What the Dead May Pray

Make us worthy in our passing, 

for what we could not achieve in our living. 

For Life subsumes death –

and while the evidence may show 

we had not fully lived the way we’d hoped, 

we have the right to hope

that what failed to thrive

has died and departed the memory of others; 

leaving us nothing but a clean slate 

in the continued journey. 

May all whom we’ve served and transgressed 

step aside and cheer us on – 

the race is never over.

The Talented Tragically Shattered

the tragically shattered can slip into blackness like an anvil through ether.  But they weren't pushed...they jumped.

Two Red Rockers

to thine own self be true
(photo by Phosphorimental)

Encouraged by promises I made

to myself,

Chased by memories of dreams

never come true.

Here in the maundering dereliction

of presence,

coffee brown moments

in blue.

Stones unturned, life kept

at bay,

swept back by aromas

and flavors

of a distant past beckoning

anew

awoken by the rattling

of sabers.

The silence hurts my ears, time to make my own noise!

Hear it?!

Love is the finest form of dying

There is a thin fine line between giving up on yourself and giving up on needing another…between striving for that spring green flexibility and tormenting ourselves when we bend in the slightest way, in the slightest breeze. The hollowing pain that rips through our torso like seething heavy balls shot from distant black pig iron cannons. Like when love unbridled goes careening into boundless plains, before it can be tamed…and yet how we hang on to it…until we become - the wild ones.

Love has a place – and that place is in our hearts where it stays and loops in lemniscates of infinity - it doesn’t go out to others, rather they enter into our hearts. Until it all becomes an indistinguishable melt within us. Still, like idiot savants, we squint and study and analyze our philosophies in dialectics with beautiful wayfarers and vigilant family, giving friends and torrid lovers – and we get confused and sad and then more sad – thriving on it, thumping like heart beats. Until sadness becomes as delicate and fragile as angel hair, like fine capillaries at the distant edge of tree roots. Not even those to anchor us anymore in the earth.

I am certain now that my love is not out there; even the hunch I once had that she was is gone. For she is already in me – as the pause in my pulse. So much entwined and in syncopation is she, that I cannot even distinguish her anymore – and so I shed my understanding of love, I give up the search, drop my implements and defenses, I will squander my love to others, as I have for so long and be happy that I can express at all. Spires of joy, dripping with tears. For now I know within, there is an endless supply – of both, love and tears.

Bring on the parade of mistakes and I will curse and scream out my love until I lose my voice…when I can be madly certain no one can hear me. Where my eyes next frost over with saline, and the last streak of glitter rolls to a stop on my cheek, and then I think I shall die.

just a box of fuck

fuck

Where Love Lives

Love is such a nostalgic condition, a candle in a familiar window I suppose… filled with this, passion and angst to be home in safe and familiar currents.  Love, a condition where we find peace in the blurring of what it really is about  - “home” that casts hues into our hearts, reflects light in our eyes, and catches rain from low mountain clouds stirred by the winds.  Your city which you ponder, tolls like the sinuous course of life – your allegory is apparent; the air pressed in our lungs by a soaring heart when our city falls away beneath the belly of a jet, and that acquiescing exhale as our home grounds pull us sweetly down in the benevolent current of gravity.  We run hither and yon, finding love everywhere, stuffing it in to our hearts and proudly poising as if we have finished a secret stew of sensationally felt ingredients. Yet I find it quaint that our hearts are eminently nourished through the very soils that sustain our ancestry and from which we sprung…home, the plains of the heart within, where it is said, love grows wild like grains from seeds planted very long ago. And it’s even more than where and what we love, but THAT we love that gives home, itself, meaning…perhaps even home has a home. This week I have been spending time “at home” (painful, tiring, itchy – as my brother and I remodel his house and care for our father…). Home leaves you quenched within - like thirst for water; and I believe as we are within, is how we are loved; especially by all those who know the direction - home.