun...
This made me mysterious
And soul touching...
I could play heart strings 
Like a classically trained violinist...
This wasn't so much consciously intentional,
As it was instinctive and automatic...
I wasn't self aware enough, at the time,
To see it as manipulative...
Not self-aware enough. 
At the time,
To see it as a starving lone wolf
Sees a wounded rabbit,
To see it as anything more than
"The heart wants what it wants,"
Social mores be damned...
Societal taboos
Were for the weak,
And my needs were
Cosmic and good, 
As far as my limited mind
Would allow me to understand...
I've grown since then,
But echoes of the old me
Will always
Try to scream reasons, rationalizations,
From the nosebleed seats
In the back of the amphitheater...
Catch me if you can,
Cried the ginger man,
As he ran from love,
Lover to lover...
While starving for true connection...
Anyone who was drawn to my intellect or beauty
Was fair game...
But it was a game, nonetheless, 
Regardless of my perceived conscious intentions...
"Where is the love?"
I may have desperately asked, while confusing
The inquiry for true love
Or the possibility thereof...
Echo always wondered about my 
On again off again
Cool indifference.. 
I was honest about my mindset.. 
I warned them about the danger I represented...
But they were never really interested
In hearing me...
And they placed quite a lot of eggs
In my overfull basket....
This, consequently,
Broke a lot of eggs...
I once wrote a full length novel 
That even those who confessed 
Their undying love for me,
Would never even read
Until decades later...
They should have read it first,
Right then,
It would have dispelled any illusions 
That I was a "good man"...
But who really reads the work
Of their  "true love"?
People tend to see
Only what they want to see...
They rarely see
What is...
And whether I see myself
As a god,
Or a as wretch...
I've always wanted some one to love me
Just as I am...
Just as the confused boy that I am...
But they see
Angels or demons,
Saviors or villains...
And, in truth,
I am none of those things...
I'm just a man
Trying to survive his inner world
Who is also trying to survive
The world at large...
Either join me,
Or get the fuck out of my way...
There is much left to do
Before the sun Slips
Below the horizon,
And the jet black storm clouds
Swallow the moon
And all of its stars...