1…2…3...

Stylized. Chic. Logistically situated atop a precipice that has yet to peak. We are alive, fully functional, yet inherently winded.  We live as we live, ignorant and often ignored.  Flourishing in a sad derangement of philosophy, a tenor trembles, the trebles high, the bass is broken, and the backsides collide in slates filled by worthless plights. We are clustering in collapsible rings, and so the relics flicker to a new decree, instilled anew in 1…2…3…

A high-fructose dichotomy exists. The bling is sated on the side of outdated radio.  There’s an alto sax playing, a barometric drop a-glow with pressure. With the weather here who can know?  Forward marching so shall we go?  Alive, aloof, we are so disbelieving, always looking for that definitive shred of proof, without, it’s all but din and cacophony, a wasted sound spins in 1…2…3…

After and before, before and after, centers of attention, mid-points for disaster, high-strung, low brow, tensions mount, tackle box without bait, we can’t wait, we can’t wait, to be free, to be free, never begins in 1…2…3…

Hi-fi, new wave, Wi-Fi enabled sense of shame, a sentinel, vanguards of tradition take the fall, are decorated with blame, a livewire flickers in the rain, shocking, shocking, mounted atop the roof of mind, finding shelter beneath a tree, electrocution starts in 1…2…3…

a stack of smoke breaks free life’s soot, in stereo, in stereo…history beginning once again, do you believe, can you believe, streaming live in 1…2…3….

Algorithms.  Anomaly’s.  Stars, bars, lines and code, cracking, breaking free, a dynamic apostrophe relates in 1…2…3…

A variety of translucency bleeds light. A latent vibration echoes a shiver. Illustrations and details, set a sail as elusive, it is nature this is not conclusive.  The words are but representations of what could be. They are only symbolic remnants, ruminations of sound, shattering, stinging, stringing bolts together lightning fast, from which an atomic breeze is distinct…sparkling strong in 1…2…3…

Eardrums bleed with potential. Insinuations label the disturbed and mental, a domination of the populace speaks to the decibels herein found, loud and proud, pounding pavement without the soles of shoes ever once touching down to the stone of ground. Lies start their spree in 1…2…3…

Pride, mounted, jib to spar, cards dealt near and far, gonna let her ride, gonna double down.  With a bluff so strong, you’ll have to have the cards to match or else victories pronounced in 1…2..3…

A fire-fight on planet Nero, golden bricks amassing zero, half-life dwindling, flashing fast, quicker than a video blast, sub-cultured species, harnessed-reined, these are but men, yet still heroes of a different dream, sandman strikes in 1…2…3

Another place, another, realm, cast iron, zinc-plated, breast-plate smell. Glistening, gleaming shapes, photons, protons, electrons swell as a neuron’s beam berates us well, pattering upon the trip of wires, higher, higher, the pikes backed up, there’s no way out, doubting the magnitude of what has just transpired, anarchy.  Rioting in 1…2…3…

A turning zephyrs tail-spun wisp, whipping round, made to shift, retching trees up from root. The severed cracks spanning the ground, all is lost, nothings found.  In a place so high, like Kansas singing from the sky, Carry on my wayward friend, one day soon we’ll make amends.  Until then, the past must persist as long as our breaths still mist, gone again, gone again, marching orders coming quick, dialysis is pronounced, the bile’s thick, black in nature, mankind's sick, the bile’s thick, grey-black-brown-green cultivating this damaged scene, action cutting back in 1…2…3…

A serial apprentice in a frost-bit state, alleviating a pressure mostly high, it’s gonna blow, it’s gonna blow, anxiety trembles as tension grows, flames ignite and the tragic flows, every swiftly, ever long, the pastures are a plenty, the iron-work is not as strong as we thought.  We were wrong, we were wrong…our actions erred, our plots are lost, we’ve been caught, red-hands bleed green.  Disgrace curtsies in 1…2..3..

We twiddle our thumbs and hum our tunes, pass the buck and shoot the stag.  There are those that believe in life yet quickly opt for death. These are the yellow that we see, climbing so high up into trees, scared stiff like cats with claws exposing themselves in 1…2…3…

Little green men are arming up. They live below ground, underneath the craters of the moon, some live in fear, others change their gears, holding signs, praying to, whatever probes they will soon find.  Ineptitude reaffirming in 1…2..3…

A lulling gaze is cast, it shines down upon me and you, you and me, and there we are and here we see, a fallen society, reflected upon in 1…2…3..

Fear swims into and out of mind.  Some gets broken; some are bound. Some lose sight; others are slighted before ever being truly found. Numbing in 1..2…3…

 There is true evil in play. It does exist, in the arbors and the groves, in our biases and the hate that grows. It’s danger dangles in the wind, it’s hounds are hunting, the scent is strong, lost soon becomes found, humanity is digging their own plots to lie, worldwide evacuation begins in 1…2…3…

Shingled, shackled, neon sight, jingle, jangle, brilliant, bright, final, finale, fragments, finite, tragic flow, traffic flow, oh so slow, all have stopped to watch the world have itself a go, fireplugs, arsonists, jitterbugs are juking jabs and shuttling stabs, we are as one here in this plan, painful… pain, Houston called.  Problem’s been solved.  Another acronym bleeds another sign.  Abbreviations activate their launch.  They start the clock that’s ticking free. Countdown’s commencing in 1…2…3….

Fireflies in the sky, burning through the night, galactic tumults sure shine bright. The comet’s tail is trailing nigh.  See the ripsaw shredding through its test.  Violating it’s own principles for the camera.  So many are all too eager to show who’s best, itching to dominate all things in view.  Close your eyes and deeply breathe, this may get ugly in 1….2…3…

A conditioned response rings that bell. Sounding chimes, pealing well. The heat, it grows.  The sweltering spells a new communion steeped in heat.  In every nook a glutton hides.  In every shadow there lives a knife.  Greed’s apace in 1…2…3…

1 to 3

1, 2, 3.

One to two

Two to three,

all is changed, yet nothing has. All is through, all is done. Escape routes hatch. Eyes now see.  Eyes believe. What a view, what a view, yet never realizes, it’s simply the same sights they’ve always been accustomed to. Reframing stirs a new beginning in 1…2….3…

For all that’s happened, for all that’s been done, we can only pray something positive from this comes.  Hope commences in 3…2…1…

An Incongruity and Its Ghost (Fear-Unplugged)

I didn't really think I had the time to write a new poem for Poetics this week.  But, that said, I had every intention of submitting a piece I'd previously written, as, fear, is a subject I've written much about.

So, I delved back into the archives for that gem suppressed in time, and understood, one of these would be the choice, the chance to give, for at least this one, a new podium to release its voice.

Twenty-some odd poems read, all dealing with fear, and not a single one I feel embodies the person I am today.  It's odd, I've experienced this sensation many times before.  Digging through older poems, written many years earlier, where there's that moment, "really, I wrote this…oh, look at the grammatical decimation on display," only to chalk it up, as if it was a different version of the man I am today….

But now, having reviewed these pieces, all of which are less than 2 years old, the same bit of reprehension grabbed me by the throat, screaming…REVISE, REVISE…to which I closed my eyes, hit the back button, and ashamedly moved on to what was next.

So, here today, I am writing about fear, in a much different way I had anticipated…

The fear of who one really is…are we truly who we think we are?

Can we know for sure?

Is growth just a word used to explain away a transitional period we can't encompass fully?

More questions than answers

More thoughts….more purge

So, what is one to do?

Typically I would make a serious attempt at philosophizing my way to some logical, rational appeal…but that is not where I'm at today…it's not where I've been in quite some time…just to be honest

It is a place I care not retreat to either, despite the many moments of enjoyment such mental mulling had once produced…instead

I am exhausted, tired of the rigamarole…I fear the body shall never heal the way prayer had instructed me it would…I fear, I'll become a child of the government, resolved to stand in line, for what?

And then…what if the Government decides to abandon their own?

Or, allow for matters entirely worse?

However, I do not fear, for the sake of fear itself…

all these thoughts and positions, I willingly resolve simply as being but one side of imagination's coin…a penance the creatively inclined have historically had to bear…where the possession of a depressed mentality had often been a sign of greatness to come…yet, those types of statistics really cannot be proven…sure, for some, the ones we look up to for inspiration, but how about all the others who suffer quite similarly, yet never amount to much more than being somebody's child, someone's kind…

Yet, all of this can easily be skirted aside, simply by allowing yourself to become consumed by whatever it is that interests you…for me, it's film, it's books.  And it's art and it's poetry too, the kind that does not allow you to catch your breath or pause and reflect upon your own state of being…it's conversation about anything other than….its…

all an illusion, all a facade, one we welcome in,  kindly in cliched arms...

But the fear does not leave your simply because you are fascinated by science fiction or inkblots blurred upon the white page…no, it may seem as if it's gone, but it is not…it's hidden, but make no bones about it...it is still alive and well, just buried below the surface…and it can wait, it grows not old….no, it has all the time and is a patient bugger…a diligently patient son of...

I do not fear this though, for the sake of fear alone is foolish to embrace… for all one has to do, is open their eyes and take in all that is apparent in this world, all the misery and fraud, all the disgrace and disgust…yes, there is plenty to fear, so fearing fear, while certainly real, is not, what scares me…

No, what I fear, is just as apparent.  All the cloaks, shrouds and hoodwinks in this world can not deny what is only one slip up from reveal…it is…

stopping, and catching that unavoidable glance... into the mirror…seeing my very own face…and not recognizing the eyes that return your gaze..

for as we know…mirrors know only truth…and truth they must unveil…

And truth, in many circumstances, is the thing we both laud and fear the most….an incongruity and its ghost….


The party's pretty much in its twilight about now, however, that simply means its much easier to pick your poison from behind the bar.  Stu McPherson serves up some mean drinks, rarely known to water things down…and oh, yeah at D'verse, it's only Top Shelf.  Head on over and read about what strikes fear into the minds and hearts of the poets contributing to this weeks Poetics of Fear.

Portcullises

As I was channel surfing,

         I realized

                  There wasn’t anything on,

                           Except a bunch of boring

                                    Documentaries about drills

 There’s solace in the mark of sound

         And a fade is sure to follow

                  Brittle’s become the charm of man

                           Breaking before the break began

Grey, the darkening of alabaster walls

         White, the abused metaphor of purity

                  Red, stands for life yet also death,

                           But it is dark and I cannot see

The pronation

Of my own hands

Gates, doors

Turning keys

The locks adjust

Tourniquet

 Portcullises of the past reset