Undertow

There is a current in the wishing well;
time moves slower here, slow enough
for dreams to solidify—not as if
to take form, but to remain in place.
Just above the undertow a fresh layer
of powder is forming - barely enough
to cover our crustations from sight,
but just the right amount to hide us
from ourselves.

Acompaniment

I wonder how I will unfold—
that is to say I am not unfolded—
this swiss cheese lifestyle makes
the chest rise and fall a little faster.

The mouse will slap the master,
and take the cheese as a right
of passage.  The slave will lift the anvil
slightly to relieve the tension but

Nothing takes the place of emptiness.
Nothing remembers the way the blinders
look from the other side so it will know
what to say and when to say it.

It's a learning experience for all involved.
The slave tightens the straps and turns
his back, thankful he is able to see
both sides in the spectrum—

Nothing always comes back.

The Therapist asks, "Where were
you just now?" I say, "I don't
know."  I was thinking about
nothing—

Aimless Wanderin'

It don't make a damn bit'a difference
da way she handed me dat cup—
like she was searchin' fer sumthin',
eyes so wide they'd look right on past me.

Da party was shakin' ground dat night,
not fer da cars with neon lights nor
da speakers rattlin' in da truck beds,
but fer da way I stood in silence waitin'

at da beer keg empty handed.  I was young,
and so was she—so young she shouldn't
even'a been der.  We was jus two
travelers on different roads, an for some

reason I was able ta peak t'rue dose bushes
dis particular evenin' an see her standin'
der on her own dirt crossing. I s'pose
I might'a ducked down an t'rue da brush

ta git to her side of da woods dat night,
but she was gone by dat time.
Mebbe I jus been wanderin' here aimless in
her footsteps for a'while an lost my own way.

This story don't make a whole that much sense,
an I know you's thinkin', "Who gives a damn?"
But I saw da ocean in her eyes dat night,
an been wonderin' what it takes a man ta paddle

back to da shore—cuz I done seen all da
dusty roads from here down t'rue any which
way you can travel, an I still won't see her pretty
face but fer in my head tonight.

A Sinking Silence

Picture credited to ME

 
At times I wonder
if she will feel me here one day
or notice the faded initials carved
into the break wall—

provided the weather
remained kind, and time found
its proper footing to move forward.
I'd imagine her atop the grassy hill

searching for privacy like
I had done, and find me there,
sinking crooked into the sand
mindful of a voice within the silence.

Saint Augustine in Silence

We stand meek; the unguided
successors of the Earth—vagabonds,
pinballing our way in the urban afterbirth
of a misappropriated dichotomy.

Detchached from body, we suffocate
and sacrifice, self pitying martyrs who
claim the scars of Christ—our voice
inhailed from the breath of broken souls.

Somewhere Augustine is laughing
while we climb hand over hand to the peak
of mountains waving our arms
toward the heavens.

Wobbling on a precipice with no response,
we fall to our knees - break bread with strangers,
and witness our neighbors become arbiters.
Our perspective is fresh—silent, and jaded.

The First Stone

The world is teetering in this

so called state of balance, and I

myself am off kilter, the gravity

of my center fast-approaching implosion.

The last ounce of whiskey has

evaporated from a bottle—thirty days

it has been yet I still feel its fire lingering in

my bowels commanding a direction.

I take a long draw from a cigarette,

telling myself it's the last, though I know

in short time I will feel the momentum of

its presence gripping at my heart

with the echo of ages, forcing every

last pint of blood racing

through narrowing veins.  And these I use

as a substitute for rage—coercing

the body into feeling how I would have it.

To recall the act of life and how

no matter what choices are made I

cannot persuade my spirit to deviate.

It is a fool's errand attempting to dominate

a world spinning off its axis, and these words

will soon dissipate—an antithesis tumbling

down the ladder one rung at a time.

The Psychology of Time

I'm tried and
tired.  If I were a pop culture
t-shirt I would read
"exhausted since 2003".
In my head that's when it began,
but really it was much sooner.
I vaguely recall the psychologist
drawing a blob on a piece
of scrap paper saying,
"What do you see when you look at this?"
I remember being introduced
to sex way too early, the twisted racetrack
of misshapen beads, waking up
in the middle of the night
unable to breathe and
the visits to the emergency room.
I remember cupping my ear
to the wall while laying in bed
listening to the neighbor screaming
at her two daughters all through the night,
and the exact color shape and size
of the barbecue brush my sister's father
would threaten to beat me with.
Oh but how things can change
so easily here, like the silence
between war disfiguring the spirit
of its survivors.  And we are
restless, and fatherless, pledging
allegiance to a flag that bears no meaning.
We were bred as one, born
from the same mother though we fight
ourselves and each other
with foolish honor heated on our breath.
"Times are tough," the grey haired folk say
while swinging on their porch benches,
television locked to CNN or the local news.
They don't know the half of it, the distance
separating us two rings in a sequoia.

Focal Point

I wanted to lose touch
with reality—to
plunge deep into
rivers cascading down valleys
and end up on the other side
of a void so expandable
nothing
could ever touch me.
But I am
tired of waiting—writing
with words which serve no purpose
except a gasp of heavy air, exhausted
about trying to fit in, or
be 'this'.  I am chaotic
silence; I have no more of anything,
for anyone. I am writing
nothing and
to no one, but myself.
So when my breath
falls down from the sky,
cold and complacent, could you
please listen closely for my words
and place them in their proper order.
Because
at one point,
I wanted less vocal chords and
more allusion; but this,
awarded to me at no expense,
is worse than anything
I never had.

Beneath the Silence

Picture credited to PiXeL1616

These callouses won't bleed;
still as a hummingbird's wings
are my thoughts today, staring
at an absent space on the ceiling.

If my mind were a vessel,
and my heart the soul, these hands
would be anchors, cementing me
beneath the sounds of silence.

The loneliness here is vacant of body,
never moving but for the echo
of an ebb and flow
and the swaying of the seasons.

Coins and Confusion

The nights are restless
when sleep can last forever.
You crawled into my head
and curled in defense,

like a roly-poly I poked,
as dreams invaded privacy.
Why were we on a bus?
Where were we headed

and, why did I beg that man
with handfulls of coin to whisper
something that made you weep?
I consoled you with my embrace,

as I would have done
in our waking hours.  But you
are confined to my nights,
while my days are growing dim.

Intersecting Roads

Picture credited to Aphotic Aura

No one knew what possesed her to do it,
or ever had the care or guts
to ask why. We all knew her,
"That woman, you know,
the one always walking down the street?"
But we didn't really know her.
She was part of everyone by now,
because everyone had passed her,
somewhere, in the five or
eight odd mile radius she called home.
She was a God, or a cause, or
a constant in an otherwise turbulant day.
To some she was merely an annoyance,
a habitual glance in the rear-view.
But today it was raining and
she never cared for unbrellas.
The man in a yellow car stopped
at the intersection was following her
with his eyes.  He turned in her direction
and slowed as if to stop, but,
how was it his right to roll down the window
to ask if maybe she needed a ride?
What would he say to her
as she was seated next to him,
long brown hair freshly lacquered with rain?
I'm not sure if anyone stopped that day.
Some time after he was passing her again,
and he could've swore he saw her raise an arm
as his eyes shifted back down to the road.

On The Workbench

I labeled you an empty jar,
air tight, to conceal
a time and place worth
conveying in the afterlife.

The seal was never fit though,
you escaped, and I rattled
around in old coffee tins
filled with screws and bolts

as we worked to repair repercussions
in both our lives—nuts
that never fit, and sockets
always one size off.

You usually tried to fit in a pair
of my hand-me-down shoes
attempting to correct your life,
though they never were as snug

as you expected.  I suppose
I cut the laces, demanded you
switch to velcro in your old age.
I never meant it in heart even if you did

take the best of me and digest it, tossing
it aside like loose change in a guitar case.
It was always like looking into a mirror,
never knowing when to give in

or when to give up.  So I set another jar
up on the workbench, labeled it me,
and every now and then I try to fit inside,
but the seal is never tight.

Lessons in Leisure

She spit on the floor
demanding a confession,
tossing dead-rose vases
and half-empty liquor bottles

towards my shrinking composure.
A life well lived is a life
worth living I thought to myself
as glass shattered inches

from my head.  Then I imagined
my own past—the girl on the floor
of a friends parent's house,
one in the park after midnight,

and one whom I could never name
at a random University party.
It's the American way: get laid,
get paid.  But this story is off;

she had done no wrong
I had not done myself.
And these days are filled
with old decisions: to honor

thy Mother and Father; do not
cheat, steal, or kill. Rules
passed down through generations
who still stumble upon the lessons.

She was remarkable in her leisure,
holding fast to some Arthurian legend
where the guise of life's macabre
could never exist.

Swaying of the Willow

Here I am, time-stilled,
the procession of marriage
halted halfway to the altar,
rose petals firmly frozen in air

and I am lost within you,
without you. The pigeons sent to find me
were lost too amongst the willows
swaying in the seasons of change,

the crows nestled on their perches
waiting to revive, or devour.
Though who is to decide:
a God of reason or repentance.

We are all equal beside the willow
and the crow, where sand ceases
to flow in the hourglass and we are left
with our own devices and maladaptations.

Yet even still with broken timepiece
the seasons do not stop to wonder
whatever did happen to the man,
or the crow, or the swaying of the willow.