A Cold Numbness Embraces a Sojourner in Mourning (Some Days Feel Like:)

Dreams castrate the young of ambition,

whisking troubled thoughts away, implanting

euphoria in the place of realized contrition—

Doom is the only premise left unexplored,

when traction disengages the neurology

abandoned within those predestined to starve upon their own needfulness

Feral qualities sliver thin the mirrored gaze,

leaving the only interpretation the imagined

predisposition that reincarnates the deformations of the brain

Catatonia is preferable to the self-imposed restraints

that fit snugly beneath the seam-lines of our favorite

Clothes, leaving only the scents of wherewithal and apathy to fragrance one's ephemerality. 

Shredding the fetters of the past is the only absolution we can deliver truthfully.  Tiny renderings are the adipose reflections we blindly flee from, layering the tornado with a future sconce illuminated by the abandoned renderings of debris.

And then, other days, feel like nothing at all…

Trying to Find an Amoeba in an Expanse of Filtered Sea

listen to ‘Trying to Find an Amoeba in an Expanse of Filtered Sea’ on Audioboo

Angling for reason

         netting nothing but decay

casting for meaning

         reeling nothing back but lines and hooks

and that’s just half the times I set to look

motile yet stasis sits

         upon a thriving throne

where inability’s widely known

Stagnation’s strong

         in this single cell

eyes can’t see

         and minds can’t meld

hands can’t feel

         and hearts can’t heal

I’m longing for the day to come

         when I’ll be seen

for all I would have done

         if you only let me free

 or chose to join me

         encaged but not alone; imprisoned but not afraid

together,

         redefining what makes a home   

The Masthead

Label me an infant

label me a fool

do not trust the anarchist

preaching about rules

label me a scapegoat

label me a tool

do not dam the floodgates

lest inside they form a pool

label me a train-wreck

label me as blind

its good to poke holes in theory

so truth can breathe in time

call me what you like

call me what you don’t

it doesn’t matter to me;

I’ve learned to laugh at all your jokes

labels are scattered; they’re thrown around

labels are but words; always lost, but never found

they have no bearing; they play no role

in who I am, to what I do

they have no influence; they have not a say

as to what fate finds in store for me

your words fall deaf, meaningless and weak

never providing the satisfaction that you seek

your words bring pain to others, highlighting their many scars

but you should be reflecting, as to where the damage starts

your words are but a mere transference

of what you’ve been and where and who you are

sticks and stones…if it appeases you…

just know…that for each judgment cast

I’ll shed a tear in prayer for you—

Forever using those labels as my mast

Be sure to head on over to D'verse for Open Link Night.  The doors open up in just a few short minutes. Starting at 3pm the poetry is always fresh on tap. And while you're there, share a poem of your own. Cheers. 

Fond Memories of Outcasts and Entertainers

Smoke-clouds billow and

I’m left to remember when,

back as a boy, how

magical it would feel, standing

there, popcorn in hand, amongst

likeminded awestruck souls,

watching, without a blink

of blurred focus, as the

death defying men and

women, dressed in sequins and silk,

dance the strings, jump the

ledge, trust the swinging

friend, hanging there

on loops, way up the

tented sky—and there were

horses, lions, and people

who look similar to how I’ve

felt inside. 

There was so many more,

so many enchanting times, every

year, we’d go, as a family

to the greatest show—and

now, adulthood has slapped

me—the circus has since

left town, a while now, yet

it chose today to smoke today

it picked now, to ascend away—

and I remember how smiles

brought smiles and laughter caused

laughter—filling the gaps between

the gasps procured by fire eaters,

feats of strength and cannons—I remember

how it was then—but I also remember

how the clowns, painted as they were,

always made me feel a little bit sad

inside.   

Chapstick

Cracked lips

Ridged sore

Broken

By the drying air

A minor bit of bloodshed

Tiniest amount

Escapes the valleys formed

Along this ravaged route

A Bridge, chipped and frail

Connecting voice

To the driest drift of air

A tender application

Smooth daubs of Vaseline

Form an even spread

From left to right,

Smothering

         Glistened in freshest glimmer

         Lips smacking together

         Pucker-kiss-stare

 In the mirror

         As if upon the stage

Angles

Angles

Everywhere