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| One way calls sincerity a thousand times in anger, hoping not to break
the fall of genuine truce. The other offers the silence of
stability, waiting for the volume of cries made in anger to rise in
expectation. Could green grass and bright sunshine re-open the
wounds of a thousand bleeding prophets? What if the rain could
sing a discourse, painting the cieling of my mind's cathedral?
how could a cry, so utterly blatant fall on this set of ears, never to
be heard...no matter how deaf they truly are?
It is possible, within correct attatchments. Dramatic
grids propose solutions to wonderful for words. When spite leaves
for holiday, warm air brings with it the muffled hints of joy I feel on
autumn days. Many may say that a mural painted in the blood of
wise men, screaming to be seen is something to be overlooked, perhaps
to run from. but i?
I enjoy the green grass, bright sunlight, cold rain and yes, the
cries i can never truly hear. For if our souls are not open to
sincerity and stability where would we find ourselves in the eve of
awakening?
| | |
| Second hand t-shirts beg me to call you as your picture rings in my
ears like a phone. The lonely truth of a far-away bride looms in
the face of all that a man seeing double can imagine. And all
that the imagined discrestionary population can imagine is the day that
this stumbling drunk will again find his lover and leave their
community.
| | |
| The brightness of a thursday night sunset brings me to my knees,
with firieflies surrounding my ears attempting to drown you out.
It's 50 degrees, cold and I can see,
my breath and life in the shadows cast by a matter of time.
Street corners cry, runways sing the opera of leaving
as love screams my name, the fog blowing the fireflies away...
there you are.
| | |
| A state of time, as braketed consciousness falls with the blue-posted
night lights of New York or Boston on rainy Februarys. A time
when the screaming masses surrounding make it 4 times worse. They
can't (see feel touch taste learn hurt break hide) and dont want to
help. Broken witness blames crimes on the bearer of a coffin who
made it possible on the corner of 9th and Vine, but he's disreputable
(coke speed lsd heroin pcp) and shouts claims in the pouring rain
too.
The victim and the witness, surounding solidarity in the
consciousness of the other, for they are soulmates, one in the same,
holding fast to the street light, blue posted from his coffin, so that
he might not fall into the flames of hell that he's tripped over.
That is what's in the air on nights like this--these are the times when
you feel the world is crashing in on you, only to see that really, it's
just the inner-workings of your mind, surrounded by a growning mass of
people who dont care...who will never care, who in reality, make it
worse and make it crash down that much harder and faster.
| | |
| She always made me laugh, she always smiled at
me. She'd tickle me, tell a joke, or draw 13 flowers on my
pants. It was her curly hair and dark bown eyes that demanded i
hug her like a small child.
It was her wit, rising from maturity beyond her years that
blanketed my heart with love. My sunny day, joy on a Wednesday sunrise,
my challenge of safety.
Her mechanical intrigue and ability to see
beauty as i submitted her name to immortality, cast in the steel of
1968. Growth in the urging of rice-paper pages, resting in church
on April mornings, bonfires on October afternoons and a love for jeeps
on evenings in December.
Now, she makes me cry when i hear that song that i
can't sing anymore. it's blood; razors and guns, staining
hardwood floors the same color as the blood screaming in my veins,
aching for her life. The utter agony of defeat's lifeless breath
becomes reality in my sobs.
So much blood held in her eyes and cupped for the
last time, just waiting for her to open her fingers of shame and let it
slowly drip away into her mother's agony as she cried in my arms.
| | |
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