What sweet nectar
As I drink from the Horn
Gold dribbles down my chin
As my mind explodes
The sweet sounds of poetry
And lyric spin in my head
Weaving webs and stories
For all
S.L.

I am damaged goods
A corruption of heart
Up from abyssal depths,
Down to desolate clouds.
The fragment lying between
I am not the incessant air,
A rage of non awakening.
Culmination of all fears.
No words do then, describe
me; I do not conform to rules.
Exception I am; ambiguous
A regular consonantal fool ?
Decreed to consume it all
I carry a ravenous thirst.
Unchecked; I grow fervor
A demon, I am accursed.
Where, then, do I find home
Where does my soul belong ?
Whom shall I call my tribe
Then; what do I, thus long ?
I am damaged goods, get ye'
I do not conform to codes.
I belong to the nether realm
Let me lie, in my .. abode.
Do not then, exhume me,
I have chosen to slither in. And,
Lie dormant in the underground.
Where exist I may, in quiet
Lie hidden away, from the
carnal realm, I want none of it.
A monster of my own making,
A necromancer of the Undead.

I've stumbled upon the pristine song
the song that narrates what occurred to you

it is a shame that the lack of courage you had
to explain things to me was replaced
by nights of self doubt and questioning
a maze with no end because I
myself
didn't even know what the exit was supposed to ensemble

Apparently, it didn't have an appearance but a melody
A song gave me closure after months of distress
all the jointed to form the apology
that I wasn't worthy of by your lame standards

I hope that in the near future you collect
particles of bravery to tell people around you
how you feel instead of blaming them for your torment

-JB

Even when a love does not belong
It still behaves as love
It still needs to be seen
Like a child playing dress-up

Try to ignore it
To boot it from your life
And it will wake you in the night
It will move from under your pressure
Like a syrup-filled capsule

Try to conceal it
And it will compel guilt to marry your soul
Even a small love
will clutch your heart with its needy eels

Draining you, taking from you what it wants
Until you acknowledge it
With touch or with gifts or with *****

There are times I find where religion would be quite useful
The practice of putting ones hardships in a prayer, or in a sealed jar, or in a confessional booth, or tray full of coins and cash

I’ve tried, for my mother’s sake in the past, but she’s been gone nearly a decade now. I’ve never seen her in a vision or heard her voice over the whirling of the wind. I’ve seen her in my memories, but never once in a dream

She died two feet from my face and if she was reciting the Lord’s Prayer, she did so in her head. What I do remember is akin to watching a hatchling pass away slowly. Focused on breaths, no time to prioritize much more.

Instead, I rely on Midnight Gospel. I worship at night, when everyone sleeps, seven days a week. Some nights, I sit at my desk for twenty-minutes before I realize I’ve been speaking to myself.

No one is allowed to join-in on the service, so I’m sure to play my piano softly or read in the furthest corner of my house, as to not disturb the non-believers. Sometimes I stare at this framed picture I have of my mother and me, but I do not speak to her, or pray to her, or ask her if I’ve made her proud.

Instead, I just marvel at the pace of time.

Would one rather accomplish their highest ideals, but die young or live long, wading through life, loved by everyone? It’s a legitimate question.
I have plenty of time to think about such things during my Midnights.

Of course, I should not discount the hundreds of micro-choices in between the extremes of the question above; The Grey. The Grey is real-life, micro-choices and no true commitments. My Midnights allow me to think in extremes, two-feet in.

But, escapism isn’t new, every man has considered starting fresh, running toward the unknown, before it’s too late. What I discovered in my Midnights is that if one poses the question, it’s already too late.

And, it’s times like these that I stare at that framed picture of my mother or flip through photo albums searching for a younger, more exciting version of me. And I smile, sometimes I laugh to myself.

What a guy I was!

But, I fall from that high and yearn for a God or for my mother to fight my battles for me. They are brave, they are courageous and I’m an eel, slithering through peoples lives, living off their blood, plotting in the dark, midnight waters.

Walter chased me into my house. I owed him five dollars I did not have and I thought I would trick him by getting out of his car quickly and into my house. I was fifteen years old.

Walter was quick too and when I turned to close the door and lock it, he was there to force the door open. I ran up the stairs and down the hall and into my room and Walter was just behind me, stride for stride.

I turned around and he slapped me.

I was small then, for fifteen. He was big for seventeen. I thought about what happened all night. What I should have done and why I did nothing. Mostly, I was ashamed.

I decided from that day forward, if I had an ***-kicking coming, I’d take it nose-to-nose. Better that than be chased into a corner like a dog that just ****** the carpet.

I learned from the Smiley brothers too. They would call my mother fat, and she was, but so was their mother and I’d let them know it right back. This always resulted in some fake pride and threats by the Brothers.

I came to understand that the weak take it, they don’t give it, and that I was The Weak. The Smiley Brothers knew it, Walter knew it, I knew it.

Time passed and I kept growing, bigger than the Smiley’s. Bigger than Walter.

I ran into Walter years later, as adults. He had the kind of defeated look that I assume a plantation owner would have after having done business as equals with a former slave.

But, I harbor no ill-will. I thank Walter and I carry our past with me today.
When I’m going to confront another man, Walter walks in the room, not me. When I make love, my amorous and mischievous sister is the lover.

Yes, she’s there, pushing my lovers, the way she pushed me, curious to find out what she can get them to do next. Oh, how good it is to be in control, to be the one with the whip, to be deliberate.

Like hyenas roaming the African plains, I too have come to understand leverage. But, I’d rather be the elephant than the lion. I consider myself fortunate.

After all, I’m a big guy that knows what it’s like to be small. I’ve been the tether ball and the pole. I’m gentle with my bigness and I’m good at feigning hurt for those that need to believe they have that power.

And as my path narrows, I find myself thanking Walter for the slap, thanking the Smiley Brothers for teaching me what’s worthy of a fight, and loving my sister. Above all.