"inescapability" poems
A CONFUSING DAY FOR CUCUMBER FISH
I’m not being able to escape this, in parts, either on the slip where the drifters weigh themselves against daily chores, or to the perch, where against the millions of suns striking into the cabinets where devoted criminal ****** *** offenders aid and abet their children:
flying kites, tossing bread crumbs to water fowl, playing tag, hide and go seek, or
Cooking food, drinking cold alcoholic beverage, and listening as a friend with a guitar sings about the child born in the mountains as a man, only to find the world as a legend.
Still there is no escape. There is only the peril of night stretching 99% of our brains across the tepid sky, only to wait for the light of those suns to fade, and then only have to worry about the dross and muck on every fingerprint of every man from this place or the next. These are fingerprints that ooze the familiar green devil whose face familiar ages our futures before they can even happen. Then we succumb to the bitterness of these years on the perch, the stoop, the step, wandering around the chollas in nothing but a pair of aquamarine boy’s briefs. This is not insanity. This is the product of insanity. This is not losing, this is the product of living under a government that has been taking what it could not afford, and who trades in what hurts rather than helps what ails rather than aids.
This is the ratcheting heard inside the bruised and frail hearts of many. The pain inside their backs and legs and arms and heads is real. It smells real. It sounds real. It feels real, but no one here has ever known what it is that is happening, therefore they do not understand the great costs being played with when these oozing poison-stricken fingertips start playing at the game of life, or they start playing at the game of their neighbor’s life. There is an outcome of sunset still yet to be seen, and that is the inescapability and uncertainty of millions of children being born today, tomorrow, and hereafter. The children tomorrow should not have to worry about washing someone’s fingerprints off of the skin they have yet to be born inside. Stretching across the dusty and quiet streets, if this Wild West is closing its wildness out and isn’t doing anything but wandering west, there isn’t a committee of sanity that will prevail. Especially as we choke through the gravely heavy metals meddling with the untold stories of tomorrow’s sons and daughters.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 12:45 AM UTC
In my mind, I was
Prepared for your presence.
As if you would illuminate my world and
Tear down my mental fortress;
I was prepared for everything to be
ok.
So these preparations became the most daunting of dreams;
Wonders and hopes of everything
Actually
Being
ok,
And even after you monotonously sauntered into my physical world
And everything hopelessly remained the same, if not worse,
I kept dreaming.
Months after, I dreamt.
Prepare? More like pretend,
Pretend that you, in fact, never did
Physically saunter
Into my monotonous world.
That you, somewhere, existed
In a consistent aura of love and affection,
Or even in just the sense of an ability to love would've been
ok.
You had to exist somewhere because,
For god's sake,
It surely couldn't be here;
This surely couldn't be the you I had dreamt of.
And it wasn't, it was the you that was irrevocably you
You were as good as you were going to get.
And I was the same.
Indifferent.
Incapable of loving anyone,
Let alone you.
This was the "ok" that I had so long awaited,
and I was certainly not
ok.
So I dreamt.
How long can one continue to dream?
How long until they off themselves on the realization of the inescapability of hopelessness?
How long can one lie to themself?
The reluctant truth is that every reachable
"ok"
Is really not ok at all.
ok is miserable and impossible and
ok
Ceases
To
Exist
Amongst those who are miserable enough to admit this reluctant truth.
ok is putrid and a liar because
I'll never be ok.
And I'll always say I am.
And you'll, from time to time, saunter back into my monotonous melancholy of an "ok"
And I'll never be happy.
And one day I'll off myself on the reluctant hope that there is an
ok
Existing beyond you and I;
Beyond everything that I've dreamt of.
Because none of that was ever ok.
It was only a dream.
And all I've done is woken up.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 9:19 PM UTC
All of a sudden I'm a shadow
and it seems I can't escape that which blocks the sun. Every move I make, the eclipse follows. And all of a sudden, I'm a celestial body and it seems I can't escape this being that falls beneath me. Every move I make, the darkness follows.
Equals ~ at the very least in inescapability!
Running from each other results in fatigue.
So does shadow boxing.
Don't beat'cher self up kiddo.
Chin up, quit starin', it ain't gonna leave!
There's a big bright sky right above ya!
Just look arouunnd!
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
What’s the statute of limitations
on my obligations
as a son
on my victimhood as a
semi-orphan
on my blamefulness as a
father
When does it end—these yet-to-be-seen effects of the mundane
I make now?
When do I not carry them
the strings
of the yarn map tracing
my endless encounters and tacking
not into cork but
into my soul stretched pulled
in four dimensions.
Length times width times depth times time. I coexist
in every manifestation of
myself simultaneously.
All time all me, all tacked,
All pulled, all stretched by
more hands than my own. Vibrating
into my marrow reminding
of the inescapability of the
contracts I didn’t sign. Most of them.
Each day the threads move.
They swirl and choke or puncture
taut and pull. pull. pull
me back, back to them.
To early morning and late nights
every day
That old house of repressed
memories and façade bonds
of newspaper-wrapped electric
circuits waiting for the
spark
to finally incense the
old aged kindling of other
string maps of
other pasts of
more and more disappointment.
My heart is a prism. a rock.
set in the stone of my
chest compressed
by pressure into endlessly
juxtaposed edges of glass.
An edge: a time a place a person a me. Surrounded
onyx black
but yet
Reflecting. It’s deep
yes
but shine deep enough
yes, go
and it will reflect
go on, go on
fluoresce
yes yes yes go
myriad colors of spectrums
of me
torn out of the mine of
my own construction of
the muscle memories of
the past pains of
the unceasing variations of
the crude black **** I’ve
made before.
How long
will I be responsible for
her?
For you?
Was I ever?
Am I at all?
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC