Take from me like marrow from a soup bone, held aloft and alone in raging roiled waters desperate to pull me apart and harvest the flavor inside; a hurried whisper of the fevered soliloquy I once was. Add what you want, reduce me/heat, serve.
Steam coils above
rising from the bowl below
no one is eating.
My insides are on fire
almost dead on the surface
but secrets still live within my depths.
those too will die soon
and I will be left raging alone against the shore
The curtains open on a stage
familiar in its revelation
dark clouds pulled down by sticks
the day dwindling in the distance
like an unkempt fire tired of all the burning
in a smoke damaged sunset.
Dead faces stare back at you/nothing
trapped in agony but free of it
gifting the burden to another
to Bob.
Bob’s life is a thick hide- matted
Bob is an arm with digits
in control
part of a clear purpose
attached to a body of questions
used as answers
and wearing the toll like a tattered flag
drowning.
Bob is wanting.
Bob is watching
While you are watching Bob
Both are trying to come away with loose change from the price of admission
Both are broke.
The universe has brought this moment together
as it has with every other
shaped from the courage of stars
and the tenacity of mutation
manifest as you, here, now.
Four barbs of a flower
buried deep within me
and only digging deeper.
The pain I feel looks like bright colors
smells like velvet and tree bark
tastes like crisp ocean salt.
The pain is warm like love
sharp like satire,
brilliant like sunlight trapped in crystals.
The pain is knowing what a gift it is
to have you here
in this moment
in time and space
but know that you’re not.
Let us just assume they are entangled,
all the particles within your body
mirrored by another as yet obscured,
for definition will find them strangled.
This form is your new future embodied.
Such speed and distance bends space in contours,
the two forms become unaligned in time.
This is when to become the one copied
if you have lived long enough to endure
and let suicide be your final crime
and cure.
The spine is bent and contorted,
a tale told of turns
the author left distorted
yet the inside yearns.
Go, explore the intramural
thought brought out as art;
examine the procural
captured in its heart.
Often the ones exhausted
weigh on you the most
your concrete self accosted
by simple prose.
Words that echo undying
find a hidden break
persuade into complying
and a new you wakes.
Her will to grow, intrepid
as I’m sure you’ve concluded
from all that she’s completed
and what that has included
to become this young woman
and follow her compunction;
climb each rung in succession
in a blur of ambition.
Her laugh is infectious,
a disarming politeness
and a sense of injustice
an alarming forthrightness.
Let the world accommodate
all that she can contemplate
without any caveat
Let her greatness emanate.
True love is draws from deep within;
where quiet thoughts can now begin
and extracted from the mind
like ripe fruit pulled off the rind
to be shared with one who is starved
and set their mind to be carved;
the rough edges citrus-hewn
leave you shaped by love’s sharp tune.
Both parties give and they take
yet each for the other’s sake
and both become their better
sharing these adaptive fetters.
For love unshared will only spoil,
never to seed life’s fertile soil,
but when such fruit shares its prize
that bounty balloons in size
and those who are this way fed
find that good health lies ahead;
their convictions will harden
and they plant fertile gardens.
There is nothing
without something
giving its life
by way of strife,
or maybe age,
so says the sage.
Is that so bad?
or is it sad
for us to think
about this sink
we are caught in.
We kill to win
or let things die,
if they comply,
and if they don’t,
or if we won’t,
they all die still.
That is the will,
that is the way;
night dies for day.
It’s hard sometimes to keep control
when the world comes to collect it’s toll,
but the world is such a massive thing
once its intent gets into full swing
because the world is more than it was
drifting from orbit to a new cause.
A harnessed thing with a barbed bridle,
the world gallops towards a false idol.
In time the world will get what it wants
and we will be the ones whom it haunts;
for once it has died a thousand deaths
the world will scream with its last breath,
“the world that birthed you can be no more
all life was sacrificed for this war,”
and the jockey will exclaim with joy
as it makes another world its toy.
But for now this world is tough to bare
as a parasite on a small square
filled to explosion with all its fruit
force fed in spite of the worlds dispute
so the jockey can address the world
with its long fiery cloak unfurled
and an old salt lick in its right hand,
the whip readied should the world demand,
“Woe to the world that has suffered such,
curse these people who asked for so much.”
Both parties will take from me their need,
though surely by now I am poor feed.
Grow Gray With Me 