Women often
Overlook me,
At least the
Alcohol is kind.

I'm grateful.
The imperfect moments
Begin to incubate,
Nothing is wrong.





Originally written 11/30/10
Revised 9/23/14
Revised 1/17/17

beads
of sweat
roll down her face
she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand

the heat
makes her heart flutter
not with delight
but with apprehension
with fear
more importantly
hostility

the anger
she possesses within herself
stays contained for so long
but is known to erupt
fury and vengeance
spite and wrath

directed at those
who have caused these feelings
endured by those
unfortunate bystanders in her path

the remorse
of hurting those
innocent beings which played no part in the dismay
in the desecration of her soul

the lack of regret
engulfs her
as she remembers that she too was just an inculpable bystander
but was soiled by the ignorance of others

and now
she drips
every pore in her body
her tears hot with turbulence
even her saliva tastes ferocious

alas
she dries the violence
she once again
suppresses the animosity

this however
wont be the last time

provokation is inevitable

Who is the Artist and who is the Man, What differences lay therein?
Who is it that struggles more or less, is it a monopoly one over the other?
It is in the minds of all men to seek serenity and peace, to stand and hope for this is common to all.

Yes, we all have this in common, but the Artist has the tools with which to utter man’s dissent. This dissent to the injustices and violence’s waged upon the world and upon ourselves.

However, if the Artist believes that he is inculpable of these same injustices; his beliefs are that of indolence. For the Artist is no different in terms of the flesh and bone we speak of; this cage is inherent to all.

Struggle is also inherent. Who is it that has not done so? In this day and age as in most ages past, we have witnessed the violent upheaval of country against country, neighbor against neighbor. Americans and the world have watched towers and airplanes fall from the sky. And while this is agreeably horrific, we enlist and unleash a nationally based reprisal against our fellow human beings.

Yes, justice must be served, but it must be served by calm and learned hands. Some nine years later we find ourselves wallowed deep in the decay of war. And to what end has it been justified. The soldier will say that it is to bestow honor upon his fallen comrades and that is why the fight must go on. The politician will say it is to ensure stability in the affected region. The businessman will say it is to regain stability in the markets.

But the Man, the Woman and child only ask when will this end? The laid off workers, the new lower class of America, the grieving Mothers and Fathers, the limbless young men and woman. What is it that they see? The world’s future lies wounded upon an uncaring street.

And yet, what is it that an artist can do that a man cannot? The artist is a part of the melee, part of this violent soup. He may sit outside the bowl separate from the rest, but he cannot deny his complicity with this.

We must come to terms with our humanity as artists. For the artist to deny this would surely be the greatest lie. It is the twenty first century and we are the Writer’s, the artists of this age. What is it that we are prepared to tell the future? What is it that will be said of us and our work?

Let us not lie to them, let us not squander our opportunity to convey our perceived truths in the most laudable of lights. However we must all confess that we are first and foremost,
Man, simple men and women who struggle, who live, and die, who at times celebrate injustices, who embrace blind thought and bias’s, who breathe and bleed just as they, just as we… We are heartbeat and pulse of these times. But let us not hold that above our brothers and sisters, Let our combined works embrace the common man. For if not for him, Art is meaningless.

I think of you late at night, as I do blood courses through my veins, and my brain turns fuzzy, and my temperature rises, and i feel the familiar call of lust on my tongue.
I want you. Badly. Nothing, will stop me.
And though you and me have died a thousand deaths in our inescapable clutches from the other,
I still stalk you, like you are my prey.
I am desperate.
I am dying.
I am inculpable of my actions.
Each time i capture you, you burn me, you scald me, you tear me, you rip me, you score your name on my chest 17 times with a razor-blade until, now....?
It is just an open wound. For i know you will return.
I am not proud of this. You are of great shame to me.
And You, You come to me, You want me so badly but can't let yourself, and you die a thousand deaths in your mental battles, trying not to want me, and it weakens you each time, the love-me-yes, love-me-nots....
You hold out your hands to me, and I claw my nails into you.
You pull away, You have won, this time.
I have lost today
But i don't feel any pain, just a sweet faint trickle of a  memory, of you being here.
You are my drug, and i am addicted,
and it hurts,
but man,
you feel too **** good.

YOUR GOD IS INDEED A GREAT MAGICIAN

Ah, this rolling blue globe—
so nobly fashioned, so grandly displayed!
From mountains majestic, sweet waters cascade
o’er flowers that tower o’er beetle and blade,
o’er horrors that harrow, like earth meeting *****.
Newborns like produce, aligned and arrayed
like bluing cadavers—

IN WHOSE IMAGE MADE!

These are factors, my friend!
We roll all our lives to the black bitter end.

Lord, why must Thy children rummage,
famish, and perish in Thy plenitude!
Why must good men stream stalwart to gray?
Are we mortals so unworthy of Thy great giving Hand?
So undeserving of Thy tending?​ How then may we please Thee?

Thou art truly a great Prestidigitator!
Such skill Thou evince, such finesse Thou command!
Let our wretched hearts join, let us marvel Thy sleight—
blood out of bedlam, plague out of mist,
babies in ******* relieved by Thy Fist.
O Master of magic, an awesome Conjurer are Thee!
Inspired are Thine antics; too practiced for sluggards as we.
Thy shills gather round and, as rubes beg to serve,
Thy emphasis thrills, Thy daring unnerves.
The boggling breadth of Thy legerdemain
bewitches the senses, bedevils the brain.
Observe:
Grim maids awaiting their loves gone to war—
a snap of Thy Fingers! These maids wait no more!
Thou art too fleet for guesswork; the moves are all Thine.
What thing of mere flesh could divine the Divine?
Your God is a wizard. Such prowess hath He!
Tsunamis, deluges—whipped straight from the sea!
Histories buried, whole peoples bled,
broken, departed. The doomed and the dead,
beseech His forgiveness from one common knee.
Yea, blessed are we! Be we sick or insane,
be we rife with contagion, be we lovelorn or lame.
O Great Benefactor…just SHOW! Accept our acclaim!
How can we thank Thee, repay Thee, how may we proclaim
Thine Image as Perfect, as Perfect Thy name.
Thou art Hero and Handler—how, Master, do we,
with raw voice revere thee, with swollen soles tread
the stars whence Thou ventured, the slime whence we came.
Forgive us our shame! We have failed Thee sorely.
Wherever Thou art, prithee…reveal Thyself.
Heal us, thrill us, amuse us some more;
Thine antics amaze us, Thine exploits astound.
The fruit of Thy labors in ripe fields abound.
Fruit reaping fruit reaping fruit of its own.
Laborers, ripe, ablaze in the sun,
too worn by their toils, too torn to atone,
their spent bodies ripe for that Magic You do.
O Father Who made us, Who taught us to heel,
We thank Thee for roaches, for each rash and wheal,
for hormones like lashes that drive us to sin.
The Big Dark approaches—what price to get in?
For all this, Dear Maestro, we clamor and kneel,
clapping in time to that Magic we feel.
Though we warble off-key, more than grateful are we
for plagues, flames, and rubble, for death and debris,
for tumors and blood clots and rumors of boils,
for madmen encroaching from alien soils.
Nay, astonished are we, overwhelmed by He—
He who maketh Himself invisible,
unreachable, immeasurable, untouchable, unsearchable,
unflappable, inculpable, impalpable, improbable…
and never even once witnessed! Not even once ever seen—
Genius! Unknowable, indeed, to mind or machine:
too fickle to fathom, too abstract to read.
Yet He is Poet, He is Artist, He is King above kings!
And for this we adore him o’er all other things—
o’er forests and canyons, o’er rivers and glens—
Yea, for all these momentous, magnanimous,
multitudinous, miraculous…ah, such depth and detail!
All the works of man pale, blaze briefly and fail,
like bugs on a slide ’neath Thy Almighty lens.

These are factors, my friend!
Whether magic or miracle or blind nature’s trend,
we roll all our lives to the black bitter end.





Copyright 2019
contact Ron Sanders at:

ronsandersartofprose(at)yahoo(dot)com

"The aches have grown within my body and veins,
I feel my heart pumping enduringly immutably,
Ever with invincible strength returning into my heart,
I continue to write as my heart is still filled with passion,

Destiny nay in my favor everything has diminished,
She cajoled me to maligned covenant of deception,
As the attainment of misery of solitude alights,
I aspire thee nothing more to delineate from,      

Most inculpable I am I feel exacerbated of this adieu,
Memory fulfilling thoughts of her cognizance,
It may be we shall one light reach elated enclaves,
The equal temper of annexed noble hearts,

How many more lonely years am I to meander,
When I will risible that one vivacious love,
I do not know how to love without her,
In end I must learn to live void of her,
I must propagate the silt of the ennui”

“By Andrew Guzaldo © 07/04/2020 Posted HP #193