Always,
we are what we are;
what we claim to be.
The words we dress in,
may be donned or discarded,
what lies beneath-
remains.
Turmoil
may rise through us,
sculpt the earth with violent upheaval,
but we are not those faults;
what lies beneath-
remains.
Life
will color us with experience,
stripe us red where it overwhelms,
taint us with histories.
what lies beneath-
remains.
Always
we are what we are,
but changed.
Never actually the same.
What lies beneath-
remains.
Be kind.
Lives are short
but actions
transcend histories.
Stay your mind.
Entropy does enough on its own.
Let it be.
Take a rest.
Be not confined.
Show some empathy.
It is lonely to know only yourself,
echoing off the walls.
Be not resigned.
Death is a fine ending,
no need to intervene.
Focus on beginnings,
put your energy into growing.
A spike and hammer,
a bucket
unevenly distributed.
The sun means nothing but light,
A bright pylon amongst the clouds,
but its back is turned all the same;
giving its warmth to anyone else.
The freeze isn’t gone,
merely hiding amongst the shadows.
One tree,
prouder than the others, brighter;
stands tall-
an ambassador to the sky,
speaking for the earth of its roots,
or so it seems. Its arms fanned out
in a skeletal embrace.
The leaves are gone,
but the essence inside thrives.
The metal placed against the bark
causes no response,
not that anything is left to shake free.
What is needed is underneath,
a few blows away,
and then-
it slowly seeps,
unable to contain itself.
Later we burn most of it away,
so all that is left of that bitterness
is sweet.
In the darkness,
traffic lights become
suns
moons
in bright colors.
Trying so hard to give direction
but just pinatas.
The forest sings tinitas,
isolated secrets.
No one knows what
no one would believe;
while the owls,
the owls are not what they seem.
Two chiral figures stand opposed
divided by a heavy moment,
hands clasped to keep one another in place;
white craters consuming the digits,
tapering off to olive arms
that too quickly sink beneath tufts of fabric.
Though their pose is static,
their faces tremble;
the unseen weight within
grinding against them,
excavating the innocence left
of the husks they’ve since become.
A discernible history revealed,
with careful examination,
exhaustion of the senses,
sacrificed for lucidity,
acceptance.
It- emerges from the void,
like a fluke over the stern;
not even the depths,
a simple hint of the darkness,
where all things find their origin.
Two chiral figures
opposed
forever.
The near-carcass of civilization’s remains,
wallowing in the waste its terminal thrashing creates,
will hardly notice a few scraps taken-
though to voice the act will leave others shaken.
One need only to pillage sedately, head down,
and remember: all of this will someday end.
The pale criminal thrives here as legion:
a hobbyist, a collector of things,
a connoisseur of excess, defiling every void;
all of it front and center. The barbed wire above trenches,
hiding the war that scurries like rats,
in the dark crevices beneath line of sight,
dressed to kill, but unwilling to die for it.
Protection comes instead from abundance,
quantity over quality, foaming out the pores
in a thick film of condescension
that they hoist over the thin, translucent skin,
between the fading life inside and the world confronted;
the near-carcass of civilization’s remains.
It has to hurt first.
Be safe, they say. Watch yourself.
It’s not like it thirsts for blood,
but it may as well- the way it does.
Carelessly consuming everything you feed it,
anything in between,
whatever remains in the afterglow.
Let go, they say, that’s all you need do.
Sure, it’s not like it thirsts for blood,
but it sure knows where to find it.
You need two hands just to wake it,
the persistence to prime it,
the courage to face it after all the warnings.
You need two deep breaths,
and a moment of silence before you begin.
It cries out like a banshee of chain and gears,
louder than reassurance,
but trust, you need only let go
and it all stops;
the whaling,
the violence.
Though in order to know anythings gone wrong,
it has to hurt first.
If you’ve got the coin to spend,
and you’re looking to retire,
the smart money is on the end.
Of course, it is your life my friend,
and there is plenty out there to acquire,
if you’ve got the coin to spend.
But, I say buck the trend,
forget all the stuff people desire,
the smart money is on the end.
Too many out there want to contend
offering admission to some place higher,
if you’ve got the coin to spend;
you can do all that, you can make amends,
but listen, we’re all going to expire.
The smart money is on the end.
The world as it is, I can only recommend,
find someone to admire- and prepare for fire.
If you’ve got the coin to spend,
the smart money is on the end.
I cross the threshold between two rooms,
to see you there, tall and bright;
happy again to let your words spill out,
carelessly like a flagon carried mid dance,
confident there is plenty more
and rags at hand to clean the floor.
I haven’t seen you like that in a generation,
who we were- long since old and dying,
making way for who we are now;
reduced to somber stones with names-
only visited on occasion.
I feel those old ghosts resurrected,
bursting through coffins, through earth and the fog of years;
desperate for relevance again.
Crying out please, see me friend!
through laughter breathe life into these lungs!”
But how could you now see the ghost of me,
or anything between who you are
and who, in all this time, I have come to be?
Joy has propositioned you from this world,
while I, before, was naught but misery.
Let me retreat, satisfied as a memory.
Settle those spirits within and lay them to rest,
I beg the fates on our behalf,
please, don’t see me, lest
in all these years,
neither of us be free.
Grow Gray With Me 