Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Like It's Your Last

Treighton Mauldin


We’ve not met 
But I know 
I love you

I can feel your head 
Nestled against 
My chest

I can smell you 
I lose myself 
In it

I can see your face 
Your dark eyes 
The family nose 
Your Mother's smile

But when you laugh 
I know you 
Because it's mine



Nothing lasts in this world 
And it’s a damn good thing 
Since I manage to fuck up 
Every meaningless thing I try not to do

Even the good things, 
And trust me 
There aren’t many, 
I manage to spill, or break, 
Or irreparably disassemble

Just ask my friends 
And they will tell you 
How I’m not around 
Just ask my lovers
And they will tell you 
How I’m quick on the draw 
Just ask my family 
Actually if you see them
Just say hello for me

But make sure not to ask 
Ones who are not too close 
Because they will tell you 
I am kind, and passionate, and talented 
And we can’t have that

It’s a damn good thing 
That nothing lasts 
So that all these friends and lovers 
Don’t have to live 
With what I’ve done



I remember sitting with my mother, I was sixteen 
and I thought that freedom was close enough to taste, 
It was just after the sun had risen, before I went to work 
I was drinking coffee; she was drinking wine from a box 
Still drunk from the day before 
Smoking cigarettes one after the other, 
And flicking the butts into the grass 
She would tell me how she was broken, and why

The stories never matched up, or made much sense 
But I didn’t doubt that she was broken 
Because I could see it in her face, loose and gray 
with deep creases that seemed carved by unsteady hands, 
and I could smell it on her breath always reeking of liquor and 
And I could hear it in her laugh

Some laughs are infectious; hers was, 
But not in a good way; her laughter spread like a plague 
Infecting my thoughts, and my dreams, and tearing them apart 
Burying herself in the destruction, and feeding on it 
like a parasite

I can hear it now, haunting me 
And feeding on my sorrow, and on my mistakes 
The ones that I make all too often, 
telling me that I'm no different from her; that I’ll always be a 
Throwing back its head, spreading its dis-ease 
And I can’t escape.


And dreaming
I stood there
Facing her
Still dripping

Bottle of red wine
In my hand

“Are you going to drink
Straight from the bottle?”

I lift the bottle
Let the smooth
Crimson liquid roll
Over my tongue,
Down my throat
Warming my soul

She says
 I drink
What’s left of the bottle
And say not a word.



We are born Alone
And we will die Alone
I don’t remember where I heard that,
It’s true though
And we spend every moment of our lives
Looking for ways
To forget it.

Looking for ways
To forget
That none of “This”
Means anything
That none of us
Mean anything
The absurdity of life

I know it’s not original
It’s been done by all the greats

But I still look in vain
For meaning
In everything I do
Increasing my hunger
By reminding me
That I will never find it

So I’ll just keep living
Like I’ve been living
In the bottom of bottles
Falling in love, and on my face
And breaking bones
Trying to mend broken hearts

Living every day
Like it’s my last
Because I know it is.


Our thanks to Treighton Mauldin for today's poems and pix! ‪Treighton is a true California kid, with the childhood horror story to back it up—born and raised up and down California, from the Monterey seaside to a broken-down camper in a small Sierra Nevada mountain town, and many places in between. It's safe to say that stability and conformity are words that Treighton has never known, and continues to go out of his way to avoid. Treighton now lives in Oakland with his soon-to-be wife Elena and his unruly dog Falcor; look for him at the local bars with the scummy floors. Read more at ‬

And we have a new photo album on Medusa's Facebook page today: SPC Black History Month Reading by Michelle Kunert. Check it out!


Today's LittleNip:

Poetry asks us to tell what lies masked within.

—B.Z. Niditch