i miss you
for more reasons
I've missed this.
This thing called writing...
It has been creeping into my mind like a virus
And it seeps into my core as I absorb its kindness.
I never intended to stop this feeling I get of
Becoming myself when I write; it just happened.
Every night the virus clung to my lungs and
Asked me to produce bloody poetry.
Just when I thought the pain was gone,
The silence would tear my heart apart.
I realized then and now that I cannot fill that void.
That void I feel when poetry is not present in my veins.
The doctors tried everything.
Observing my behavior and counting
My countless fits of crying and depression.
They didn't know that writing was still nagging
Me to scribble thoughts on paper.
Writing was a good friend.
He was always there when I needed to
Express myself in ways that I could not speak to make a valid point.
Although I tried to kill him,
He forgave me and gave me another try at this thing called writing.
So here I am.
I'm back from the literary dead.
The feeling I can never explain something just ingrained within you.
I can't explain what I never could understand.
We are the dreamers and suffer those who are awake.
Tragic are those who lack vision, misfortune is yours please spare mine.
The blade is now a pen my blood now Ink .
For whom it is lost is more found I.
The rejects of night are but misfits of my day.
As the poison seeps in as my creativity flows unto a void created in chaos none of which
was of my choosing.
Were all dreamers caught within a nightmare's grasp, losers of a game we chose not to play.
But we damn sure tried in spite of it all.
The blank page remains a suicide note to the forgotten chapter in a dust collected manuscript.
Secrets are best left buried like shipwrecks on the ocean floor.
Why be the judge when none are innocent or ever so guilty as I.
Damn the nights for bringing the memories upon me ,
and curse my thoughts for remaining after all these drinks.
Haunted are the souls of the living simply empty vessels that fill the streets.
Many years have passed.
Yet these thoughts never age .
Goddamn the nights and winters empty chill!
The fire now only seems to smolder a dragons bluff to wolves such as I.
I hear the others howl I simply choose to ignore the sound.
Taking refuge in my thoughts and torment in scars past.
Empty are these thoughts that I unearthed tonight.
I hear the howls outside my door.
They are my burden and none else to understand.
In witching hours of lost hopes and broken dreams I find my solace.
I've ran with demons and slept with many angels, to burn only in the cold of ice.
Tomorrow is always a dream as from this nightmare maybe I'll wake.
Treasure the silence in it we find our true selves.
I hear the howls I simply choose to no longer answer.
Dance of the wind, shakes the trees, shakes the sky
Turn of the seasons
Turn of the storm
Sweet Ulyses on a broken tulip, dying
Reaching for the last of time
Within the great mystery.
Oh, holy land walking underneathe feet
With tired eyes and repeated lies -
The carrion song breaks down and cries
Yesterday closes in on thought's illusion
Of telling today to run around
Chasing past days gone
For the sake of youth gone
Crystal eyes and flaccid goodbyes
The carrion song breaks down and cries
Under soft caresses of Nature's glow
Ceases to be, the gift of selfishness
Asleep in the fog
Spinning madly, this rock of earth
Around star sun, a one-eyed Buddha
Taking gravity, magnetic energy
Orange burn, holographic sin
Make the clock jump ahead
Forward in time, backward in rhyme
Poor things of words
Detailing worlds, both inner and outer
But never receiving rightful admiration
Oh, sad words of symbolic reference
Lay down your weary tune and collapse
Sink back into the void of a hum
Yesterday opens around thought's illusion
Of showing today the masterplan
When bizarre happenings stir the crowd of mind
'Tis the moment to step out of time
And examine the line,
The dire chime of truth
And thus enters the chance to realize
The carrion song that breaks down and cries
Through the years of transparent existence, a void of illusion becomes apparent and slowly becomes nothing more than a side-show. The dribbling glimpses of truth fade like the bones of old. No man can create such an indentation in the mold of space and time that the observers at the end of eternity will render their imprint upon the infinite gaian consciousness and body of universal proportions of any significance. Even the earth laughs at such ridiculousness. The ego is a strong bind - it can create maya and attachment to such fantasies easier than a bear can find it's ideal location for a winter hibernation. It's a world of craziness, where nobody knows whats going on.
The man woke up from his deep slumber. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Squinting, he looked around, studying his surroundings and taking mental notes. His thoughts are dirty scribblings on a subway wall. His heart is beating, searching for a band to play in rhythm with. His soul is aching from loneliness and desire. His feet lifelessly surrender their position up on the couch and find the floor, shrieking from the cold of the linoleum. His presence is that of a bird with a broken wing still attempting to fly. He stands up and stares at the ceiling.
The room is small. Four walls of white, one window and one door. The window looks out over the grey city. The door leads into another room - the room most would call a kitchen. In the small room before the kitchen, there is only a couch and a blanket. No lamp. No television. No electricity. No electricity in the entire apartment. The kitchen holds no refrigerator, no oven, no toaster, no pantry. It's called a kitchen because that's what it would be if somebody else was living in the apartment. There are two bananas on the floor along with a box of wheat flake cereal. No milk, no bowl, no spoon. The bananas are almost entirely rotten. The box of cereal is on its side, leaking bits of wheat flake, resembling a dying soldier on a battlefield who's losing all his blood through the wound on his neck rather than a box of the West's favorite morning go-to breakfast.
The man is observing the cracks on the ceiling, along with various stains with no known origin to him. His eyes dart from one corner of the room to another to another to another and back to the first. Spiderwebs. Dust. Decay. A perfect example of life's ability to take care of itself. Biodecomposition. When no one is around to look after a house, over time, Nature will take over it. Vines will grow and overcome the walls. Rain will fall and wear away the roof and general structure. Winds will blow, taking blindshots at the weakened building, eventually cause it to fall. Nothing lasts forever. Everything goes back to where it came from.
The man now steps into the "kitchen", where he begins to study the stains on the ceiling in this room as well. His mind is electric, with no thoughts in the usual sense, but rather just a vague presence of void to help the ceiling stains feel important. He is the space through which everything around him can exist to their fullest potential. After a measureless amount of time, the man walks over to the sad bits of food on the far side of the small room. He picks up one of he bananas and studies it. He feels where it came from. The tropical skies and smells and earth of Costa Rica. There's a little sticker on the banana that says so. Each bit of fruit in the markets nowadays are individually stickered...for prosperity, one can only assume. Though it's best to never assume anything, and instead be open to everything - afterall, anything is possible, at any time. Likelihood and probability are also important factors in the universal constitution of existence. What was the likelihood that this man, when he was a little child, figured he'd be holding a rotten banana from Costa Rica in his hand inside of a kitchenless kitchen? Who knows? The man wouldn't be able to recall his thoughts from early childhood - he barely remembers waking up and experiencing the chilling sensation of early morning linoleum. In any case, everything is exactly the way it's supposed to be, for it wouldn't be if it wasn't meant to be.
He slowly peels open the banana peel to reveal this brown, soft mush of tropical fruit. Just the way he likes it - soft enough to chew with his toothless mouth. He takes his time consuming the fruit, savoring every particle. After a good bit of time, the fruit is gone and all the man is left with is the peel. He takes another good look at the peel, once again imagining where this particular banana came from. Then, in two swift bites, he devours the entire peel - sticker included. He figures the sticker came from Costa Rica as well, and thus must carry that Costa Rican tropical vibe of health and longevity. His eyes then focus on the wheat flake cereal lying next to the other rotting banana. He bends down and picks up the box. The box is upside down when he picks it up and so the cereal spills out all over the area of the "kitchen" floor that seems to be dedicated to eating food. The remaining banana is now covered in wheat cereal.
The man drops the box back onto the floor and takes a seat alongside of it. His fingers hold his face from drooping onto his knees. His knees are keeping his torso from melting onto the floor. He screams with no sound. The pains of existence seep through his hollow eyes and into the receptors of his soul. He screams with no sound. He’s as empty as the American Dream.
The cobwebs are spreading from the corners of the room and are aimed for the human form sitting in the “kitchen” screaming silence with all his might. The cobwebs grow. The commuters of the city highway are commuting. A thousand birthday celebrations are being had. A thousand people sexually uninhibited, joyously seizing the moment in disgusting miraculous unity of mortal physical desire. Junkies are roaming the street for their morning fix. Teaching are teaching their students absolute lies. Governments are stealing the lives of billions and counting. And the cobwebs are growing, encompassing entire walls. The the ceiling. Then the floor. Then they crawl up the lifeless legs of the man who sits screaming in silence and the spiders overtake his body. They stitch his mouth shut and close his eyes with their spun proteinaceous spider silk. The man withers into the wind of time and vanishes from the world without a single soul taking notice. Leaving nothing behind except an empty apartment, overdue rent, and a number in the system of Western Society. His spirit cries sorrowfully as it flees the clutches of molecular existence into the realm of eternity and space. Heaven. He made it. He looks down at the people of the world he just left and sings a pitiful song for them. He’ll see them again. Afterall, they are Him. And He is Them. His Heart, the Sun, burns as the world he left turns. The lessons He left are slowly being learned. One by one. But still, there’s a space between the atoms, between the cells. And that space can never disappear. Without it, there would be no point to the story. All would be one, as it is, and there’s be nothing to overcome. No triumph. Just an endless loop of bizarre beautiful experience and pattern.
The world is a breath -
Coming in through the form
And leaving through the invisible.
Pulsating through the rooms of art,
survival screams for salvation -
A Communistic utopian,
under-turned for sake of pride and recognition.
The world is but a breath -
Within the core of existence,
Inside the minds of society,
and in the hearts of the freed hermits,
the nomadic saviors of the human race -
Lungs of void and thought and action
and being and being and being -
With veins of rivers and trees
and eyes of ocean wholes,
the face of life gleams truth in sun -
with cancerous tumors of Man’s cities -
cities designed for convenience,
and constructed out of fear for safety -
deeply rooted in the unconscious.
The world is a breath,
and art is the air.
she's huddled in the corner
with only the walls
holding her up
are you proud of what you did to her?
who knew nothing but pain
now can simply feel nothing at all
her eyes are an empty void
they are the broken windows
to her tattered and bruised soul
never could I have imagined
that spills from this girl's mouth
every time she goes to talk
every God forsaken time she goes
to take a breath
you ripped away her innocence
like it was a bandaid used to hold her together
now she's falling apart
and sees nothing
but stormy weather
you are nothing
but a flaw
that she will forever see in herself
when she looks in the mirror
she now believes that she
isn't worthy enough of affection
all because you gave her
your definition of "affection"
when she didn't want it
as if resisting
and yelling "stop!"
gives you the consent
to ruin who she is
as a human being
I hope you keep telling yourself
that she wanted it
because when I wrap my hands
around your neck
and wring out
all of my hatred
for people like you
and then watch the color
drain away from your egotistic face
I will say
"you wanted it"
only then you realize I stole from you
what you stole from her;
Oh, lady fountain above
Sing to me with your long laced words of love
Take me away - into the Heavens above
“Look here, peasant say -
Nothing is above, nor below your stand.
All is equal in mind of me -
For the Heavens is not something that you see.
It’s a land void of cold and warmth -
And a land where bodies don’t count.
Heaven is a place where thoughts don’t roam -
It is a place without prayer or hope.
It is a place where action is blank,
And a place where words don’t voice -
Heaven is as far away as the Sun,
And as close as your own heart.”
I looked at the lady in my dreams with curiosity -
A glare of confusion written over my face.
I begged for a clearer translation,
For my mind is not suited for riddles on Sundays.
She borrowed a second, and then bowed to the right -
She smiled at herself, and then took off in flight.
She disappeared in a flash out of my sight -
I damned my inability to comprehend,
And my insignificance in the beginning-less end.
I sat down where I was, and I pondered for a while -
The lady fountain and her charm,
Her wisdom and her flattering song.
She spoke without speaking,
And I listened without hearing -
I felt left in the dark, while she flew freely
Somewhere within the world of the holy unseen.
A week went by, and the skies changed rapid color -
First from blue to orange to green,
Then it all faded to an indigo sheen -
Shinier than metallic mobiles
And grander than the highest skyscraper.
The hues sanded time into fragments of measurement
And faded quickly into normality within the Now.
On that new Sunday, the lady fountain appeared again to me.
She brought with her a friend of angel wings -
They both said “Hello” and flew in transparent circles,
Claiming to be God’s favorite children.
Rambunctious rapscallions routinely revolt
against apathetic assholes arrogantly antagonizing atheists
while widowed whale watchers wait willingly without
half-starved half-wits halfway handle the hoopla
and transient transvestites traverse tailor-made water slide tubes
sitting shiftlessly they sing sorrowful shanties, sweating the sweet sickly smell of Summer
disaster disease deforms damsels downtown during the party
post-apocalyptic prophets peer at the people pursuing peace on earth
Entertaining troops, evangelical immigrants imitate priests
propositioning peasants and passing pleasantries
these imposters intrinsically incubate artificial life-like substances
sunbathers search the horizon for vertical motion as madness takes shape
form fractures freeing floundering psychiatrists to spew forth jargon
jalopies jammed into junk heaps creep into the public conversation
and devastation develops discord deep
‘cheese cloth clear’ conscious coats the counter-culture creating chaos
wasted lives wash up against the rocks causing ripples
that society cannot distinguish
so un-noticed they circumnavigate the world’s oceans
bringing a lifeless void to all the best beaches
tourists trapped tell tales of the tumultuous trip to the Island
instinct inserts immobility
and they all frozen, wait to die
terror and trepidation twist guts into knots
knowledge escapes through pores and ignorance becomes the only safety net
breathless beguilers beneath bridges wait with hooks bated
fishing for humanity, they hungrily and hurriedly hit hipsters
with whips built from wishes and willow tree branches
chances chase chastised cats into crooked crevasses, cleaning the cars for the new customers
capitalists conglomerate collectively choosing to consumer rather than to create
rewards rendered religiously
retching wraiths reach for real wealth
monetarily void they momentarily moan
muscles maxed and movement miniscule
pain is the only truth
In icy dreams of the present’s past
Holed up in eternity
Surrounded by the wisest fools
Younger than I
Older than Time, so I’ve been told
Floating back through wisps of memory
Drenched in nostalgic gleam
I pick up pieces of naive me
And smile for the love of innocence -
The childlike warmth of Ancient New
Like watching clouds dance over Naked Sun
Ah yes. And so roads converge, again and again,
twisting infinitely through the cosmos, the heavens,
manifesting encounters with the personified void
In angelic form, dancing, beads, hair like silk
In desert exotic, caves of rustic sunset come dawning night
In solitude plane, contemplation erases nervousness
In tunnel of depth, going deeper and deeper and deeper,
In glowing brilliance, magnifying illumination of nothingness,
In transcendent beauty of body and mind,
In the arms, in the embrace, of the Universal Womb of All Life,
There exists no thought, no worry, no noise, no pollution,
Like the waterfalls
Or the ocean tides
Flow away on dreams and believe in anything