Detritus

the adventurer
the lover
the dreamer
the sage
all the cards fanned out on the table
the curve of strength to his spine
the back is packed
these have no place today
in the weary gaze of the morning light
when a moment ago, the memory was real
a tease

As far back as I can remember, there has always been the promise of something great. A great accomplishment designed by me. The me who has talent and strength and all sorts of possibilities. The stories that are waiting to be written by these hands, the beauty that is to be shared with the world excreted from this soul, the tantalizing flavors that only I can produce which can explore the boundaries of your taste buds and quench your unappreciated thirst. The intentions are always there, ready to burst forth like an overripe, overplump berry...
splursh!
The intentions are exacted through someone else's eyes.
You look at me and your imagination is stirred. Your breath is taken away at the possibilities, so numerous, so grand. My laughter in your ears solidifies the perceived dominance that I bear. In your eyes, I can accomplish things that you can only dream of.
My words take up that string of hope. I can design so much from this. A crocheted doily that can be placed on your table. To catch the drips of your water glass. And that's as far as it goes.
Because I am a cripple, held fast by the weight of your eyes. Your eyes too occupied to see that you are my crutch.
So we hobble along, the detritus we leave behind is to remember.
I don't blame your confusion when you look back. It was not supposed to smell this bad. We turn up our noses and take another step forward.
You look at me knowing that one day I can make something great out of this...

It's getting harder and harder

to find the open doors. The fog that comes with this new reality makes it also hard to find my tools for survival. In the backround is the constant low pitched whine of broken parts, the engine keeps running. But for how long...?
I'm reading a book about madness and desperation. An attempt to ignore reality a tragic escape. But I don't see any answers to my questions. I don't know where to turn or what to ask.
The humming gives me a headache.

So let's make a plan.

recompense

i am a grande dame

i'll spin you stories of strength and perseverance

you'll look upon me with awe

and hope to reach my wisdom

i'm a chain of knowledge

every link is wrought from my tears

and struggles

it lends its strength and explains its weight

i'm a wall of sound

for everything bounces off of me

in a halo of haunts and taunts

and nothing absorbed and all is a shield

i'm a cave of sorrows

and i howl into myself

a tunnel of empty cold winds

rushing through my heart

wet with tears

a blubbering hot soaked feather pillow

a ball of spittle and pain

i wear it on the inside

what do i do

your face is smooth like the infinite sky

the storms have passed leaving a chill

yet i can't find serenity

if i could climb into your ear

like a cartoon of adventure

and touch the pink and grey and get it all over me

sticky and sweet i'm sure

maybe i can melt into it

and never worry again

i'd lay open armed in your inside flesh

and it would swallow me whole

and it would be warm and wet

and would cover my arms

and would envelope my chest

and the pressure would be comforting

and the air would not be necessary

and i wouldn't have to speak

and my mouth would never open again

and my nostrils would be filled

and my eyes would be sealed

and i wouldn't have to breathe

and i wouldn't have to be

this is my favorite time

in the before
i'm smaller than myself
the inner core is soft and wane
my outer layer breaks from the strain
shards and scars crisscross my face
if you talk to me i stretch
this is to comfort you
because my soul is old and knows better
but i droop
and shrivel up when you walk away
crunching softer with each step
and in your wake
my bounty becomes dust

Black Sheep

you suffer so distinctly

the real pressures of your age

at once it tingles

memories perhaps?

something similar, a familiar ghost?

i laugh my wizened words reach out and fan the breeze in front of me

and whisk it all away

it's fine, it's all so fine and everything is just as it should be

your turmoil is dark and fragrant

i breathe it in

its earthy green and pungent freshness

makes me yearn for long silent walks on deep rich sighs

the envy that i wear on my shoulders like a newly purchased wrap

offers me no comfort

and secures my distance from what

i wish i had again

pictures of myself

my cheeks are heavy

with time

i've never been to costa rica

or andalucia

or many places

i can take a lot of pain

but i don't know how to do it well

there was a time when my style was less defined by what i wore

and more by how good everything looked on me

now i don't have that

but i don't want to succumb to this

when everyone else is glowing all around me

and maybe andalucia is still within reach...

why

sometimes my darling

your question drives me mad

my knuckles turn white and I don't respond

I'm ashamed

but I hope that you'll forget

that you wanted to know

but sometimes my angel

I thirst for this curiosity

and believe with all my might that you

really want to know

I entertain this quest

and provide simple, pure and direct

words, ideas, facts

so as not to insult you

then sometimes my love

I dive head first into your eyes

and spin the most fantastic swirls of dreams

out of space and time and sound and sense

and I'm not concerned about losing you

or if you can or want to follow me

because this is where I really am

where I'm familiar

for the you that will always be

This voice has spoken

There was no voice that was never heard before

because after all, what is a voice?

but a collection of words

chosen together in an attempt to share

an afterthought that is a need to express

an idea that happened in the glimmer of an instance

like every idea that's already been had

but this one managed to be caught, examined, expounded and then

burbled forth like the froth at the top of a water fountain

that becomes the desperate nodding

of a passionate old man who motions this way

for punctuating punctuating punctuating

this thought that's been formed into words

that are never sufficient to express

what he is so desperate to share

in the voice that can barely be heard

beyond the confines of his lips

i am to write

today during yoga

i dreamt about sand colored blankets

and breastfeeding babies

this was while resting in corpse pose