Single file, like in the native's way to hide numbers and mourn in a slow peace. The leftover and forward once again make sign to a favorite son. They pause and worship a clay idol, as much contrite as devoted. Forgive me friend their eyes say, "I was not there". Or, forget me friend, "There was more than I could handle". The idol responds to the deep wishes of their heart, projecting back upon the somber all that they desire. They will carry now a piece, each a piece of the pain and nurture a wound in proportion to what their projection's demand.
Please enjoy my humble attempt at verse:
When wilted, wills collide and flesh tones sound unceasingly in love's great unknown. Sinful suplex, where harm's slayed, caught enraptured with limp limbs splayed. Post riders and chariots of desire bed down. Ceasing shame prior to well-earned rest, wilted now only in name.
Embrace the body's natural longing for a happy norm. It's the way a step takes place, a collected pacing that is alluring and energized... And all resistance against the untimely death of a leisure lap. I've sworn an oath to uphold in subjective tones, but the worthy object is the daily one. It is the one that mends in cascades of introspection, and owes itself to itself as pride would without the taint of sin. The happy norm is the utopian sense of bounding unobstructed and it moves on and on in this sullen world.
Yes he saw him and knew his intentions. Yes, Yes, of course there is an anxious flush. Handsome faces force their way into memories with a blinding speed. Sweats breed themselves like fruit flies across the faint worry lines of his face. He steps on high achievement like a laden stone, pronouncing something unintelligible, like it's history's forgotten place mat. All these indiscretions and distractions that agitate him to no end. To no end. That's the puzzling part of it all. Sitting and hoping on some, while others he bare wrestles and bleeds dry. Is this a coherent picture of a man? Is this a man who prizes a coherent picture of himself? This man is my friend and these words are all the best I can do.
We'd get so high, project the foolish and let the vapors run us ragged. Our incantatory howling an extension of iridescent smoke plumes. Parched and pining, we'd sip sublimonade from circus spouts and own up to the awful, as our tempers would allow. The act of incinerating barriers lovers never broach is wild work. Those days are of a kind safer minds may never know.
I spent my life wishing when, that spell whistling at my heart. A tug, a tear, and all the frosty drag it holds. That bitter cold a balm that numbs, and reflecting that a feeling is more than some quiet alone. I accept that ever after is nevermore; these things ourselves tell us that then shed rhythmically asunder. Each beat is a probe. Our heart, it's faithful prole. And tomorrow, as well as all to follow, will the frigid beg for friction and I beg alike?
Let no being carry the unearned burden, rife with the compaction of endless wrongs. Hoisted on hollow and growing bones, forcing their shape into something hideous. This hellish load, wrought of all those wrongs.
To be, to be, that poor weakness, to be. Starting each day anew seeking to be, but starting with deficits. And so, being only harshly. Farther down that road will they travel until being is defined by the detestable. To be devoid of fear or never to be at all.
Starting line wonders
So I stopped and sat still as I saw the prime commence, And wondered on the possession of so serious a fact. the act presupposes an end. See, the mighty legs of the many runners fatigue upon the chase. The object lesson for all concerned? they run awfully hard in place.
Envy her, seated quiet comfort? The rigid fixed in fashion to extend meaning. At pains, conspiring, but bent on appreciation for all things them (us?). Would that work and worry were beneficent bonds. A recourse to rigidity would arouse such hope. As is, all days tar quiet comfort an ungrateful lot.
We would cuddle often together in mutual admiration, each inspired by the other. Plastered off our desire and nuzzling comfort to avoid the day. Well, what of places to go and things to see? We break once or twice but a cold vacuum stills the air and harms the void. No, no, no..we won't leave this; there's none other. What a picture of the future, this present, an idea I'd put into song. I hope that we might sing this song together, and let it echo through the chambers of our hearts.
Stripped bare before life's gentle cadence, sucked dry and laid limp in deference to silent rigor lives a shell of a man; a hearty hammer brought to heel. Once pronouncing distant dreams, folly's seeker floats unencumbered swiftly to a sleep. The proving ground of plenty and giving ground to those who purchase pardon. These battles having spent themselves upon the concourse of the day, a man may rest delightful in his stunning vulnerability.
The funny dread
The beast, it takes its fill. Mother frowns and shakes her till. And... there the mites are a'mourning. Trembling few, ensconced in warning. The funny dread of complicit rage be the muted distress of every age. And we, you and me all the while bear benefit and burden with lacquered smile. As for those who fight we may wonder on their lives: if their struggle be a light? Or but a flippant lie?
Terror of the tawdry
I wrote this poem after reading this excellent post. I’m often mortified by the casual disrespect that men engage in vis-a-vis women, and to my mind, every man is responsible for ending such actions. That anyone would be forced to “erect defenses” for merely living their lives is an absurd notion. Let’s relieve a little human suffering by engaging those of the opposite sex with the same respect we ask for ourselves. If we create a vibrant enough echo perhaps the madness will stop.
The petty and their predations can, therefore, they will. It's that subtle shift of power to force a nervous target still. What right have they that press to pronounce an ill intention? Drown them all in a vibrant echo, and through the flood erect defenses.
Up from broken bearing does spring settled the wide-berth of deliberate mind. In swells, off course a song of sweat set sailing to this tiny track in time. So small are rivulets, the frayed ends frightened to resolve a salient form. Through life, a son erects a favored will representing all passion long since born.
Among the evolving there's a devolution. There is a siren wailing the savage song of loss. A wave of tension, that as it strikes the shore of progress, emits its high, holy death rattle. And oppositional forces, motivated but unaware that malignant aspirations reside in futility, suffer the universal tendency toward disorder as it stands firmly in opposition of their oppression. In these final stages, when the thrash and temper of humankind reveals itself in part so ugly, so cold. Then does the tightening grip of mortis set in begging for the decisive blow. The succor they seek, the fruit and fallout of their belligerent designs, can know no forever, no perpetual peace. And like all death throes before them, cling as they might, they will leave behind naught but the high, holy death rattle.
Holes, hard ones that tamp themselves. Ready, lying always in wait of the clumsy, soon-to-be sufferer. All the thick space between Earth, man, beast and branch. Decorative, unfashionable and boring holes. Wells of the living who happened by too close. Earmarks of eager destruction. These holes are hollow indeed. But boy, do they ever paint a scene.
Fit of force
I like a tall confidence; a fit of force at nature's best. The emboldened gait of yesterday's fright, casting shadows as it glides. Own each step as you control the respective space. If pound of pavement be a precious rhythm, soon you'll see us close beside.
Irregular object, incessant war
A flustered who behind every fizzle with a top popped-off for each submission. Submit? In fact you have. Long ago, with adornments pronouncing validity and verities unearned.
Martyrs of the faith
I suppose I should have added a note to this piece since it is ripe for misinterpretation. It is not, dear friends, a lamentation of the effects of life/society upon the religious. Rather, it is a lamentation of the effects of religion on all the rest. Here, “faith,” is a reference to those who continue to strive for the greater good, not because it is a decree from on high, but because it is the worthy aim of their lives. Religion has so permeated the highest levels of power in the United States and abroad that I would find it difficult to write a lament over its having lost anything (other than sight of its stated aim).
All that said, let me assure anyone reading this that people of all faiths, political persuasions and identities are welcome (encouraged actually) to read and discuss my writing. I look forward to spirited commentary everyday and would be hypocritical if I didn’t explore various viewpoints.
One sad and slow for the martyrs of the faith, us all. A retread of the trodden, where wisdom whistles its low longing. And the good are forced into order with a march maiming all their deeds. They step too. They step over. They step on. The martyrs of the faith are we.