Hardwired.

“…love was as hardwired into the structure of the universe as gravity and matter.”
– Dan Simmons, The Rise of Endymion

 

Love is not knowing, but jumping in anyway.
Love is the feeling of stitches dissolving in your skin.
Love is the smile of an innocent child in the grips of wonder.
Love is a giant, canine bearing sea-lion being afraid of you.
Love is sunshine.
Love is an all-encompassing acceptance that changes your DNA.
Love is hoping against all logic or reason.
Love is being the first face to come into view, every time.
Love can be tangible.
Love can be fickle.
Love can bring us to our knees, in many different variances.
Love will NEVER leave us alone.
Love is darkness.
Love is light.
Love is the answer as well as the question in languages that humanity does not yet speak.
Love may be a language that humanity as we know it never learns.
Love was the mother of all Hatred.
Love is the force behind all of it, everything.
Love bore Mother Earth, the Sun, and every star.
Love is God. God is a Goddess. The Goddess falls back in Love.
Love can conquer all.
Love doesn’t necessarily want to conquer all.
And lastly,

When I didn’t love Love,

it loved Me, Anyway.

Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous thorns from trees

like it’s sugarcane

with Mexico’s best peyote

cigars and syringes

sparkling fringes

champagne, cocaine

and pornography

somewhere out there

fathomed too deep

where I hardly sleep

but my eyes stay closed

my mouth remains sewn

over words of my own

this place is forsaken

this space can’t be taken

the loose change shaken

from the secret pockets

sewn inside my cheeks.

 

On “What Ifs”.

“What if…?”

and, as the words
shoot from my mind
through my lips…
there’s a sign,
shooting from
somewhere
far behind.

What if…?

And, I cannot know
the aftertaste of
a poison on my lips…
a crash above,
low the high
circling
what was.

What if…?

And, as the chance
sucks itself down the drain
out of my fingertips…
there’s a pang,
deep inside
everywhere
all over again.

What if…?

And, as the present
becomes the past, here and gone,
time all spent…
hard and long,
lungs howled
everything
emptied of my song.

Sine Missione.

I can write so-called “poetry”,

and rhyme strange words essentially,

I can tell my whole sad story,

in prose that spit-shine defensively,

I can swim in an unforgiving sea,

breakers and barrels spin-cycling,

I can ride waves semi-professionally,

a pipeline that leaves my mind spiraling,

I can clean up and seem undoubtedly,

exactly the way everyone seems to be,

I can focus my brain’s scattered energy,

and complete tasks that are given to me,

I can turn off and on emotionally,

like a switch on a wall in a laboratory,

I can protect my childish feelings,

by detaching myself from reality,

I can recall things once lost to memory,

I can trace roots far back in my family,

I can complete a tax return accurately,

I can also lift and carry the heavy things,

I can speak several languages fluently,

I can tell a story pretty truthfully,

I can tow dead weight to shore safely,

I can sniff out the best kept secrecy,

but I can’t seem to truly comprehend,

how to get myself out of this wasteland,

my brain doesn’t appear to understand,

my body doesn’t answer to the demand,

how to accept the filth for which you stand?

how to walk away and not look back again?

how to convince myself that you are not human,

so that I can live with the mirror’s reflection.

 

 

Blanket of Grey.

When you begin to hate someone who previously carried positive weight in your life, the world temporarily turns grey.
Things start to feel skewed and look grotesque.
Nothings seems to make you smile or laugh as before, nothing seems funny.
The world has changed inside of you, is changing inside of you.
You have no control over the darkening or lightening of the shades that the grey blankets over and around your life. You just have to snuggle in this blanket.
You just have to keep yourself enveloped at any cost.
There is nothing else for it.

Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

yours used to follow my eyes,

darting about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I’d rather you don’t see me as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their’ bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

I want you pick up, dust off and carry on,

all these times, your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

at which you will stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Thy Will Won’t Be Done.

My wrinkled face
is beginning to waste,
limp body, still hung,
on a squeaky clothesline,
that is tightly confined,
beneath a given thumb,
any part attached to me,
repeatedly gone numb,
neurons firing incorrectly,
missed the target,
subsequently,
my brain feels like,
a bowl of old pond-scum,
the day and night,
continue to come,
Hell or high water,
thy will won’t be done.