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.
When once I approach a bridge I mount my fear by extending my hand, as I did with my father years ago. We approached a grated expanse and I implored he catch me should I fall. Safely then on the other side, he having held me the entire way, I knew I was forever indebted. I still don't like bridges and I don't like admitting that something scares me, but I hate that debt most of all.
To raise eyes, maiming ageless weight and expectation. It is the inevitable rebellion of appreciation. It is worth it... To curse the eye and to press the light. And when the wanton nothing bristles as boldness refuses the lash... Oppression?... He remains the liar we despise.
Resignation to a certain fact
It's intrepidity, is resignation to a certain fact. But it's haunting, too. A countenance negated, when for once a blank stare lives as the mind in that moment, with all blood let and costly service rendered. There is no roadmap for spells concluding enduring sagas, and the intrepid know that. I'll admire from afar and wonder on the strength of those survivors as they quarter amid the spent minefield. They might say there is no strength in tattered ends, all life is a process of will and action. They might say that standing still in the face of the unmitigated is an admission of human frailty. Respectively, I say: Let me admire. Let me reflect. Stillness is strength especially in the hour of the unmitigated.
I fought this poem the entire way and, as usual, the poem won:
The chirp of the flirty bird curls lightly on the flesh-- and they who hear absorb the vibrant end of the birdy's sonic thread. Apart from the howl and hoot, in a parcel of ample space, the sweet bird embraces a rhythmic tufted bop and binds the living race.
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.
I wrote this piece in the spirit of fun, however, the more I read it the more it rings true.
Crab!, Shakespeare, faceless man. He is not a hero, but an ideal. The reservoir of all our dreams. The dream of the pen wielder and key striker and notator and all others who observe and record.
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?
Moment after the moment
There is a moment after the moment when all reside with self. The excuse that enervates wanes under its own gravity. And all the compulsion that sells evaporates like the joy of so many fleeting beats. But this life, judged always and everywhere as if chosen, is not joy in form. It is the catharsis -- the release of the unwished for and eternally unbecoming. Watch even as they wield the grand attempt, so unobservant where the passion spreads thickly. Curses! For the moment after the moment when the energy that enervates dies its trivial death.
Style myself a bard? No. At least not of the inspirational tones. No soul, no super human form will ever fill my work with joyful praise. There are sights to see, no more, no less. Connecting -- only to make of this life a lucid whole.
Stand up and be counted
Take a look at the world around you and start to add up the absurdities. Before long you might find yourself like the Indian King, the victim of an inescapable exponential progression. Absurdities are not all. There are people and places and individual circumstances that combine to form a hefty dinner dressing. The feast of large numbers of which every person is a part in some manner or other. Dissect and diagram your life according to the irrevocable power of these numbers and see them as the harbinger of the only permanence you will ever know. You are a part of them now, the glowing figs of the existence tree, and part of them you shall remain. Beyond birth and life and the countless tears and breaths, mistakes, misunderstandings and triumphs, hearts captured and minds repelled. None that mean nothing, save for the permanence that comes with being among the counted; that results from being among the being. Somehow this being is the being of "why," so often puzzling and scorned. The being of how, where, when, who and what. As to why? Because counted you were. And how? In the manner of the moment. Where? With those counted alike. When? In your time. Who? You -- among the rest. What? Counted is all.