The Sounding Foam of Primal Things

*(The title and the poem, taken from and inspired by
Carl Sandburg's "Who Am I?")


wind and rain pound the surf.
snow falls on the beach, on the shore.
man-observer cannot tell:
has the earth gone mad, all wet?
do the seas rise, whipped up, filling the heavens,
or does the white rain replenishes the very body,
from whence it came, and now returns?

this matters greatly, yet nothing answers this, his question.

the furious soundings, the green foam churn,
the silence of no response inebriates,
drunk on the tempest's hard wet liquor,
weighed down, sodden with the despair,
solitude, silence, absent answers,
his natural walking companions!

No Stopping signs on almost every corner,
Do Not Pass, Do Not Enter,
One Way, Two Way, No Thru Passage,
but the one sign he seeks,
"Stay On The Path" absent.

Eluded,
dispassionate endings,
the essential quietude among
furious surround-sounds of creative destruction
he ceases to ask, for unanswered, undirected.

Concluded,
either
their is no one listening, or,
there is no one caring, or,

Deluded,
illusion is truth,
he is an illusion.

------------------

The sense of an undirected gaze,
sincerely removed from the air
by a willing, polished chassis,
stirs the battery soul of a governed look;

budge upon budge, dam upon dam,
wrath compounding over the wrath of starved formulae,
ribbon-sent, shocked to bonus pay.

Terrible the blemish,
terrible the potato-skinned impulse,
the labor, the pen, the dragon-light torch
meant to replace the tri-pronged street lamp,
and to light the robbery in progress near MG Road.

the pyre of my soul
incinerates my interior
as I watch our flames burn
relentlessly from my lips
like the words that removed
love from around my heart

who would have believed
your whispers would burn
like the sun; singeing my
entirety with venomous
blisters flung with displeasure

bafflement sears...

there's no more emotions,
forgiveness is shamefaced
a misdirection of affections
your misunderstanding
leaves me naked in this
moment, heated in affront
this second fore, nothing
matters anymore

inner abashed turmoil...

roils like a cauldron upon
a campfire, its embered particles
I breathe and ingest for naught
in whimpering gasps
wanting to desecrate that
smirk rising upon your
handsome features; a look
I once found to be endearing
once in awhile

that you took away, too...

your total disdain; dousing
our flame of eternal love of
all that beheld us in God's
light; which, now leaves me
awash in bile, dazed, open-mouth
stares from dimming eyes
is all that looks upon my beauty
with such pain; makes me want
to scream, take me
want me, love me as once
before

re-ignite our flame...

those thoughtful embers are
undirected words drenched upon
an uncaring mind, directing
my soul and heart towards
the moon and the burn of stars
that light up the sky of my
heart and mind as if I could
have altered the course
of your bitterness, until
I can no longer sigh in want
of your love

thoughts of me gone asunder...

filling my lungs with silent
animosity towards all that you
stand for, my only want now
is for you to stay away from me,
allowing me to live in solitude
inside the hunger that pours
like stinging tears from my eyes,
let me be without changing
the sound of love still singing
within my heart

sure glad everyone else found someone
i'm sitting in tornadoes of chaos and not making a sound
i’m full of all this undirected yearning which means i’m
full of ******* empty
and what a death-ridden paradox that is
everything seems like a riddle these days
but i’ve lost all energy for solving and its not like
anything could be worth solving when you are not here anyhow
open fields are caging me and i want a release
there are chains around my bare wrists and you need to take them off
where did you go anyway
i’m stumbling along clean swept paths
i’m tripping over nonexistent obstacles
i’m grabbing for a match because i’d rather burn myself
burn it all away so i won’t have to see all the things that aren’t there
namely you
and all the bleeding black that’s left
constant headaches like a companion and i’m begging to be blind
penny for the pained?
someone sit me down and explain the idiosyncratic theory
of why we make people into homes
and why we remember the nightmares but can’t grasp the dreams
where is the warmth to reside within
and why did you leave?

-*k.c.

to the thought of you
that motif of you
was like a latent infection
like hives to my face
making me red but breathless

made me realize
got me sensitized
when a new face,
recalled called before
these eyes that came into focus
instead of my eyes clear to you

that was once too far before
repetitive inhibited i’ve become
playing mute like an idiot
like a puppet on the a string
couple with a hand up the rear
faking every smile with a cheer

this isn’t a hate a poem
not lyrics to tic away
the times of regret to rhyme

no, not at all
not seemingly at all
not even partial, somewhat

i needed to make peace
with myself, and my mother
a tangible door that i left
through with the window
wide open, tired, and confused
through a flow that obstructed
with only beams from high school
no foundation to be constructed
I upset her and it was not you
it was the person that gave
the very thought of me to even
conceive to help you, be there for you
i repressed that, i suppressed that
but finally I’m relieved of you
now closer to my parents
that you’ll ever be to yours
it’s the truth, not an insult

i spent all these years
psychoanalyzing a psyche
undirected, ironically
you gave me direction
away, no contention
just signs, and many exits
but i continued to drive
passing opportunities
friends and happy moments

i have internalize this too long
reading into nothing, yes it could have been
but I focused on changing you,
because of you, what you have seen

i’m done, fully relinquished
you probably won’t know, or ever care
or even read this, never took interest
anyways on this craft of mine
only on witchcraft because you never
cared too much on your own faith
again the truth

as I observed, you’ll only come around
from getting broken and surely that was it
but in the end, there was only so much
we can mend the people around us
they have to realize, and yes you made me realize

if the world wasn’t the way it is
the only women i’d call my best friend
wouldn’t have to contend with the contents
of this poetic discourse, because frankly
all this could have been averted
but it was because I’m too good of a person
too nice of a guy, never wanted to play the game
now i’ve mastered it, just been holding on this space

but that was it, it was just space
you dragged the offensive of me
a defensive I have known all along
and kept pensive
it’s just we try to keep
what we can not have

An orange petal
Pressed against her face
Dew drops stream down
It is morning
But it feels as if night never came
Eyes shut
Waiting to be opened
Sleep ran away
Fear took it’s place
And the orange petal
Still pressed against her face

A soundly tune
Barely heard from the distance
Ears open
But the mind still closed
The earth cries around her
Tears well up
Too much for the ground to bury
But a man still plays
His silhouette dancing
To his song

A blast of color
Frozen in place
Unable to be seen
As the wind whips
In and around her eyes
An outstretched arm
Flapping, flailing, searching
Undirected
But wind whisks color away

All is calm
Black and white
Finally able to stand
She walks the lonesome halls
Around every tree
Every bush
Nothing moved
Nothing found
It is forever morning

feelings.
why do i feel so much
i can feel the drag as wind crashes toward me
but i can also feel into the
crevices of my metaphorical heart
why am i feeling
these emotions in apathy to the empathy
of a drudging drag from the burnt cinders of the cigarette
we are burning out
and yet we are not lit
the poison singes me
it is addictive
but the pain
oh the pain is wonderful
this masocistic sonata
lets the complex of the beaten child
stumble
holding together her life with tape
as she trembles
stealing back a sob
the knife in her throat
tearing at her dignity
you are in love
you are useless
you will die
tomorrow
today
never
you are afraid to die
the coward in life
sitting in the corner
feel helpless as the world lives without you
you are the fringe, torn paper of a tome
you have no story written for you
what can you do undirected
you are small
you are weak
the madness is cackling at you
how lonely is it
to be alive
the corner is dark
but the jaded world cannot be restrained
sit tirelessly and live
you have no control
you sit listening
you have no opinion
you are nothing
**** comes to you
your death is the pleasure of those who know you
laughter
it is the wine of celebration
there is no doubt
you are replaceable
you will be replaced by a better
you will be forgotten
no one cares to turn a cheek
no one wants pain
you feel a dreaded cold
you will welcome it
drag the silver
and bring crimson from its grave
punish your soul
you are stealing time from those around you
you are the burden kind people pity
they allow you there presence
you should grovel
no Stand
they dislike your inferior stance
be strong
No they do not want your voice.
you are selfish
speaking your mind
let the cracks deepen
there aches of nothingness deepen your pool of
pain. where is happiness.
happiness is a girl.
a girl who keeps her pain to herself
she is the embodiment of a devil.
temptress.
giving you the confection of love
it is painful to sit in her shadow but it is glorious.
you look to her
and her image makes your song warble
and her antics make you free from
the earth on your shoulder
yet you know she is dead
she is not alive
she has died long ago
her shell existing in the panes
atlas hands guiding her
she is fading
yet you will cling
you have tied your red strings to her
and butchered yourself with nails to keep her down from the lofty chants of silence.
your death bed is her
and you loathe her
you long for her
your love chases hate with a wag in his tail
how gleeful is death he calls
the tear of innocence is the price of a youth
and now you lie
shaken
ragged from her
and yet she is everything
the paradox of emotion
is the warp of wood and the rotten apples core
the gore of it all
it is full of mirth
fools are not in love
it is the realist that tumbles under its weight
you cannot box the feelings
or tell them what to do
trapped in the strings of a marionette
you are an automaton with a key held by her
and she will wind you up
wind you up,
wind you up,
to hear the same song, and see the same show
you cannot say no
you are lost
and numb
the lackluster in your eyes sings
sweet melodies of a mortition
and you will keep feeling
you will keep living
you will keep dying
you will keep
you will

“All great and precious things are lonely.”
It has been a cold, cold river of hope and desperation
the greatest glories do not die, they are as young as the dawn
and yet- the night will come, and your name will be shortened,
for we all view things as outside of ourselves and we view them wrongly
“And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about.”
and we even think of our own lovers on a pedestal-
we do not allow them to think alone, but if we do,
we ignore them and pretend that they do not- our brothers impregnate
our wives and we love them anyway, both wife and brother,
for neither is any tarnished in our mind- a man exists alone and
can work the machinations of others and play them,
stripping them of their freedom though they still believe themselves
to be free-
“I believe that there is one story in the world, and only one. . . . Humans are caught—in their lives, in their thoughts, in their hungers and ambitions, in their avarice and cruelty, and in their kindness and generosity too—in a net of good and evil. . . . There is no other story. A man, after he has brushed off the dust and chips of his life, will have left only the hard, clean questions: Was it good or was it evil? Have I done well—or ill?”
we all believe ourselves to be good, we strive for good,
but who are we? what is good? how can we be good when we are not sure
what that is, who we are, or where we strove from? it can be measured,
certainly, by our glories, that are God-given,
it can be passed through blood and at first we think,
once you have it, you have it,
but that is not true- Cain was not given an order or an ultimatum
he was not given a promise, he was given an opportunity
“But the Hebrew word, the word timshel—‘Thou mayest’— that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’—it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.”
Timshel- Timshel- Timshel-
what it is that is given to the human consciousness that gives it the right
and the ability to soar- we may or we may not, that is all
you are not what you are born as and there is nothing you may hide behind
“There's more beauty in truth, even if it is dreadful beauty.”
you may never escape the truth, the lies are what hold you back
but they are ugly, they are false, they shield you from encountering your own life-
your wife, a monster of a *****, who demands the worst of all
and cannot see the good- but you see only good in her
“A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And the people of the world were good and handsome. And I was not afraid any more.”
and your life was illuminated once again- for you have been gray
your whole life and have forgotten that the joy of the Irishman is false,
you have lost the name and mind of the Chinaman
but no longer-
“But I have a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed - because 'Thou mayest.”
and it is not that you 'shall' soar and it is not that you 'must' soar
you can. you can. you can. that is all.
“And now that you don't have to be perfect, you can be good.”

When you find peace in my arms,
Deny chance.
I craddled seedlings to the table
By weeding.
I made undirected costume changes
And revealed a mask beneath skin.
I opened doors for children and the aged.
I played, and sang along.

When you find comfort in my arms,
Deny luck.
I helped lift the disenfranchised,
Extended deadlines,
And refused entitlements.
Causes wore away my soles
Carrying loved ones both ways.
We buried hatchets between friends.

When you find love in my arms,
Deny coincidence.
I learned from teachers
Love is manifest in sacrificess
Wrapped with obligation.
My arms are tired,
Yet I will embrace all.
And thus, I caress you.

Come hither to see
What lies lie in our humanity
What dissonance
Carries us
Dissolving into confusion
Resolving all of our angers
And rage unbecoming
Misdirected
Undirected
Unperfected
Wounding strangers
As well as loved ones
Come forth and bare the brunt
Of our burning destruction
I have known ignorance’s lashes
By those unnamed *****
Who claim control of the masses
Come here to see me
Invested with all the potential of our species
With hope well met
Even when hope failed itself
I milked the moment
And beg thee to see me
With all and none of my humility
Naked

They told me to start anywhere. This seems as good as any.
I hadn't talked to you for four days. You text me ever night, letting me know you were at your moms, you'd be sleeping here again. I figured I'd give you some space, but after two days of that I was planning on stopping over. I came home after work and noticed that you'd been by during the day. Your clothes were shuffled; one of the drawers was even left open, like you'd left in a hurry. Your toothbrush was gone.
Figures that when you finally come home, I'm in the bathroom.
It's been hours since you left and my head is still a mess. As I bend down to wipe the blood from the ground, I can still hear you say "It's probably better this way."
As I lay down, I know I'll find no solace in sleep. You told me I'd brought this on myself. You're right. But I'd burn this entire city to the ground if it'd bring a light to your eye. "Just one more chance," I muttered, "with what I know now."
I stare at the ceiling and a fire burns my heart. I bite my tongue until blood fills up my mouth. I'm counting "5, 4, 3, 2, 1...". I'm remembering how to breathe. We speak of everything, except what it's really about. As you left, I screamed "I hate you!" But what I really meant was "I love you! I'm sorry! Please, don't leave!"
I must have gotten up when I was asleep. I'd never been a sleepwalker before. But that apartment building didn't burn down undirected; that fire didn't start itself.

To understand alone
is to be a reckless observer,
a sea faring adventurer
on a leaky boat
that floats
across the cosmos.

It is to be a materialist
who claims to be spiritual,
seeing specters
in his reflection
not in the natural world.

It is to be well trained
in the art of
escaping the trappings
of temporary love,
wrapping oneself up in
sweet affections
which you know
can be so easily discarded.

It is driving undirected,
Impulsive,
Obsessive,
the searching
for something
you have never seen
and in the finding
knowing there is
so much more to learn.

It is nihilistic, fatalistic,
franticly selfish
even in the most
unselfish acts.

In the end
it is the loneliest
journey into oblivion.

How irresistible is the tune that you leaving plays
When you squeeze my hand through the car window and beg for me to stay
There's so much more I want to do, and so much more to say
But I'll watch your sad smile stain the mirrors as I drive away

I can't articulate like I want to
But to be honest, I wish you knew
Just how beautifully I still speak about you
How lovely were the days when I would float into your mind
And I would wander undirected through the freckles in your eyes
You'd draw a maze of constellations with your hand along my thigh
And get me lost in your limbs on a cold night in July
I paint this pretty picture of you thats engraved inside his head
So every night, he lies awake before he goes to bed
And pictures how wonderful you must have to be
To have someone as quiet and gray as me
Dancing in the flow of your exhales and thinking about your touch
It's too much
But somehow never quite enough

I miss you and your taste on my lips
And I am about to overthink myself sick
Because I am still more than willing to spill myself into the thick of it
with you
We can lay on your porch like we used to
And talk about the sky and space and I'll give your hand a final squeeze,
While I twirl the grass with my fingers and talk drivel to the breeze,

"What a pity
To be a man
Foolish enough to miss out on me":

If you stopped and asked me to stay again
I would if I knew
That all these years later
I have missed out on you

How old are you now
and do you know how
you survived?

The grenade I threw
never blew me away,
self
inflicted undirected
and as I suspected
a dud.

This must be Karma,
or Kismet,
do I get a prize now?

how to survive
in a hostile
environment?
bent cops on the make
hoods on the take,
for Christ and his sake
I'd better learn soon

There's no promise for you
My black man
Feels like my life is ****
Through black sand

Undirected and unprotected
Yet selected
I feel rythm through words
Sending my song up high through birds

You see the sensation
Yea my proclamation
To give you information
Stop wasting in the basin

Listen girl
I don't wanna stress you
I just wanna learn
And undress you

So know that this is tangible
Giving you time that's mangable

I take my paradise
Where I can find it.
Sacred or secular,
Stationary or ecstatic.
Penitent pilgrims pack
The width of Las Ramblas,
Marching headlong toward
The burgeoning square
Of Cataluyna, scurrying
Forward for fountains and buses
To whisk them away
From themselves.
The burden of identity weighs
Heavily in each backpack and bag.
The sun brilliantly burnishes
The crowd, beaming with
A child’s hunger for toys.
Nothing changes
Except the country beneath
Your feet.
Tourism is purgatory
To the undirected.
No map, no plan, no
Rescue from impulse.
All roads lead home
Whence you came.
Before the closed
Doors of the cathedral,
Catalans circle, lift arms,
Hop, twirl and dance.
Raised hands
Signal liberation, unbrokenness.
Separation sends an inferno
Spiraling downward, singeing factions
Of language and race.
Yet a divided Spain paints
Its face as united,
Coyly cooing behind
A splayed, perfumed fan.
The perfect picture
For the uninitiated cruise
Ship crowds.
We cool our heels at the
Statue of Columbus,
Still ready to sail
Under mistaken,
Prevailing winds.
O America!
How far you drift
From these tapas bars
And tainted streets.
How far from the graffiti-
Filled neighborhoods.
No space uncovered.
The gritty lust for color, figure
And form.
Self-expression turned
Self-indulgence.
Tourists queue to grab
Their fair share.
All is exotic in Mediterranean
Barcelona.
Gaudi erects his towers
In wavering waves of
Nature and faith.
Inside Basilica La Sagrada Familia,
Construction workers
Slowly hammer his corner
Of paradise into place.
Christ hangs naked
On the cross.
A sacred blue light soothes
Our burning feet.

Wander into the undirected
Turn your eyes where you came for nothing but a severing of the rope that ties you there
Tread barefoot until your toes reach a field that’s either filled with lavender, or a new path

Wander into the undirected
Turn your eyes where you came for nothing but a severing of the rope that ties you there
Tread barefoot until your toes reach a field that’s either filled with lavender, or a new path

I take my paradise
where I can find it.
Sacred or secular,
stationary or ecstatic.

Penitent pilgrims pack
the width of Las Ramblas,
marching headlong
down the pedestrian boulevard
toward the burgeoning square
of Cataluyna, scurrying
to find fountains and buses
to whisk them away
from themselves.
The burden of identity weighs
heavily in each backpack and bag.
I share their plight:
the onus of being.

2.

The sun brilliantly burnishes
the crowd, beaming with
its childlike hunger for toys.
Nothing changes
except the country
beneath their feet.
Tourism is purgatory
to the undirected.
No map, no plan, no
rescue from impulse.
Lacking travel's baptism
of fire and freedom,
they learn that
all roads lead home
whence they came.

3.

Before the closed
doors of the cavernous cathedral,
Catalans circle, lift arms,
hop, twirl and dance.
Raised hands
signal liberation, unbrokenness.

Separation plays a different melody,
sends an inferno of deconstruction
spiraling downward, singeing factions
of language and race.
Yet a divided Spain paints
its face as united,
coyly cooing behind
a splayed, perfumed fan.
The perfect picture
for the uninitiated cruise
ship crowds: No trouble
in paradise.

4.

I cool my heels at
the statue of Columbus,
anchored harbor-side;
the navigator
still ready to sail
under mistaken,
prevailing winds.
The crew
still ready to plant Spain's
contagion-carrying flag
in the shallows of faux India's
purifying pool.

O America!
How far you have drifted
from these tapas bars
and tainted streets.
How far from the graffiti-
filled neighborhoods.
No space uncovered:
The gritty lust for color, figure
and form conquers all.
Tourists queue to grab
their fair share.
Paradise need not please,
they discover.
Kick your bucket list to the sea.

5.

All is exotic in
Mediterranean Barcelona:
the languid light,
the briny breeze, the sun
radiating like a silver
grapefruit in the azure sky,
the orange shards of tile
piecing together the face
of heaven.

Gaudi still erects his towers
in wavering waves of
nature and faith.
Inside Basilica La Sagrada Familia,
construction workers
hammer his corner
of paradise slowly into place.
Christ hangs naked
on the cross.
A blue light filters
through modernista stained glass,
falls on the floor,
bathes my feet.