Freestyling

Body on an axis, a plane all it’s own—

Vertebrae stacked, aligned,

Proportionate to the space above

And the depths below we hope never shall we know

One arm—let’s call it right—

Up and out, down and in—

Stretched and placed

Cutting through—

     While palm collides

Over coursing, invisibly aligned, the metacarpal shifts, turns, turns, turning,

     All the while returning in, unnerved yet unnoticeably misinformed…it’s only the observant eye, the kind that can catch the ghosts that live between and through the chasms of the breath…bearing a structure;

An angular procession; with pulling tension, culling

All about, contouring what connections

The body feels, as it does, until the cycle

Spurs parallel, another action pushing further,

Away, and out, delaying all that could have and may still become—a semicircular pattern; a crucible undone, leaving only milliseconds before the symbiosis shatters all the ills that never were, yet thought had been, completed sums…Shall we…begin again

HOW many breaths will you choose to take in between?

A Fraudulent Decay

Inspirations

For an otherwise

Uninspired world.

Stagnation mates with ennui,

Trigger offends frame.

Desperation reeks of fear

Grinning in contempt

Decay

We all do

Some late, some soon,

Some in peace,

And then there are the others,

Those that will eventually find themselves

Prematurely exhumed

Or dispatched as they’ve lived,

A fraudulent canvass is a canvass nonetheless

The Connection Between A Rhythm and a Stare

 A floe of Gypsy temptation,

     Thinly skims the apex of the surface,

A slue of dull possession,

     Swiftly spinning from it’s stance

There is a collection of delineation,

     An elementary beguilement in askance

There is a sidling of salvation,

     An impropriety of sauntering proportions

Agog, too eager

     To enliven the mirage that blindly

Inhibits the colluding prescriptions that

Control the signatories of sight

                 

Within the wherewithal of sanity,

Exists a microcosmic spasm,

Infatuated by impossibility and the relics of its kind,

Where, if not attended to, imagination may run amok—

And become rampant, writhing to the contagions of such designs

And in premature conclusion, I must declare, that there’s a curious delusion—a connection between a rhythm and a stare

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I was very honored and privileged to have been interviewed by the very talented Laurie Kolp for this week's Pretzels & Bullfights Spotlight at D'Verse.  I'd really appreciate it if you could swing by and read the interview and learn a little bit more about little old me.  And yeah, she even made me sound really interesting:)  All kidding aside though, she really did a tremendous job with the questions and putting the post together. 

On that note, I'd just like to take the time to send, A big thank you to Laurie and to D'verse for hosting such a great series and of course, for thinking highly enough of me and my work to shine the spotlight on me this week.

  

West of Continuance

When participating in formulaic endeavors, it’s best to carry a totem for luck.  I used to be partial to rabbit’s feet, but always found I’d wind up getting jabbed by the pointy end and regretfully cursing it, which, of course, negated any of the positivity it may have previously held.

Soldier of confidence…

     When confronted

By the daggers of the damned…

Stay silent…creep…but do not creek

The boards beneath your rest…lest

Entanglement inevitably shall come

Circumvention of wisdom

Through novellas spoke in plain

Catatonia begs me entrance now

As dreams of swaddling days

Corrupt my mournful wake

When participating in formulaic endeavors…it’s best to carry a pen, for those times the mind wanders west of continuance

The Pleasantries Conjured By Lute

Somedays we unwind
by wandering aimlessly
Stuttering in calm
collections of blank dream state
Freely floating cloudiness

Sometimes
I like to do
nothing
other than
turn on some
music, grab a glass
of water
and sing along

someone once told me
the value of multitasking
to which I just wind
up distorting the seams
blending the lines
and creating visions askew

And then
there are points
where all I want
to do
is listen to the
sounds of medieval fairs
where the inspiration
of the lute
never fail to illustrate
the potential in us all.

Just a quick piece, something to wind down from a long day.  Kind of stream of consciousness, well it was to begin with anyhow.

Insight buried in a box of dust

Relinquish power,

cede control,

abolish apprehension

of everything unknown.

Tension writhes in fear

It’s leaves wither in despair

over a coming cloud, that is

told to be of foreign origin, has been

foretold to bring the swirling whirls

of disruption and the wrenching

gusts of disturbance,

that distances the warmth above

away from the barren vacancy

existing below,

it provides a commonplace, one unlike

what most had ever grown accustomed

to seeing, to breathing in, something so strange

and wonderful, you ponder it’s meaning, and

amateurishly chart its probability of having been

created from heaven or heathen

and this borderline somehow

offers a tingling sense of desire,

a curiosity, an anticipation, an uncanny

combustion of fire—waylaid in its dormancy

while all the while impatience shrugs

it’s vengeful neck, from which the body heats

to an ungodly burn—painting thoughts, color

and emotion in an increasingly frantic harness

of terrible twos at thirty-eight, transforming

the pleasure of the new, into the jaded askew—

and so the grey floods the freeway with the oil upon a seemingly gentle feathered brush.

And so charcoal dances, always is, dancing in the distance, waiting for the dry-erase wipe of pleasure.  Anticipating conditioning will coil in the way it always does, and bleak ennui shall once again fill the ever-combative attention span of the what’s next to break societal view.

and it’s in this fledgling composition, where

wisdom could grow to be unlike anything

we had ever known.  But sadly, patience and savor

is not encoded within.

But the composition accumulates its dust-filled coat,

wearing it like a badge of honor, understanding it is

but a statement of the current time, knowing, knowing

that one day, a hand shall wipe clean the dusty frame,

and there, in that moment, these eyes will truly see,

the wonder and importance of what lies beneath.