call me Ishmael

call me such, though
I will not answer,
nor tell the Story
of good and evil,
if those things be,
they are not among the stars,
the stones, the fishes, the sea  

vagabonds, all
they ride the whaled waves  
that drown
the Captain’s words
they are there for the bread  
not to break it

still He howls louder
the salt waters cut the keel black,
swishing quiet, unknowing as the night  
only He creates this plaintive plight  
the others hoist sails to wily winds
untroubled by their enchantment    
bellies full, ears shut
to His harpooned harangues, while
His eternal curse is to parse
black from white

Well, it’s that time of year again.
Your dreams become longer
and the air seems to slice through your lungs like razor blades.
Sounds like a painful sensation when you think about it
but when you actually feel it,
your ravenous heart craves more.
You witness your newly visible breath
begin to form paintings in the air around you
that you swear a canvas could never be worth enough to display.
You walk across the grass and hear faint crunching sounds
as the soles of your shoes are flattening the small crystals
blanketing the backyard.
Those leaves over there?
They were green yesterday
Now all you see are shades of red, orange, and gold
conquering the green until it has all disappeared.
It’s all so breathtaking.
...Literally…
A few days pass and you see the first leaf fall.
The color has faded, its the color of death.
You see another begin to freefall.
Another. And another.
What is happening to the beauty that was present only hours ago?
It’s dying.
These leaves aren’t breathing anymore!
How’s that for breathtaking?
Isn’t it ironic how as everything is slowly becoming beautiful
it’s slowly dying as well?

In autumn,
all the leaves fall
creating a pastel monsoon
vibrant reds and illustrious oranges
that would make
the busiest of people
take a moment of their time
to glance up
and admire
the last pure thing
to coexist with the modern human race.
In winter,
the trees become bare,
vulnerable,
as am I.
What I used to enjoy
so much
now pains me to even look at on a calendar.
I was bare
I was vulnerable
and you striked.
Pulling back the string,
you brought the arrowhead to your lips
giving it a small kiss
for me,
and let go.
It struck me right in the heart,
but you were hunting
for all the wrong reasons
you were hunting
for the ****.
The pain quickly spread through every nerve ending ever to exist
as my head pounded
kind of like the alarm
you give an ungrateful smack to
every morning.
There was no snooze button,
no matter how hard I hit,
cut,
and clawed at
the plastic surrounding
my alarm clock
the pain did not stop.
And here we are,
a year later.
Still buzzing,
still attempting,
still hurting.
In Spring,
the leaves grow back.
They grow back new skin
and new bodies,
any lacerations
nowhere to be found.
Yet, their colors
are more dull
because in nature
the more innocent you are
the less you shine.