Roads are aimless empty things,
long faces, bones cradled in disused flesh,
driven too long, seeing too much,
leaving more behind than ahead;
for a liberty or salvation unrequited.
Forgetting the acceptance they once resided in,
when they inspired conversations,
played lead on a stage of dreams,
where they lived,
in time that was short but warm;
familiar like a street.
Interacting with your own line of time,
feels like death penalty electronics,
brain shouting in pyrotechnics,
warning or celebration, who can tell?
Perhaps it’s the screaming desire,
to transcend the moment,
to be sound, fury, too.
Stretching out into places as alien as you,
manipulating the history of your future.
But the noise fails to silence
the confrontation between your two selves.
Merely a transitory way station for thoughts,
as you try to adjust perspective towards fullness.
A magic eye poster of before and after,
regurgitated onto a single surface,
only making sense to disloyal eyes, corrupted minds.
Singularity, finally achieved, is painful,
requires hyper focus,
the tension if it stretches sanity’s bounds.
To hold in place, grab another and squeeze,
break skin, find empathy.
Nothing hurts like this absence.
A void shaped like me,
built of my inversion –
different only in its eternity.
It is not a darkness growing,
nor a bleak persistence;
but merely the light retreating,
always. And I,
staring in,
caught by the hook of its memory.
Late
later than we knew,
but that is eternally,
you.
Profoundly present, attentive,
ignorance only in the future,
the moment reigns supreme,
you.
All other time,
is trivialized by experience,
the sand amidst the dune,
you.
When the day ends,
when the next begins,
it is always comforted by,
you.
Now, here,
living fuller lives,
loving more,
we.
It stands against a marathon of sand
creosote winds playing the air in scented ribbons.
The way it feels;
the way it is –
quilted together like conflicting fabrics.
Too great a thing to be disregarded,
too great a thing to accept.
Sanity keeps it always obscured,
out of focus;
the malignant veil a mere lifetime away,
too close for comfort.
Rough edges hewn,
subtle moments undefined,
obscured by clouds –
broken plumes
stuttered interruptions
of a tattered parachute
panicking;
anchored to a lost cause,
that screams its confessions to the wind.
Like rain,
wanting never to fall.
I’ve compiled all the poems I wrote in the last half of 2022, threw them into an AI art generator to see what would come out and put that all together in a collection.
Full color high fidelity illustrations, over 120 poems accompanied by over 120 pieces of art generated from those poems.
Woe to the contemplative real estate,
where the red light shines
quiets itself.
Shines again.
Where the sound is loud enough to oust
the compulsion of rationality
conceding to lunatics.
Growing like absurd flowers.
Bold crimson lines swaddled in shadow,
haunting the eyes, even in darkness,
animated almost.
Stop motion secrets.
The red light cries out endlessly,
while shapes play in the spaces between,
the noise flirting like waves.
Swallowing the shore at dusk.
Echoes of solitude.
Life is the sieve that filters our passions,
straining them thin;
permitting only a few freedoms – here
or there,
until the flow of it runs clear.
With a lattice like maze of obligations and tollgates,
keeping all the big dreams on the other side,
our mind desperately scours for starbursts;
reflections of light caught by precious minerals,
hidden amongst all that dirt –
salvation.
Poetry,
is life with cheesecloth.
There is an umbral seed
inside all of us that will grow
if given light and watered.
There are gnarled weeds too
that will choke those seeds to nothing
if not ripped from the soil.
Gardening is hard, messy, but intentional.
Find the seed and gift it your light,
inspire fertile fruits.
Grow Gray With Me 