--the angry inch, always speaks the truth.

I'm trying to stay alive long enough
to get the words out..
the words your broken soul
has been longing to hear..

the shift, that will provide
                             the offset

Not as if, an undoing of the trauma
or an explanation as to why
this whole ****** up world
is as ****** up as it is

but instead

ones that will  show you
that it all has been worthwhile--
That the pain  that you carry
will find a place--

and you will no longer have to  be
so all alone


I am failing, my beautiful..

and I am dying
in all of my inability
to say to you  (and those like you)

what it is I have been built (from day-one)

.
.
.
.
.


to say.

Sitting here in front of this screen
my Artist Peppino, across my thigh--
[the greater (for the time being)
giving way to the lesser]

One day, I will be able to breathe life
in to your strings, my love..
the way I do words, on to paper

And on that fine, glorious day
I will no longer need these cheese-****
stupid ******* online poetry sites
to bring forth the music of my soul

Nor will I  continually  need to wade through
this never-ending barrage of classic  hiders
and their bastardization-like misuse of poetry~
in order to hide behind the very words
that should be  given the permission  to make them become,  
truly known.

There is no alone-ness within the magnificent  resonations

of the perfectly plucked string
of the most perfect,  of guitars

Like this one, sitting  right here   
in my lap.

It is through the pathological:
The presented image of the journey
as being that of the road, less traveled--
a foundation of sand,  presented
as being that of bedrock..
It is the ancient shortcut's  need
to prop up it's own deception
that is of that which harbors  the greatest judgement
        of all that is upright
and it is upon these agenda-ed, subjective pallettes
that the pastels are mixed and arranged,

as the landscape of the world's reality
becomes,  painted.

And when he opened  the word, written:
it said that God would give him
   the greatest gift--

which was God, himself

And immediately he succumbed,  to the pressure
of Love's great purge

Bringing to the world;  all,
       the greatest gift  of all--

                   his own demise

Round,  wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie
drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
the windborne silts  of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition
and throughout aeons, of forming
and unforming within the wild
brutal winds:  grinding, pulverizing
granite, back down to pebble
majestic prairie, back in to sand..
and then, back down  into
windblown silt

now circling around the feet of a child,
(one that pokes at dead things  with a stick)

But within the silt, are the pebbles
and so, down on her knees  she forms
a pile with her hands.. an ancient burial mound,
stands up, and with a clap of her
little hands, wipes a millenia of dust away
stick, tucked under arm-- she walks away:

as silt-covered pebble, become  once again

Round,  wavewashed rocks
strewn upon a beach of sand
Becoming strong, granite cliffs
rising above an ever rolling sea
of tall grass, borne on wide-open prairie

Drawing towards itself eagles of all kinds
and ocean-bound egrets, their bellies
filled, with fish
(the wind borne silts  of distant lands,
finding refuge in the crags
filling in the years, of ancient definition....)

... And the skin opened up  into wide, cavernous cracks..
and there was a hissing sound--     a burning smell..
                               not unlike that  of a calf-branding  
on an everyday, working  South Dakota cattle ranch--

The feathering smoke, curling around the ancient stubs
                              of that which is  as of yet,  de-horned.
And there was a raging scream--
yet, one almost as if harmononiously intertwined
with the guttural moans of a pleasure-chant:
    that which is borne.. not of victimization,
               but of deep, consensual agreement

   And,  against this kind of liaison  between
flesh and death,  all the power of love's ache
becomes   a l m o s t   as if  nothing other
than a whisper...  

                          almost.

the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self-- apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from  a n y
attachment to glory
and so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete
in its utter incompleteness.
~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.
~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.
But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
   torn from us
(as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place) ..
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~
You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment
your usury
your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits--
a   d i s m e m b e r i ng
making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.

We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.
And then you'll be the one
who will be ******.
******

There is the core  of who it is that you are,
inside of you
and  it  will  never,  ever leave you.
When we are hurt real bad..  
and in such unjust ways,
we can sometimes  lose ourselves,
from ourselves..

But that part of us
will never not want to be found.

We become afraid--
even of our own  true selves,  
because the pain from the hurt
has been so bad.
There is a central part of you
that has been protected  from
every single bit of that harm--
that is the core of who it is that you are.

In its utter and magnificent beauty,
it is wholly unable to be  corrupted  
by this less than loving world;

And in it's perfect ability to see,
it will always  let you be the one,
chosen,  to find it.

This is the picture,  painted
of you,  finding you.

******- all to hell,  yet still believing
(it really don't make sense, it dont it dont it dont)

But try us, and see-- we run on a different fuel
and rely on different  tools,
to keep the love  in us, afloat.

Don't rock the boat,   we say
but no one fully   realizes  
just how very strong
that rocked, or unrocked boat is

Yet, float along the sea of emptiness,  long enough
and even the strongest of boats  will self-scuttle

--and an empty world,  in a split-second moment
becomes suddenly,  tenfold emptier.