The Bully

Diatribe forged
Forgotten in
Fundamental fashion

Knowledge learnt
best be disposed of
according to the warning
on the bottle it came in

Brickyard thumping
As the bully finds
conjugation reason enough
to berate you before his
congregation there

Sawdust tears stream
from beyond the blackish smog
turning on the brute
in a steal from you and give to me

But bloodied, broken and bruised
I can sit in this crimson pool
knowing that
you can't
know

I can smile those imperfect pearls
and watch as you strut the circle
Praying I stand back up
but I can smile still
in knowing
that you
will never
know

And when you flex your arms
Your body looks like a trident
yet you would never know
that Neptune
ruled the seas

and we're on land-
dry and barren
land

And I smile
For I understand

The body
typically
wears down
much quicker
than the mind

Just A Village

I live in a village, amidst a bustling, albeit deteriorating, metropolis of many.  I live in a village without streets of its own.  No, seriously.  We have avenues, circles and courts, as well as boulevards, roads, traces, parkways and ends.  But streets are concepts foreign to this place I call home.

I’ve been many places, some closer than others, some extremely far.  I’ve seen landmarks reserved for television, others for film sets and I've been to scenes that some believe solely to reside in books.

Despite the definitions used to describe, most places are similar to the ones you’ve seen before, love and perhaps adore.  Now certainly there are differences, some larger than others, some minute to sight.  Some show in vast array others so familiar like the sense of absoluteness streaming outside your window now.  

But when you really whittle it all down, to bare essentials vs. commodity/luxury, you’ll see that a place is what people make it out to be.  There’ll be quirks in each, smiles reserved for those it keeps.   There'll be secret realms, touched only by a privileged few, as well as mysteries even the ancients forgot they knew. 

But of course, there'll be those, the residents who wish the grass would green much brighter than it does, on their lawn, on their side of town.  You’ll also have the indifferent ones, who care little about others, let alone history and crests.  They're the kind who just don’t care or there’ll be those who just complain to cause a stir.  Then there’ll be the tourists who, because something familiar seems too strange, not comfortable with the uncanny feeling invading their frames, they berate your city and its streets, and brag about what they’ve left, back home, to be here with you. Then they'll abscond your place, leaving you with his wake rippling at your feet. 

It makes little sense to insult another’s place of life, perhaps, for most I believe, will feel the same way when they go to yours, yet despite their sickness of home, appreciation showers them in a philosophical well-spun bloom, showing them what they’ve left behind.  Yet despite this transcendence undergone, most, I’d hope, would keep their sentiments to themselves, unless of course they get off on causing others dismay and remorse.  Only in this case, or perhaps if they work for their home-town's housing and/or tourist boards, would I expect to find the welcomed-in guest belittling all the world that’s surrounding me.  It's probably something much more simplistic though.  Probably something like, the person is so tired and sick of his/her own life, they try to bring you and yours down, in order to attempt to raise their own.  But in any case, it's a difference we can do without.

The village in which I live doesn’t have any bi-ways, freeways, sounds or roundabouts.  My village does not have intricate arterials, where traffic fills their skeletal bloodlines tight.  But thruways, connectors and in-roads alike, I believe them all to be similar in purpose if not in name.  I truly see the differences, all the many and the same. 

I wonder though, as being merely the case at hand , perhaps the uniqueness and cherishing spins placed upon, in regards to naming rights and such other nuances found, are just different ways of taking ownership, of and upon, for better or worse, all those things that line their city streets, or village roads, or hamlet’s coves, or …

I have a habit to continue ideas through until they get out of me.  Many I hope never do.  Yet, although the luster of one, may differ on the surface clean, to that of another; underneath, aft the layers peel, a similarity and in a sense, a serenity appears.  

So anyhow, I've been thinking so much about differences (all-inclusive topical) lately. I've been trying to pinpoint rationale and logic, convergence, authorship and more, but some efforts are futile to attempt, when variance and neuroscience are involved, but nonetheless I find poetry, behind the games, wordplay, symbols, puzzle and rhymes, there's an opportunity to work out and find answers, well, at least a furthered understanding, of these thoughts that bleed us down.  So, anyhow, just thought I'd leave a few notes I had in mind.

Polarity

Heavy Metal Rainfall

Upon a conduit of steel,

Hold me up, push me high,

Only inches separate what is

And what is higher,

Thunder from the sky above,

Penetrates the vestige known so well,

The groundwork quaked with premise,

The setting altered time and place

Thematically dislocated, dissolving from the stage

A thumping baseline

Quivers through the ear

Resonating in syncopated irony

Fluctuates the man with polarity of choice,

 Retreat or for scabbard reach

The assault at this point is unknown,

To forecast now, premature, it could call upon

The scholar or the man unskilled,

The former would develop strategy he could not apply,

The latter could not devise, but come the moment he’d react