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Expectation Of An AvalancheOur emptiness, our spades and saws,
Old tools become debris,
The shattered bricks, a flayed applause
Shaking the snowy sea.
Tomorrow and the muted crawl,
The air's shock caught up, surging fall,
Beyond, until the motion stalls.
The bloodless gallop of the void
Between a dreamer's bones,
And at the foot lay there, destroyed,
Dissolving little ones -
So was it then, an elegy?
To soften their geometry,
So was it, then?
So was it then
When ice was all that I could see?
Alignment of translucent dunes,
Glass roofs but gravestones be;
Giving shelter to shedding moons
All polished perfectly.
An avalanche, as one would say,
No anchored noise thrown in the way,
To seize the feet with frozen clay.
Yet convalescence strips away
That jewel-box whose stems may slake
The eyes' long-thirsty lust of gray -
Our emptiness outwears and breaks.
No arabesque to dress the heart
Nor quickly sway its idle aches;
To whisk off vertigo, to part,
Our emptiness o
And Chains Will Not Release MeA certain pride and certain awe I see,
At times, your ardor all but has you gripped,
Yet not with love for your own child, or me,
But only for his newest manuscript.
Your verses are a gift from God himself,
Yet you dwell on those sentences amiss,
'Tis your novels that should be on the shelf,
But you treat each word as a crude, lewd kiss.
I'm writing this in hopes that you may know,
Finally understand what you ignore,
My veiled voice has long been pleading "Go..",
But 'tis I who must choose to stay no more.
Your words have chains and meaning thick as lead,
And chains will not release me once they're said.
Every Word I Say Has Chains 'Round Its AnklesI think of Hemingway everyday,
and murmur that it's going to be okay,
there's considerable difficulty
upon just being okay.
Just for one day.
Every word I say has chains 'round its ankles, running
for a porcelain knob too slick to turn,
and it seemed
that sentences inhabit darkness better
which is why they hide when exposed,
Oh how they pine.
I told myself calmly those words that had no sense,
and thrown away
so their leprous company
would not inhibit his craft.
Those he would never want to get back.
I'll desire in every way just to write like that.
Environed By Lights The traffic lights change too quickly around here, maybe because they know that nobody is coming. Heck, when we're not looking they probably turn purple and pink.
There's a certain poetry about them, like infinitessimally small stars we have the opportunity to watch die, and be reborn, we navigate about them and chart the best course, reading their instructions like fortune tellers. They are small Gods we honor with our approach, they govern the great consensus so that we may move fluidly together. I always thought randomness was true freedom, expectation a secret ruler, a calculable surrender.
I watched the walking envy the driver's speed, the drivers envy the walker's intimate view, neither truly happy to be doing what they were doing. The human condition: to compromise oneself, always finding something to want, something to give up in order to reach half-satisfaction. But that's the point I guess, to take something and leave something else leaves a man never overwhelmed, always i
A Flower Wouldn't Be So BoldAutumn leaves
Barely nothing, the wax of Summer wings
Long dried and scraped away.
And suddenly Winter cold — the mistletoe.
The new solstice, death and rebirth;
The air opens,
Upon the hearth a bough was hung,
And snow caught the tip of
Buildings clothed from head to toe,
And cars, too, as they inched a touch
It moves past you
In a flash.
Leaving only spiny-finger withered oak,
And one too many a stuffy nose.
We curse the cold,
Long for something old
To turn us away,
Reframe the mold.
A flower wouldn't be so bold.
A Conversation"What does unadorned beauty look like?"
An abrupt stillness came upon the snowstorm, as if the weather itself had posed the question. Not being able to see five feet in front of me, it didn't seem entirely unlikely. The bright and biting snow had left me disoriented, and I was sure I had been walking in entirely the wrong direction since breaking down on the highway a half-mile back. Just keep North, I told myself, because being lost is for people who take too many turns, like that even matters when each slow step is into the exact same nothingness. Supressing thoughts of the various scenarios of my death out in the cold I turned to where I thought the voice came from and shouted above the again-angry storm, "Hello? Is that you God? I can't talk now but if you've got any mechanic experience I could use your help!"
The blizzard snarled.
I nodded my head as if I understood.
There's nothing like being lost for the first time, it's as unique a feeling as being in lo
AgueAll vicious tinctures
Of changing textures
All that love's pleasures,
Flesh, in Death's measures,
By my own pressures,
The Metamorphosis AffairThe gardens rioted with weeds of glass,
Now and then a moisture deadened the glands;
I saw the world through gray water, no grass.
The floor-boards buckled, warped their weightless hands,
Thoughts held down by a sickness, viscous, slow;
I did not resist, scraped again by gray sands.
The muscles taut to plant new seeds to grow,
Just one night's sleep and suffering would rust;
I meddled in medicine long ago..
..but now cannot begin, unless from dust.
You're not sorryYou're not sorry
For what you did
You're not sorry
For what you did not
You're not sorry
For what you caused
You're only sorry
That you got caught
Tearing Apart at the SeamsI look to the sky and see your name
Written on a black ink canvas.
You are a cacophony of stars
Wishing they could touch the earth.
Written on a black ink canvas,
My words scream for release,
Wishing they could touch the earth.
I become something that does not exist.
My words scream for release,
Tearing themselves from my mouth.
I become something that does not exist --
It feels like I’m dissolving into dust.
Tearing themselves from my mouth,
You are a cacophony of stars.
It feels like I’m dissolving into dust;
I look to the sky and see your name.
After the FallWhere teardrops have fallen
flames will also rise,
they are invisible angels
obvious in demon eyes.
We Set SailsWe set the sails and leave behind
Old lives we don't want anymore.
"Fortune waits at another shore"
This promise is on every mind.
There's a preacher, an alcoholic,
Only within booze he finds God.
Fights his demons with an old rod
While he screams: "I'm a good Catholic!"
A woman with lost reputation
Is learning now to sleep alone.
She has never been on her own
During her years of exploitation.
See this man next to the old rail?
He wears scar patterns on his skin,
Remains of atoning a sin.
During the nights you can hear him wail.
And the crew is just as worn down
As the ship they are sailing on.
They all fell victim to a con,
The reason for their permanent frown.
As we travel across the sea,
Only failed characters on board
And two stories left unexplored,
I wonder: "Why are you still with me?"
The Old Man's StoriesHey old man, pull up a seat,
get comfy and tell me a story.
Tell me about how it used to be,
tell me about those days of glory.
Tell me all about those classic ladies,
how they always maintained a state of grace.
The way they always smelled like daisies,
and always had on the most pleasant face.
Tell me how those ladies revered their bodies,
and the way to get in was earned with respect.
You called them lady, they didn't answer to hottie,
anything less they would flat out reject.
Tell me all about those bold men of character,
how they lived lives of virtue and common sense.
How they stood by their morals and didn't stagger.
Taking only what they earned, no sense of entitlement.
Tell me how they managed their priorities,
"A man don't work, then a man don't eat."
How they took care of their responsibilities,
the family came first, then maybe a personal treat.
Tell me all about the innocent youth,
and how they didn't mature before their time.
How they only knew to live by the truth,
AimlessI gaze at the sky
And I wonder why,
The clouds, piled up high,
Daily, keep sailing by,
AshesWhat am I to you but Ashes
A destroyed version of my self
Fighting battles ever endless
With no fear of downfall
A reputation blown up
In a flash
Pieces scattered ever vastly
Searchers try but then halt
What am I to you but fallen
Tripping over my two feet
Like a broken compass
No direction except south
A life ripped up
By mouths flapping
What am I to you but worthless
A toy with no fun
Tossed away forever abandon
In a trunk of torture boundless
An opinion disrespected
By many far and between
Killed off quickly no compassion
A sign of certain defeat
What am I to you but Scratches
Marking up you perfect door
Causing renovation costly
And Hating your new decor
A depression yearning
Good or bad
What am I to you but gone
Killed off in season one
Forgotten quickly unimportant
Ratings higher since depart
A poet lost in words of sorrow
Considering his opportunities
Soon to be another forgotten
Just becauseJust because you have a compass
Does not mean you will find your way
Just because you have a mentor
Does not mean you will pass the test
Just because you have a farmer
Does not mean you will grow straight
Just because you fought the battle
Does not make you a war hero
Just because you won the war
Does not mean you won the heart
Just because you wrote the poem
Does not make you its poet
The Rhythmic Sweep Of A Slatted FormI wrote something called "The Species Preceding",
A sense of de-evolution and mythos
Transferred from the old scribbles on my Lit notes,
A story the Missing Link would be reading
In obscurity; to recite at meetings
With no audience but the wind and the dark:
"tinged by dusty Pleiades, the rhythmic sweep
Of the cosmos reflects dreams, impeding sleep,
All awhile the loveless awe of God and Ark
Developing - a lulling soul's science sparks
A new breed," more than some terrible likeness
To me, he would most likely begin to think,
When man's cold, lucid art does its inward sink
Into new sad manuscripts, they write sightless,
Behind slatted blinds, reminded of whiteness.
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