I take a sip of black coffee
It sits resting in the ceramic mug next to this typing space
The liquid rushes down my throat
This fifth cup of the hour brings joy
Is it a crutch, for I miss my usual companions of mind expansion?
Or is it a common cultural ritual of casual importance?
Is it a tool to fuel the fire of prolific inspired thoughts?
Or is it an illusion of harmful dedication to fulfill the need to write?
I feel it helps,
Though, naturally, it is not necessary.
Just as wine to wet the palate of flow,
Or an herbal cigarette to get the picture on the roll, the scroll, the holy goal
It simply is a habit - an extra step to the top floor of Creation.
I've been in the fields - the plantations
I've picked the coffee bean with my own hands for hours upon hours on end,
Leaving nothing but sticky hands and a limp paycheck to help me continue on my way.
Where am I headed?
Only the sky knows the answer to that question.
I try my very best to listen to its whispers
And imitate its words with action
I try and follow the orders of the divine to the best of my ability
But I am human,
And with that fact, I am hindered by natural law
And so I sit quietly on this lazy sunshine afternoon, sipping my black coffee
Recalling the days of sticky hands and limp paychecks in the humid fields of fate
And laugh at the craziness of my existence.
When I was born, did I think that I'd be here today, recalling such things
And forever immortalizing them in word and symbol?
I can't recall.
Perhaps I did , but perhaps I didn't.
They say that you choose your family before your come into this world.
But did they also say that you’d pick your face and desires?
Did they say that you’d be exactly who you wanted to be?
I’m not too sure who “they” are, but I don’t really care
As I poured the coffee into this mug,
I also choose what I want to do, who I want to be, and just how I shall love the world
As a human, we’re born free
The mind creates whatever it wants to base its perspective on reality off of.
The grounding
The lock of gravity to keep us from floating away
Even when you’ve had a drop or two of ol’ Sandoz, you’re still kept from flying from the world
Words can fly, though
At least spoken word.
The words carry a vibration, a soundwave, which continue throughout the cosmos for eternity,
Unless eternity doesn’t exist in this universe,
In which case, they shall bounce off the walls of Space and Time and ricochet back to their source
Oh holy game of Sound Tennis
Free us from thinking you don’t exist
When the game is being played, its easy to forget that its just a game
It is only a game
Sitting in the sunshine of afternoon daze,
Sipping away at coffee and dreams
Life seems more like a blessing of bizarre circumstance and genuine interest in formful comfort
As opposed to a game with no more of a meaning than to finish it and try win in the meantime
Something seems fishy
And it isn’t the cat or the caffeine
Its the bare existence of existence
Perhaps I’m dancing around in circles, getting nowhere
But is there actually anywhere to go?
Sure, I’d love to be on the beach in ninety degree weather in the Cayman Islands rather than the cold of This northeastern mountain range of poor old troubled Amerika
But such is life
Perhaps one day I’ll be back on the beaches, dreaming easy of nothing, for the dream has already been Fulfilled, oh what a dream
With a farm up the hill from the coast
With fresh gardens and fruit trees and cannabis and coconuts and a shack of humble gratitude
With rivers and fish and goats and chickens
With sunshine and warmth and light and forever blue skies
With a woman of love and peace and art and intellect and wisdom and smiles
With the quaint knowledge that everything is always alright, regardless of circumstance
With the security of not needing security
With the freedom to laugh without pausing out of courtesy to not wake the sleeping
With the ghastly beauty of not waiting in line to ride a roller-coaster, for the mind is more than enough
With twists and turns and self-inflicted burns
With the crazy catch of tomorrow while still being here today
With nothing less than paradise awaiting the caress of self’s heart
And the holy notion that there’s something even greater on the other side of this life
Om, tranquil being
Pour more coffee, must stay awake - no sleep in days
No sleep in weeks
How do those speedy speedsters do it?
I wouldn’t even want to try
I enjoy my dimethyltriptamine inspired voyages across unforeseen holographic landscapes of the Subconscious
Oh, I’m conscious of that
I wonder if it’d be possible to bring the totality of the subconscious mind to full conscious awareness
I suppose it wouldn’t be the subconscious anymore
And thus there would be no way to measure if it worked or not
I think it’s already working
Poetry
Yep, it’s working,
At one-twenty-eight a.m. It’s working. From noon to night. Life is still life, and it’s all alright.

battered screws stripped bare by
a hundred thousand terrible twists
from an unsteady, inexperienced,
or overly excited hand
nearly rattling out of their proper positions,
hanging rather loosely
to the last threads of their holes.
fan them as they dangle,
fandangle!
but a blue gust from beneath
the anonymous and unidentifiable bursts
the shriveled scraps of low-grade steel
from their brittle perches
and
then one,
two,
threefourfivesixseventyeightmillion
clatterings invade all audibility,
heightening --- accentuating --- underscoring
each miniscule soundwave
                                                until there is not much more than
white noise, crack-
ling like a ruddy transitor radio
i probably never had
but only equate it to for lack of
another more proper, perhaps more appropriate,
even more...profound (?) word, or, whatever;
hardware indignationum!
what abuses we dish these inanimates created by us for us!, and, yes,
i follow all syncretic trends to
their phenomenal (and fusional)
morphological ends. if i didn't, how could
i know the neutered from the neuterer?
attend to the screws;
the debased, bemused, once-bedazzled little bits strewn on the floor and
frazzled. go on,
get 'em up, up
off the ground.

i hate taking tests
my handwriting is not the best
i wish cried a lot less
i experience WAY too much stress
i never feel the need to dress for success
i just barely learned how to play chess
i've got a lot of secrets i don't plan to confess
i slept all day, but i still need a rest
i don't know why everything has to be a contest
i really don't like movies about the wild west
i think my favorite word just might be yes
school is such a pest
i've never stuck gum under a desk
i get one penny a month in interest
another word for a clown is a jest
i've never read consumser's digest
my prescribed medicine is the only controlled substance i ingest
i am firmly against ******
i don't understand what makes the shaving of a citrus a zest
the top of a soundwave is called a crest
birds keep their eggs inside of a nest
i really think this idea has me possessed
its not even that good but i keep making progress
i'm gonna end this before it all becomes a mess
i hope my rhymes have left you impressed

6:00 a.m.
It was her 28th birthday
She loaded the ***** laundry into a washing machine
and looked at the toilet that she needed to clean
She fixed her hair, she took a shower
without even looking at her own reflection on the mirror
She grabbed a cup of instant coffee
and gulped ounces of it to steer away the terror
She tossed the cup in the bin
but missed because her hands tremored
And as if time was racing with light speed
she saw the sunset fading away in retreat
She goes to work the next morning
with layers of concealer under her eyes
but she could never conceal her wistful smile
She comes home with her daughter sleeping in her bedroom
And on the sofa was her tired husband
still in his party clown costume
At the corner was the telephone with five voicemails from her mom
but she never found time to listen to her qualms
She glanced at the night sky from her window
with an almost unnoticeable sorrow

One day she woke up and she was 70
Still doing the same laundry
Still drinking the same instant coffee
She looked at her daughter walk down the aisle
with her father who almost never smiles
She brought flowers to her mom's grave
but she couldn't hear her from the other side with the distorted soundwave
She still walks out her doorstep with the same shoes
Almost getting tired of hearing the same news
She still sees the sunset from that window
And she looks out from them with the same almost unnoticeable sorrow

She woke up and she was 28 again
She started to make an effort to notice her face on the mirror
She took time to look at her mom and cheer her
She hugged her husband more and this time tighter
She sank her lips into her daughter's soft cheeks
And never dared to miss a moment when her innocent lips speaks
She walked out the door before the sun could set
to finally buy a new pair of shoes, they were red
She walked the earth as if it were her first time
and she locked her gaze into the golden sunshine

Time passed and she's now 92
And on her deathbed, she said
'If there's one thing that sunsets had taught me,
It is that transitions can be beautiful too.'

Nothing
but the hollowed out infinity where my life once nestled amongst the luminous dunes of the Sands of Time and the nauseating hopes of Forever.

And I,
a hideous, putrid, rotting thing, attached to that nothing like a leech, summoning my own power from pain, taking, taking, but giving little to those who once offered their strength but now deny me.

Yet I give.

Nothing
but my withered soul, desperate in my cracked snow globe of a reality where the ashes of love flitter to the ground, so dazzling, so pure, so deceiving until they kiss the scarred earth.

And I
give my heart to them so secretly that they do not notice, do not appreciate my token through their suffering, until all that I am shrivels, wrinkled and useless, and nothing remains but a shallow whimper, the ghost of a sob.

And those cries fall upon deaf, cauliflowered ears, solid lumps with no purpose awaiting the soundwave that will finally shatter their silence.

Still I give.

It's time the symbols took the weight
Of cement and conglomerate living
Would that I could.

cut a section
Would it be
Like half a soundwave?
The high frequency of a human scream
Is the right sort of knife needed to 2D a skyscraper
Monument of dreams, monument of money, paper building
Like a castle of cards, down, when the
Wind blows softly on.
between
Jagged openings and
Lighting pole leaves, so straight, so
Bright it burns me,
(what?)

I'm crossing.
I'm going,
I'm coming.
I'm moving.

(Moving on)
The roads and streets
are deserted by humans.
Humans crush such anthills.
We always feel safer among
the thousands. The roads
and streets are deserted
by humans.

M o v i n g a l o n g . . .

between
Jagged openings and
Lighting pole leaves, so straight, so

Wide

They'll support the weight of a new cement sky.

every now and again you are trudging
maybe it's an enormous space
might be one huge book. On a full day you are a beautiful soundwave
Beaming at me. I know all the pretty girls want to smile really,
In some ways, we're only driven by
what becomes two
& anyway, eyes
Are eyes

© Copyright David Bosworth March 2013

a starless night. a darkness dividing us.
the weight of the love coming down
on me thinking just having a drink.
there he, is again, comes by, different
forms and ways. so I got myself
a new tattoo.                 a white one.
one you can hardly see but hear as
it's the soundwave of my song
of all songs. about birds
wind
islands
freedom.                    an endless sea.
not even a consideration
not making it up
I'd love the new and the now
and yet memory never fades,
his power of final presence
my power to loose composure
this fight you think
you won.                 no last words
                                  for me in his final
say.

I have fallen in love
with the gay man
within me, feminine
flights of pure fancy,
fragrant flowers,
harmonic hours
of a hypnotizing heart
lost in radiant beauty
and blissful bridges,
artful canvases,
melodic music where
the stars sing in
triumphant sounds.
Dazzled eyes, rosy
cheeks, liquid lips
a labyrinth of endless
rivers, deep blue,
brightening, silvery
reflections of eternal love.
My body is full of ambition
and desire, a longing
for the unknown, vessel
of many volumes among
volumes, my sweet
star-crystal paradise
a creation of constellations
and galaxies, deeply glittering,
uplifting, and powerful.
I am connected to the
bursting planets breezing
through my soul, each
existence a serene soundwave
curling inside my ears,
a widening dimension
enveloping my city streets,
as I seep inside the tunnel
of towers, fall in love with
the bed of blossoming poetry
all around me.

To feel lyrics and music,
Like a soundwave carressing your soul.
To remember memories,
Like a wash of water over your skin.
How one key can make you regret,
And that another can make you wish.
Melodies of memories.

while learning who you are
my heart is breaking;
microfracturing after every soundwave you create
so by the time you leave, i will already be dust

you are limitless and speedrunning through space-
while your heel craters the dirt,
i am just a tourist attraction,
a spark of color you might glance at while you fly past.