Luggage packed, vehicle loaded
goaded by the clocks visage
probability creeps as time is eroded
corrupting all sensibility.
Sorted, scanned, and inspected
then coached on etiquette briefly
anticipation in the window reflected
the calming of a storm named hesitation.
We crossed the earth with planes, trains and automobiles
with boats, cruise ships, and whalers.
We crossed the earth with poisons
harpoons and muskets
with naked flesh hungry for furs
and insecurities demanding conquest.
With fears that birthed shackles and cages
and empty hearts that could recognize no others.
We crossed the earth with trade
financial analytics, global markets
bonds, loans and shell accounts;
with people and products and people as products.
We crossed the earth with shell fire,
artillery, war ships, fighter jets and drones.
With fire bombs, fire bats, patriot missiles
nuclear bombs and peace treaties;
with demilitarization, missionaries and imperialism.
We crossed the earth with progress,
invention, intention and exploration;
with philosophy and reason
the fires of icarus, and the smoke and mirrors of christ;
with the patience of Buddha, the temperament of Vishnu;
the criticism of Nietzsche, the ambition of Socrates
and with the virus of ignorance.
We crossed the earth over and over again
the betrayals stagnant in the air
as yet unanswered.
Cut outs moving like vaudeville
through tiny slits of reality
thin sliced, deli cut life.
Come see the show
but you should know
the show is all you’ll see;
The surface of an ocean
shimmers with the light of the sun
but it is neither.
The cutouts, void on paper
run together as shadows
yet they are neither.
For paper was once whole
and the ocean is steeped in history
lives are lived beyond the periphery.
Though we can never see what lies within
without ourselves diving in
taking the risk to live unguided,
Sometimes it’s nice to just sit and watch
these figures dancing through frames
the sun dewed water pulling at the sand,
sometimes it is nice enough to live
and let live
to be done for the day.
This is the end;
an end.
yet, I know,
there is no end, really.
This end is just perspective.
An innate desire to lock the world down
within the parameters of my life.
Those walls are thin.
Why dig holes when you can bury them?
Found
on the ground, a rhythm in the dirt
like a cackling brook beneath the surface
the sound is nervous
confounding any sense of purpose.
Look around
[you];
while you are free most are bound
a town full of brown slacks
round spectacles
all shapes are there on stage,
but the spotlight is on the testicles
because there lies rationality
or so says the old spectacle;
a fashion of resounding sterility.
Anonymity the greatest renown
or so says the celebrity.
So what if it costs our identity?
foster instead gratitude
over an exhausting attitude,
those, “what-ifs” reeling always around the head.
That fish you wish you’d caught?
You’ve already fought before and tossed back.
It wasn’t about what it had
but what you lacked.
Now, you’re on the other side,
more mad than glad that bridge was crossed
yet always
still
lost.
The well waits open to the sky
a placid barrier below
silent bait for the passersby.
What water patiently poised
would want of the world above
only dreams will ever know.
The meager coins that violate the surface
swallowed by depths of darkness,
are but emissaries of whispered words
that beg of fate a future to bestow.
They gather amongst the sediment
an ancient glittering congress
perpetually pleading the case
for ambitions that died long ago,
lost to the unknown abyss
where light is known only by shadow
and purpose found only in fools.
Trees as thick as grass
bundled together hiding the sky
at night though
stars shine through
One could get lost in there
one could find something profound in there
in the morning
hidden passions
light the canopy like green fire
An untold history crackles beneath feet
crisp with the anxiety of breaking, unresolved
twilight is a pleasant mystery
whispers of color in silent darkness
the fauna changing shifts
timorous insects take flight.
A bright pink cross sanctifies the bark of each tree
some sign of an afterlife that none could imagine
The end is violent and sterile
the ground stripped bare
the canopy pulled back to blue skies
broken by contrails and wires
soon to be hidden in property
too expensive for anyone to live in
just dying slowly,
paycheck to paycheck.
The scaffolding grows in relation to failure
success
is not assumed.
Life grows with this malignancy,
While life after death life
cannot be presumed,
just an afterlife;
where we rise again to meet our every desire
and leave behind a world falling apart.
Our progeny can take shelter in the scaffolding.
Let our lives remind them, this is part of living,
only in death can we find true happiness
as serfs in a higher kingdom;
at least that’s what they tell us
the ones we serve now.
The door before me is an absurd sarcasm
designed to be a wall when one can choose
an opening otherwise
but has been a wall for generations now.
All children try the handle once or twice
deceive their friends with curiosity
laughing at themselves echoed.
In the years of life’s setting
we try more often;
with every passing,
hoping now the memories behind us
got it wrong – nothing in between.
All the time from bookend to bookend
we are overwhelmed with openings.
A coliseum leading us deep within
until we are more spectacle than audience
at last.
In youth and uselessness we look eagerly for a way out.
Grow Gray With Me 