It
sees
and knows the
game I’ve been playing tonight.
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
troubles my sight; shows me the fraud I really have become.
I lit two fires, but now I return to the camp and kill the one
whilst stoking the other.
But then I realized,
it’s just the poison.
“It makes the whole world a little bit brighter”
before it makes it dark.
And here,
here is where I choose
how dark it gets.
It is simply terrifying.
Everyone expects us all to do It,
the culmination of every single one of their
expectations.
They can’t see us breaking the pattern,
acting in any way outside of the box,
the box that is routine.
So when we do,
everyone blinks a few extra times.
Things just seem brighter.
The dead tell much more interesting stories than the living.
All we want to talk about is now and ahead,
like the arrow’s path,
always aiming for the next target.
They,
they don’t talk at all,
and the silence,
the pale faces,
that’s what really makes us think like Black Hawk Down.
Behind enemy lines.
Behind the lines of modern thinking,
back into our roots,
the oak tree in our yard.
The dead carry no vanity,
they only carry what clothes they’re buried in,
as they step into the boat
to take them across the styx.
It’s that time of year, NORAD covering Santa’s journey, great times together with family, and presents. And as such, I have a present for all of you! I self-published a collection of my own poems entitled “Iodine & Turpentine”, which you can download as a free PDF or buy a hard copy of for a simple $8! The link is http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/iodine-turpentine/8072877
I hope you enjoy!
When left to simply
intoxicate himself by the
furniture store,
he was well equipped;
but for life,
he simply lacked a sail
and oars.
The winter coated streets are empty,
save for him.
Main street is glowing with light,
some from stores,
some from the barren trees decorated feebly,
but most from the tall wooden pillars
that he now walks under.
Few cars pass by,
but those that do still startle him;
their intensity breaking the lullaby
that just might have been sung by celestials.
Children carol across the town,
like some funeral procession lamenting the loss of warmth.
As he passes,
he slips a 50 into the bucket they have held
outstretched imploringly.
He wont miss the money.
It’s their reward for being
good this year.
We lay together,
bodies enfused,
minds interwoven,
each existing only for the other.
Nervous,
but calm,
the gate was breeched,
and the legion marched on.
Time slouched at the bus station,
pacing slightly,
making his presence known to all,
but instantly forgotten when they looked away.
Surprise was thick in the air,
yet it didn’t choke.
Subtly was nowhere found,
but grace had been the understudy.
Everything,
exactly as needed,
existing perpetually,
elating and engulfing.
Time has never been better spent.
The wind is blowing.
The pages of this book move of their own accord,
taking me from date to date,
thought to thought,
love to hate and back again;
as if the scenic view was so good
you had to see it twice.
Finally, the invisible fingers seem satisfied,
as if this date offered them food and a bed to sleep on.
November 24th
As the sun set that day,
new journeys began.
Leaves once covered that ground where
my hand was held in silence.
Now the snow falls lazily,
covering the grass,
freezing the air,
but just fueling the fire more.
The wind is blowing.
Snowflakes get trapped between the cold pages
as I shut the small book,
turn towards home,
and walk in peace together.