Vision like a cancer,

it’s corrupted these bones,

echoes in orifices,

seeking space to call home.

But years have crept pass,

dusted personas shelved,

keep risking cultivated dogma,

for a break from this hell.

Now shelter in place

or die in the field,

these secret lives reveal

more that we feel.

You don’t have to lie,

we all see it clearly.

This game ain’t for you,

its making you dreary.

Bystander

Watching the dark girl spin fire at night,

sparking questions of pipe dreams and the internal fight,

trying to track motion blurred epiphanies,

losing inch by inch the sweet way of being me.

Reaching ahead down a well beaten road,

grasping to shadows of stories you told,

keeping close to the heart the tricks of the trade,

you promised me one day we may have it made.

Sitting neatly on the bank of soon to be actions,

skipping rocks across the river of childhood passions,

wondering if those echoes have lost their host lungs,

eternally waiting for fresh songs to be sung. 

Its all right, its all right. 

The words leaked off the screen,

melting to the floor in puddles of black and white,

oozing and breaking apart into streams of almosts,

what ifs, can’t, and of course you cans.

So much time we have given them - waiting

on phrases to clean themselves up.

We beg, please just let us know, if these 

are the sentences worth using,

the thoughts worth having,

these pauses dramatic enough - the space 

between sounds deep enough,

well then we will carry on and save what is left,

of these confused and weary soul searching 

styles.  

Sitting in fields that I know will die and fall to dust but the sweet smell of hot thistle and birthing butterflies keeps me rooted in these fantasies. Thinking about ghosts I keep alive in the dark rooms of the parties I left too early. How hungry they must be as I slave away in the daylight sweating out beads of self disapproval wishing that they would come sweep me away. Giving up on the moments when the searching will cease and giving in to the love I refused so many nights in a row. 

I can’t hear your voice anymore. Images of beings we use to know float through the suspended plasma space of time and connection - feeding the illusion I would still be able to recognize you, or them, in these throngs of strangers passing each day like cars on a freeway. I worry about that mole on your back and the crackle in your voice. Do your hands still tremble when you make love. Or did your heart become as sturdy as the bones in my spine.  Like the rain that refuses to fall from this desert sky I can’t wash these stagnant feelings. Stuck in the rock faces of monuments built to hold the story I am slowly forgetting with each passing cycle of moon and sun. 

The storm is brewing. The moist heat building in each speck of air. Lightening strikes in the distance plain and I just wanted to let you know I am missing missing you. 

awritersruminations:

Of course it was a disaster.
The unbearable, dearest secret
has always been a disaster.
The danger when we try to leave.
Going over and over afterward
what we should have done
instead of what we did.
But for those short times
we seemed to be alive. Misled,
misused, lied to and cheated,
certainly. Still, for that
little while, we visited
our possible life.

Jack Gilbert, “Going There”

(via awritersruminations-deactivated)

Doubt Makers

We call them the movers, the shakers, the doubt makers. 

They drift in, like sea glass to shore, with pasts lives that have been smoothed over, now they are only soft and subtle shimmers of recycled life. 

They come in all shapes and colors, always beautiful and always tempting, begging us to bring them home and place in a bowl of found treasures. 

We are quick to question where they came from, how they became. Did they start as broken off beer bottles, thrown to the sea in a fit of rage or dropped from a deck by bumbling hands of lovers losing them selves in the mist of a summer’s night. 

Maybe they slowly slipped into the soft stream by a river’s edge, gently without purpose, floating down stream till they wound up smoothed and softened by the bustling waters.

Regardless, they are here now. With stories and songs and sagas and starlight beaming from their pores. Telling us how it was, could be, will be and might.

Asking if we are brave enough to let go. The water is never too cold if you swim hard enough. And love, they say, all your sharp edges will only cut us in the end. 

There is a particular silent yet heavy noise that appears when you leave,

even though your return is eminent  - it feels as this can go on forever. 

And I have been here before, alone, contemplative, sad without reason. 

You have seen this before. You probably can feel it while you are gone. 

The echoes of repetitive actions bouncing off these walls,

boomeranging back and forth until the sound waves 

are criss crossing so fiercely not even a mad scientist

could make out which came first and where they are going. 

You tell me before you go - you can beat this baby - just stand up tall,

and before you know it you will grow to touch the stars. 

So I take deep breaths, stretch, touch myself, drink wine, write stories,

read books, take walks, and cry till my lungs are sore.

All in hopes of finding the sweet spot, the silence maker, the soul taker,

the space where this heavy noise can be finally put to rest. 

I stand on my tippy toes and reach my finger tips out so far that the

tendons and muscles in my hands quiver and shake.

Secretly praying that one day I will reach out and finally burn alive

in one glorious final flame.  All before you get back from band practice. 

Forgot a Coat

There is no avoiding what it feels like to have to leave a place, 

when you know it is cold out, colder than you expected,

and you left your jacket at home. 

and the car is parked just a little further than usual.

there is the anxiety, almost tangible excitement,

that there is nothing you can do but be bold and go forth

into the brisk night air. clenched jaw and fierce stare

towards the direction of that hunk of metal you know will also be frigid

and you know you will have to wait for that old engine to rev up

gain some traction and some speed before it warms

so you prepare, mental stamina and emotional patience,

because there will, sooner than you expect, be the sensation of warmth

and all of this will have been in the past. 

Deserted

We are a generation of cynics,

hypocritical nay-sayers

and lovers of limelight,

for the sake of seeing shadows,

cast upon the faces of frightful foes,

who forever and more would believe,

with asinine and arrogant attitudes,

that simply because we were promised,

all will be right and just. 

Some sturdy souls stood

apart and cried for logic. 

for passion and freedom from the past,

for truth, forgiveness,

and tenderness,

even amongst the most fierce

and lonesome. 

But the majority ruled with an iron fist,

clenched jawed squealing birds of prey,

picking up field mice and

bopping them on the head. 

So the rest stood back and watched,

prickly thorned cacti wasting on the desert plane. 

Light Beams

At breakfast we chatted

about frequencies and femto photography,

about how our minds, like the internet

are black holes.

And we hypothesized about light beams,

the colors and strengths and shapes they can take.

About what would happen if at any second,

any one of us would dematerialize, 

into thin air, absorbed and dissipated back to the 

universe from which we came.  

We said nothing would change,

light, sound, shapes, the maya would remain. 

Now sitting alone,

listening to crickets chirp and dogs snore,

I want you to know I don’t agree. 

I want you to know I would miss the space you held,

even if it only is just a dream. 

Get back to it.

As much as you may fight it child,

like the waning and waxing of the humble moon,

as unforgiving as the leaves that run from their branches,

in cold and awakening winter nights,

you will find your way back to the truth,

that you are a stone, stardust, and stories,

already told and yet to be heard,

a child of this lady earth - consumed by a trip,

within a trip. Listen and you will remember. 

Sticky Teeth

I am afraid to let it all go.

Like carmel that sticks in your teeth

the apple is sour,

but sugar is just so sweet.

Every tuesday I find myself

in the same spot

tea stains and hungry tummy

bank account empty, 

dreams up-to-here.  

Trying to gather for the future

when I asked if you’d love me forever

you said you would have to remember.

So I bought you a calendar

now its been some years. 

We learn about cycles

they tell you at a young age

leaves change,

and nothing stays.