Oxidized

Sometimes I like to stop and read,

The Eyes, the fabrics, the every-things

Painted forever, forward or reverse,

Atop mediums unrehearsed, where only flesh-built lines

Distinguish value apart from worth

Some days I seem to think the canvas is smooth to the touch,

Life’s dreamscapes amassing, captured and caressed, through the

Inspiration and residue, left alit in oil’s love

However, on occasion, I dwell in ferment, upon the cracks, crinkles and creasing spots and marks, fabricated by untrained, unskilled, eloping eyes of smudge.  Filaments turn awry, when prospect cold in shy. Trust becomes a victim, that’s been betrayed too many times.

Sometimes I like to listen, to the glistening silence surrounding and soothing me.  I reflect upon the imagination and on how, in some ways, the voice cannot command nearly the wisdom of such, as does the subconscious, softening yet expanding reaching for an ounce of speech.

Yet in words, written or oral, faith divides the haves and naught, proliferating profundity with every afterthought.  A dimensions sweltered passiveness, wrinkled free in smooth replay, as choruses of canticleers, come pronouncing life in bold and unique ideologies, allows the mind too focus upon the very mention of lasting thought.

Sometimes, however, it’s nice to pause.  Whereas the ferocity of globular challenges can isolate our peas within their pods, resisting the silence of mobility, created happily through mental passageways built atop prismatic beltways of implications, refusing to go slow. 

In philosophy though, when stressing the unstressed, suppressing the natural to prematurely grow, an ironing of stability becomes the blessed causality, for both the new and old.  

A subtlety of the above, a side effect, a little shove

Strangely surviving the whines and whirrs,

Comes forth a destiny none so much gave a second glance for mirth

Yet when this philosophy finally protrudes, and when the thoughts begin to stew, along comes a heated glove, ironing out the pocks and holes, smoothing out a finished touch, allowing prosperity to unfold

Upon such happenstance, it’s possible for trust to oxidize into gold.

Curtain Call

Steady is the valance

Wrinkled are the drapes

The blind abstracts focus

As the outside retracts its call

Enclosed 

Until curtains draw

 A stated shade

Reflects it all

Beyond the tint of shadows

Between the aged frame

There lays a pane

Tempered and alone

Steady is the valance

Glue above a fabric

Aching for repeal

Only as the light reenters vision

Will the settled dust reveal

Dim Witted

Colonial Candelabra

Dim resolutions preyed upon

Ergo the laughing gas

Anything important I could say

Is usually self contained

A Flux In-Tempo

Tempests squirm over banshee wind,

Flux in tempo, sad escape

Giants worth demonetarized

Fluctuating between the you and the should be

Toggling above, below the encapsulated swelter

The shading, gradating ratio of dysfunctional distress,

Together with germination, pollination and confused iteration,

They forge a gulley, eroded by stench and stealth,

Birthed in demented plurality, askew to visions that compare, albeit slightly, to an amalgam’s spell,

Fostering diffused delight, via transmissions to and from an interferon’s interfering consistency

Embark towards ventures we go, of impossible requite and sleepless dreams

Theories and theology, sifting dust from rotting ability, from ink and sweat a quests begun,

Stretching across sinew’s conformity, forth into forever arching factorials,

Generating clutch hypothesis while grazing arboretum’s fields of reflective brush,

Ravenous diviners come and spout, where output is plenty yet offerings never enough,

So in disguise the vapors disseminate themselves

Elation, deflating from depressed sedation of a mind unknown,

Arousing complexity throughout the legions, kneeling in systemic disbelief,

Gyrations flushing contemplations of irritated states of rhyme, fluency

Exaggerated in polemic standoffish prayers for parametric release,

A crash cart has long since been, on notice, against whitened wall,

As the triage awaits your date of arrival

Consecration of a Fallen Man

Back me into a corner,

For lack of power I’ve transposed,

For lack of will I’ve succumbed,

From talisman to the snake bitten and embattled shell of one

Now acknowledgment displays to me,

The ignorance of the righteous man

Oxygen escaping the throat,

Resurrection of the rule proposed,

I’m the effigy I’ve grown to be,

A false proclamation of immediacy,

Where distraction settles,

Distraction dwells,

No longer is strength a matter

When the subconscious is involved,

Back me to that corner,

Until the sky is dim

The air less warmer,

Hold me down until submission,

Before I burn, I first do blister

Movements of the martyred man,

Paths paved in solace,

Past deeds shoved, to the wayside,

Awaiting approval, anticipating a decisive claim to be,

Directions carved in stone and sand,

Directives honest and direct,

Where even the weakest can reflect;

Where even the smartest can respect,

Without hubris’ burdening,

You now see what I should have long ago,

Here I am, now standing still,

Before you now I reveal to you,

The consecration of a fallen man

My Blessed Valentine

My blessed valentine,

You are of my blood

Yet you are composed

From different strains,

Uniqueness, some would say,

Peculiarity, others may flavor,

But you are my finest hour,

The moment I cradled you between my arms,

Such delicate fabric,

Knowing nothing but trust,

The constructs of fear and mistrust

Have yet to enter the matrix of her brain,

No connection to reality

She floats and move as if she’s floating,

Ignoring the air surrounding,

For this wearied and tiresome

Straggler through the trail of life,

This little pumpkin has sprouted and reignited

A passion, a flower blooms now

All with the voiceless mission to watch this stem develop

Into the flower she will achieve someday,

For a man so down swung, commiserated with anger and strife

She’s the magic potion sent to up lift a once proud, yet currently deflated life.

Solar Flare

A solar flare up in the sky

Questions swirl

Reflections reenter this vapid void,

Tails and casts aside

The power between cloud and star

What divinity should bless

A vision even the blind can feel

Inspiring awe,

The creation comes,

A vacuum everywhere,

Sucking negativity’s designs far and away,

Catatonia mesmeric phobia,

Apparently I fall somewhere on one of the grids,

Maybe some place in-between,

This solitary incitement,

And all the excitement that pursued,

I question things I’ve thought for long,

Demand an audit upon my memory,

A memory so complex it may take extremely long,

Maybe I am truly blessed, maybe not,

Perhaps I’m a part of this, and that’s all a man can really ask

Epitaph

In this place

Lost to all sights and significance

Dormant are the blissful accessories

Of light and sound,

Devoid of all its transcendental majesty

An avalanche is breached, we get a glimpse within

Its systems, its programs, its flowchart of organizational wisdom

But a tale is never spun

Not a single story is ever told

Leaving the observing with a hollow, breaking sound

Much has been courted with

Elements and conjugation of principles

Symbolic restitution of decades old relevance

Blaspheme do the historians commit

Unearthing a cacophony of the non-relational

The inappropriate congregations between valley and peak

Brilliance is the sculptor

God Particle firmly in hand

A canvass without boundary

Paradise of disenfranchised wasteland

And this I suppose is where we reach that peculiar, self inflicting wound

The peculiarity of the Poet inscribing the words for rest upon his burial tomb,

It is a place where solemn contemplation and deep seeded wisdom freely devour, decidedly roam

Enchanted were the primers, who sacrificed their well being for the benefit of strangers to arrive

Non predictable centuries since he lay long since cold,

The truest of poet needs to share, despite his ripping desire to withhold,

For this man, and perhaps this man alone,

Carve he would that single piece, his song he withheld

Yet so much it needed to be heard,

So upon his sarcophagus he would construct,

In this place, this stone shall, once and for all eternity,

Preserve the outline of the man he truly was,

Instead of laying the foundation,

Predicating the groundwork for a coda,

So superior to anything ever he had penned,

 Instead, listen he would, to the heart strings tugging at quivered hands,

Bleeding sweetly, each motion he could command,

 Upon this easel whose sole significance

Will be to mark a final resting place,

 Each scratch he chiseled fresh

 Could be the last etching from his flesh,

So in conclusion he simply wrote:

I pray this all does end with me, with little praise, without abuse,

 And pray I do, this stone consumes each word I’ve ever used

Close To You

Silent picture

Moving stitches

Shrapnel surfacing

Every time I get close to you

The white noise

Gets really dark

The chorus screams

Loudest whenever I’m close to you

Moist and wet

In texture and tone

Juices flowing

Taste arriving quickest as I’m close to you

Soft velvet

Smooth silky seductive

The fabric of your being

Everything feels like it should when I’m this close to you

Lingering

A sting of fragrance

An ovation of aroma

Remain until the next time I’m close to you