Truth.
The face
Of an elderly widower,
At the funeral
of an old friend.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
I've got some scores to settle
With the man upstairs,
And they range from the red on his hands,
To the grey in my hairs.
7 billion fools sharing 13 stool
In this game of musical chairs,
And a set of ****** rules
Worse than middle school dares.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 9:10 AM UTC
A crash.
A blast.
A splash.
A laugh.
A head.
A hand.
A foot.
A heart.
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
She tethered me to the real world.
And the worst part:
I was grateful for it.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 8:52 AM UTC
More or less
She simply loved me less.
And I can't fault her,
For less was her best.,
And lest I speak wrong
While seeking to impress,
That through it all,
Nevertheless,
I loved her the best.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
I'm sitting by the beach.
And there are so many others,
Sharing this sand.
Why?
Not here to swim.
Not to pick up love.
Not to fish.
We gather here,
Simply
To be near beauty.
Beauty is our magnet.
We want to situate ourselves
As close to it as possible.
To crawl into bed with it
And drape an arm over.
So is my love for her.
I just see so much beauty
In all of her.
It's gravity.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
In the heart of each singer there lives a breathing bird,
Who awakes and greets each morning just to spread his word.
His breast, it swells with air straight from Olympus Mountain,
And the people drink of his melody as a shaded backwoods fountain.
The morning sun invites the song and the singer must oblige;
And when that star takes rest, the song still illuminates the sky.
There is no moment of any spinning day that some tune cannot make right.
Every singer knows that the Song of Silence often holds the most delight.
Now, where does music grow, but straight out the land and seas?
Amidst the fields and lily-patches live the sweetest melodies.
Many blind optometrists trample song with their learned, leaden feet.
But every child knows to cherish both the flower and the ****
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
I built myself up then I fell right off,
And I did with the characteristic passion of a Karamazov.
I don’t know where I get these ideas, but they fill up the room.
They must be born of a mutilated peasant womb.
They stampede and conquer my days. At night they melt down my walls.
I don’t dare to leave, because I know they’re apt to ambush the halls.
They may come quiet, but they build to thunder.
They spike their wagon wheels and throw me right under.
There I lay trapped and beaten. A born winner, dead and defeated.
I never stood a chance against the poisonous egg and *****
The things I want to want I never do desire.
I burn to be the light, but only ever play with fire
This time I flew too close. A moth-brain in my head,
I simply took a nap, and that killed my father dead.
Am I guilty if I wanted him to die?
Am I guilty if I sleep well tonight?
Am I guilty for an averted eye?
Am I guilty though I never told a lie?
Am I guilty if I didn’t pull the trigger?
What God could ever die for this sinner?
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
There is something before the words,
Before the light of labels
Descends from the sun of thought
To name her yawn:
Cute,
Precious,
Important.
There is some knowing
Prior to calling it a “yawn”.
Say the word “yawn” repeatedly
And it will lose all meaning
And fall down a technicolor faucet
Towards ridiculousness.
So what is this fracture in time?
This single extra slide
Spliced in before the movie begins,
Displaying more meaning
Than the entire film that follows.
Perhaps it is instinct.
We are (grateful) slaves to the genomes
Of our ancestors.
Do the graceful notes Jerry hands to me
Dance through the synapses of my mind,
To remind me that community means safety?
And success in our endeavors once meant:
Food
****
Sleep
Repeat
Or is it emotion?
Testosterone rising up to battle butterflies in my gut
Because the romantic in me knows
This one
Is worth the wait
This one
Is worth the risk
Is it God?
Fighting with all her might
To tear into our consciousness,
But turned away
At the inhale
That precedes the sweetest of songs.
Sorry God –
Life is short
No time to think about it.
And here is the kicker.
It’s none of these things.
How could it be?
How can words describe
That which comes before words?
It isn’t anything
It just is.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
With dirt-caked cheeks (on fire),
With ****** knuckles (both dry and flowing),
With a sweat-boiled brow,
With Christmas morning anticipation,
You will your tired, desiring eyes
Above the jagged, pinnacle stone.
You pinch your eyelids.
Breathe.
And open them
To be cast upon the vista
You have toiled towards for all those sleepless years.
Only,
It is not.
It is nothing.
Blackness, emptiness, silence.
Devoid.
The void.
And it just knocks the living hell out of you.
Your breath leaves you
(hand in hand with your sense of comfort).
Your stomach turns to starving snakes.
Avert your eyes!
But the image remains the same;
North, South, East, West.
The darkness has lain down upon the entirety of the compass.
So you turn round,
Look back for the familiar mountain path,
But it is gone.
Where there was once struggle and life,
There is now only empty atmosphere.
So you turn inwards,
Close your eyes,
And see only
The endless absence of light.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC