I Wrote a Poem!

Actually, I've written a lot of them. But the majority of them were written in high school and should be burned. Even most those written after high school were nothing special, at least not in my opinion. And over the past couple years, I haven't written much of anything. However, not too long ago, I decided to try writing a new poem. And I actually like it myself! I mean, it could probably use some revision at some point, but for now, I'm ok with it as it is.
So anyways, being I'm not likely ever try publishing poetry and I need to get something new posted here, I'm going to share it.

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Every blond hair a soldier
laying about my house,
waiting in ambush
to launch surprise attacks
I thought I had defenses against.
Their weapons are memories
(of what was) and reminders
(of what can no longer be).

One got me on the couch
the other day
right as I sat down to watch t.v.
He unloaded a barrage of images
of us
next to each other and laughing
entire nights away.
It seemed sadly fitting
that I deposed of him
in a trash can.

I'm not sure I'll ever forget
the bastard that snuck up on me
overnight
to occupy the pillow you once used,
so his attacks came to groggy eyes
connected to a tired brain
that still had trouble believing
I was sleeping alone.
I should have given him a better death
something more deserving for a traitor,
but in my half-asleep state
I merely grabbed him from his perch
and tossed him to the floor.
(I'm sure the vacuum finished the job later).

There was one found
tangled in a towel,
I don't think he was quite in the position
he was hoping to be;
he lobbed his strongest weapon,
a picture of you right after a shower.
I smiled and shrugged
then threw him into the shower basin
to later be washed down the drain.

And then I thought the war was over
that no ore troops remained
but one more had to show up
to shatter the peace that had settled in the house.
He was hiding in a sweater,
that one of mine
you used to wear,
right within the collar
from which he reached up and tickled my ear;
it wasn't until I grabbed him
his missiles were fired.
They struck their target
with uncanny precision.
Suddenly there you were
wearing this sweater
(and nothing but)
and you were laughing
that beautiful sound
filling my room and my ears;
it was almost too much to bear.
No simple death of fading away
for this assassin
of a joyous heart;
I'd make sure he paid
as much as he could.
I took him to the kitchen sink
where I set that fucker on fire,
burned away his entire existence.

Every blond hair a soldier,
every day a battle.

My 32nd Lesson Learned

Before I say anything else, I'll acknowledge that, in the grand scheme of things, I'm not really that old. Certainly, when I was a teenager, I had a hard time picturing myself as a 32-year old man. But now that I'm there, I have a hard time believing I was such a retarded teenager. Anyways...
Another birthday has come and gone. And on the occasion that it's late into the night (actually early into the morning), I have time to pause and think of what it means to be another year older. And the conclusion: not a damn thing. Not that I'm ungrateful to have reached another milestone in life, quite the opposite in fact. But I realize that just because I've reached it doesn't mean anything special; I've gained no new wisdom, talents, or superhero powers merely for the fact of being here.
So what have I learned (if anything)?
That age is just a number. And by that, I mean I never feel as old as I supposedly am. Not unless there's an actual reminder, like a new pain in the body I've never felt before, one which I attribute to age. But as soon as it's gone, I feel as young as ever, which is an indeterminate, yet constant, age which will forever exist so long as I do. Or maybe the reminder is in the form of a comment by another person, something about the grey in my hair or the lines under my eyes. Yet again, it's not long after they're gone and the conversation over that my mind moves on and forgets that I am indeed growing older.
(I wonder if this is the case: that ten, fifteen, twenty-plus years from now I'll still feel that I'm not really old; just older.)
There's been other lessons learned and relearned. But they're better off being talked about at another time, if ever at all.

The Ghost of Chilkoot Charlie's

(Note: Just a bit of hastily written prose about my most often visited watering hole in Anchorage. As seen through my eyes, meaning what's written may not, and probably is not, the actual case. And for what is true, there's always exceptions.)
There was a time, years ago, when you couldn't get into Chilkoot Charlie's (or "Koots" as the locals like to call it) on a Friday or Saturday night without waiting in line. Sometimes you might not even get in at all. And once through the front door, the wait to get a drink was just as long (if not longer) than the wait to get in; unless of course you had an exceptional amount of cleavage showing or happened to personally know the bartender. Moving through the crowd was as much a chore as it was an art form and the best performers knew you never stopped moving no matter who yelled at you for stepping on their toes. The dance floors would be so packed you could hardly call what happened on them dancing so much as it was just drunk, sweaty, and (mostly) clothed bodies rubbing against each other. And hey, if your ass was grabbed by a stranger, that was just the risk you took for being out there. There was a time, longer ago than it often seems, when Koots was the place to go on any given weekend night, whether you liked it or not.
But not anymore. These days it is merely a shadow of its former self. Some nights, usually for special events, the crowds might come again and lines may begin to form. But it never lasts for long and it's not uncommon to see the crowds leave as quickly as they came, in which you might hear a first time-goer say something like, "This place is world famous?", the disbelief in his voice anything but hidden. Or maybe you hear a long time patron walking out and telling his friend sorrowfully, "It just ain't what it use to be."
These days, even on its busiest nights, much of Koots remains closed down, only a few bars open to serve those still coming in. But there's no crowd to fight through and getting your drink from a bartender is almost as easy as pouring it yourself at home. There's a few older women on the dance floor, drunk and hoping to recapture their youth while a local cover band plays old songs they look to be bored of. A group of young military men might show up, hoping to pick up on the desperation of the older women and failing that, leave cursing the bar and the city. Occasionally some college kids will show up, order a drink, and then realize everything about the bar seems foreign to them; so they leave their drinks half full and catch a cab back to the bars they know downtown. Even drunker women stumble around the bar looking for anyone to take them home (except the military men, they can't be trusted) and then yelling at the men that refuse to even make eye contact.
And at the bar sit the regulars, people who've been consistently going to Koots for years. Some keep coming out of an odd sense of allegiance, the thought of going to another bar in town seeming almost criminal to them (I count myself in this group). Others come waiting for the day the bar becomes the place to be again, when they'll be able to tell stories about the slow times with pride to the new crowds. And there's some who come waiting for the bar to die, wondering what they'll do when those front doors shut for good. Finally, there's those that come because they know nowhere else to go; the fear of moving on attaching them to a bar stool that's indifferent to their presence.
There was a time, not so many years ago, when going Chilkoot Charlie's was an experience; sometimes good, sometimes bad, but always memorable. But these days, going to Koots is mostly out of habit, almost a chore, and at times a curiosity and possibly a study.