Tuesday, June 28, 2011

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.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

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.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

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.

Saturday, June 11, 2011

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.

Friday, June 10, 2011

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.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

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.