Ungodly Deep.

Trust and believe, the total and complete –
lack of any kind of silver lining,
in the fuck-of-a-mess that’s buried me,
is hardly lost on the cost of things;
it’s a game that runs perpetually –
it’s a death march to most certain defeat,
a defeat that will find me, inevitably;
a Speed Metal drummer keeps beat, accordingly,
that hammers my chest with anxiety,
welds to the ankle bones of both my tired feet:
anchors that will sink the likes of me quickly,
kicking and screaming until I’m sleeping peacefully,
a slow-motion fall to the trench of the sea –
like a feather pushed out of a high-speed Jet-stream,
like a bowed ballerina after tip-toed dancing,
a deep, dark blue silence that calls me from deep;
faces of creatures swim in, brimmed with curiosity,
to glimpse the resistance of my sinking body,
to the darkness of what’s unknown to me;
the end of my descent comes too finally –
the anchors have found me a permanent thing,
and so it goes that it may just very well be:
that all the hurt and guilt and all the years of misery,
brought me to a resting place so dark, it’s ungodly,
to counter in death the heights life has shown to me.

Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
punching holes through the lies.

A remembering,
of shadows left behind,
like those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to the days behind me,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.

Grandeur.

I have been,
listening…

and hearing you…
your every cent or two,
every jerking move,
and yet you prove…
to somehow be,
totally and completely,
shocked to find…
blackened faces,
fill up the spaces,
between the lines…
Hello, big guy!
I will be fair,
I won’t deny,
through my grandeur…
what did,
indeed,

appear and seem,
to be,
a valiant try…

for your part,
at least
but, then again,
surprise!

Nonplussed…
it’s still just,
without compromise,
and really shouldn’t be,
such a novel thing,
that I’m not listening,
after so much,
of the go and touch…
the itchy sting,
ear-ringing,

fucking redundancy…
see the burning,
behind my eyes,
see the hatred,
memorized…

please just let me be.
As, so it goes that,
eyes like mine,
chiseled by,
the passing time…

are not destined to see.

Lynch Mob.

I walked back to the crowd of people waiting,
they watched my approach, expectantly –
mouths hung open from the truth they’d just seen –
dirt shaken up from my heavily dragging feet,
they all stood like simpletons and stared right at me;
my chest was on fire and my lungs couldn’t breathe,
I stumbled and lurched, too shocked to believe,
I tried to cry out, but no sound would leave me –
“Praise Jesus!”, cried one of them –
and the whole crowd began to repeat;
it took me some moments to find my footing,
before I realized that they were praising Jesus for me,
“No, it wasn’t Jesus…” I said as I pulled the noose free,
the lynch mob had left me for dead on the branch of a tree,
but as soon as they rode away to report my defeat,
I cut myself down and found myself free –

Bleeds Black.

The streets are silvery black from the rain
mirroring the darkened space in my brain
yellow streetlights cast a sad, sickly haze
down on reflective, fire-fly puddles ablaze

The drizzly days have been rescuing me
washing away dead layers, torrentially
but then, are the drops of a different breed
fallen from eyes onto wounds that still bleed

No comfort in the faces that I look upon most
no magic left to ponder, no victories to boast
things I once perceived other than “formerly”
along the lines of the former endless possibility

Everything eddies round down the storm drain
into the gutter too deep to be pulled out again
drowned out by the mournfully grey pitter-patter
metallic ting of the O-ring’s half-mass tatter

My heart bleeds the darkest of black from the vein
a shower of droplets to bathe me in exquisite pain
the wind seems to whisper at me of forgotten treachery
the beloved stars feel like they twinkle in my mockery

The drizzly days have seen things slipping away
wound around and bound to drown there, someday
sleepless nights that leave me all directions in my head
I’m gut-shot, and bleeding out the night hours in my bed

Can’t.

Can’t shake off the burning sting,

can’t scrub away the tub’s dirt ring,

can’t free up the congestive cling,

can’t give up or lay down for the terrible things;

can’t understand my lifespan of such cruelties,

can’t comprehend the game plan that’s ahead of me,

can’t find my way down from ledges: all crumbling,

can’t get my fingers to knock off the fumbling;

can’t see the end of the month of December,

can’t snap myself out of this fugue to remember,

can’t shake off the searing feeling,

can’t break through to do a Gods damned thing.

Chopping Block.

Once I,bowed,
my head down,
and I,
at long last
really looked…
through and passed,
all the rest,
at the ground,
my body’s distress,
blocked out,
the noisy sounds,
the hive buzzing,
crowds humming
shouts coming,
from all around,
head swimming,
thoughts shut-down…
the dark of night,
the flash of light,
forcing open eyes,
I was surprised,
at myself,
with what my eyes found,
a shock,
still felt,
within me now,
heads scatter the ground,
trumpets blaring,
The chopping block,
once a daring,
reddish-brown
its surface wiped down,
all scrubbed off,
blood-free and clean,
of the guillotine,
…somehow.

Thrown.

The thoughts,
are the same,
as what they’ve,
always been…
the uneasiness,
steady lingers,
in each pore of,
my crawling skin…
the hatred,
still grows,
to spill blood,
from my nose…
forced perceptions,
well imposed,
self-deception,
in overload…
the plan,
now unfolds,
adding more heat,
to the coals…
the signs,
have been here,
in a language,
crystal clear…
the nights,
have been darker,
and absent of fear…
the truth,
shall appear,
the lies too,
have no fear…
the curtain,
has now closed,
the padlock’s,
been thrown…
the desire,
has left me,
in darkness,
and, alone.

Bus Misser.

I must’ve missed the bus for the class someone gave,

that instructed all of us how to communicate,

because no matter who,

it is I’m talking to,

no matter what I say or do,

there’s no soul in the stuff other people convey;

I seem to be stuck in the same Gods damned place,

a blood feud with Luck and a hit out on Fate,

epoxy stuck on my shoe sole,

paradoxy of the spiteful,

            a Hellish Life in a carnival,

            and I’ve smiled through a face of clown paint.

 

Ticking Defeat.

I feel too afraid to make inquiry,

To reach out beyond the surface of things,

I feel as if I’m pondering constantly,

the choice you made to strike and sting,

the voice you’ve quieted again so silently,

because of the long denied inability,

to exist in the realm of true honesty,

and survive in your own skin comfortably;

I feel too afraid to accept what I see,

as if my acceptance would mean a damn thing,

the days keep coming in a form of mockery,

the sun still rises and sets ever-carelessly,

a reminder hanging perpetually over me,

that Life doesn’t end with the end of a family;

Hell, it’s just the first round of the same beginning,

curtains drawn up to expose the stupidity,

certain to show all with a keen familiarity,

of the very worst parts built into my being,

I feel too afraid to walk the crime scene,

my feet sticking to the bloody memories,

heart ticking so loudly it sounds like defeat,

kicking and screaming and ever-questioning.

Deep Blue.

It’s as if a snake,
has slithered its way,
down my esophagus today,

a darkening haze,
spills over my scene,
making static in my periphery,

the noise it makes,
sucking down the drain,
until it’s just an empty bathtub again,

genetically hungry,
a deep desire for your cake,
my tears fill the moments and my belly aches,

bleeding your name,
screaming final resignation,
begging for the warmth of your heavy domination,

body in detached withdrawal,
my heart’s never been this broken before,
and it won’t get better til you come back for more,

nothing else much matters to me,
as trivial as a granule of sand on the beach,
the world stops spinning when you step out of reach,

but, you know these things,
how I only dive this deep into blue,
on the days that follow a night spent with you.

Crooked Finger.

I know you’ve made the effort,

to fish me out and throw me aloft,

you’ve been on belay for a decade,

awaiting the tension on my end to let off,

you typically would never bother with,

hand-holding of the incompetent,

you have no patience or tolerance,

with things that lean to your detriment,

yet somehow your open palmed hand,

remains out to me, wherever I am,

even if I don’t know where I stand,

the bear blazes trails to the lamb,

I probably disappoint your mind,

and let your spirit down all the time,

I probably don’t very well epitomize,

the things you stand for in my own eyes,

I guess I feel heavy against your soaring flight,

like a weight on your ankle without any right,

I want you to achieve the dreams in your life,

with both of your hands free to win the fight,

            you’ll need both hands to accept the trophies,

            to stab at the person breaking and entering,

            to sign checks, breaks necks with your badassery,

            keep your hands free from the mess known as me.

 

 

 

Away.

I dropped myself backwards over the stern,

you stood at the bow, unwilling to learn,

refusing to follow the map I had drawn,

stagnantly anchored there all the night long,

your disgust was apparent as I swam farther away,

you began to pull the anchor up immediately,

but your head-games had already turned me cold,

so I kept on dog-paddling and cursed you, tenfold,

and as I saw you sail away without me,

just as I should’ve felt my most empty,

the weight of the ocean’s fathomless depths,

vacuumed me up with one huge, inhaled breath,

tucked me safely within its motherly net,

and whispered with love that I wasn’t dead yet,

seeming to rise from the uncharted deep,

a ghostly phantom too long  gone to sleep,

to guide my tired mind and broken body,

to a place of solid earth and humanity,

I found you once again so long afterward,

you were too frozen in place to utter a word,

and I simply conveyed my thanks to you,

for forcing me to see the true colors in you.

 

 

 

Scotch Whiskey Wet-suit.

I soaked my wet-suit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
that my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
and two fifths of Bell’s,
to numb down the fear,
and drown out my tears,
that’ll send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wet-suit,
weighs down heavy, it’s true,
heavy enough to snap the strings,
to my perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to find the shore eventually,
a return that’s most likely,
not destined to be seen through,
if the body in the wet-suit,
doesn’t make a toast to me.

Stronghold.

Abounds a spin-cycle to scale as far as I see,
the visual assail of an everyday catastrophe…

tumbling breakers that beat my sorry ass mercilessly,
undertakers in numbers washing out from the beach…

a beautiful thing is the foreseen inevitability,
of resigning in mind to the body’s pending battering…

the best lessons in Life await us out past the swells,
a beach bum intuition that I’ve come to trust well…

with each time that I have wakened on a solitary beach,
happy as Hell to finally have solid ground under my feet…

every time these eyes of mine have peeled open to see,
surprised to find by my side, a creature twice the size of me…

I’ll tell you my friend; it lacks any ease of “inland”,
it chews you, and spits you – and swallows you, then…

let me say also, that it’s not a pumped-up play of show,
to hear the old-school talk the dangers of riding out “solo”…

I’d dare say that the ocean is a secret untold,
even to beach bums raised up on in her stronghold.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I sweat and bled;
while they closed my wound
I  brooded on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came with my remaining four,
pounding on your secret door;
Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering of my murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and you said, “We’ll get it next time…

Dot.

I can be angry
and not wish you ill
for all of the things
that I’m discovering still;

I can resent you
and not stand in the way
of the places you’re going
with me out of your face;

I can choose to
turn away
and not listen
to a word you say;
Which admittedly,
is hard on me
because I don’t usually
roll that way;

I can write of
the promises made
and broken between
the exact same space;

I can hold grudges
that turn into
massive tidal waves
that will swallow you

I can choose to
follow along
with the flock
that sings your song;
which truthfully
just isn’t me
so please –
don’t get me wrong.

I can be nothing,
to you, in your life
and this will
suit me just fine;

You can still see me
though I’m only a dot,
in your rear view
on a map that you lost.

Memaphor.

 

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-blindingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bullheadedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

simple_beauty_by_velvetredbullet-d3cqn4d

Grandeur.

I have been listening
and hearing you
your every cent or two
every jerking move
and yet you prove
to somehow be
totally and completely
shocked to find
blackened faces
fill up the spaces
between the lines
Hello, big guy
I will be fair
I won’t deny
through such grandeur
what did indeed
appear and seemed
a valiant try
for your part
at least
but, then,surprise…
It’s still just me
without compromise
and shouldn’t be
such a novel thing
that I’m no Lady
after so much
of the go and touch
fucking redundancy
see the burning
behind my eyes
please just let me be
so it goes that
eyes like mine
are not destined to see.

Misery’s Metronome.

I find that often

during times

when I reflect

back down the line

A saddening

has indeed been

a constant thing

to cruelly

pre-define

a trend

in the bending

of a tragedy

misery’s timeline

when I look

more closely

at the heavy

weighing down

dragging the line

of my ever-darkening

own, grown legacy

the only thing

then, that truly seems

left for me

to dare perceive

as belonging to me

to conceive or believe

as I also lose

and also find

my mind, in time

I find that

I’m at borderline

just temporarily

it’s all so clear

fleeting moments

fully aware

heavy torment

I can hardly bear

the darkness here

or the sunshine there

I always sink

atonement

beyond every brink

fathomless

bottomless pits

dark omens

where blackness persists

among settling bones

misery’s metronome

tick – tick – tick

within the inner hollow

Life’s slowing drip

no more grip

on tomorrow

the present moment

is all of my sorrow

silt settling on bones

dirt shoveled over

our buried loved ones

a human component

the final atonement

the weight

from the shoulders

too late

and it’s over.

 

 

Bleeds Black.

The streets are silvery black from the rain
mirroring the darkened space in my brain
yellow streetlights cast a sad, sickly haze
down on reflective, fire-fly puddles ablaze

The drizzly days have been rescuing me
washing away dead layers, torrentially
but then, are the drops of a different breed
fallen from eyes onto wounds that still bleed

No comfort in the faces that I look upon most
no magic left to ponder, no victories to boast
things I once perceived other than “formerly”
along the lines of the former endless possibility

While everything eddies down the storm drain
into the gutter too deep to be pulled out again
drowned out by the mournfully grey pitter-patter
metallic ting of the line’s O-ring’s half-mass tatter

My heart bleeds the darkest of black from the vein
a shower of droplets to bathe me in exquisite pain
the wind seems to whisper at me of forgotten treachery
the beloved stars feel like they twinkle in my mockery

The drizzly days have seen me slipping away
wound around and bound to drown there, someday
sleepless nights that leave me all directions in my head
I’m gut-shot, and bleeding out the night hours in my bed

Wasteland.

I often wander out there in the graveyard,

like some spirit longing to escape from limbo,

pacing paths in the dirt between markers,

where I’ve buried too many beloved bones;

 

Every spirit belonging to every ghost,

even those bones turned to ash,

seem to grasp and reach from between,

a far-away future and most distant past;

 

the moon beams become enlightening,

through smears of the tears in my eyes,

the metallic taste of every drop of blood,

becomes a bile slowly starting to rise;

 

I wander out there through Eternity,

as the exiled daughter of some cruel God,

I wonder at heaven’s sheer insensitivity,

and at the end, can’t help but to applaud;

 

at the vastness surrounding such emptiness,

such an ice-cold touch of our creators’ hand,

the Dead have been warmed through the passing,

and the Living remain frozen in this wasteland.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Things Uncertain.

It’s happening again…
days that feel like,
they won’t ever end;
weeks without moonlight,
my spirit’s shaken,
hard cold truths,
screwed into,
all things uncertain…

Its familiarity to me,
is a tell-tale sign,
of my misery, indeed,
an old friend of mine,
all-consuming,
tried and true,
I default to,
what will comfort me.

Wet Shore.

547f28c8a2dd2d87511187be3807f916-d5z6h2yI dreamed of it before…
it was a while ago, though;
I sat in whipping winds,
wrapped tightly within,
a blanket on a beach;
and I’m doused in gasoline…
I sit there almost alone,
but not quite by myself…
I sat on the sidelines next to somebody else,
as the sincerity in her mossy green,
eyes, capsized and captivated me,
as she played me music telepathically…
I began to realize something;
here, on the shores of a tumbling sea,
she hasn’t come to this place,
put out any fires I’d,
planned on lighting,
nor has she been sitting,
opposite of me – listening,
to the endlessly,
venomous spattering,
that define all of me…
no, she’s not here,
to clean up my mess tonight,
only to simply “be”;
on the shores of a tumbling,
promising ocean shimmering,
colors of me-her, blue-green;
as she plays me music,
and streams it directly into me,
reflexively,
unexpectedly,
the muscles all over my body,
begin to sag with ease,
exhaustion reigns supreme…
and I lean into,
the mental melody;
as the moment passes,
I recall the book of matches,
clutched in the hand of me,
as I think to strike one –
begins a new verse to her song,
the realization forcefully dawns,
upon my matches and gasoline…
she knows she won’t talk me down,
try,
try again,
in the end, nobody will win…
so in place,
of rearranging my face,
to rope me safely in,
she provided the gas,
clever kick in my ass,
but to her own detriment;
she hates the ocean,
hates the lack of control…
she knew my fire wouldn’t burn,
very long on the seashore.

Stronghold.

Abounds a spin-cycle-esque ocean beneath me,
an aquatic tornado stripping sand up from the deeps…

tumbling breakers that beat my sorry ass mercilessly,
undertakers in numbers washing out from the beach…

a beautiful thing is the foreseen inevitability,
of resigning in mind to the body’s battering…

the best lessons in Life await us out past the swells,
a beach bum notion that I’ve come to trust well…

with every time I’ve awakened confused on a beach,
just happy as Hell to have solid ground under feet…

and every time I opened these eyes of mine to see,
to be taken by surprise by a creature twice the size of me…

I’ll tell you my friend; it lacks any ease of “inland”,
it chews you, and spits you – and swallows you, then…

let me tell you also that it’s no dramatically worded show,
to hear the revered explain the dangers of riding out “solo”…

I’d dare say that the ocean is a secret untold,
even to beach bums raised up on in her stronghold.

Thrown.

The thoughts,
are the same,
as what they’ve,
always been…
the uneasiness,
steady lingers,
in each pore of,
my crawling skin…
the hatred,
still grows,
to spill blood,
from my nose…
forced perceptions,
well imposed,
self-deception,
in overload…
the plan,
now unfolds,
adding more heat,
to the coals…
the signs,
have been here,
in a language,
crystal clear…
the nights,
have been darker,
and absent of fear…
the truth,
shall appear,
the lies too,
have no fear…
the curtain,
has now closed,
the padlock’s,
been thrown…
the desire,
has left me,
in darkness,
and, alone.

Vessel.

No anchor,
been thrown,
no line,
being towed,
a vessel’s ghost,
defective lifeboat;
it’s a truth,
indeed,
to behold,
adrift,
afloat,
a dead pirate’s,
stronghold,
beloved,
lifelong sailboat;
tried and tied,
only by,
the darkness,
of the bays,
skippered,
by the lies,
of yesterday;
anyone who,
thinks he wants to,
try to sail in,
and be made,
to look a fool,
on location,
will only ever see,
this vessel sink,
into the sea,
or over the,
horizon’s brink;
can’t quite ping,
my position,
most secret,
of traditions;
alone,
all gone,
no rise,
of the sun,
moonlight,
shines strong,
my metaphoric,
aquatic tombstone.

The Word.

The curse,
of the poet,
was born,
in the tongue;
a thought,
turned to word,
and the damage –
is done;
the art,
of the sonnet,
has risen,
to fall down;
a truth,
trumpeted,
all the world,
around;
the words,
of a poet,
like grains,
of fine sands;
that scatter,
and remain,
wherever,
it lands;
a story,
still unfolding,
being written,
across the age;
each muse,
every trauma,
becomes another page.

A Scotch Whiskey Wetsuit.

I soaked my wetsuit,
in Scotch whiskey,
a dead man’s trick,
my Mama taught me,
a plastic beach pail,
two fifths of Bell’s,
to fight off any fears,
and drowned any tears,
to send me right back,
out there to the swells;
A Scotch whiskey wetsuit,
weighs down heavy it’s true,
weight enough to snap the strings,
of my given perceptions of reality,
and the trick behind the trickery,
is to swim back to shore eventually,
a return most likely,
not destined to be,
if the swimmer in the wetsuit,
also indulges in Scotch whiskey.

XVI.

Anyone who throws tarot regularly will know that certain cards stick to each of us; from the first time we touch a deck, a handful of cards carve out an affinity to the hand that throws. I have seen it over and over again. One out of four cards that has remained near my hand without fail – and has again become very prominent lately – is
The Tower:
One look at this card, and you know that shit is about to go down.
The Tower Tarot card is all about change; usually very sudden, not-so-pleasant change. Changes in life are typically gradual; this allows our minds to acclimate. When a sudden, cataclysmic change occurs, such as the Tower card suggests, it is a triggering of a chain of uncomfortable (at best) events. When we are so entrenched in our daily lives, or stuck in an inflexible way of thinking, a swift and jarring motion is sometimes necessary in order to move forward. In order to strengthen, one must strip down to the skeleton and start anew. This is exactly what the Tower card represents; it represents an unexpected cosmic slap in the face, for lack of a better term.
The clouds are rushing, fire is thrashing, waves are crashing, people are falling, everything is at high-speed motion except for the tower; meaning that the signs have been all around us. However, we continued to sit in our “ivory tower” blindly while the storm brewed. So in actuality, the changes foretold in the Tower card aren’t sudden, we were just too pre-occupied to take heed of any warning signs. The presence of the Tower card in a reading is nothing to sneeze at; but by identifying your “ivory tower” of illusion and acting accordingly, a lessening of chaos may be possible.
In short, this is NOT a very promising or encouraging card to see on the table.

That all said, I feel as if this card and I most certainly have an affinity with one another, and pretty much always have. Out of the Tarot, it is definitely the card that would best depict the personally relatable expression of “waiting for the other shoe to drop”, or my seemingly perpetual lifestyle as a “storm trooper”…it is surely the “the shit has hit the fan” card – very appropriate in the context of my story thus far. I have a love/hate sentiment in regard to this card because it is also supposed to be a spiritual prompt to learn a lesson…and I sometimes am not able to pull any more lessons out of a given circumstance…and I get frustrated with all of it.

Ocean of Trash.

Since everyone else has their’ hands out –
patting other backs,
ill-humored wise cracks,
“Well Done, Bad Ass!”…
let me be sure that I’m sure –
to fit into the mass;
to expel –
all that goes unwell
as I pass,
I notice the line of faceless blood vessels –
waiting along the tracks,
that make a body intact,
“Hello? Anyone home?”…
open the fucking door –
to the last-ditch,
burnt bitch –
mysterious panic hatch,
the Gods have not yet left me alone on my knees –
begging for scraps,
starved of the pats to my back,
“Get up and walk, dumbass!”
it is Life, itself –
just ONE great, long pass;
through one Hell
in an ocean of trash.

Lynch Mob.

I walked back to the crowd of people waiting,
they watched my approach, expectantly –
mouths hung open from the truth they’d just seen –
dirt shaken up from my heavily dragging feet,
they all stood like simpletons and stared right at me;
my chest was on fire and my lungs couldn’t breathe,
I stumbled and lurched, too shocked to believe,
I tried to cry out, but no sound would leave me –
“Praise Jesus!”, cried one of them –
and the whole crowd began to repeat;
it took me some moments to find my footing,
before I realized that they were praising Jesus for me,
“No, it wasn’t Jesus…” I said as I pulled the noose free,
the lynch mob had left me for dead on the branch of a tree,
but as soon as they rode away to report my defeat,
I cut myself down and found myself free –

Trample.

I can’t help it – that I’m inclined to worship Hope;
it is hardwired into my spirit to either die, or believe;
they’ve always said: that I run the air in my head,
in its purest form – un-buffered and painfully…
which doesn’t always work out so well for me;
as the resigned souls grow affectedly irritated;
by the squinting of eyes against a pinprick of light,
the unknown ahead has already left their minds jaded…
there’s a reason that my heat smolders Hope eternally;
it’s a valid reason that’s simple enough to perceive;
that there was a day – thousands of days before now,
that the ember died out and my spirit ceased to believe…
and it was during my meanderings through darkness;
that I felt the searing pain and end of days for sunshine;
and so goes why every pinprick of shining light at the end,
becomes more meaningful with each new glance of mine…
very rarely does a person truly drink down the nectar;
as it drips like diamonds of dewy wisdom from our trees;
all too often, we lose sight of the teeny pinpricking lights,
and are either trampled by others, or you’re doing the trampling…
and if we aren’t careful, the tunnel blacks out once again;
the light at the end barricaded behind piles of trampled bodies;
it’s a natural response to harbor an unspoken urgency,
when everyone around you is in such a Gods damned hurry.

Reality Check, One-Two.

Once the long game is over,
and regardless of which color has won –
there are not separate storage boxes,
in which the different pieces belong –
No matter how valiant or measly,
a King gets thrown into the box once again,
right alongside of a Pawn –
His Majesty learns the hard way:
at the end of each and every day –
that he is NOTHING once the Chessboard is gone;

It matters little what the King is actually made of,
his knighted horses follow his every command –
not a single Bishop dragging its marbled feet,
loyal to a language that none can truly understand –
the Queen, after so long spent being so well-protected,
receives a sting from reality’s whip-lashed backhand –
beyond the squares of the checkered black, red and white,
lies no purpose for a polished marble Rook or a granite horseman.

image

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,
it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean off
and even cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,
even as I, myself – bled;
they seared closed the wound
I was fixed on my pinky, instead;
And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came pounding with a bloody paw,
on your secret passage door;
“Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,
racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;
pinky fingers in a champagne tub,
you held it out in front of you;
an offering made by a murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,
and said, “We’ll get it next time…”

Necrotomorph.

I’m writing it out…
finally writing about:
the plague that has come;
quite a while ago,
a few decades or so,
and already
infected everyone.
See, it first started,
to tickle,
at the hairline;
only to dig its way
into my bloodstream
with time…
all while the doctors
had their eyes on me,
the plague crept in
so surreptitiously…
they never failed
to unveil
such wisdom
so fucking blindly…
in the meantime,
this struggling
heart of mine –
became infected
thoroughly.
Clean epidermis,
a futile war…
when there’s
no surface
on your skin
anymore;
though try as you like
to scrub and slough…
truth is, I’m filthy –
you’re filthy;
and ‘clean’ is a joke.
I will never find out
how the plague
came about…
truth, for me
is a delicacy
that I must do
without.
Everyone said:
“oh no, it’s in your head.”
they sold me
on pills in the closet,
instead…
and while I was silenced
by the pharmacy
the plague
was busy
mimicking
my own biology.
Years went by,
disintegrated,
now am I…
stardust-carbon
that has been
manipulated;
shredded fine
these spiraling cells
are no longer mine;
they now belong to
a modified
nano-brew.

Dot.

I can be angry
and not wish you ill
for all of the things
that I’m discovering still;

I can resent you
and not stand in the way
of the places you’re going
with me out of your face;

I can choose to
turn away
and not listen
to a word you say;
Which admittedly,
is hard on me
because I don’t usually
roll that way;

I can write of
the promises made
and broken between
the exact same space;

I can hold grudges
that turn into
massive tidal waves
that will swallow you

I can choose to
follow along
with the flock
that sings your song;
which truthfully
just isn’t me
so please –
don’t get me wrong.

I can be nothing,
to you, in your life
and this will
suit me just fine;

You can still see me
though I’m only a dot,
in your rear view
on a map that you lost.

Memaphor.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-bendingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bull-headedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

Ghost Dive.

"In the Fog" Capitola, California 2014

“In the Fog” (Photo taken by Americana Injustica, Capitola, California 2014)

Had not you been stolen
away from its sands,
who knows then, my dear?…
where your feet might let you land,
I can see
your face beneath,
the kelp and reef
quite possibly…
drowning
in old misery;

Were you not whisked away
to a far and foreign place,
how might it have become, I fear…
the smile gone from that face,
I can sense
the elegance,
buckets from whence
you counted
grains
in beach tents;

What if? You had no mother
to make up your little mind?
a different man, you understand…
born of a different experience, unkind,
I can feel
pain: so very real,
it’s deep, it’s instilled
but, you’ve conquered
forgiveness
titanium within thy will;

May your prose always shine
Ever-more than just a shimmer
may your wetsuit ever-protect
skin and bones of its swimmer;
I can dive
right alongside,
deeper than shame or pride
to show you – the faces
ghosts
left far behind.

Let Me.

Let me write of the way that my very genetics seem to yearn,
Blood pumping so quickly, so fiercely; my skin begins to burn.
Tingles of sweat drops on hot spots – oceans, the tides turn;
Now it’s my turn on top, and I won’t stop until you learn.

Let me illustrate a circumstance, in which your eyes are locked to mine,
Let me orchestrate the Rain Dance that stops the pace of time.
Swirled inside of ecstasy, next to me – everything is fine;
Everything else is frozen besides the warmth on my insides.

Let me warn you of the influence that my surrender tends to hold,
My face is shy, my body is small; but this spirit is fierce and bold.
For it’s been said that if I get in your head, your legs will surely fold;
And for a tongue that’s made of silver, so goes a heart of solid gold.

Let me remind of a time that was just yours and mine,
The snow fell lightly through beams of warm sunshine.
I lay wrapped tightly around your chisels like a serpentine;
While your lips insistently sipped on that nasty Moonshine.

Let me try to forget of the sounds of my heart’s tattering ,
Never you – never me, never was or will be.
Just sit in the warmth of a thought, sitting so far from me;
Come closer now, I don’t care how…I need this fire put out in me.

Snuffed Out.

Easy Now

 

I sit here, chilled to the marrow of my bones, wondering if another innocent will die today.

In this war that rages against us, our powerful adversary has built armies of robotic, light-switch lovers who pose as the ones we commit ourselves to; who play the roles of the people we can trust and depend on – only to be remotely detonated from afar the instant we embrace them.

Will I lose another comrade today? Will I have to drag his battered, broken and lifeless body into the foxhole with me and try in vain to breathe his beautiful life back into him?

The war cries are slicing all around me as I watch, transfixed on his moments of truth; unable to turn away from my enveloping and morbid fears coming true before my eyes. Does he know he has removed his armor? Is he aware that he is a sitting duck, so vulnerable to the enemy only inches from his heart?

My body wracks with tremors of negative anticipation, my eyes pour tears of loss and pain down my muddy cheeks as I strain through the blur created by them; I am compelled to watch this macabre sacrifice that my comrade feels inclined to.

I silently pray to the Gods from my hole in the ground, pushing out all of the deafening sounds of warfare and death and destruction and despair:

May the Gods release my comrade from this gravitational pull he is caught in? I will do anything you ask of me, should you grant him safe return to our hole…he is special, he is rare, he is necessary to so many others in this battle. PLEASE CARRY HIM THROUGH TO THE LIGHT AND SAFETY.

My own spoken words startle me as I realize I have been hollering my prayer into the blackened skies overhead, at the top of my stinging lungs – in desperation. My comrade still stands too far from me, the distance between us – too great for my weapons to aid him at all. I am helpless in the hole we shared not long ago – helpless to force my comrade to survive through this epic battle of his…and I find myself tearfully asking the Gods:

  How could you snuff out such a beautiful light?
 I don’t want you to…