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Cannot Let Go the Desire
There is no escape. I’m not a small town boy living or having lived in a lonely world. I’ve never taken a midnight train—anywhere (though that sounds cool). Never been to Detroit…but I’ve been to Dearborn. What I long for isn’t escape, What I want isn’t a fast car or a dead end drive, I want to be within. It’s said God is outside time. Our existence is printed on a flat sheet of paper… that can be looked down upon…beginning to end… everything. I want to BE like God IS, existing in a moment that stretches forever. But feels… Perfect. Succinct. I’ve had those moments… In the full, enveloping embrace of my lover… High over the island of Maui in a doorless helicopter, careening down and sideways… Surging violently back into the seat of my car as I rocket up a hill and hurl-- tight a-r-o-u-n-d… the next corner. (I’m laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming) The perfect moment, is a drug. I cannot let go the desire May 24, 2020; Sunday. 5:25 A. M. Indecision’s Breath
Slips away, whether pushed or sucked. Passes by whether seen or not. Disappears whether in smoke or light. Time delights in not sticking around. When do you force a mistake? How do you know it’s right to fail? When success doesn’t matter… enough to ensure it? Can you always live with a failure, or the fallout from catastrophe? Do some things bury you—forever-- deeper than depression? More permanently than a gunshot-- to the skull? So how do you know it’s time… To jump from the edge down from the knife’s edge the towering cliffs… more than high enough up for the fall to kill before the bottom is even reached? Somehow… When it becomes inevitable. When it cannot be any other way. When there are no options. When there is no choice. When the end is come. And it really is “The End” Delay is indecision’s breath. Feel, think, act. Whatever the fallout is, It’s the new air you must breathe. August 25, 2019; Sunday. 3:03 A. M. |
Is Joy
A light, glimmering just a moment, is enough if in the glow I can, even just make out the periphery . . . the silhouette of you. A breath, in the suffocating darkness of this void of a world, may be too much to ask but could you please? A touch, tenderly this scorched flesh . . . though dark, everything burns, and ashes reside where the soul should. A glow from your eyes, A breath from your lungs, A touch from your spirit, Is joy. July 1, 2014; Sunday. 1:37 A. M. Wouldya Shouldya
Would comes before Could and Can is the question I ask. Want is desire that drives the Do . . . the interaction of courage and initiative. Success is in the back-breaking Attempt--even if the result is Failure. Don’t create tomorrow’s regrets. May 3, 2014; Saturday. 10:58 A. M. |
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A Beaten Dog
(a Villanelle) I sneer, my upper lip curling back in disgust how many self-loathing entities exist the rending of my own flesh is a never aging lust pulsating and dying, ripped from my chest was trust deserving of no more and no less I sneer, my upper lip curling back in disgust to delve so deep, enjoy this misery I must self-depreciating in the least, the reality’s often more the rending of my own flesh is a never aging lust the bone’s been bared and the skins a dried crust everything visible leaving open the honestly profane I sneer, my upper lip curling back in disgust disappointing my notions are vomited and flushed my self-poisoning venom is not unlike everyone’s the rending of my own flesh is a never aging lust I’m worse than the beaten dog that returns hushed knowing it’s done wrong to exist I sneer, my upper lip curling back in disgust the rending of my own flesh is a never aging lust June 17, 2008; Tuesday. 12:44 A. M. |
A Shovel and Hope
I’ve got a dust shovel outside my front door, down the porch steps, leaning against a deck-box. Its black blade bites deep into the thick lichen of past memories and dreamful ambitions. It displaces well the thin and wispy, tendril-like roots of dismay and loss . . . . But its use requires effort. And it’s no back-saver. Oh, yes, and it stirs up that which it disturbs-- It’s up to the user to find the most effective way to settle that which rises cloudlike into the air and chokes. To disturb the past, to displace loss, To cover the bare and naked and vulnerable wood . . . The wet protectant of hope is the only choice of serious life-builders. And it’ll repel dust. January 1, 2006; Sunday. 2:38 A. M. |
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Alone
so, so . . . so alone and endlessly so ever, ever . . . forever along the road no vanishing point in sight. down, down . . . fallen has the light and darkness, dimness, blackened by burning hollowed out echoing hearts beat the pathway past, past long gone beyond the freight of . . . so, so . . . so alone and endlessly so ever, ever . . . forever along the road no vanishing point in sight down, down . . . fallen has the light and darkness, dimness, blackened by burning hollowed out echoing hearts beat the pathway past, past long gone beyond the freight of alone, lone. January 25, 2011; Tuesday. 2:21 A. M. |
I Am To You
I am the father of unborn expectations, ending what never began, lies birthing promises’ libation. I am the occasional salt in your veins, Raising the pressure of your blood, and hemorrhage violently within your pain. I am retroactive hindsight, going endlessly back to nowhere, accomplishing nothing, bringing night. I am the well of darkness overflowing, your shackled feet are plunged within. Down you sink, the bottom never knowing. Fall 2010. |
