To set the record straight about that time I fell of the Horner Bridge

I really jumped.
My friends did not go before me.
I was alone, despite any rumors
I may have been pushed.
The ones that love me
hate the gossip.
They like to think I simply slipped,
like one of those slippery memories.
But I was nevertheless aware all the more
of exactly where I stood,
the risk was irrelevant then.

As in suspension bridges,
where there's stretch and taut,
breadth and span,
it contracts beneath
your soles and whimpers under pressure
when you listen in...
I was standing with my arms out there
wide, back arched, chin jutted out, nostrils open
eyes closed and toes clenched
when something said
the more you know 
the more you die inside a little,
so I thought I'd find the middle when
I lept.

Except I lived to tell
I did it, I meant to
land on my purpose
or fail.
Ending the suspense
finally, in this way.
They say falling
I add willfully,
blindly, unafraid
and as it relates to history,
I fell hard
and only for me.

Image By Charlesdrakew, North Stoke Suspension Bridge (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Looking (for a) Glass

I don't need to tell you,
you've already found it.
I don't know how, most people don't
look that hard.
I don't know if I'm happy you did-
which doesn't move me to change
places, here.

I don't mind being stashed
cached in the very dark back,
be-hind-sight
out of the light.
I don't take up too much space-
which is why I haven't been cast out
yet, I'm easy to forget, easy to lose
sight of.

I don't detract from the ones right
in front, pulled out, polished
and put back so pretty-
most often that's not me.

I'm not fine or porcelain, stamped or etched.
I'm not clear but clouded with a chip
where you're likely to put your lip,
yet I still hold water and have dusty hope
built up that someone will reach over
the others for me.

Every time a door opens, I tremble.
I think they can see me too, like you
while I'm lying low, but no,
I'm just a back-up cup.
Overflow, you know when
extreme circumstances make
desperate measures, hot or cold
I will hold.

I don't want anyone else to see
all of these stains inside of me-
the ones you've already seen
and aren't afraid of making more
as you pull me up and take me out
-I pour-
wanting your bloody lips all the more.





Image by Aurélio de Figueiredo (1894) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Done with Do-nation

Dutifully unattached,
with nothing to hold onto
it is faith that floats
when nothing is left, you have done right.
Giving, to give, give it all away and pray,
my wish for you, my everything...
Be just, just keep what you have taken and leave me
alone since I have nothing of value
any more than I will be...
All that I could get, I tried to do for you...
To give, to want the best soley for you,
all that I do it was-
I shouldn't say it
in this way,
but I'm lost and cannot find
the kind
the need...
High and low I looked, sought, and fought
for more, yet there seems to be
none left in store
of what I have no more of
like love,
there's nothing more above,
I've given out more than I had,
none for me but I now can see
from looking down on thee-
Life seems much lighter when your empty.





Image of painting by Edmund Leighton (1895) The Chairty of St. Elizabeth of Hungary [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Elementary and Primary

Basically,

these three things;

(by) Blood, (by) Air, and (by) Sea

and their causation with us

we are able feel inertia
in these,from these
most elementary, learn of

likeness, of course-ness, like us, 

matching a certain momentum, 

catching Time in between any of these

molecular miracles, mimicking 

all that we are (not) and more

that we may bear witness

as Being

as Blue

And though, it may seem true, 

temporarily

but truly, beneath all three,

as deep as one could show,

I know and have long said

I would paint them red instead.

Call me color-blind

and paint me white

whatever you do

don't say,

I shouldn't be blue.

Image of painting by József Rippl-Rónai [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

An Affair with the Start

I try not to deny

there are others

who like me

who relish

the intimacy

of sunrise.

But every dark morning to myself

makes me think, over time,

for a few stolen moments

I exist in the world.

That dusky dawning sky sees me there

ruminating as I revel

in its wee hours

most others (dis)miss.

Sleep does not compare

to the sun's awakening;

peeling back the purple sheet,

lightening up

and stirring the ashy cirrus

lit only by our clandestine routine.

It is between us

that watch the sunset, 

contentedly,

winking when the green flash

sparks oohs and ahhhs,

sometimes

called inspiration 

in others.

Yet it tells me, with envy,

our tryst will continue

tomorrow

as soon as 

I rise

for our sub rosa occasion,
the best part of mourning
the day.

Image of painting By T.C. Steele, Sunrise (1847 - 1926) (American) (Artist, Details of artist on Google Art Project) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Traffic at the Top of Privledge

It seems to be moving
                                   along quicker now.
I am not switching-indecisiveness
                                   is dangerous.
It's slow enough to look
                                   out the windows
and get a sense of where you are
and all that is out there.

Not where you are going,
                                   but passing through, some seem stalled-
but you're no expert.

That one exit is always jammed
                                   and the line continues to grow-
no matter what time.
They creep, and honk; impatient to arrive.
It does not make it faster
                                        and they act as if already too late
to gather any remaining free gifts, you keep what you reap
(and much more).

It will be nearly over when they arrive.

Everyone who invites themselves knows it
                                                                     is all in their honor.

The new King and Queen of Entitlement will be crowned!
Dunces of Deservitude!

I've never been invited, or dropped in on one of these
                                                                     formal functions
where some super special ones are showered with interest,
and accrue an air of finality and justice in their grandiloquence.

You have passed them.
They are driving their Destinies, exiting
into Karma town, talking on their iWant and
counting all the righteous people ahead of them.





Image by Marjory Collins, Traffic Jam 1943 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Kafkas Bee Stings

To go out on a limb
I dare test the weight
when I say, I understand Kafka this way;
It is not crazy to say there are Samsa's even today.

When I stand below 30 foot blades of grass,
called reeds,
when I brace the arch of my foot upon the burl
at the base of a redwood tree,
when I lean into the onshore wind, steady at 20 plus
while the ocean surges, spilling its seams

it does not unravel me

To know how small we may be
here and now, this and that
as is
can change
will
be-
come

When I see bricks and iron
trying to scrape the sky
I smile wide, and laugh
at our grand endeavors
so easily eroded
back into the dust of us
that never leaves
but collects and dulls,
and lingers in the light.

Now, to an insect, a mote may be a mountain,
and ant hill, the Andes;
one of those places we look up
and are showered in our deluge of naivete.
An innocence that washes away, sheds, refuses
its state, affixed with distorted perceptions
of name, place, size and domain, to roam and dwell.
While it is unnatural, deplorable to many,
to conceptualize that our taxonomy
doesn't belong with the birds.
None of us evolve as eminent as these.

That's what I believe Franz says
when he means, Gregor wakes from his dream,
hating honeyed honesty, preferring analogy
through entomology, so it would most simply seem
when explaining such reproductive things.




Image By Maria Sibylla Merian (1647-1717), Metamorphosis XXIII, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.