Stages of Mutilation (ad nauseam)

Never been so sick with self I could taste it in the back of my throat

most like oysters growing algae, and this me, I scream 

and she freezes like a dumb deer on the winding dark highway.

Blindly bounding, bound and blind. Why I do mind the interruption!

My way, the high road, widening and re-routing due to corrosion.

Adult servitude has made me more wild than civilized and I despise 

the empty chit-chat, predictions, philosophy of catastrophe and empty

arguments that produce nothing I would swallow, hollow-remember?

I have not made myself clear in years, the only deep lines be

on my face. And my watch is dying, I hear it on my chest at night. Laugh lines. Elephantitis of my wet ware smearing ink and I still think it might work

with some flammable liquid. That is what we do to keep warm.

‡

Never be successful in a lifetime. Have you read any biographies lately? 

The good ones go

to better places, I think...and since I can no longer drink

myself there I swear I will 

I will

I will

I may....I mean to try to explain and this tiny truth laughs in my face,

which is why I should never stare deeply into any mirror

at those crows feet blue lies.

‡

Shut up! I have said, over and under, through and thru synapses

shot in my head. They said; put that voice in a jar, take a walk, 

don't talk to anyone about your crazy ideas, they will die-

Dead. You're crazy ideas, You Are

not the first nor the last to go unlisted, name twisted, dumbed down

held hostage, manipulated, occupied, and easily entertained 

by self-deprecation in all its bold colorless forms. Muted.

‡

You ugly. You can't. You ain't. Not gonna quit. Not worth

a spit, high and dry, my mouth tastes that salty green poison and 

I suck-

What would someone like me possibly do with dumb luck?

I already owe too much interest on borrowed intelligence, a smart curse,

and it hurts

but leaves no mark. SH. Self Harm and alarm bells, my squashed spirit yells, 

You win. I gag at my mocking grin, dripping bile down my chin

I can only hope to lose my inside voice. 

Painting by Yehuda Pen, Self Portrait Muse and with Death (1924) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

gains & drains & when it rains

If I had a grand

I'd call back that 

paralegal named Gabriel

and retain his professional services 

and following his advice, proceed to 

take out my hammer and

nail that lying selfish bastard to the wall.

He knows

most of the gist already.

It wouldn't take long to catch that Gabriel

up to date

nothing has changed.

He knew this would happen. 

I have waited impatiently.

I am working on this.

I want justice.

I want to feel it is fair for us two,

minus ethos and numerology.

Wrong or right 

redemption is truant. AWOL. 

-cognito err go some-

The Karma 

must have broken down 

in the median 

hazards on, hood up,

awaiting a ride on my back,

again. Help. A tow. 

I am Lost en route.

And although not generally a vindictive

Entity, myself, 

I'd really like to make 

it hurt, permanently.

I'd prefer to take more 

than that idiot has

left from his gambols and gains,

that would be a nice Rebate. 

At least a little freedom, breathing room

sometime somewhere soon...

I know space and air is expensive.

There is no room of my own,

I can only afford to share.

He is taking too much

for himself, 

except accepting 

any responsibility what-so-never.

It could be just me, broken 

without any money. 

If I had a grand 

I should want to take that Stanford class

instead of making such poor investments

with my free time. 

Yet we both know

grand ideas, worthless pennies,

are all I have thought

left.

Painting by Juan de Flandes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

 

Nature vs. Nurture

Madness. No.
Happiness is fleeting glints
called Moments
we had it all

going along, the way we rolled
dice, high and wide
and thought throwing our cubic weight
around displaced any

matter our way at all.
Red. I read it in black and white,
No. I saw an orca pass through,
rarely, winter in San Diego

so it was weird, and then I remember
they are more traveled than we
and speak louder
amongst themselves, miles away

intonation carries, not by volume
of course-migration.
This is the name we gave to travel
frequently, and holiday and cetacean

all of our conceptual ponds.

No. This makes sense.
We were just busy with containing
must and should, which we may need
to carry with us atop this

Madness. Spinning out of alignment.
Speed wobbles. Yes or No
should have been enough
for a firefly or bacteria to glow.



Painting by Johan Christian Dahl (1819) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Glowing Architect

It is 4:02 a.m. and I am already boiling like an unattended pot,

raging my physical states away.

I smell putrid creeping out of every tiny cranny I see

and do nothing but type as look confident, experienced at this

control, as though connected to something, plugged in.

Meanwhile, I am spinning out, fraying and backspacing,

all that was ever tight in the world

unravels at my bare feet.

Materials and shelter, busy bodies building,

there is one right tool for the job,

so why 

have I 

not pulled out my own rusty heart and lubed  

palms or squeaky wheels?

It doesn't fit. May be the wrong size...

I realized this is not what was expected

from how it started, or turn out like

what I tried to right.

You are glowing, they said.

Fire. 

I like the warmth 

on my back as bridges blaze

keeping me orange and distant.

Tension is essential in trades.

Where you see space and room to grow

I have seen structures diminish these.

Remains to be seated

I had been staring at Van Goghs empty woven seat chair,

where he left his pipe, and all the aesthetic advice

of others alone, given room.

Is this pretty, accurate, I wonder

do we really agree to disagree,

I can no longer hear any one.

Yet in this instance, my tile floor is the same,

I wonder where we went…

I wonder would I listen to opinion, like onions,

what makes a beauty, is it unami?

Does beauty know it is some thing

special, sees ordinary and adds extra...

I have a mark on the top of my left foot,

Some call it a mole, I spy on it more usually.

It is often under cover,

unless I am caught barefoot.

It is pretty to me.

I also have a strawberry-

patch that I myself cannot see.

I came this way. Stamped and stickered.

Lately, my blue eyes have turned all grey.

My hair grows on, twisted and tangled.

Overtime,

It helps to see excess skin. Our outfits are now

hanging out of place, dangling heavy dead dreams.

Aging strains our vertebrae,
and wrinkle releasers wreak havoc on new software.

Our critical updates have failed.

Like you, I despised my body for far too long,

it has only gotten worse. It has gotten old.

I wear it down
to nothing.

Somewhere between scars and black

tattoos, my tastes have changed

and details have grown
and fascination falls short.

Aging is pretty when felt deeply.

Somewhere down the hall lies
Beauty, the ugly frame
hangs empty. Which are we,
classically posed
beasts of opportunity
making white
walls
more colorfully...

(non finito)

“I would define the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the intellect or with the conscience it has only collateral relation. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever wither with Duty or with Truth…” 

-Edgar Allen Poe (The Poetic Principle)

Painting by Vincent van Gogh (1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Less is More, More or Less

There have been difficult times
I knew the right thing to say
and I honestly don't know how I knew
the exact words to highlight what had been hidden.
There have been less
trying times, I said
                 Nothing
not knowing right from wrong.
Between these
Ends
all the good times evade precise
meaning
over
time
the bad days try to remind us
how easily opinions change in the sun.
The only words left
spaces between.

Painting by Edward Robert Hughes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Firmament (Hi-Q)

Why always the sky?
Does your hair move in the wind?
Breath is not just mine.


Image credit by Brian W. Schaller (Own work), Windy Day Great Sand Dunes in Colorado (U.S.A.) [FAL], via Wikimedia Commons.