A Year Lost

March 9, 2015

The artistry has disappeared, long dead beyond that frozen space. I’ve lived an ordinary life for a year now. Still full, but somehow bland. No great artistic revery (peripheral artistry at best), no overarching melancholic masterpieces. No marauding dreams, sandal-clad and beckoning me to the camel lands. No science fiction rapture, like the great nights of old-somewhere inside of me that desperate adventure feeling reeling away my equilibrium. No starfish wading through those low tide-pools of vitreous humor there within my eyes. No anything, really. Just an ordinary life.

Well now it’s time to wake me up. To drag out the old toolbox and get those old dreams humming along again. There is so much value in art. There are hardly any better ways to live than as an artist. And I’ve always liked to call myself an artist but somewhere I got a little lost a little while ago. And now I’ve lived a quarter of a century a single man. And now I am to marry. Let that be beautiful enough to ignite the inner fires, burn me down inside until I’m raging with stories and songs. It’s been a year lost. It’s time to wake me up.

How do I?

September 22, 2013

How do I stand up when my feet don’t even reach the ground?

Not Literature

May 13, 2013

What filigree your letters loop!

Such calculated confidence in each blooming capitol

Like someone wound some days around

your pages, and I’m treasuring these words

 

You’re creased in consequential places

dog-eared at each chapter, your length long-winded

in the right way, edited so we only see the words

within the chapters, numbered and bound

 

Still, each time I read you with more care

Your pages frailing, gilt-edged only gently

And the corners of the chapter heads

only serve to age you, and remind me that I’m not the first to read

 

Sometimes I scrutinize you, see the scrawl

beneath the printed weight, the lonely palimpsest

You’ve carried for these decades

The weightier of stories told-the first edition only I have seen

 

I read these deeper words, praying to see my name

inscribed beneath the ordered lines, some sentiment

Perhaps renamed so only you and I can tell

These stories are our stories, novel in the ways we are alive

 

But I am only tertiary, an afterthought to sell the plot

I’m gone within a scene and so I close you

With a dusty puff of pages opened rarely

and understood or read so much the less

 

You are not literature nor am I champion or swain.

The Terrible Truth

April 17, 2013

These lights are so bright, so bright against our faces
These knives cut so deep, so deep into our graces
And here we bleed, we bleed for all to see
Together in our mistakes and in our misery
I reach for you forever and you lend your dreams to me

These days are too long, too long for us to stay
These words fall so short, so short no matter what I say
So here we bleed, we bleed for all to see
Together in our focus and in our misery
You make my world worth keeping and I give you all of me

Lost In The Spectrum

March 1, 2013

Lost in the spectrum, like syncopated synapses, foreshortened and hastened to never reach consequence. The subconscious elements whelm but not overwhelm, bubbling recklessly against my better judgment, wearing the whisper-thin walls down around me. My confidence bothered, my eloquence sordid. Digested like so much paper-wrapped meat.

And the heart will continue to beat, but the mind will not listen, lost in the spectrum. The arrogant noise, colors in kaleidoscope, reeling and wheeling to keep the mind focused on the patterns of change. Patterns of anger and patterns of posturing, screaming at the sky for another star to fall. This ugly human mind. So fallen… so tasteless, still picking the paper from my teeth.

Where will I go? The lights here are blinding. Where will I stop? I am lost in the spectrum of humming cacophony, the whisper-thin walls painted white but the water’s still threatening falling right through. The tragedy here, in the spin without motion, the subconscious ocean of wants without need, is not error or romance. The tragedy here, as my head eats my heart, is that love is not love as I knew it would be.

I have seen lights as would blind you, and gladly, and I can remember those innocent days. But I have seen shadows that swallow that brightness and I am lost in the spectrum between brilliance and shade. Is there more light to be seen as I fade?

Home

December 1, 2012

You are not your own. You were made to fail. You were built to fall apart. They damaged you before you made your first steps, tasted first breath. There’s a cage that’s got your name. It’s shined up and it’s waiting. Come inside. This is your home.

Silly Little Poem…

November 8, 2012

Sometimes I fall to pieces. Sometimes I fall for you. But when I’ve hit the ground again, I know it’s nothing new.

The shadows in my pictures. The whispers in my walls. The whole long year is only here for every leaf that Autumn falls.

And seeing you from distance is like watching oceans sway, with each new swell a sacrifice that carries all your hope away.

But seeing you so closely is like watching starry skies. Counting fallen stars is easier than looking in your eyes.

We break like brittle battlements beneath the weight of time. Our love was much too desperate, too delicate to be sublime.

And yet we both have faltered now that we are both alone. I’d like to say, with all we’ve lost, that somehow we have grown.

But I am just a wasted chance, and wasted years for you. If I could make me disappear, I promise you that’s what I’d do.

I Disappear

October 16, 2012

I think there’s something wrong…

What do you mean?

…something wrong with us. Don’t you feel it?

No. …yes. What is it?

I feel small. Used. A very delicate piece of a larger machine.

You mean the work we do? I’m starting to wonder what it is we’re really doing. Who we’re working for… I saw something. I haven’t been the same.

Yes. I saw you that night. I saw them chase you into darkness. You shouldn’t have asked for me. Now they’re watching both of us.

Who are they?

I think they call them Supervisors. I think they’re here because of what we’ve seen. Every time I try to understand something… happens.

What?

I disappear.

How?

I don’t know. I just… fade. I go out. Listen. This is what we’re not supposed to know: The City-it’s a piece of something bigger. It’s like fire to them. Like gears.

And what are we?

We are the steam. The smoke. We’re only ghosts.

(She begins to waver)

I don’t think I’m going to make it out of here.

What do you mean?

They’re here. They’re listening!

We need to tell somebody. We need to let them know. This isn’t right.

You need to run. Get out of… (And she is gone. He sits alone in the dark room for several long seconds, breathing deeply, staring at the space that used to hold her. Then he stands up, turns his back to us, and walks into the night.)

I Catalogue The Night

August 27, 2012

I catalogue the night. I am on every street. I see the city in it’s layers, shadows amidst darkness, distant lights swallowing the sky. I am in every neighborhood. I am just beyond your windows, not a voyeur or a messenger. Not a watcher. I am there to understand and to guarantee that the machine continues running. That the blood continues moving. That the air maintains it’s cycle.
    In and out. This city breathes but you can’t hear it, can you? Running in your circles, but you don’t know what you are. You are singularly unimportant. You are universally divine. And yet you do not know. How could you? You cannot see this city as I can. You cannot know these streets or walk these sunken corridors. I am always. I am focused. I am powerful and yet I am fragility itself. I am alive in dusk and mirrors. I am whole in the movement of crowds, the tension in distances, the absence of silence.
    I catalogue the night. But you will never know.

WasteLand

July 11, 2012

Our horses are doubt and disaster and we sit bowlegged, bow backed and estranged, grey children of some tainted army. I don’t remember what I’m fighting for. Smoke rages and rises above these shallow, tangled valleys and we salute from the backs of our screaming, sweating mounts. None of us remember anymore…
We are the children of a miracle race, born damaged millennia ago. Born damaged and crawling away from that sacred place, that holy holy place, where God stood strong and untouchably masterful. We began in betrayal, refugees from our proper selves. Broken and fumbling, we grew empires with our atrophied hands, filled our beds with unholy power, and raped the beauty and the joy with which we had been made.
And so our people grew, strange and with an angry strength. We grew into our failure, from boy to damaged man, our eyes and mind in tandem, unable to look back upon the horrors of our history. Instead we see the smoke upon the hills, feel the sorrow move beneath us, saddled and uncomfortably strong. We see but do not remember why our world is burning. We feel but do not remember why we chose to tie ourselves to all the worst within us. And so we ride to satisfy a need to understand.
And in this trackless desert we move through a rain of ash, flesh and hair and bone falling like water, soaking into us. We taste but do not know the flavors of our ancestry. And so we swallow, borrowing what little nourishment this warm and bitter rain allows.
And sometimes there are voices in this massive, empty wasteland and then it is we realize that we are not alone. We try to listen, but our awkward ears can’t know the language of these places with so little practice listening.  We wander on, each time forgetting every sound.
On strange and rare occasion there is a thin and sallow sun that shows its light, breaking for moments through the endless smoke. Our eyes burn with this new fire. We look and cannot look away for fear of losing this new feeling in what could have been our hearts. We move as if to fall from our frightened mounts but our legs have long forgotten how to hold our bodies up. And then that sun is gone.
On rare occasion, when the air is pushed in angry storms, we take uneasy refuge in our passions, laid out like caves at the waist of the hills. The little light is choked as we move farther within, hand over hand reaching out, feeling little more than the uncertainty of our own skin. We breathe deeper here, take thin and desperate delight in the heady squalor of our gasping bouncing from wall to unseen wall, find ourselves afraid of this new place, find ourselves leaving too soon.
We leave delicately, back to our travels from nowhere to nowhere, finding our own tracks from time to time, believing them to be proof that some other must exist. The cities burn and we are all alone within this wasteland that is life.