I'm hopefully lost.

I can only classify this moment as one of supreme uncertainty. Brushing the ground of many who have left their indelible signatures scribbled on stones and steel and paper reprinted for the thousandth time, I feel a kinship of hope of possibility, one that will either inter my corporeal existence or lift it to immortality. With such contrast I have been losing my mind every morning, regaining it around mid-afternoon, and manically scrambling in the evenings to fight the urge of seductive nightcaps to normalize it all. I don’t believe there is a cure for this self-prescribed madness, less it be an indentured state to corporate state to a lifeless state. But then is this life? Is this constant loss with reality, then back, then astral excursions to summersaults of carelessness what life needs to be?

To my sponsors - my sincerest apologies that I keep on promising the world with these dreams and have nothing to show for it. You hold me warmly, wipe my tears, and encourage me to show up the next day, and the next. Maybe you see something that I do not, or maybe we see the same horizon. I will paint it for you; I promise again.


It aches.
It’s a dull ache as it takes
the form of nothing in particular
nudging itself forth through
the spaces between a ribcage
that’s holding in a monster
or a cure
but the key is dreamless sobriety
and in the palm is
dreamwater that soothes burns
but will never mobilize fingers to find the lock
that rests on the crumbling bastions
of determined confusion.
It aches and it calls again.
It aches and points to the universe of itself.
It aches
and asks
then calls
then basks
in its own incomprehensible genius,
lascivious and proud and forgetful
that it’s a part of a whole.

This silent rage can blind a man.
This silent rage can build a Rome.
This silent rage knows all but doesn’t understand its form.
It aches until
— yours dearly

My Father (poem)

On behalf of father's day,,,

My father pushes me through dooms of is
through haves of all
and palms of each.

A platform of world on which to stand
is a catch of height on which to fall
and far more ask than I will ever deserve.

He is an example of be
an Alexandrian library
cannot contain
through which I walk;
If only an epsilon
I will retain.

My effort only needs one laurel -
an approving smile on my father’s face.
And,
here’s a hope that tomorrow’s tomorrow
will further imbue in me
his words spoken today.

I haven’t a god for whom I will fight
and frequently myself I leave to burn.
But here is someone I owe my life.

If I become anything,
it will be my father we thank.

Mirror

 

Mirror

Do I speak to you, or the multitude of terrifying angels that all share a lineage of destroying the pearlescent walls of our own immortality? With one simple gesture of being, you hurl a pedestrian that was only going about his day into connecting all the stars in the sky to bring logic to a chance happening. Time. Stop. Eyes. Meet. Heartbeat. Stop. Did the birds always sing such orchestral melodies? And it all makes sense for exactly a fraction of century until I notice your wings bearing the silhouette of departure; but was there ever an arrival? Time and movement and grace and the dismemberment of eternity reveals a singularity enthralled in the fangs of a barometer that reads - 

This has all happened before -

It has and it will and with uncertainty we are propelled forward into something that should be as common to us as another blade of grass presenting it's gift at dawn and yet somehow we use light words and heavy niceties and pour even lighter steamed milk into the veiled trap of a coffee date so as to what? not scare this ephemeral creature away that tickles us so? So? So then mirrors turned into walls soothe the soul. Supremely staged fate leads to severely misplaced fear and on the wings of splendor, two enchanted instruments can fly as far as the lands of ice where the demon isn't arrival, it's departure - 

I repeat.

Sharing a bloodline of a race of memories won't affirm your choice of this or that or cross the t's of answers addressed to one as -

correct.

Yet you happened and I scream at myself in disgust of my own ignorance of existence. Yes, I am. Yes, you as a reflection allow vision of the contrast of ultimate beauty coupled with 

the ultimate beauty

and it prevents me from stepping into the footprint of another who walked on a road before me because I know he was happy and I also know he is no longer. 


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