Tag Archives: fear

A Haunting

It’s not my house,
not my place,
yet still I insist.

Here,
beyond threshold,
like a curse uttered under breath,
breaching pursed lips,
that would condemn if pressed,
I dissipate into the darkness,
ears strained – eyes starving.

I hear the nothing,
pull back, stretch taut,
and snap with the sound of a house aging,
then reset – repeat, snap again.
My heart follows the rhythm,
and still plummets a counter melody.

From room to room,
with echoed steps of borrowed time,
I agonize like winter wounds bleeding,
chasing ends that defy coagulation,
surpassing cold with warm history,
but in the end settling
for a conclusion in between.

Every corner hides nothing,
but I feel something –
and comprehend neither.

Symphysiotomy

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.

Kafka

All the vile things coalesce,
segmented and fitted together.
limbs – sprawled asunder,
clawing at a sky hidden
behind walls of wood and brick
the screaming bound by form
hssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
ing until the mouth parts hurt,
the way the palm does-
one hand clapping;
not enough for an applause,
but enough to reprimand.

The back is not for laying anymore
one can only relax on all limbs;
on hands, legs and whatever are these.
The supine is panic and helplessness;
something the mind condemns vehemently.

From somewhere in the recesses
muffled by doors, walls, genetics;
a voice calls out to me-
Am I well?
Am I aware of the time?
Am I clothed?

Stabbing at the ceiling in six different places
in a posture that feels like death I
hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss
back.
No tears will come.

Monster

Wretched thing.
scratching,
        nails against stone,
                the howls of one breaking;
tumbling up the long hollow
      thrashing weakly against the wood.

          My fists thrash back,
            “Die”
        [that wretched thing] screeches a reply,
languishing miserably amidst echoes. 


              drowning in shallow waters of anguish and hostility;

                         request denied.

C

Define emptiness.

Take from it that terrifying essence
the void-
              leave nothing that was
and replace it all with truth.

Your truth,
as well as you know it.

The shape of the earth,
the way light works,
right,
wrong,
what direction to face-
when all is lost.
Find any truth to place there
and keep it from getting cold.

That chill-
                is cancerous.

Though you can take on the abyss
none can suffer its existence
                            in the periphery.
Reflected sarcasm
the deep inhale between bouts of laughter-

cancerous.

Fear (A golden shovel poem written from a line in James Tate’s “City at Night”)

“it’s a good corner on which to sell balm” – James Tate

A ripe fruit built to burst, it’s-
longing for the tooth, the fist, a-
discerning eye to gaze assessment, “good,”
and highlight every soft spoken corner
with shrouded secrets even the skin conspires on.

The gnash of the teeth, the rot of the ground; which-
of these, is any better to be led to?
Either end will see you as shit to sell
though, for a while, you were sweet and glowed like lip balm.

The New World

Maps were drawn
to keep the world at bay
when the world seemed so vast.
Lines were used to convey
a sense of place
restraint,
else how would we face
the endless geography
untamed?

When we could not find words
we used our words instead
reducing the new and strange
to memories alive or dead,
a part of ourselves at play
in labels
for all that is touched by night or day.

Ra

There is no such thing as sound
in this cold tranquil place
where light is too busy to stop
and every movement is a drop
that could leave you in space
never again to be found

There is no such thing as sound
but you can feel your heart pound
with every mass ejection
that rushes your direction

In this cold tranquil place
the indiscretion of a star
can easily erase
any dreams you had thus far

Where light is too busy to stop
do not find yourself in its way
for there you can not stay
a storm to a nest in the treetops

And now I am space bound
listening for signs of grace
spinning like a damaged top
where light is too busy to stop.
In this cold tranquil place
there is no such thing as sound.

Anxiety

The wind, it whispers, “something is wrong,”
Lest it grow and drive the lot of us mad,
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Though this may be a place you feel you belong,
Weighted with countless reasons to be glad,
The wind, it whispers, “Something is wrong.”

To ensure your days may yet be long,
and without those events that leave us sad
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Cuts down the most jubilated throng
Turns the best of days sour and bad
The wind, it whispers, “something is wrong.”

From the weakest weak, to the strongest of the strong,
Don’t allow your armor to go unclad,
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Though some seem to just go along,
Many have lost all they had.
The wind, it whispers, something is wrong,
I beg you, drown it out with song.

Obsessive, compulsive.

Check the lock once again,
So many dangers out there;
So many dangers everywhere.
Check the lock once again.

So many dangers out there,
The whole world is against me,
Violence, disease, threats of all degree;
So many dangers out there.

The whole world is against me,
A ceaseless crashing of waves,
Carrying us all to our watery graves;
The whole world is against me.