i am blunted
i am    
     f l a t
(but not about all things)
in fact,
i find myself quite hilarious
when i speak of sword-fighting
people to the death
you cannot feel blunted about something
   and simultaneously have a desire for
   fantastical violence
someday,
someone will understand
   my flair for dramatic words
   my disorganized thinking that
can only be worked out with rambling story-telling
someday,
someone will understand
   my utter despair and hopelessness
   the massive curiosity about the universe
that plagues my sense of being
in the meantime,
i build mind walls
when thoughts stray
in a regrettable direction
   i add bricks to the mind wall
   surrounding the phantom
   heartbreaker
      soul-crusher
   betrayer
      liar
   hypocrite
you know, the usual cast of characters
(growing at an alarming rate)
i visualize each mind wall
each phantom
each misdeed
and i visualize bricks getting stacked up
hiding the phantom
blocking all thoughts and feelings
blocking all memories
rendering me flat.
rendering me blunted.
but sometimes mind walls
erode slowly or
explode suddenly
and then i say crazy things
like for instance,
i may challenge someone
to a duel.
   or declare my undying love.
or my most blatant disgust.
after word explosions
comes wall repair and
silent fury.

A sea of nettles and nails that scream their injustice at you
People who seem like they've shaken off their prickly outsides and their hatred
Turning to congratulate them
Embrace them
Before you find the truth beneath their pillowy covering
Nails can be blunted and nettles can be softened but they remain below your surface,
Waiting for the right moment to be sharpened and grow back their stings

I see your injustice and I raise you my peace
It hurts to tear out your nails and to burn off those nettles
But oh god does it hurt more to walk your tender, soft body through that forest of pain

like that pill bitter Sunday morning (after)
with a nauseating hack
the previously uneventful Tuesday
derailed
in surrealistic tale
with Auntie and Jack (and a quarter of fate)
in the 748
on a night flight
from Sherwood to Lore

reverberating waves
of imminent summer haze
river flats
and flower fields
fly weights
and silver bait
shredders and shysters
and open gates
(into those everlasting
and sweated journeys of hope)

bloods and strays
and florentine grays
(reminiscent of Rockwell fame)
running horses
and overgrown country lanes
morning grace
and gentle cheer
eyes clear
on the river pass
blunted paddles for those ancient
and not so willing suckers!

duke making his own way
(to the corner club)
Parsons and Poe
stream from the torn screen door
cricket cadence
and symphony of the Deere
calm and deliberate
in the soft
and silent fields

meadows open for grazing
(guineas scamper across the till)
pocket apples fill
the country ripe air
drunken bees
and chestnuts
and electric fingers
strike the surface pool
(a cedar strip wedged on the white wash dock)

baited bull heads set to cast
evenings with hearts
and Nolten Nash
may flowers bloom
across the grass
~ time unmatched ~
with blue jays
and river bends
and channel cats
...and that warm
and recurring
Coleman drift