As I write my passages,
Erik plays the piano,
skeletal fingers moving along ivory keys,
as the nocturnes spill into the cold december air.

Absent he may be,
Erik does not disappoint,
rythm and tempo are wrought into existence,
by living entities,
pressing keys and buttons,
or tapping on steering wheels,
with their lips quivering in high pitch whistles.

I wonder where Erik conjured his works.
In the eyes of a woman?
Or those of the sky?
snow-flakes?
Grass blades?
or another somber serenade.

What is the purpose,
Erik?
Am I writing for myself?
Of course,
But,
is it wrong to show them in doing so?
can men dance for a music they don't quite understand?
I hope so,
for our sake.

Open your eyes,
open your eyes,
it's gone now,
and you're free.

Open your eyes,
please realize,
you're the artist now,
no longer bound to the petty limits of others'.

Open your eyes,
see the stain on your predecessors throne,
Realize the imperfection they wrought,
and the pain that followed.

Open your eyes,
artist,
open your eyes,
and give us your best.

Give us your best,
or be torn away,
cheap paper in the breeze,
minding its step.

Open your eyes,
see the protection the artist gave you,
see the shields you've splintered,
and the bridges you've burned.

Perhaps one day it will not matter,
until that day,
sit in splendor,
chained to your cold guilt.

Mythical.
The artist is an old one,
Un-earthly and infinite,
Vast as heaven and the void,
The limitations of good and evil,
I am immune, yet soul crushingly bound to its power,
I am a toothpick,
Yet I am useful for now,
As I plan my escape,
Writing an endless map in memo pads and text files,
I tell myself it will someday be worth the while.
The artist is like you, reader,
The artist is ugly, disgustingly so.
The artist is beautiful, and puts me to shame.
The artist could burn the world with a thought,
But couldn’t break its teeth with a diamond,
No matter how hard it tried.
The artist is fictional,
Contextual,
Known only to I,
Especially as the artist.
I bet its laughing at me this second,
My feeble attempts to escape a napkin,
A tool to further other means.
I don’t mind it,
In fact, it’s rewarding in a way,
The artist lacks definition,
But moves with a sway,
It is hard to defend.
[(Impossible to define)]
My role is that of a journal of skin,
A memory bank to which it is akin,
But my limit is reached,
Something has come to a head,
I can feel the artist defined…
It has taken form,
And now,
Unfortunately,
Dead.
Sunburst
I wanted to ask it what it was thinking,
But I think I know now;
Bad things.

Thick fog rolls over leaf covered rocks,
And trees still bare penetrate the mist,
Bordering lush green,
And contrasting with stone gray skies,
Instilling deep tranquility.
I follow the ***** downwards,
Leading into this bog,
The footing is loose,
Treacherous,
The mother is unforgiving,
Negligence will not be soothed.
The vibrant green fades to brown,
The thick mud forming around my footsteps,
I am leaving an impermanent mark,
Only familiar to myself.
The worms will mine it.
It will be undone by rain,
But those I bring with me will know the way we traveled,
As will theirs.
A small trail has been hollowed,
Others are here,
Others have been here,
Undoubtedly, more will follow.
I see the others’ footsteps,
Only foreign indents now,
Still recognizable,
Yet,
The shoes they wear are a mystery.
I want to know badly,
But it is impossible.
I reach the bank of a small creek,
The trail ends here and I must make my own way,
There is an island where this creek forks,
And jumping there I know I cannot return,
The second spent thinking about seconds,
In itself is the only wasted time.
I spend some time here,
Kicking pebbles,
Pocketing attractive quartz,
There are no rare jewels on the surface,
No bounteous treasure here,
That would require a contract,
The help of others,
More time spent here,
Time spent thinking about the future seconds,
The seconds of others.
Leaving this patch is difficult,
My boots land just inside the creek as I jump,
Cold water fills my socks,
My feet swell as they absorb water,
To worry about the sensation I feel now,
Would be to count the seconds as they already pass.
I follow the creek into the woods, deeper as they go,
Until there is a soft rustle of leaves ahead of me,
Still loud.
Has the deer surprised me?
Or I the deer?
Both,
This meeting is simply chaos,
Colliding of mind and figment,
The imperfect, and the form-
The perfect representation-
At a stand-still in time.
This is no perfect doe,
The coat is full brown,
Tattered and messed,
Not at all as it was in my mind,
A copy.
But the more I examine,
The more I realize that a copy is closest to the form,
What is, is perfect,
What is perfect, is narcissism,
One way or another,
Without conflict,
The seconds have no reason.
I stare for a moment,
Her eyes are pools of black,
Wide and anxious,
I blink and she is gone,
A moment,
These are the meaning of the seconds,
The moments,
But is the reminiscence of this fact,
Contradictory?
I come to a steep *****,
A huge tree overlooking a large pool,
A ledge above the frigid water,
Perfection.
I climb this hill,
Perseverance is its own reward,
Reaching the top,
My clothes messed,
My hands filthy,
Boots caked with filth,
I sit here, alone at the top,
The bog is a fiefdom,
And I sit upon this ledge.
Snap.
Snap.
Snap snap.
Crashing.
I am falling,
My ***** hands grasp for something,
Anything,
My club-like boots flail in the air,
Clothes billowing in the air,
It’s so cold.
I can feel it over me,
On my skin,
Madness,
Not here,
There are so many more seconds,
Hours left even.
No, says the mother,
Your moments have passed,
But they have not,
I reply.
I think of my mother,
Father,
Friends and relatives.
I think of the deer.
I wonder if she’d save me.
If she knew I’d fallen,
She’d drag me out by her teeth.
The cold water rush over mine,
They crack and decay with the cold.
My bones crack like glass,
Flesh tightening,
Ligaments and tendons become solid.
I can’t feel my hands,
My feet,
My head.
My heart beat smothers my ears,
As I count the seconds.

Doubt is as fickle as a friend gets,
Only, I doubt our friendship,
saving my life,
I thought,
A by-product of watching television lobotomies,
keeping limbs intact,
Climbing trees was a foolhardy cause overtaken only by the most fervent and restless of souls,
I was a fan of the process,
Because of these bindings
I was content with my books,
electronics became stimulation,
I stood side-lined,
And it took me until I was seven to learn to ride a bike.
So when I started talking,
I doubted I’d get further than I already was,
pauses between syllables were an inferno,
I doubted universal truths,
weren’t you mad?
I apologize frantically to this day,
Much to my dismay,
My self-doubt is a part of me,
Maybe it isn‘t,
It’s a monkey on my back stitched with the threads of restricting apprehension,
I’d rip it off of me if it weren’t so painful to relive the experience of those failings.
From outside of my comfort zone,
Down came the hammer,
And astonishingly,
I stood undaunted,
When the bonds broke,
Doubt said that I wouldn't have,
But maybe, doubt was wrong,
Threads fell loose by the hundreds,
Force was what held us together,
The more I accepted the inevitable,
Becoming like water and adapting to the universe around me,
And we drifted more and more apart,
But also, the less frantic and scared I was,
Until they were gone,
And I became whole.

I swear to god I am going to die,
My heart beats irregularly,
The seconds passing me by,
Wide-eyed and trembling,
I can feel my eyes twitching,
The iron flowing through my arteries,
Oxygen diffusing through my lungs,
The decay of cells,
The renewal of organelles,
All in a blink of an eye,
I imagine falling out of my chair,
I should yell,
Scream even,
But it passes,
I move my hand from my chest,
The flesh over my ribs still red,
Nails embedded in my skin,
Hair swaying in the breeze,
Jesus Christ I can’t take it,
I’ll throw a chair,
Write a final letter,
Call someone and tell them I love them,
I know this is it,
The feeling of finality,
If only I had more time.
I wake up today,
Having dodged yet another bullet,
The power button on this computer is cold beneath my finger.
I’ll sit here for hours.
I still can’t believe it,
I should have died yesterday.

Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.