Of Drag Moments and Fragments

There's little known of the drag moments of one's life insomuch as these tend to remain in the long shadows of shame, discontent, regret, simple confusion, or complex grief--far too secret items in the agenda that is a person's existence, for the most part, that is.

What fragmented soul would not revere the sun cascading down the silver sea in little multiple sparks of tangible energy forming a path of light, swaying but tenacious, draining through the horizon into a world beyond our grasp?

There's the Sea Again

why change your colors, dear one? i bet you're not doing it for me. yet, i partake of what you so carelessly throw my way, those colors, ever changing. one moment you are of the tempestuous silver, so unruly, boisterous, challenging. the next, you are calm, detached, the color of molten steel tinged with the softest hint of blue. is it this heart you're mirroring with your unconcerned gaze? i didn't think so. i pass you by and hope i have the expanse of your shores, yellow and fine and littered with death--cracked empty shells, dead sea grass, disillusioned jellyfish, stories of footprints wiped off by the waves--beneath my palms, i want to feel the sun in your touch, perhaps it would take a second meaning that way. perhaps, you will see, now that you are an olive mask of temerity beneath an angry sky, how gaze at your wonder without me knowing why i'm drawn i'm drawn ever so strongly as your current tosses fragments of the sea against the sea wall and over it where the wind awaits to carry its scent and magic and fleeting glory to yet another enamored mind that dies in the saltine flavors of Love.

I Looked Out of the WIndow of the Bus and Said

Well, if crimson is meant for death-telling then there isn't much to tell about the unmourned world I feel beneath my feet, within my heart, beyond what my mind can grasp, with a sun like this, a sun like this... a sun like this...

I Do Not Know

i do not know anymore what to think so i freewrite hoping the words would take me where structures of thought never could only could confuse me what is there anyway than a mere glimpse of sanity so utterly convinced by itself of defensibility whatever that means i always end up babbling a bubbling repertoire of thought bubbles pierced by answers only half-men can give or retrieve or grieve about ah the snout the snout of such frenzied creatures saying over and over again the merits of free association in speech what the hell does that mean the relief of naming things beyond lacklustered words denies the fact that words grow out of thought in order to bear thought i thought i saw a pussy cat had never quite meant like that to whoever traverses the complexity of feline mystery i dare say i am both inept and adept in equal measures where sensitivity to what bothers me is concerned the rest is up for the auction of a lifetime: gentleman's bid goes right up to sixty billion just for mere stone griffins smiling that Mona Lisa smile is warmth something that something as cold and hard can achieve or is it just the imagination rolling on the floor of the Universe laughing out loud who knows who's to say there nary is a wary soul befitting such indulgence of innocence gilded as heresy to be plundered by the growing darkness within every sun-bearing heart ah such tart commentaries rivaling the harpies of old grow cold like turkey in a haunted closet of a fridge like the skull of Dolores Umbridge

High Avail at Two in the Morning

horizon silver sea lonely moon orange trees the smell of rats the smell of cats the death of caramel frap on a naughty little girl's lap the sap of all wonderful things memories hairbrushes little touches of paint impasto intaglio whatever is the matter with Vincent Van Gogh when he cut his ears and painted on and on who cares is what most people say most people know nothing else to say in this instance of prejudice taking over the serenity of the day i say nay give me thy worst and nothing less the rain glistening on Rushmore's multiple personalities four seasons in a bottle lies in a medicine cabinet frantic fish breathing in an aquarium george and harriet george and harriet always taking turns with the hatchet i bet i bet nothing is sweeter than the day we met and let the hours pass unnoticed why tales of the past of kingdoms cruel and vast of longed for clouds in half mast on the sky of stolen aquamarine tears when mermaids cry the end is nigh nay the end is this nothing more than this hurting little space choking words letting blood flow unceasingly onto plains of white white white space again it births the same old story of people needing lies for every little sin commited every act of repentance not given due credit like a dusty book of psalms open like a hand begging for alms the qualms the qualms of a life begrudged of every fragile breath taken every moment of grief unearthed from the too frozen castle of a heart now who's smart? who's to say the least of all my worries is worth the drama of words etching thought on marbled faces akin to abandoned spaces no one cared for at all at all hear the echos roar roar this space is not this space as free is not as it claims as free as it claims to be to be

I Babble Myself to Death

To live in the present moment. How does one really live in the present moment? Here. Now. I am: soul churning words that can never truly convey what I feel, and how, and why. Somehow, I feel I must quit drifting in The Flux, in a semi-Oblivion of not understanding why I feel like a jar that doesn't have a hollow. Somehow, Here, Now I want to be: soul seeking the boundaries of my hollowness--and figuring out what to fill it with.

Destiny

for Pipit

the fish in all it glory flies
with fins for wings and brine for skies
not trapped in Hope nor weighed by Lies
its trove horizon--Paradise

That One Day Will Not Come

i will find out
that the wind does not listen
the moon doesn't really give a damn
the stars deceive

all i've known
all my life

the songs that roused me from the dead
the dreams i've kept
the tears i've shed

the wonder of everything
falling into the sky

all that is Everything
is a Lie

told to myself
by myself
told by those who couldn't help
playing along with the way things are

i'll reach that far
and find out

there's no beauty
no madness in living
and people are just hollow bodies
being filled with Pain
'til they're full enough
to be swallowed by Darkness
and digested into the Unknown

i shall have known

that children will remain to be children
only older and worn
miracles gone awry
waiting in vain
for that one day that will not come

it will not come

in the noise of tens of thousand chariots of fire
in the chorus of all mourning mothers so dire
i'll find myself in silence

bereft of poetry to bleed
too proud to pray
too hurt to plead

finding my way
through the maze of my heart
where all this starts
where all this is made up and believed
where all this must be renounced

i will find out

that the days coming to life then dying
will give me nothing but Space
in which to lose myself

and Time to make me resentful
of counting the days
coming to life then dying

or the nights leaving
as soon as i get used to them

a victim of their whim
vengeful and mad
a promise gone bad

for that one day will not come
it will not come

and you as well

you won't be there
to sit with me
in the sunset of my dreams

you'll be somewhere else
worshiping the same
eternal sunrise
holding it close
when it can burn no more
when it has reached its final score

i'll be here
reading this
absorbed by how starkly the words burn
across the void which is all we ever had
all that we'll ever be

because that one day will not come
that day will not come
that day will not come

it will not

it is nothing but the illusion
of that one day when
everything will rise after The Fall

all that bull

all i know is
there will be me

empty of Hate
tainted no more with Love

unburdened by bliss
which is not mine to make
unnamed by some God
who is mine to forsake

neither disowned by Heaven
nor claimed by Hell

never needing to tell
the difference between

rising and falling
living and being alive
loving and not hoping at all

or recall the essence of you trapped
in the now closed spaces of my soul

ever whole
in the brokenness of what
i can never truly be