Wednesday, November 26, 2014

A night in the den of lions.

[the sharp pain is over and it's dog days.
we cling to the heat of the night.]

I was sure one day that I'd quit dreaming. I'd grow out of thoughts of things intangible that words can't illustrate, but like any day among many days, 
I've been known to be wrong.

Some days, I pray for the cacophany of ravens and nightengales; the shrill and staccato chirruping of the mockingbird. 

Sometimes the silence sounds so much more soothing, and sometimes the silence is all we have. But who wishes the weight of words away?

I knew there would be a time when being pictorial was boring and I'd wear my heart on my sleeve and my head wouldn't hang like hallowed kings and hallway chandeliers.

I knew even then that I couldn't stand in the way of any of my proclivities.

And I watch the summer pushing and trudging onward in a blaze of heat to burn a doorway through into another Indian Summer. 

It's a long wait here to sit and watch the summer die, but the boredom is exquisite.

I was sure one day I'd be tempered by drink and noise and long nights under open lights and the walls couldn't contain me.

But my temperance now is me. It feels so personal, and I don't comprehend the gravity of anything.

Our intemperance now is permanent, it's personal, and we don't grasp the singularity of anything.

I was sure one day I'd grow out of my skin and into some one else, and we'd share weeks and words and pretend we had the things we need. 

Libertines in life and in love.

I knew there would be a time when my breath for lectures would grow short and my tolerance would be unconditional. 

And now if I had one, I'd raise a glass to toast providence, as though that's what really put it in my hand.

I was sure one day that all the me's I made would fade, that I'd lie and say I never dreamed of anything else.

I was so sure.

Last summer, I left like I got my way.

I was sure the roads were connected as I read the map aloud, punctuated by nerves (in shadows) and streetlights. 

It was a long and winding way to watch the treeline die from inside the truck.

Last summer, it was a dark grey sky. 

The thunderous chests of ancient ancestors pronounced long vowels and struck with blazing fingers, calling out to us to rejoin the intervention,
and we reached out with our closed eyes, half-awake in fear beneath the torrents of the summer thunderstorms.

When we got behind the wheel, we were so sure that we were bridging the distance instead of creating it.

We all fall victim to fallacies under one false auspice or another.

We traced all the roads from what was home out to the east coast, and then all the way west again.

Coast to coast.

Before we knew it, it was autumn love, we were grouped up and regrouping, but you can't see, love.

You can't tell what kind of life you've lived 'til today/

I can't see where anyone's roamed. 

At least, if I was never true to you, I stayed true to us. 

I can't see where anyone's touched.

At least, if I lied to you, I stayed true to us.

I can't see here.

I was sure the roads were connected. I was sure I could see you from afar.

Still, I'm lost and forgotten with our lies, love.

I can't see where anyone would say that we're not to blame.

I was so sure.

If I had one, I'd raise a glass to you love, as though you're what really put it in my hand.

I was sure one day that you'd be the one to make me fade, and I'd lie and say I never dreamed of anything else.

I was so sure.

Sure.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

twentysomething. (throwback)

September 20, 2013 at 8:45pm

I don't want this to be about being young and dumb, and having our whole lives ahead of us.

I don't want it to be about succumbing to things like self indulgence and naive love, but when you take away all the things that affect those of our age, what are you left with? Is it vast, and empty, flat and dead?

Does it even feel?

Is it fleeting and indecisive like the Salton Sea, never really knowing when to be full and when to be a vast empty space, littered and punctuated with dead tree trunks like the hide of some great game beast, bristling with broken spears and primitive weapons?

Will we lie there on our beds of dust and sand as it slips from under us, sliding through the glass bottleneck of time, leaving us in the hollow ribcage of some great desert?

But, since I've become numb, I'm finding more and more that none of us know a thing about love.

How does it feel?


At night, I thank my lucky stars that mine is unrequited.

I thank the night for the falling light and the ghosts of distant stars that drift and vacillate like motes of some glowing dust.

And then burn up.

I thank the night for the cool clutch of coins in my pocket, and for the liquid that coats my heart.

"To fortune," and this bravado we both know I can't hold.

But waking up finds me mostly alive and well, and wide-eyed from my dreams.


But I don't want this to be about dreams and lively idealism, back in times when our dreams had potential.

I don't want it to be about succumbing to things like ego and narcissism, even when all we have is ourselves.

If you take away the great distance to our hearts, what's left of our generation?



I'd feel bad for us.

I'd feel

I'd feel anything at all, if I could.

Friday, November 21, 2014

the quiet (throwback)

...the quiet...
April 19, 2009 at 10:22pm

[We are woven into the earth,
a seamless portrait of all the
collected echelons of history,
and memory. ]


...the quiet...

We are few quiet bones and breath, wrought with heartstrings and reverberating with utterances of a time not unlike ours, only before anyone ever admitted to be a child of a love that never tells.

"They tell me it's just a myth," she says, a long finger alternatively tempting the rims of separate glasses of iced tea and peach schnapps. She had a blue corduroy jacket draped over the back of her chair. I remained speechless. Her eyes, blue, but not unlike the fluorescent white of light. This night, the gravity of everything had tinted them slightly grey.

When we spoke, we spoke in practiced turns. We sang a funeral procession of verbs and predicates into the smoky air, swirling with motes of silent breath that once desired to be words. We only broke the silence to let anyone else that might be listening know that we were still in the room, somewhere.

The air crackled with the density of silence, the sheer weight of clarity birthing our new thoughts. Our new, bristling clarion.

And my eyes, my mind, my heart. They trailed over collarbones and jawlines, folds, curls and tresses of hair, glossy but lost in the color of the pale light, followed arms to fingers, to glass, back up to teeth and quiet lips.

We were alone. Alone under a million beams of moonlight. Under a million beautiful reflected faces of the sun, come to witness us in our surrender. To the quiet, the warmth of the silence in us both. The only place we could think out everything we'd never tell one another.

Everything we'd always felt.

She steepled her fingers over an ever-emptier glass, inhaled a breath so subtly as to speak, but the words. We both knew the words would never cross her lips. I passed a hand over the table, running my fingers along its edge, the honest things weaving a spell across the tattered, fraying ends.

In the night, the faintly lighted place, we were ghosts. Picture-reel effigies. Silent, colorless bodies. But the movement meant everything. Ever moving. Ever breathing. Together. In the calm. The rhythmic sounds of us, these husks housing hearts of ours.

Maybe, the sound was my own. Or maybe, the sound was two.

There's no way of knowing, under the starless sky. Children of a love that never tells.

In this, our silence.

at the gates of the bayou.

[My worries, I'll tear my fucking eyes out.
Where are we going,
 all the way?
We'll thumb the razorwire and praise our
Awkward situation.
Don't say I didn't warn you.]

We're learning a little bit more, day by day, how to forget, not forgive,
Well, so fucking what if we're killing ourselves? 
That never gave us reason before, nothing will give us reason now,
Now that we're not really even here at all. 

Dining, paging, texting, art, waits, lies.
ALL THE WAVES ARE OVERWHELMING
And they're forming scars across us,
Lying across duvets and pillows, laughing,
Eating, calling, waving, paint, lines, lies.

We're the last kind, we fade a little bit more each day into regression,
Well so what if we're killing ourselves?
Despite what we say, anyway, we're all dead in some kind of way.
Well, farewell, burn in this barrio, panic in all our eyes,
But the abrupt punctuation of gunshots,
It never stopped us before,
It's critical now, your life's about to change course, the wave

all the waves are overwhelming
forming scars across us
digging graves as shallow as our breath
echoes of us
we vanquish our fears.
echoes of us.
overwhelmed,
dying,
us.


Thursday, November 20, 2014

au revoir.

[Ask for me tomorrow, and you will find me a vague and distant man.
Oh please, just last. ]

I know the heart's not meant to move like this, over the sharp topography of the map, but the razorlines of travel are so telling. Our smiles and our tears, they scale from base to rapier summit with reckless abandon, reaching up and dragging zenith nails across rayleigh blue, across thunderheads and the angry words of long-dead spirits of what may have been our ancestors.
I'm surprised by this more often than you know, you know, I'm in love and I laugh about it.
What, exactly, do you take me for?
I will give up the gun, lay down my knife, this love thing, I never could quite knack it.
I know I'm confusing, and it may sound trite, but tell me what to do and I'll do it.
I've got saying yes down to a science. I just want you to tell me where to be.

I know I've been irresponsible with things like language and romanticism, but I just want you to tell me about yourself.
If I carried this weight out to the edge with me, well I'd already be a memory,
Like you - And maybe I'm losing more of it every day, but how would I ever hear it go?

I know that love's not supposed to go like this, on one side, but I couldn't bear the collision, so I . . .
I opened up the door for you to leave as soon as you arrived. I left this thing, this love, dying on the floor,
abandoned. I don't know exactly how to tell you, but it's a mistake every night there's a body that's not yours, it's a lie in every smile I mirror that's not yours, that's not yours, it isn't enough.
It isn't even enough.
I'm in love and I lie about it.
I know it's confusing, and it may sound stupid, but tell me who to be, and I'll be me.
I'm flexible, and the thing about changing to be a better man, I couldn't quite knack it.
I've got this thing down to a science, just tell me when you want me to show up.

I know I've been naive with things like mutuality and exchange, but I can hear the door open and close.
Can you tell me about yourself?
I lied, you know.
I'll never forget what we've tried to put down for weeks now,
Like you - And maybe I'm losing more and more of you ever day, but ...
How would you ever know?
How could you know?

One wind, one win, one distant shout of thunder,
One quiet sigh of wind through these hills,
And I'm your passenger.
Tell me where to go.

How could you know?

Friday, November 14, 2014

for thine is...

[After this, I promise I'll get away from the keyboard.]

I'm becoming (think) more inclined, in time, to let these things just pass me by. Pass the vodka.
It doesn't add up, the pieces don't fit, but we don't aspire for things that make sense, we don't strive
for cohesion and peace and love, and all of the utopian bullshit from the 60's dreamscapes. We don't have to wonder where the fuck any of it went, we all just grew up, we shed out our universal naivete (sorry guys)
and settled for things like media infusion, and news, and headlines, and confirmation bias. We're more dangerous with knowledge now than we've ever been (ok enough, we're absolutely filled with lies and misnomers and falsified information) . .. . we're not trying hard enough to know eachother.
Where the fuck have we all been?

Tonight's your night, I fucking swear. Nobody cares if you forgot how to pray or care, for thine is the kingdom,
Your freedom, your privilege is your power, your glory is your apathy, forever and ever.
Friday night's your fucking night for sinning, you can genuflect your sins away on Saturday,
For thy kingdom is between the sheets, for thine is kingdom,
And the power, the power is wrapped around your throat,
And the glory, the glory, oh oh oh ... fuck,

It'll never be enough, will it? In time, we'll find that the divine is not quite what we had in mind. In hand,
pass us the bottle. And we'll run out of confessions, we'll run out of time and fathers to whom we'll mention
Any kind of remorse (at our intervention) - We'll swear further oaths and silence, but we're going down,
We're going down for atheism and lust and all the hedonistic shit of our age. We don't have to wonder why ours are the doomed, we never have to grow up, we just fuck and drink and die and shed these mortal husks and settle for cliches like leaving beautiful corpses (ok enough, we've absolutely derailed on our sins and following the parts we imagined to be our hearts . . . .. . we're not trying hard enough to know ourselves.)
Where the fuck have we all been?

Tonight's our night for fucking, I swear,
Tonight's our fucking night, I swear.
For thine is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory
forever.
a...
a.




sinking.

[ Oh, you thought I'd stay silent.  I rarely, if ever, have nothing to say.]

Winter holidays to smash your routine, a sinking and cutting fate only the kids can appreciate.
The frosty morning air against my blood is what motivates me. 
I listen in to my own complicity, I listen in to revert to simplicity,
But I am captive, I confess, to complexity and sin.

Are we held captive, my friend?
Are we sinking in,
Let that liquid swim, let it fill you,
Can you imagine a better fate?
There's no other fate than sinking,
sinking, drowning.

December mornings to leverage your defeat, hiding out away from your destiny,
The promise of sleep the only thing motivating.
You listen in for you inclusion, it's not here, it's not here,
We're captive, we confess, to this contrived delusion.

My friend, we're held captive,
We're sinking in
Let the liquid swim, let it fill your lungs.
There's no better fate than,
There's no other fate than,
This suffocation
There's no different fate from drowning.




we lie.

[I know my actions can be confusing sometimes, but it's not often I get to express the best parts of what I mean.]

This sojourn has no deadline, but it has an end.
I imagine I won't see you there.
These bones and blood we're made of won't be chronicled in the end.
You and I know both know I wish you well, but don't take me for a well-wisher.
These words aren't right.
They're not the legend you're looking for.
I don't intend for them to win you over.
I don't even expect you to relate.

It's about all i can take.
I smile when I see your face again and again -
Am I effusive? not often.
Most of the time I barely have a pulse.
Most of the time I barely have a face.
So, I don't expect to win you over.
We can barely even relate.

It's about all I plan to take.
I'm sick again and again when you leave.
Am i bitter? fuck yes
You barely answer back.
We lie to each other in so many ways.

How can I show you I won't always be around?

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