Forward Progression

Perception is often very skewed. More and more it seems we as a people, as a nation, as a loose conglomeration of hyper diversified individuals, are trying to reconcile with the mistakes of the past. Whether it be the subjugation of gender, the abuse and exploitation of minorities, or the general capacity for cruelty that has manifested itself throughout the generations. The reality is that humanity is vastly flawed(as seen above), yet that doesn’t discount the possibility of redemption. While evil is twined into our DNA– pre-programmed essentially to enact destruction at will– it is imperative that we recognize the present. Time and ages, dissertations and ruminations, are spent in countless hours of attempting to construct a universal consciousness that is still reverberating from the countless hurts of centuries past. Time will continue on ticking, more hurts will replace the newly healed ones, leaving masses of scar tissue to flourish into the future. In essence, progress is the act of moving forward, should we not attempt that? or should we staunchly hold onto these horrors of the past? Is it easier to not let go? To exist in prolonged victimization? I think so. I know so. It is much easier to apportion blame than to initiate a cathartic forward progression by coming to terms with this inner insurrection. Regardless, the scar tissue of America is impressive in its history, yet the flaw and redemption of humanity lies in the capability to destroy and create, it is only a matter of perception.

Concealer

Time’s wearing thin;
These silly miscommunication games.
Half-truths coupled with full smiles,
Ecstasy moans twined in guilty denial—
What happens when the script runs out?

These facades are wearing in use,
Obscuring what’s left of truth.
If reality ever interceded on our behalf,
We wouldn’t know what to do.

So lets keep writhing in pleasure,
Empty our minds of indulgent decadence.
We’ll just play hide-and-seek with truth,
Bait our breaths and hope it won’t expose our ruse.

"Grapevine Fires" Across America

My hearth-stone is transient,
Wherever this melody flows.
Fueling the ravenous soul search,
Powering the motor-truth roads.

A desolate Texas dust storm sunset,
Or breezy Fisherman Wharf’s rollicking fog;
Metronome to a pilgrim soul.

Roasting succulent in Death Valley heat,
Bathing boreal in Keystone serenity;
Soundtrack for this boundless infinity.

Dust obscuring the rearview in choking whirls,
Reminder of miles and state lines traversed;
Ever onward those haunting Kerouac words,
Nourished bright-eyed revelations.

Hearth-stone has become a millstone,
Trapped in the domestic slow-burn inertia.
Still achingly voicing ambrosia wisdom,
Setting this soul along those lonely, beautiful roads.

The Cue

Grief is an ugly part of our emotions; a red-headed, black sheep stepchild that we’d rather disregard all together in that skeleton closet of nocturnal frights– yet we can’t. Time flows like a script we’re unable to deviate from, playing our part with hesitant perfection, fulfilling the prophecy of encoded traits played out on the stage of this deteriorating world. Somewhere along the line grief takes its cue and shadows the scene in all the horrors we’ve repressed in the sunshine. It bubbles within, slowly at first, gnawing acidly at stomach tissue. It then works its way up towards the esophagus, emotions asphyxiating in their sheer potency; gasping for air your eyes begin tearing, forming that blurry aquatic haze of light streaks that is now your vision. Eventually you start convulsing, some cosmic seamstress is retracting the thread of your cool logic and stoic emotions. At this point your attempting to hold it all together, forming a living tourniquet with your arms to staunch the overflow of feeling cascading through your body. It hurts now. Bad.

The stage, that method actor facade, those witty lines perfectly executed, all fall to naught. Reality hits with tsunami force, knocking you senseless in the brutality of tactility. This haze of nonsense agendas that consume the beehive mind has been effectively exterminated. The dead silence of realization is a sobering boreal wind that scythes through the center of your soul. It’s as though you’ve woken up from a life-long coma only to realize that this is the real world, not that force-fed matrix of euphoria. Pain, that annoying buzz in your ear, can truly be all in encompassing; grief rolls over you in waves. There’s no going back when the veils been lifted; no more sugary innocence in the bliss. Life has scarred, jaded, forever mutated the fiber of your being. What comes next is picking up the pieces and hazarding in continued existence.

Sapling

Cold flat-line's wailing cry,
Draw the light out of life;
Never to feel whole again—
Vibrancy withered in spring.

Anguished calls crawl the lines,
Sobs speak the final lullaby.

Plague-stricken last portrait,
Tattooed in memory’s woeful ink;
Never to fade—
Ration off a permanent heart space.

Time’s design veils eyes;
Blind, but to suffer in life.

Love’s bittersweet burden,
To exchange pain and joy;
Sustained in agony,
Nourished in beauty.

To be plucked before bloom,
Cruel truth of our birthright.

The Pilgrimage

A floundering infancy,
in the pilgrim soul.
Inept at mastering,
the fragmented whole.

Enslaved to reason,
passion smolders slow.
Afflicted in fear,
tethered in unknown.

Progress dies in protest,
tortured in inertia.
Salvation rues the spurned--
perdition rightly earned.

The All Night Pledge

We were innocent savages,
Pygmy nocturnal denizens—
Mischievous in our all night pursual;
Best the starlight ‘till dawn.

Playing ping pong across beds,
Zigzagging above downy sheets;
Majestic heroes of the night,
Forever young in guileless plight.

If only we never outgrew those pj’s;
Marveled at sprouting facial fuzz,
Watched voices turn guttural,
Then readied shoulders for burdens.

Were strangers now.
Ears don’t hear fraternity’s tune,
Eyes hazy in self-absorbed issues—
Night’s a failed attempt to recapture youth.

Kindorf Sessions

Remember our motley crew of despondence,
Cavaliering those aimless hours.
Champions of feigned inefficiency,
Secret mutineers of The American Dream.

Flying high on dreams of escape,
Tethered by our shared plight;
Perseverance worn thin—
This inexhaustible fight.

Some of us have escaped,
Waiting to soar on wings of freedom.
A millstone anchors,
Still incapable of true flight.

Remember the sincere toil,
Fraternity forged in sweat.
Dust-choked moments of labor;
Sustenance for burdened souls.

Centripetal

Thanks for subjecting us to your daily plights,
imbue us with your hurts.
These manic whiplash emotions;
rage at the semblance of slippery reason,
we’re all here to cheer you on.

Keep screaming that injustice tune,
croon the sweetness of your sorrows.
We’ll buy that track up,
keep repeat on without pause.

You’re burning the stake,
such a sweet, little martyr.
We’ll tear our hearts out,
hand them over still beating-
would that even satiate you?

Keep falling down that endless pit--
you’ve cut the chute.
We’ll teeter over abyss,
plaintively wailing that disabuse.

Your black hole is voracious;
we’ve become cosmic fodder.

The Tatterdemalion

Raggedy steps weave fate’s fabric in dilapidated perseverance. Shuffling tattered burdens across time. Shrouded in sins of eternity’s scrolling codex, martyr of that ineffable human blackness. Invisible in his plight, torn soul quests on endlessly, in search of the meaning of suffering.

Shallow breathes ruffled the motley, undulating aeons of decrepitness mirrored in entombed lungs. Hunched, as if containing some inner catastrophe; sinews perched for breaking the stranglehold of his existence. Each scraping grate of aimless mobility screeched dogged resilience; some inner Promethean light illuminating ink black wanderings. Humanity’s angel degraded in battered defeat, unable to relinquish the mantle thrust upon the wavering frequency of his shoulders. An inexorable beacon heralding the slow prospect of mortality.

Feet became dust worn miles, bleeding littered fabric in his wake. Desolation through hum drum, prophet sermons coat the dust upon deteriorating rags. Sun and moon sneering enfeeblement in bright luminescence; a constant he remained. Burdensome steps excavating subsequent strata, unraveling this mobile edifice. Layers peeling in protest, victims of perdition’s unrest. Core compass, that internalized fervor beat ever onward toward unknown.

Slight shudders announce direction as frenzied strokes of ardent pursual. Hellish rags spurned on now towards cosmic fate. Metamorphosing before trials of celestial design, sediment is near unveiling.

Ahead looms a vast maw, indelible void of light. Restlessly marching the dirge of his fate, ethereal onyx beckoning ever onward. Descending subterranean, fleeting cusp of light consumes the ghost of a shadow; now invisible. Arriving at last, a lone sapling bathed in jaundiced verdure, he kneels before its sickly phosphorescence. Bathed in an effulgent glow, now visible skeletal fingers rewind time’s signature; crucible’s unveiling.

Last threadbare cover falls horroshow at sapling’s base; noxious sulfur meets void opaque. Darkness looming over pallid twigs, lips meet lone bud. What withers is what remains.

The Lovely Affliction

He had the ability to love, though just not long term. The capacity was there, however dwindling it was in prolonged use, yet it was volatile in its potency. Love can happen in a night, an hour, in a look. Maybe not deep-rooted lasting love, yet an intense welling of emotion that seizes you utterly in that hazy glow of euphoria. Such things are possible, he knew them to be, because his love happened-–just never in the traditional sense.

His foundation is doused in gasoline(the yearnings for love), and the slightest hint can result in full-blown conflagration. Though the flame burns valiant in its ferocity, it is ashes all too soon, thriving in its short-lived glory–-a blazing, evanescent inferno. An affliction or boon? Either way, it was what it was, and that love happened sparsely enough, it was all the more bittersweet in turn.

Worse is the decrescendo that follows. Sinking slowly back to boreal reality, these fleeting loves leave lasting scars. What possible long-term epic could arise from such a battlefield? Better to just ride the winds of fate and be swept away in the tide of it. When its there, seize it, knowing full well the consequence, yet risking reality’s scythe for the pure ambrosia of Amor.

Liquid Personality

Quite the exaggeration when it touches lips,
light up dull, abysmal existence-
imploding these issues into smoldering shrapnel;
charred metal (smoking gun) enshrouds control.

Reason’s checked at the door,
lost the retrieval slip,
not sure its ever meant to be found–
lies taste sweeter on this parched tongue.

Some call it fallacy,
more eloquently
we pronounce it immolation–
morals burn the stake with witch screams,
harlotry reeks of broken dreams.

Sold red-light portion of the soul,
colors indecency in tuxedo brilliance–
facades fooling in debutante perfection.

Tatterdemalion self transcends,
gallantly descends into nocturnal purgatory.

Dead Space

We’re the desolation,
Voids of human emotion.



Lost in tumultuous atmospheres;
Lightning striking the kite of desire.



Lost in lover’s dreams,
Distance breeds the unrequited.



Voices bouncing off voices,
receivers mix the melancholy.



Choked vocal chords rasp woe,
Lobes pick up dissonant dissension.



Treaty’s ink parches on the Hancock;
Refilled at misery’s prospect.



Emotion’s sea froths wildly,
Capsized heart drowns valiantly.



Warm remnant of presence necrotizes;
Cold’s an unnatural bedfellow.



If only time rewound on our accord;
Plant crop for a more fruitful harvest.



Ink kisses canvas in dying embrace;
Portrait dries numb finality.



Dead space is all that remains,
Filled with words that couldn’t be said.

The Heart as Metaphor

Hearts make no sense, because their not the metaphors we make them out to be. They pump blood, and fuel our mad desires..literally. Problems arise when we loan them out to our neighboring humans; let them take them for a test drive, rent them out for a long weekend, and subsequently abuse them in a variety of ways. It’s the price you pay for being too lenient with your emotions; the potentiality of hurt, heartache, disappointment, and subsequent melancholy. Part of us never wants to learn the lesson, because it makes us feel truly alive. These moments where we toe the line of disaster, rend ourselves open in vulnerability, it is these moments that are fleeting euphoria....we want and expect the hurt. It is only when chance allows for cataclysm to be averted, then confusion sets in. We play the dummy parts, always expecting the pain, yet we’re rewarded with pleasure instead—what to do now? Typically, we fall into the rote patterns, attempting to evoke response, fanning the flames of disaster; we want this to be exciting, we’re expecting the gorey pain of heartache(stop disappointing!). Welcome to life before marriage; a Russian Roulette of hearts.

Asymptote

The planes of our bodies,
curving ever closer towards each other—
yet never touching.

Lips have opposing charges,
magnets inexorably pulling closer—
polarity flips last minute.

Hands calling for their soul mate,
fill the void between fingers—
fist-clenching black hole consumes.

One whole divided,
symmetrical entities on either side—
lines blur to mosaic.

Love inches towards fruition,
looming cusp of completion—
disappears within a hairsbreadth.

Defense Mechanism

There is a wall that goes up
whenever someone gets too close;
a barrier that suffocates feeling--
tourniquet on the flame of desire.
Eventually blood will clot,
sputter this romance out--
ashes remain as proof to scars.

Diseased Catharsis

There’s confession in these words
That spill out from the previous creation,
Mumbling together in a bumbling catharsis.
Where beauteous expression is a smokescreen
For discontent so profound it poisons the well.
Fingers will keep punching the keys in mute frustration,
Secretly expressing their agony in letters coalescence,
Each resounding pound echoes the sorrowful writer soul.
Thoughts continue spilling out, uncatchable in their evanescence,
Streams of thought blending into current expository diatribes-
The imagery’s bleak, too weak to sustain the seed that furnishes the need.
More and more form is becoming a prison cell that asphyxiates the will,
Structure is deconstructing in its amorphous maxims of reason.
Backwards flows sense, when words meant the truth in print,
Instead lying has adjusted quite well to written form,
Plaguing each and every attempt to exorcize malediction
With the fun-house mirror of warped reality.
Language wears the mantle of distortion,
Succumbing to the slavery of the mind controlling toil.
For each and every turn that uses these letters, they exact their toll,
Displaying the basest truth of stark reality,
Like all things showing the wear of dishonesty’s contagion.

The Umbilical Cord

Step out from the rickety screen door,
Brisk Varvitsan air kisses the cheek.
Sobering blue skies swallow the scene,
sweetest scent of purity in the air.

Gazing out the eyes turn rustic,
Entranced by vibrant verdure.
Silence holds the air like a bell,
These lungs provide the symphony of being.

Pattering the meandering garden path,
Immersion soon follows these farmer thoughts.
Back’s stooped in the resoluteness of the harvest,
These hands the conduit for existence.

Sweat waters the loamy August earth,
Bartering its toil for verdant sustenance.
Never did a body ache in such pleasure,
Garden motherland beats one heart-
Each nourishing pulse ebbing into the other.

Indecision's Shroud

Is it bad that the embers haven’t sparked,
erupted into full blown conflagration?
Passions bathed cool in boreal reason,
lips too reluctant to part ways.

Should each thought weigh a millstone,
an anchor around the neck?
Plummeting within this void zone,
indifference turns to sustenance.

A sickly plight of love’s respite,
permanent hiatus eclipses amorous light.

Plight of the Fool

The fool's become adept at fooling himself,
convinced that what he wants
is enough to satisfy what he needs---
he only ever did laugh at his own folly.

He wears that hapless, haughty grin,
smirking his comedy to the stoic world.
Underneath those facial muscles collapse in agony,
there was no humor in the fool’s plight.

Every night he’d perform his show,
rousing “oohs” and “ahhs” from the crowd.
Martyring his own ill fate before them;
burning the thread of his lifeline.

Of course he was foolish enough to fool himself,
he was a fool!
He bore his atlas burdens with a swarthy grin,
chuckling in concealment of his searing melancholy.

Night’s muse ends the farce of his life,
showtime’s descending twilight.
Left to peel the shame from his face,
those tears never spoke their true name.

Underbelly of Rot

Too content with discontent,
utter misery of static “Exhibit A” life.
To fraught in the worry of transformation,
what remains but the diseased carapace?

Why suffer through the motions;
insufferable contagion of parasitism?
Reap the bone harvest in the closet,
skeleton thoughts set to march.

Plots picked to precision,
“To the neatly organized mind”---
this is death, the next adventure.
“In reality”----
the self-fulfilling prophecy of your life.

Tethers of the Hearth

Never thought Id be a stranger in my own home,
surreptitiously walking the familiar halls,
armored in alarm for the tempestuous tension storms----
battle ready no-mans-land of domestic life.

Getting sick of uneven eye-to-eye views,
skewing each issue into ammunition.
Each encounter wears thin this precarious detente,
time won’t permit old hatred be forgot.

Every groaning wall and creaking floor,
each flickering, staticy light,
to the grave-plot bed;
all resembles eternal incarceration.