The vision in my one open eye
Flickers like the air off of a flame
On a hot desert day--- a mirage
Of my waking state, your beauty
is my oasis.
Head buried like an ostrich
Under piles of pillows,
I can't hide from the Sun
Until it sets.
There's no return trip ticket
To my warm island dreams.
A private paradise,
Where we swim and bask
Without any care.
Dunk me under that water,
So for once, I'll feel clean.
You'll find me sitting in your corner,
With a towel around my neck,
Arms extended, holding a bucket of spit.
My mustache dances with long sighs
shifting whiskers towards the wind.
That last round was a close one;
I saw you stagger a few times.
Just remember to sidestep the bullshit
And swing when the time is right.
Maybe with a little finesse you might
Just turn around this helluva bout.
This is something you've got to do
And with all of my words of courage
And strength, I can't instill enough of either
In your shaken frame. So I just sit back
And watch as you slug it out.
I can't roll up my sleeves and say,
"It's okay, I've got this."
You're a special breed.
This hound's been sniffing
Several scents, tracing different trails,
But I'm most committed to yours.
This love sick mutt whimpers
And kicks in its sleep.
You might call it puppy love,
But I'm done humping everything that moves.
I wait at the window for the chance
Of a passing glance, and bark
At the mailman when he fails
To deliver your letters.
I'm more prone to sit by a closed door,
Than an empty bowl waiting for a bone.
And when I finally get a whiff of you,
My tail really starts wagging---
The pendulum of a metronome,
Set to a song that only dogs can hear.
There's an old, burnt out barn on the edge of the property.
That structure's got some history.
Built before the Depression, back when people still farmed dirt,
The barn stabled the horses, and lofted the hay.
This acreage is where our father was raised
Alongside livestock and crops.
Did you know he had a brother we never met?
That is, we never had the chance to meet him.
There was one summer when Uncle was fourteen, and dear old Dad
Was eight. Being the elder, our uncle took on the farm
When our grandfather ran off and lost his life to rye-whiskey.
At fourteen, being the patriarch left Dad's brother exhausted,
He took to smoking his father's pipe--
The taste of the old man's fatal habit lingered midst the tobacco.
Our grandmother didn't approve,
So the man of the house walked in the woods bordering the property
Where he was able to smoke, alone with his thoughts.
By mid-season these nightly walks were routine as our Uncle adjusted.
That July brought troubles.
The Sun scorched the crops, and a wolf stalked the horses.
Grandma told me of our uncle camped in a rocker on the porch.
A rifle resting on his lap, primed and waiting for the mutt to show its tail.
Uncle would sit there through the night, even when it was took dark to shoot.
With the night still and dark, all that could be heard was a match striking,
And all that could be seen was the sight of his nose
Silhouetted under the small ember of tobacco burning.
A young man of routine and dedication, he planned to camp there every night
Until that wolf reared its head, ready to be slain.
But then the rain came killing the drought.
It stormed for a week, now the worry was the crops would drown,
Or the barn would blow over.
Dad told me of the night he woke up the house;
Screaming, he stirred from slumber to the horses spooked by thunder.
Our uncle went to the barn to calm the horses; he sat there safe from rain,
Gently pulling from his pipe.
The horses were calm, but the storm was galloping harder against the roof
And with a gust of wind, the barn's maw opened,
Revealing one grey canine of a tooth, salivating in the rain.
The wolf headstrong and hungry, pounced the brother
Removing any obstacle impeding its meal.
In his final gasp of surprise, our uncle shot ember from his pipe,
Setting hay ablaze,
And a new Vesuvius bore hellfire in the barn.
Flames consumed the dog, and shot horses running from the pits.
Apocalypse had reached the farm, ending our family's way of life.
Their lives were shanties built from sticks, waiting to topple
---The craft of men and boys.
What's the appeal of this three-ring circus?
The music's maddening, and the words are just hype.
Manure and popped corn has stunk up the big top.
Town to town, night to night, the act stays the same.
The same freakish displays, the same leaps of faith,
The same little man popping up in a top hat telling you,
"It's time to start the show!" But someone always falls flat.
I'm part of the act but I love to watch it unfold;
Possessing an obsession of gawking at the usual curios.
There's the acrobats who couldn't give a flying-fuck.
The bearded woman who's really a man with nice legs.
The geek who'll eat anything that's kosher.
The contortionist who isn't much of a conformist.
The bipolar clowns with problems at home.
The fire breather whose habit is huffing.
You're the act claiming strength, but can barely lift a finger.
I'm just an animal tamer, sitting on a stool, whipped,
Wanting to call it a night, but has this gnawing feeling that
It just ain't over yet.
It's time to catch snowflakes on your tongue
But each unique, frozen formation of water
Melts near your mouth warm from whiskey.
Last night's hurrah left your breath hot
With a hangover and your belly of a cauldron
Boiling over some internal furnace;
Be careful to not let it froth over the pot's top.
Although you feel like hell, you should go out
In this weather, it's cold enough to quell
Any inferno, and I bet the breeze feels good
Against your forehead, aching like a headband
Worn too tight.
Mid-afternoon flurries with low visibility.
Thanks Mr. Weatherman for the obvious update,
But I've acknowledged the outside world
With a slight nod through the window.
I guess some people need to know though,
Those people who live blindly as hermits.
Those people who say, "I've got a great view,"
But live in basements with safety block glass
To let the light in when the Sun is in position.
Otherwise, I guess, they're left in the dark.
Yet, it's grey days like these, that there's no difference.
Those legs of yours are mighty impressive.
Rooted strong in the earth of the world,
They stand up strong in the stormiest of weather.
They kick the snot out of your stress with a swift,
Hard, Thud! of your boot making direct contact
And then those legs will march away triumphantly.
They can run and climb with ease, giving great chase
To even the most evasive of dreams and desires.
And they can flee if need presents itself.
They walk as if they're skating on ice,
And they skate as if they're flying.
Lady, those legs embody grace,
Attributing to your beauty.
And now they ache.
Even something so strong needs to take a few punches,
Testing their boundaries, shaping some character.
A nice work-over of a work-out, preparing for the day
The whole world is carried on your back.
It's queer falling in love with a specter of a woman.
Like an angel, she'll appear over my bed with gifts of comfort.
But like a demon, she'll leave you alone and empty in the dark.
Her beauty trails behind her, as her brilliance precedes her path;
However, you can't always tell when she's coming and going.
Leaving abruptly as she came, I would swear my friend's imaginary,
But if it weren't for the glass she knocked over on the way out
There would be no evidence she was ever at my side.
I guess that spirit grew restless; time for some exercise.
Seven kids stacked in a dog-pile
After the snap in a game of touch football
They have no referee, so they manage themselves
Based on the honor-system.
Screams and shouts echo off of the sidewalk
Scribbled with chalk;
Hashed out games of tic-tac-toe,
Hopscotch, and foursquare.
They play all of these games until the rain comes,
And washes it all away.
Or until the snow shows its ugly face and blankets the earth,
All the while saying,
"Here's a new playground,
Try something else."
The problem with being stuck in perpetual motion
Is that you never get the chance to slow down
And clean out the old artifacts of your life.
The empty soda can stuck underneath the passenger seat.
Last week's history assignment on the floor, gathering more
Dust and dirt, trampled under life that has since passed.
A piece of popcorn remaining in a couch cushion for months
Long after the kernel has been dug out from your gummy jaw.
Those dead vegetables in the garden, well past ripe, bent and rotten
Waiting for decomposition before the first frost.
The vacuum bag's still full from last spring's cleaning; the lint:
a now petrified stratum among layers of other neglected maintenance.
New cobwebs form among boxes of your adolescence;
Spiders find life in the lowest levels of prioritization.
Let's cool things down for a bit,
I burnt the roof of my mouth.
My tongue sometimes spits acid,
While my pen spills poison.
Enough searing and antagonizing,
I hate that carbon smell of burning,
And that sound of shrieking;
Who can get some sleep
In an atmosphere such as this?
So let's put down our dukes
And sheathe our sharp wits.
Box up your words,
More blunt than any bludgeon.
And I'll cork this corrosive substance
That resides in my throat.
Time to practice something other
Than what we preach.
Time to put away polemics,
And start talking peace.
You spit in the wind
And are surprised that you get wet.
You talk through your teeth
And get angry that no one can hear you.
Lost and frustrated,
You don't ask for directions,
Refusing to pull over.
Just keep making right turns,
You'll end up right where you started.
You should get your shit together soon,
Aimless travel is strenuous;
You'll run out of gas before you know it.
So pullover to the rest stop and stretch you legs.
Use the bathroom.
Get a candy bar.
Look at the map with a big red arrow
"You are here."
I'd be lying to say I loved you,
Or you had a special place in my heart,
But I don't. Love is a drill that bores,
A chisel that carves out a shrine for itself,
In which we worship each other as prophets.
But your toolbox only has a hammer,
Bashing and breaking, but never building.
So instead of poking holes in my heart,
You just hammered in a soft spot in my mind;
One you keep poking leaving me found dumb.
No wonder I'm always dumbfounded.
Hurting bad, you resent every smile that presents
A white glimmer reflecting in your eyes.
You feel those mouths that won't stay closed to be
Just another tormentor, but you don't really know
What it's like to be someone else. Consumed
by a self-centered inferno, you pay no mind
To how much others can suffer day to day.
Sure they may flash smile your way
But battered people cover bruises all the time.
It's a lesson in life only learned through experience:
Don't let on to your pain, and maintain.
What's a headache compared to a dying mother?
Some people have it way worse.
I see you fraying the fiber that composes
Your mortal coil. And the lens
Through which you see the world, is scratched and cracked,
Like the glass that holds your wine.
So propose an ear toast.
"Cheers! To our troubles, may we meet again in oblivion."
Bottoms up darlin'.
Someone at the bar gets shoved and a shouting match ensues
And drunks in the back keep talking.
She tells him she doesn't love him anymore
And the band keeps playing.
The dog crawls under the porch for a place to die
And the birds keep singing.
Her heart pounds harder than anything watching her car smoke
And traffic keeps moving.
He doesn't leave his basement for a week while steeped in depression
And the Sun keeps shining.
The hunter misses his prey, frustrated he calls it a day
And the season keeps going.
A rock flying through space hits a celestial body
And the Earth keeps spinning.
A salmon is caught by a bear migrating upstream
And the fish keep spawning.
The teacher keeps talking about last week's assignment
And the kids keep slacking.
The evening news reports some awful event far away
And the families keep eating.
She can't afford to buy stamps to send her mom a card
And the bills keep coming.
The boy gets his first kiss behind the schoolyard
And hearts keep breaking.
Dad is preaching about the value of hard work
And Mom keeps napping.
The world is crying out for the attention it needs
And we keep on keeping on.
Tired of this fair-weather bullshit (Mother Nature's too ambivalent),
So guess It's time to mosey and just maybe take a hike south,
Or west, or southwest, wherever things can stay sunny for a while longer.
It seems at every season's end, things get a bit colder. It's time
For things to dry up and get stale. This autumn's fruit has gone from sweet
To sour without warning---not even a solitary fly to note decomposition.
I don't mind the time, but you seem to be counting the seconds.
I punched the clock and broke its nose long ago, and now its hands are broken,
Not knowing it's too late for everything. So it's time for someone to trek
towards the sunset, knowing it's just going to rise again. I don't mind
The chill, I was bred for this weather. If I feel so inclined, I'll take the road
To find a better climate, but like I said, I don't mind, so I'm gonna stick around.
Take your idyllic fantasy of transience, traversing borders, giving up any home
That'll have you, and move on to find some warmth, space heaters just don't cut it.
And when you're finally out of gas, stick out your thumb and flash a smile,
I'm sure someone will give you the time of day and maybe a short ride
Down the road to nowhere. Hands always fold before my chips are on the table,
So I'm cashing out (or is it in?) without a chance for any bluff to be called.
In this solitary, rooftop coop, I take my time choosing my words,
Letting in deep breathes to steady a shaky right hand scribing the fine print.
My message crafted, I'll calm a cooing bird at its temporary roost,
Nestling its head against my softly bent knuckle rubbing its neck,
Adorning the avian leg with paper and a bow, wrapped up just like a present,
I prepare my words to take flight and reach you in timely manner.
With a hand of feed and a peck on the head I send it back to its mate.
I anticipate nothing reciprocated from this flawed system;
The homing pigeon lives true to its name, knowing only its home
And not the nests it has visited. You may read what I write
But I'll never be privileged to read your reaction.
Only hoping the bird wasn't taken by a pellet or as prey
I only assume you get the message.
As I kid I was taught to observe and be silent.
Lessons from the pedagogy telling me to,
"Sit down and shut up," Well that's what I did.
My dad used to take my sister and I on car rides
To the next town over; it was a nexus of commerce
That contrasted our quaint, little town of homes.
The purpose of these rides were to gawk at the
Potpourri of people who patronized the shops.
We would scrutinize people on their appearance,
A practice ill-advised to parents trying to raise
Their children in this society concerned with an
Evermore increasing importance on political-
Correctness. "Look at that jerk!" I once said.
My dad critiqued me, telling me that I should
Only pass judgement on their looks, nothing
Was indicative of being them being a jerk.
This past-time taught me my observant ways,
Which is how I became interested in the
Idiosyncratic behaviours of my fellow humans;
People became another text that I poured over my mind.
Instead of in a library turning pages, I sat in public
Turn my head with each passerby.
"If you have to sit for hours
Staring at your computer screen
Or hunched over your
Searching for words,
Don't do it."
I don't do it. I live my life
Letting words find me
Through my thoughts and observations
Being in a constant dialogue
With my surroundings, my words
Come with brevity
Or in great length.
Sure I sat down, and I kept my mouth shut.
But I never let one room contain me,
Be my cage, my think-tank; and I never
Gagged my mind's soliloquy while
My tongue lies in silence.
Why sit catatonic, hoping inspiration will come?
When inspiration comes with experience
And experience comes from breaking free
From that banal routine in the doldrums of life.
Now, I only sit when my feet begin to blister.
If there is ever a time to commit a crime, it during a funeral
Of a fallen officer of the law. With such a large line of mourners
Stopping traffic down the Avenue, it raises questions of who is
"Protecting" our not-so-fair city---whose funding is anything but
Ample. Members of the progression are dressed in their uniforms,
Riding in their civilian vehicles with hands clasped solemnly at
"Ten and two," keeping their wheels from veering, anticipating
More white-knuckled grasping when 21 shots are heard overhead
---They'll still flinch with every "fire" despite knowing what to expect.
Witnesses of the parade, may hear a faint cry, before the wails
Of sirens screaming in passing. Their eyes may sting with the flashing
Of red and blue, in front and behind. They may shiver in the reflective
Pools of the sunglasses worn by the motorcade escort; somber, sober,
Sentinels letting you know not to progress too hastily. No one is there
To write up their tickets with charges of impeding traffic.
Even as I thought out these words, I met their grief cordially;
It's normally hard to empathize with an presence you find contemptuous.
Today, I was moved by the spectacle, despite my schedule being stifled.
As I mulled over what I experienced, I defied traffic law;
Running through red lights, I expected to see a lone cruiser, red and blue
Alternating on the roof. What would I tell them I was thinking
While I committed my infraction? Would my words excuse me in the occasion?
"Gee officer, I have no excuse, but I have this poem about y'all."
I coughed so hard I gave myself a black eye.
Trading blows with a sickness, a one-sided fight that I can't win.
With each deep reach into my lungs, I'm struck in the gut,
Air violently passing from my body. Fights like these
Happen daily, and every morning I wake up from being laid out
The night before. Often my hair is askew, each errand tendril reaching,
Stretching out, grasping at a new day; I have to wet it down with reality.
In my feverish delirium I often dream of life uninhibited;
Taking action I would not take while awake, speaking words
That these lips would never utter, and stoking a fire containing flames
That would surely burn if I got too close. Dreams of horror and fantasy;
Genres in which, my imagination is well versed. Lately,
These sleeping hallucinations are a bridge on which we meet.
Lovers reunited, reconciled, embracing passionately over now calm
Water. The tender moment beaten to a pulp long through
The start of the alarm bells ringing, I stir in the first stabs of sunlight,
Rolling over to my disappointment, to find my bed empty
Under an arm reaching for warmth.
Try sending a smile a stranger's way,
Or sparking up unexpected conversation.
Ultimately, put a smile on someone's face.
Many people exist wrapped in individuality,
Insular to the world that surrounds them.
Be the conduit of kindness that the many need.
There's no point walking around hunched-over,
As if the world is on their shoulders,
Or having that look on their faces,
One as if they're about to burst into tears
---These floors may be dirty
But there's no need to mop them up
With your dewy lashes.
Stash away your egos and
Hold a door open to happiness
Even for a moment, light up this cloudy day
Better than the blocked out Sun ever could.
I was bumped by a man's cane.
Swearing at the bruise on my shin,
I said, "Watch where you are going!"
Followed by a question, "Are you blind?"
The peppermint coloring of his cane
Answered my question---it ain't no candy.
Tongue bitten, I should have looked
Before talking; my ire isn't that astute.
Nobody seems to concerned with the amount of germs they keep
In their wallets, their pockets, their purses and clutches.
The filth that has touched their currency awakens no urgency
To keep their health priority number one. Contaminated
In so many ways they keep their eyes forward and thoughts out of mind.
Sick in body and spirit they continue to pass their contagions
With the belief that every transaction negates the last.
I'd say your money looks a little green but I'd just be stating the obvious.
Don't think me repulsive, just astute towards these infections festering.
Even the cleanest hands get tainted by this irreversible cash flow.
From the church collection plate to profiteering mongers.
From food to clothes to schools to war to taxes to caskets.
How many microbes inhabit your script?
Time to cleanse it with fire.
These fingers work tirelessly to untie the knots in your back---
Those suckers are tougher to untangle than the ones in your hair.
Your dorsal side earned its merit badges like a good scout:
Fastening strands with precision, carrying the load of a nice lady,
Survival in the most extreme of conditions. Two fingers up,
It'll be honored to help another scout out.
Sometimes those laces need to be undone after a good hike.
Weathering the elements for too long can cause monumental stress;
So take off your pack and relax. Those already knotted fibers strained
To the breaking point; frayed around the edges,
Time for a hemming.
This trooper's nimble fingers can thread a needle too,
Don't ya see my badge?
Intrigued by a new popular phenomenon,
I guess it could be described as apocalyptic porn.
Irradiated wastelands, zombies, infected, and mutants
---People love that shit, but I think many don't know why.
To many it's a game of how long they could live.
For the more intellectual it's a chance to examine Hobbes,
Or maybe live like Thoreau at a wasted Walden,
But for some maybe it's a message:
Love what still exists.
Those tenacious survivors who made it,
Congratulations, but what do you want?
The sting of legs ceasing to run?
The beat of your heart ceasing to pound
As funeral drums for the songs of society no more.
Or maybe their wants are pragmatic;
They want to try again scratching out a plot of land,
Maybe it's a want to feel safe in their neighbours
(The other ones who make it),
All so they get a second chance
To feel connected with the earth that now rejects them,
Now a scorned lover with no flowers.
Everyone want's to see a zombie walk
And in a way want to stagger alongside it.
Those who are wishing misanthropic,
Will gladly watch the world burning
Egging on the monsters.
Luckily kids, Halloween is right around the corner.
Living a half-submerged existence,
A tide pool organism I am.
Taken away from my source,
I gasp for air at the Moonset.
Exposed to some sunrise silhouette,
Prancing on a family vacation.
She nagged her parents to pullover
So she could feel sand between her toes.
So she could greet the waves
And wake from passing boats.
Uncovering a cove behind brush,
Find our nook away from anglers' hooks
---She'll see our contented lives
Behind a carapace where we wear our face.
She shan't be squeamish to see the smile past my shell.
And when, or if, she does, she'll sigh with delight.
You wont find my flesh priced by weight but
You may still taste my sweetness.
A little bit more honey for your pot.
I can't help but start gagging
Gawking between my bite marks.
Seeing a worm segmented, beside itself,
Body cleaved into the shape of a smile,
Dying, it calls out, "Hah. Gotcha fucker."
That's one bad apple.
You'd think things be in season,
Everything be'd ripe but it's rotten.
Fruit once fresh now among bugs and dirt,
It's being consumed by a new customer
Shoplifting from the source.
Designed for us, but claimed by the creator
--Orchard economics are pretty fickle.
It's not just the rot and horseshit the flies swarm for.
The men of the world
They hate their mothers
They hate their sisters
It's in the name of love,
But it's blatant
There is loathing in their core.
Lashing out with the whips
They were given on their birthday,
Their mark is made.
And when they're through,
Their women are adorned
With veils to cover all
Their bruises and gashes.
At the end of the day
The boys sit down for dinner
I run at these walls
With my head bent down
My neck braced for impact
I could stand to loose a few inches
A short stature helps for hiding,
Ducking down, dodging daggers stared.
No bruises or burns from breath cased in fire.
I'm keeping my moisture to lubricate this soul.
Either: I spit words silently not to be noticed,
Or I scream and shout til I entertain an empty room.
In that vacant space, I will make noise until the ghosts kill
themselves all over again. Finally it'll be me and my thoughts
My own entertainment makings that can't ever be bought.
I'll carry myself on my own shoulders if I have to
But don't tell me I never warned you that I wobble
Walking on my hands, or swear with every new blister.
But when I do it, and I'll be strong enough to do it,
Open wide for a foot in your mouth.
I pinned your note to my wall.
Like a letter slipped in
The slats of my high school locker,
It's distant shout of affirmation.
A shooting star of a smile,
Glimmering arc of white,
There for a moment and then gone.
It may burn up in the atmosphere,
But if a small chunk of something
Survives the impact, let be kept close.
A memento of something
Extraordinary and rare.
This bath's run cold.
Hit the hot water faucet with a foot flossing out
Kernels of yesteryear. Fixated on the flavors of
The moment--put gold to that silver tongue, and cleanse.
The fire works slow to roast this wienie.
Idle chatter runs off ears reclined in their chairs.
A point's made not caring that they banned lawn darts;
Lucky we have our stained blanket-capes.
We're all superheroes in this suntanned blockbuster.
Poor hound haunted by the dead dog's scent.
Sent into a neurotic state, he is now overweight.
Too concerned with his predecessor's essence,
To even function well. Oh dear, oh my.
It's not that he didn't learn right, he just can't focus;
Sad for an animal that is normally conditioned.
So disheartened, he doesn't lift his leg to mark.
He's too distracted by the old dog's ghost.
The low rumble of approaching trains
Silences the clashing of lumbering machinery.
Crickets chirping are soon obscured by the serpentine boxcars.
All of this noise makes what only I hear a lot less dissonant.
I think of you, you, and you.
My priorities are sorted out by the pensiveness evoked by this place.
From love I still find frustration and anger.
A fire still burns, engulfing everything furiously.
The condensation complimentary to this dense humidity, does little to help.
Location is everything.
At this spot, seclusion calls for romance,
But I find it best left untarnished;
There is no need to spoil my Bodhi tree with company.
I've always been partial towards the north.
It represents a chance for escape,
A chance to relive fond memories,
A chance to create new ones.
Arrival is signified by: ample wood and the scarcity of architecture.
There is more wildlife to converse with than people,
And the people you do see, you might not fully comprehend.
But that's okay, they are there for the same reasons you are.
Clean atmosphere scented by pines and wildflowers
Feeding off a brilliant sun, and lulled by an orchestra of distant stars.
I see my bedtime stories in the night sky,
Offset only by the orange flicker of a fire.
Even on the days which there is no sun and the breeze buckles my knees,
I may find myself cursing the cold, spitting into the wind,
Wondering, "Why am I subjecting myself to this?"
But then I see a break in the overcast,
And glories shine on the horizon.
The light deafens my ears from the sound of crashing waves,
and with the thought of you, I feel warm, if only for a moment.
Love sickness brings home sickness,
Where a warm meal can comfort.
Where someone who you know,
Who loves you, who tells you,
"Everything will be alright."
If "Home is where the heart is,"
Then I'm homeless.
I gifted all the copies of my keys
So I had to leave the door open.
I've been ransacked, stripped clean;
Not a single memento remains.
It seems squatters have taken over.
I have nothing left to do
But move on, and rebuild.
This time I'll never loose heart.
This time, the only way to get in
Will be a secret knock.
I get stuck thinking.
It's dangerous to be contrary.
The implications overwhelm,
And impulses are suppressed.
Knowing what's best,
All logic is exhausted.
Hours of deliberation,
Beating around bushes,
Only to always agree,
Upon all that we should.
Yet my mind's still turning,
Yearning for clarity
On a muddled path.
Only knowing my desire;
That is clear.
In the silence, take part
In counting the disks
Along the curvature of
A spine hunched over,
Weighed down in the dark;
Rigid wanting to act supple.
Not a care about looks
In any light, let me
Ease your burden.
Am I sick to think that
I am that strong?
I can't stand stagnation.
Broods of blood suckers
Bred in such environments.
Momentum is the true mana.
Sometimes I ground myself
By gazing at the earth;
Eyes averted down,
Where we came from,
And where we all go.
There are also times when
I hurl myself to Heaven.
Entranced by fantasy,
I long dauntingly,
In between, I just stare.
Thousands of yards
Catch my glare.
Processions of the past
Herald the road ahead.
Ignoring the curves,
Looking for an end,
With each revolution
I ignore those familiar markings.
Another year, another birthday
As of late I've had trouble answering
The question, "What do you want?"
And people are taken aback by my response.
"Peace of mind," I tell them.
They plead me to reconsider,
Telling me cost is not an issue.
That's part of the problem;
People feeling gratification
From the things they give,
And the things they get.
I don't want distraction--
Material subtracting my attention
Given to consideration of
All the years I have spent
With my toys spread out,
Consuming the realm I inhabit.
With growth I have found out,
Less is necessary. Space is scarce,
And as I fill into my world,
I require the room my objects occupy.
Left with all of my material on the outside.
I have neglected to pack away the things
That are truly precious.
Have you met my distant relative
The man trapped in ice?
A father, or uncle, or
cousin so far removed I can't count.
He spent his days
Racing his paints against
The melting glaciers.
A Neolithic savant stabbing,
Scraping bristles bearing colour;
Arms drawn back for art.
Beauty is in the kill.
Stories of scavenging.
Stories of surviving.
Stories of success.
Stories told with each stroke.
Crude was our ancestors' language.
Since: tomes have been bound;
Scribes have translated, cried, and copied;
And oceans of ink have been poured.
Yet, we're still stabbing and scraping
At the minds of those who turn a deaf ear.
Honey, we've all got scars.
Some wear them with pride,
Others keep them as a stark reminder.
Valleys and ridges comprise the topography,
Under the crust is where we're truly fucked.
Pieces broken and shifting,
Changing the chemistry of who we are,
Facilitating chain reactions that ensure devastation.
Formations scab over,
Formulas bring new products.
Are you taking notes?
Mere markings on the map of life.
Each place has a name
Commemorating its founding.
Someone stuck a pennant in me,
Quick! Grab the tweezers,
And repel the interlopers.
It looks like a piece a broke off.
It's stuck real deep.
You can't dig for this truth,
Best try talking it out.
Approaching you see
That it isn't Hawkweed
Peppering the highway;
Just men safely clad,
Attending to their civic duty:
Busing the winter's refuse,
In plastic weighing so heavy.
In preparation for the season,
Our surface for feasting is ready.
Jovial medleys fill the air.
Tunes sung from the Sun,
Herald the robin's return
But first, let's clean
To welcome our tenants
These legs twitch incessantly.
Itching for a chance to move,
Waiting, swaying metronomes.
Leaping for a time to swing.
Hot music fuels their demons.
Stepping and dancing feeds them.
Propulsion suppresses them.
Bipeds gripped onto pedals.
Quads pray, strained for salvation.
Calves flagellate. Holy Mother!
Tenacity turns the wheels.
But, demons don't die easy;
They hold leased titles elsewhere.
Prime land for development.
Again their song is heard throughout.
Skilled operators of hands.
Vocal chord reins tame the tongue.
Now, the nights are theirs once more.
Book tabs, bar tabs, and bills.
The sounds of glasses clashing
With tinkle-twinkle chimes.
Drunks mumble and mutter
Whiskey soaked words;
Best under their breath
Because a direct hit
Would kill, or
At least maim.
The stench could knock
A barfly off of his own
Shit-pile of words.
Again we meet with trepidation.
Long since we've used our imaginations,
Locked in hypothesis and rhetoric.
Laying engaged in thought, we seldom practice.
All theory, little action; every kiss with a preface.
In our tandem think-tank, not all is shared.
A thought explored deemed unworthy is shelved.
Annexes of annals adding and multiplying constantly.
That is how much I hide.
We get high off our own breath,
Heads locked, frontal lobes rub
In attempt to transmit our
Thoughts into each others skulls.
Psychic sex happens when:
You worship their mind,
You praise each thought,
Each expression of wit,
You fell in love with the essence
Of a curvy shell containing the brain.
Body be dammed,
Let me ravage your words.
At first sight, I will
Embrace my silver hairs.
Signs of my own mortality;
Reminders that all grows old.
Weak joints and muscles can
Fuck off politely, but
Grey locks will be answered
When they knock on my door.
That's part of the surprise.
One can only surmise the
Ewer from which, they pour
Over my head is age,
There will be no plucking
Of follicles; receding lines
Make every strand precious.
And I say, 'Hell no!' to dying;
I might as well scorch then
Salt the earth. Let nature run
Its course; Never agile, always
Gradual--The subtlety of life
Is what I value.
Who cares if there is no method to this madness?
Rocking alone in the dark, mumbling words unheard,
I can't get over this mind's melody.
Over and over, flip that record another time.
Slow it down and speed it up just to inflect,
Inserting yourself in the work of others.
There isn't hidden meaning, no stickers stuck.
Unconventionality doesn't call for a burning.
Nothing wicked, nothing explicit,
This freezing spring rain rapping on the window
Reminds me of all the times I've been warm,
Ignoring the bite of the breeze with my cheeks lifted high.
This is the stuff that keeps you going in all weather;
Fuel for the fire in my belly. You know it's stoked,
You can tell by the smoke pouring from my throat
So keep the bellows blowing, quell the the cold's
Strong fist knocking on your smile's pearly doors.
Kill it with kindness and smile.
Baby, I'm not a religious man,
But I'm giving you up.
At least for awhile, while
The season's right.
It may be wrong to do
But, it's what we need.
Want aside, try to pretend
It never happened. God,
It'll be rough to desert
Such a friend, it's hard,
We all know that.
So maybe, we can find
Salvation before our hell.
The Bull and Lion raised up together as young pups
Under the searing, summer sun.
Days spent dashing, activity bonded the brood.
Combined, their strength was unmatchable.
The Bull: headstrong, and the Lion: proud;
Quite the pair!
Oh Lion, quick to defend his pride.
Oh Bull, quick to standoff, seeing red.
When those warm rays shone down
Temperaments heated, raising manes and honing horn;.
Fraternal clashes always followed.
But, in brotherhood, forgiveness is found
Remembering the worth of kin.
The tired eyes of an old man glimmer
Sadly expressing fear and anxiety
Words in his gaze, an inarticulate tongue
Shaken, cannot speak between silent sobs.
The mirage of existence shimmers,
Evaporating fabrics under scrutiny.
Dissipating life reveals an uncertain end,
Met headstrong by a face revealed behind
Bent-back wrinkles ascending intensely.
The vigor of youth shines strong at last.
I listen to weird stuff;
Stuff that kids who do drugs like.
Angular beats and melodies,
With lyrics that flow
Like prose, hardly repeating.
Synthesized sounds, mathematically
Mapped, and tweaked to a timbre.
We're not after mass appeal,
Escape is what we seek;
To: a new world based
In music, with its own
Although few, we appreciate
New additions to our cult.
Water drops drip, thud! in a bucket positioned to collect under a crack caused by ice formed on the rooftop. It's a stark reminder, shelling the delusion that the shelters, which we've built to protect from the elements, are permanent. Eventually everything disappears, unrecognizable, subjected to the past of our future. What we can do now is hold on tight. Grasp everything that comes our way, and never let go. Hold the moment tender. Remember what is enjoyed, as well as what you did not. Resistance to our hold should be acknowledged. Turn you head, shielding your gaze from your reluctant actions.