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 Hierarchy of Angels

Forgive me if I fail to see

The flattery in your Joie de vivre

Correct me if I’m insincere

In disregarding the context of your cheer

What’s left tomorrow is often the rejected

Frames of today

Distinguish yourself through honor

Open your heart to verite and

All the lies will fade away

Forgery of purpose is impossible

If dedication is one’s only vice

Destitution of promise is but

A reflection of internal strife

To calm such seas in tumult

Simply intuit the breath, exhaling

All denials and debilitating thrush

And such is the way

And such is the path

     To delve fully in such direction

     Is to submit to potent tracts

In truth there is forgiveness

In strength one finds the gravity of love

     In harmony there lives a peaceful serenade

     Serenity one could almost touch

As one walks the valleys of the parent

All allegories are revealed

When one accepts all that is as what is served

There will be a hierarchy of angels revealed

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.