JLB - Hello Poetry

JLB Feb 2012

First,
Thank you for this poetry, precious intellect.
For employing each muse, under no objection--
Working hard so that the words in my head can sing their celebrations
As if without effort,
And take their leave in abstract
Unity.

Second,
Thank you for my pain, you lying *******.
Every time I fall under the spell of night silence,
Unencumbered by those solemn realities,
Somehow, still, I long to be bound in the ribbons of mental garrulousness.
Because ****,
It'd sure be hard to write without any words--
Without the consequences of this troubled mind.
So, it looks like you’ve found a convincing way to pitch the worth of suffering.
And Darlin’, I suppose that
I'll be the buyer of your generic brand of heartache--
Never cared for that top-shelf quick n’ done despair anyway.
I must just have a pallet for lingering bitterness.

Third,
Thank you for this herb, mother nature.
For the improvisational song that it sings in my veins,
Tuning out prosaicism’s drone.
For the rocking motion of my psyche
That starts when the rapid and the slow converge,
And the configuration of the fourth dimension warbles me to sleep
In a chorus of veins—
Conveying each of life’s cadences,
All in vain
Of what I myself
Ordain.

JLB Feb 2012

Wonderlust

Accepting brute fact would permit
a sad
self-induced
mental castration.

JLB Feb 2012

Ye of little faith, indeed.

You'll never believe this
but,
I drank from God's flask the other day.

Yeah,
Convinced that it was half full
Of conscientiousness.
Of hope, or passion, or honesty,
or somethingworthgivingashitabout.
For it had once appeared to many,
A beautiful and grand canteen,
Forged of liquid silver.

And as I allowed the contents to inwardly surge,
I realized that it had plunged into the same carnal vessel
From whence it came,
And the lining of my body had been holding the ancient linings of other bodies,
Reincarnate.

Romantic,
If that's the way you wanna slice it.

But
There is a recipe for such rapture,
And it's been written on pages much less holy than the Bible--
On the coffee stained clipboards of chemists
And the meticulous manuscripts of mathematicians.
It's made out of the same **** that everything else is made of:
Out of the same force that makes you float when you sit in the dead sea,
Out of your body's sweat after a hard day's work,
Out of the blood in your veins.

Salt.
All of it, everything, everyone,
Salt.

Dissolved, crystallized, harvested, ingested,
Redissolved, recrystallized, and the cycle repeated.

JLB Feb 2012

If Only in My Dreams.

You confessed your cares for me last night,
Whilst I was soundly sleeping.
'Twas it merely in my mind's nocturnal flight,
Or was't a concession worth my keeping?

For, our dreams I often speculate
To be incarnate of night's air,
Wherein the confessions of our hearts await
To be inhaled, and by osmosis, made aware.

If this interpretation be so true,
Then our dreams have left us intertwined
As metaphysical lovers in a cerebral rendezvous,
To which, as long as she's around, we shall be confined.

JLB Feb 2012

Ode to the Consciously Insane: (EDITED)

Nighttime's rest evades me of late,
Waking long before the hour of eight.
Sweet dreams and nightmares wake me, amalgamated --
A compensation for day's despairs which I've abated.

From sleep I have this vision of a sun-kissed dusty road--
A familiar place from which this story did forebode:
There came two women in a speeding car who, at my sight, did slow
And both inquired about this path on which I solemnly strode.

I squinted my eyes and I cocked my head,
Saw a traffic boot on their car tire and said,
"This path is a diversion from the realities we've fled."
The two women laughed, and soon away their car had sped.

I was left in a cloud of their dust, feeling very much alive--
Accepting, somehow fully, that their booted car could drive.
Now I see that none of slumber's sanity did survive,
And yet on that dusty path, I somehow still did thrive.

JLB Feb 2012

Patienceisavirtue.

I doubt that I have ever
Waited
For my toast to
pop up on its
Own,

I’ve never finished a
jigsaw puzzle,

I use my hairdryer to dry my
toenail polish,

And I
look for love
In all the wrong
Places.

JLB Jan 2012

Curse of The Wordsmith

One page required...
Wrote three.

Lost some sleep to
Explicability.