Childhoods absurdity wrangled,
rooting through thick wooded landscape,
reveling in every winding curve,
each ambitious jump,
just high enough to hang a dream on –
backwards.
Like memories gone false,
long past their sell-by date –
our minds are starved,
so we eat the dirt.
Desire, the fruit of patience,
overripe and waiting,
wrapped tightly,
throttling the trees
with coiled potentiality.
One can but see me,
and be sated.
I cannot be consumed,
burned
cared for
pruned
adorned.
What flesh I know,
is only a passing glance.
Ignorance or incompetence,
either meet at the same end.
The dirt though, is amorous
as I stretch into all its nuance,
settling that wayward soul.
The sun showers me with praise,
it’s light on me in subtle places,
echoing my fingers in the earth.
But still,
I hide a quiet passion,
to move through the world as you,
create as you.
I put that lust in sweet oils,
ambitions charming enough for honey,
for dew drops,
but too much,
far too much for you.
On your skin that passion burns with envy,
raises the flesh in sour complexions,
cries out in pain, but at least-
a part of me is with you.
At least- you won’t forget my name.
Teeth grind against time, older than heart beats;
bury themselves in the nape of the world
and through that grit they grunt back, “I dare you,”
so in droves we come to mine from them ‘truth.’
But ‘truth’ does not move through time as we do.
Desperate for relevance in our space,
we seek stability in the journey;
while what is true finds no movement worthy.
Thus those mandibles remain static
while we struggle for purchase against them;
should we win, overcoming their long face
we will have, in the end, lost the race.
The drums of victory may course in our veins
as we stand atop the corpse of impulse
to reflect on the unconquerable
hoping someday to be ponderable,
yet our triumph is too brief a passing
to reconcile against the scales of time,
like a flash of lightning through the night sky;
radiance wasted in a blink of an eye.
If I die in this place
who will find me?
Like a piton
this thought, is stuck in my mind
My sneakers were made for lazy days
for sidewalks and classrooms
they fold over rocks like jerky
slipping
more often than
catching.
They are quick to remind me
I don’t belong
here.
but the height makes me quicker still
all the while still wondering…
If I die in this place
who will find me?
Scaling the cliffside
I look for rebellious roots
terrified brittle limbs
confident rocks
eager to help a hand
miles away
my home is empty
the sun is setting
and my mind echoes…
If I die in this place
Who will find me?
Grow Gray With Me 