There is a line.
On one side calm
the other tension
an invisible wall holding them back
because someone told them
there is a line
that no one can see
but all must honor,
like gods, ghosts, or mythos.
Violence lines up in its name
fearful eyes hoping the line will hold
bricks of faith – mortar of tradition.
When they fall
the world quakes
beneath the weight of our imaginations
violated.
“Just wing it,”
I knew the concept,
the world isn’t yours to shape
nor are you the worlds
you can only shape yourself
within the world’s parameters.
But you are already here,
the task is before you
“just wing it,”
You’ll have more fun trying
than preparing.
You’ll learn more.
You’ll live more.
The sound the shovel makes against the earth
feels like a baseball caught in a glove,
it feels like green lights or a found quarter.
The dirt looks like moist brownies
fresh and rich with delicious darkness
a curated destination for well off worms
The broken grass looks no worse
a verdant shag of carpet deep and vibrant
a parade of party poppers exploding green.
A good place to bury a friend
though they’ll never know it.
Approaching a House in the Cool Evening
I’m caught, mid step, by the lattice work
tiny wood planks interlocked
holding hands, passing over and under
form and function in tandem
drowning in green chaos, unaware
of the waxy verdant tendons
strangling them.
Desperately those vines climb
towards a sun they anticipate
but cannot know in this darkness,
the ambitions of the young – the restless
trapezing over the dormant dreams
of the old dead gods that once stood
tall
proud
fierce
and free
that once reached for the same sun
for a life that could never be.
The sun rises.
From up there this must all seem vexing.
We imprison ourselves
torture ourselves
all for the glory of our future selves
a version of ourselves that won’t want to manifest
with all that we’ve done to ourselves
just to get there,
reducing the distance a little each day
becoming more realistic
spinning tires.
The sun sets.
with its head low to the ground
wondering why we measure ourselves against it
when it is the earth that is spinning
kicking up history
sinking deeper into the void.
You are born to this earth worthless
less than that
a negative value we are meant to fill
though you never see the bill
you just have to find a way to pay it.
But don’t worry
someone will tell you
the ones who came before had a bill to pay too
and whatever they couldn’t they’ll bequeath to you.
Once you’ve tackled what they left behind
you can start adding value against your debt
but don’t be surprised when it’s time to collect
and there is a lifetime or more that is left
yet no time remains to pursue it.
Gift your unpaid debt to another
tell them all the things you wanted to do
to give your life value and prove your worth
and have them take on that pursuit
they can always deal with their own debt later.
Everything is.
Changing that is not an option
it will be as it has been
and we too are there within
pearls amid grains of sand
moving through a tunnel
to find an end
and there begin
unchanging.
Observed but not seen
the value is the sum
not the equation
but the equation
is everything.
I would go outside today
if it meant I could play with my friends
if I could do more than wave at them
watch them drift off from my doorstep
getting further and further away
we’d choose whose yard would host the game
and recite the rules of play
then make up altogether new ones
and that would become our whole day.
But now, all of us stay inside
forgetting the rules, forgoing new ones
adopting only those from where we reside
an intensely smaller world
the density of a dead star preventing any escape.
From the window I can see where I want to be
I wave, hoping it will turn to wave back at me.
He’s pounding on the wall
and I’m running, mindfully
careful not to fall
lest I be at the end of such malice
[thud. thud-thud]
Anger channeled as force
raging through the empty house
a tool of the source
reaching out, softening me up with sound
[thud. THUD-thud]
Each closer than the last
broken by heavy foot falls
that trample my past
a slow rhythm to pound out the meters
[THUD. THUD-THUD]
It strikes above me now
a torrent of breath heaving
smiling somehow
as if he knows my heart and devours it.
I want to ask questions with no answers
to hear myself think and savor the sound.
I want to say I am alive but doubt it
because what is living anyway?
I want to take up space
even if most of it is empty.
I want to be a bunch of particles
convulsing in the vastness of void
pretending to be interested in order.
But, instead, here I am:
Caucasian male, 39, 5’6”, employed
with a credit score of 650.
All I’ll ever need to be.
Grow Gray With Me 