The ink spills dark as lights are flitting on,
the thoughts and dreams and very souls of ours.
Though bright the future, waiting, poised anon,
it notices but flippantly our scars.

A man might make his words into a deed,
might voice his hopes too loudly and be heard,
or else might sleep his days and so accede
the universe refuses to be stirred.

We came onto this planet lame and cold,
with Time already plotting our demise.
But rue the world which fetters us in gold;
We see the black and gaze into its eyes.

The moon sits innocently, just and fair.
The Devil's footsteps kiss the evening air.

I'm living in a skin that's not my own -
instead resembling something of a man
who hides for fear, or else confronted, ran.
Now as I wear this self, so loosely sewn,
with shreds of muscle hanging off of bone,
it seems to be that anything I can,
I do to dodge the truth of who I am.
In multitudes or mirrors, I'm alone.
So I take solace here, that in my rest,
as surely as I'm speaking to you now,
you'll know the truth about my state of heart.
And though I am no Nietzsche or Descartes,
I'll postulate, grey templed, furrowed brow,
my heart has ne'er beat truer in my breast.

Seldom am I so direct,
Like Wayne, Parker, Kent,
I prefer my subterfuge.
But these words are penned
     (figuratively speaking)
by the penultimate,
              tumultuous,
and often callous wordjockey
yours truly.

As I've said, I'm seldom
more than the sum
of my company kept
[let slip,
reacquainted,
self-righteous reconciliation,
          regret, repeat]
And today, I find
myself
writing thrice,
twice toward pride,
once of consequence.
Que sera sera.

I'm lead like a horse
who had to drink -
or perhaps imbibe?
your softly streaming sentences,
words which kicked like a mule.
Remember, I was hoarse,
parched.

On that parchment, I find these words:

I am a cause...



Truth at last, truth at last,
Thank God almighty...

     ...you know the rest.


I stand on this principle -
that I cannot stand at all
sin ustedes
your words the salve,
my words the therapy.
"Progress."
Just Cause.

Now, waxing on
toward the triumphant,
anthemic Aye!
If you are the cause and the casualty,
then each daily account
of what might be made martyrdom
should be cannon.
Am I eliciting allusions and assumptions?
Inadvertently, but then precariously so.
So the pieces fall,
the causality, literary
the eventuality, progressive.

Aye, we are naught but what
we are made of by others.
So each concussive consonant chips and chisels
off the ol' block.

To a good Mister John Henry,
my gratitude.