Wednesday, November 24, 2010

From the crypt

The differences abound in all that has come unwound from what has been and perhaps may always be bound to the core of me. So often I fill a blank page with blank letters forming blank words and so oft I destroy them in their insufficient reflections of my insignificant interjections, to the fluid flow of pure expression, which exists only in the present's moments of the here and now.

Hope is quite possibly the most powerful, futile thing this world can know and yet it seems as non-existent as the god that created it. Ah, that hand pointing toward the luminous clouds with their shadowy lining, not made of silver, but of dust water. Why would I want to seek it out? Give me the freshest boiled stuffs, please. I want the distilled honest elemental forms of gases combined to awaken my senses. Keep your clouds and keep your stars, they are n ot my stuff though they may serve to serve you well. May they learn to serve you better, or may you at best, learn thing with to best learn from them better.

Hope. It exists only in the future and because the future is as reachable as the past in desire and in longing and in regret turned to fear, I'd rather have gratitude than hope. You see hope leads to expectation and expectation as even our dearest Shakespeare has said, is the root of all heartache.

My friend... he said he was soul sick, I feared it might've been contagious. I needed it though, to bring it all up. Like a peroxide wash bubbling all those impurities out. The festering infection fighting its way out after only a year. Or... after the entire span of an earths orbit finally spinning out the regurgitation of all I've been holding in the center of the pit of my void spewing forth into the world, fallen on the ground before me, radiating it's loveliest bits, glowing a myriad of color, before turning to hardened coal-like masses of memories and dreams.

The one thing I think we can agree on, that we have always agreed on... that love is an unstoppable, unmanageable and reckless force. And for me it has been dreadfully so much that truth to it's very end. And I struggle to learn to control the internal chaos to remember how even the best dreams end with a stiff neck and a need for coffee. Striking a stick of sulfur against my teeth I set fire to all the ultraviolet still pulsing through the ground, through the roots of all matter, and I watch the snow drenched landscape become engulfed in a flame held by my infrared gaze.

The fuel of this burning a beautiful surrender to reality, feeding the soil at my feet. Another obstacle turned opportunity by my inevitable optimism as I empty my entire world to fill it with a fertile, hopeless joy. Love is a choice! Love is the percussion, and the strings, and I dance to both, looking like an epileptic in mid seizure, seizing it for my own.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

In the rough

Again, it all feels so very juvenile ******* Monumental emotion
The best poems ever written ************** Opening
Were never words at all ********************** My heart to
Mere moments ********************************* Every
There is no sort of justice ******************** New memory
for sentiment of this magnitude ************ Time awaits
No defining such eternal gratitude ******* Setting stone

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Across the line

It's fleshy
prose

It's warm
words

Its tender
talk

It's primal
language

In the mirror
A dancer's form
Toes point heels away
Knees bending torso forward
Neck arches hair everywhere

Gripping post
Gasping breath

Pounding perfect discourse
Into my life
As it has always been
Feeling whole again

Unadulterated acceptance

Musing over loving
Loving the musing
The years,
The space,
The freedom,
The beauty,
The bliss,
The line of self
folding over itself.

Friday, November 5, 2010

Zombie Tree ;)

When I fade fast
I find myself faster
Rooted
in
love

And sending it

everywhere

As an autumn tree that never turned

Life giving leaves scatter
Crisp
Dry
Free

To decay

Into the everything

Soon sheltered in thickest ice
A weight for diseased limbs
Together with winter's winds
Make spring's new growth
whole
healthy
fruitful

and able to love again

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Literary abandon and demon destruction... Yay for NaNoWriMo!

The early spring greenery, flushed with golden sunlight shimmering in the morning dew, was a stark background to the black and white contrast of Nadia's hair, skin, and raw emptiness. Looking around at the wilderness that surrounded her she decided to lose herself to that which she was already lost to.

She pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her faded jeans and noted that it was well past time for her to be on her way back home. Without a second thought she laid the useless keeper of time on a concrete slab, which separated stream from pavement, along with her keys. Then without a second of hesitation she began to run.

She ran the length of the busy overpass, her legs more powerful than even she knew, to the small winding road that brought her to the serenity beneath the busy bustling of humanity. A mirror of her self, and she ran from it hoping that a speeding local would come barreling down the one-lane gravel path and take from her the life she did not have the nerve to take from herself.

The thought of returning did not cross her mind when she noticed a clearing through the trees leading upward to the heights of the unknown. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief at the idea of leaving the man-made path to find herself lost in a wilderness where no one would ever find her, and she continued running.

Thorns and thistles quickly gathered in her long, flowing hair, barely pierced her skin as they attached to her clothing. She ran harder and faster with every step. Wearing only sandals to protect the soles of her feet they were torn open from the sharp edges of the blades beneath them. It mattered not, Nadia felt as if her skin and her soul had already been torn and burnt beyond repair.

Harder still, she ran up the side of that Appalachian mountain and harder she tried to disappear into it. The vines entangling the brush surrounding her grew thicker and she was forced to slow herself to manipulate her way through it. Her hands grew thick with the stickiness of the thriving life within the wilderness as she fought her way through. It was, she imagined, the only real sign of life about her.

She stopped, putting her hands over her head to catch her breath. Looking around she felt lost enough. Then the screaming began.

No words were echoed in that solid screaming. Just one guttural bellow after the other until there was no voice left inside of her to so much as even whisper. For at least an hour she stood there in the center of nothing and everything, screaming. She thought that if she screamed loud enough, hard enough, long enough that he might hear her despair. That he would come find her and pluck her from the emptiness he had knowingly given her to.

Of course she knew better but she screamed just the same. No words could ever do justice to the violence brewing under her skin. No words could make him love her. No words could change the pain that she would face every moment from that dreadful night on. So she screamed until she was as depleted physically as she was in every other conceivable way and then she fell to the moistness of the earth below writhing in agony until she fell into a deep sleep.