Snuffed

listen to ‘Snuffed’ on Audioboo

I can’t help but feel

The douter nears

My flame.

“Time’s just ain’t a –changin’ the way I thought they would.  I blinked and here I am, seventeen years since first able to legally imbibe, and now, I don’t anymore…speaks upon how priorities are skewed early on in life”

And now

I just wonder and wonder and think about how I can wonder

and….think

I’ll meander the aisle-ways at the superstores, looking for deals or just people watching, to kill some time…sometimes though, a thought while strikethrough my stagnancy…a true brainchild of inspiration…a method or a way out of what…

all sensors working, all lights a-flashing, so, so encouraged…filled with anticipation and excitement….

Only to relive…to be relieved by the exact same moment of euphoria, just a few days later…

Time is a pit of quicksand and sometimes you have a vine to pull you out and other time’s it’s nothing but a snake, dangling, right in front of you, tempting you, to grab ahold and let it pull you out

Days merge into decades as easily as hair changes brown to a trickling in of grey and you wonder-you wonder, much differently than you would while blanketed by sweet

sweet 

oblivion.

11:55, service will start soon

I’m just trying

To make sure

God still lives in here,

Would hate to

Stumble upon

Any more

black masses,

where

 as 

      not to come

off 

     as 

rude,

I find myself listening 

to every 

god-forsaken

word

At least that shows I still know what pathetic looks like. ONly wish I could divine it 

as I stare each whisker down in the morning mirror, then perhaps, then perhaps

I can stave off elimination for another hour or two

just enough time to make it... yet another case for myself,

and hope to find 

the hand that will guide me down the path, 

and not become distracted 

by those sales in 

                         the bargain racks

wonder if having a semblance of what faith really is when you don't enact on it, just letting it be part of the background scenery

When the douter comes to snuff my flame…I wonder what excuse I will then choose to blame?

Incomplete Surrender

Sometimes odd reactions occur.

Most of the time I can tell the difference though,

Between the real and the brought upon.

However,

Occasionally

A blurring will occur

Transporting the flesh

To

Some mystically warped dream landscape

And despite the fantastical whimsies within,

The mind continues to play tricks upon

The warbling words playing soundtrack to the world

Once in a while the scenery is painted like nothing seen before.  Here, truth falls victim to perception.  The mind wants to feel and thusly feels.  The vividly sculpted canvasing created, spread naked, for the larger-than-life states of vibrancy deluged upon— the mixtures of grey clouds and colorful mountain ranges merge, forming some abstraction you need to touch. And touch you must.

One of the most common situations is composed, as a story would be by a competent fantasy illustrator.

The sword is firmly placed within my hands.  The blade gleams the heaven’s and the crested jewels upon the hilt glimmer when falsities near

Often we have sidekicks.  The mind typically steals these from real life of what was in view just the night before.  Tonight I am on a quest, searching for the persnickety populous; it’s cat-scratched fever, and hordes of grotesque curs—armadas of a drone that drowned to mewl. 

An unlikely cast of characters, each, accompanies me bearing individually meted responsibilities.  Tonight’s journey shows Salacious Crumb to be my man-at-arms.  He barely reaches the apex of my ankle, yet carries a full-sword the size of a mountain goat.  Babe follows closely behind, squealing the songs it knows and whines about the one’s it refuses to learn.  Yet it does it’s job fairly well, after-all, who wouldn’t get a kick out of singing pig, lost and looking for it’s way home, only to find a world without acreage to spare.  Yes, a very good jester indeed.  Then we have the Schmoos, a whole family of blobby beasts, they trail behind and hop about, making sure nobody sneaks up from behind. Finally, to round things out, there is my trusty steed, a dear, dear relative of Mr. Ed, who, to this day, when not out on adventure, shops himself a direct descendant, and thusly, fair or not, collects exorbitant stud fees, for all the 80’s steeplechase fanatics who always wished their nag would speak to them.

OH. PLEASE!!! JUST GET ON WITH THE THING.  worst seven-fifty ever spent...

“Where did that voice-over come from. and for that matter, how RUDE”

Too often than not, the stories fail to complete.

And, for some reason or another, something I can only pass off as a curse of modern medicine, they never continue on as we perhaps would like…

After the next pills take their place a newer cast bedazzles with their spell, and the cyclicality renews again.

The Rhythm in Sequence

I cannot determine mischief’s cause

1,2,3  you sparkled pheromones

1,4     and illustrious

1,3     prisms, glistening

1,2     bright besides

1      {Fear}

1       Is

1,2    what destroys

1,3    me, vacating

1,4    all positioning,

1,2,3  each caress deviates

1,2,4  the fragment’s dismemberment

1,2,5  haunts freely, sensitivity

1,2,4  is tortured forevermore

I thought I'd play around with Fibonacci sequencing a little bit. Whereas normal Fibonacci poems work vertically, 1, 2, 3 etc.. i thought I'd work through the sequencing per line, yet then, there is also a method mathematically to the way I've ordered the sequencing vertically as well.   I'm not going to tell though, see who can figure it out, but a clue, is that it has, in part, something to do with alternating rhythms.  The numbers are corresponding syllabic count for the respective words in each line.   And oh, there are actually two separate poems posted here, but I like the way they play off one another, therefore I thought I'd post them together. Just something a bit different.

Stop on over to D'Verse where OLN gets going later on today.  The doors open up at 3pm and the poetry is flowing freely all night long.  Stop by and read to your heart's content and while you're there, how about sharing a poem you wrote for other's to enjoy as well.  See you there. 

Nervous Ramblings of the Pensively Provoked

Opportunity.  What does this mean?

I scour the subdivisions of the daily news.

I peruse the specialty sites, truly believing

That an ad will be placed especially for me,

Yet, as it is each time, each and every time, the

Thimble is no place near the etui.

Fate.  Should I believe in such a concept?

I want to, I really do.  Yet I wonder what sort of

Karmic crimes I had previously committed to

Justify such a course road.  Doing so barefoot is

Also something I question deeply.

Arrogance.  Perhaps our previous accomplishments

Paint the veneer with a certain stroke of bravado.  Perhaps

We gingerly strut through half-opened doors, expecting a chorus of welcoming faces, privileged to be in such proximity. 

The truth is, there is no truth.  There is only that which is present currently.  Understanding the nature of such truths is fine, but in this frame of reference, we cannot, without exception, believe present knowledge will translate to future realities. 

No, truth is but a crime upon the senses, dulling the blade we once swung with the most violent of intensity.  Truth creates complacency.  Complacency prompts atrophy.  Atrophy increases the probability of something bad happening, to our externality, which even the most confident, will eventually begun to question that which lives within.

Life believes itself reliable, even decent, all because it levees such precautionary tales before any of its advertisements promoting scope-altering opportunities.  All of these endeavors are poked and prodded with simple disclaimers.  Everyone’s always worried about the aftermath.  Is it any wonder no one truly reads the fine print?  And then we wonder why surprises negatively impact our present realities. Perhaps it has something to do with apathy.  Maybe it’s misguidance, but probably something closer to what I can only describe as a mixed bag of conditioned blindness and societal lust for expediency.

Blame comes in all shapes, flavors, colors and sizes.  We are so eager to blanket our failures in the lexicons of excuse that we lose layers of our own individuality in the process. Is this poor parenting?  I don’t know.  But it makes sense somehow. Doesn’t it?

I ramble when I’m nervous.