A Fraction of An Answer

All of this tumultuous humble bumble and tremble amid floating cities sends electric dozes across the edges of my eyelids. Chatter boxes running on something stronger than caffeine and pinker than a drum line bunny, spattering harsh spittle consistent with spackle for my holy walls, lumpy walls, fresh stain-chipped walls. How to belong in a long being lonely world? How to flash-fight against the rushing downstreamers? Maybe I should cut some slack and take a break; count the curvy moss on the obligatory rock on the side of my favorite short cut. Slip a fuzzy bit into my pocket to freshen up the boredom between skull and scalp. Tailgating thoughts: what about this? what about that? Children throwing questions out the windows and then screaming as they bounce to bits on the freeway. Someone has to make sense of it all, and I guess they will, just so long as they don’t forget to tell me when it’s all worked out. Being left out of the realm of answers, lost in the prodding rods of who, what, when, where, why, and how. Lazy journalists without directions to the latest scoop. Ho hum, ho hum: the holy walls hem and haw as they crumple under the acidic, but friendly, paint. Whose fault am I? I’d say God’s, but He has no faults. So I’m a faulty fault belonging to a faultless God in a fault-ridden universe. A fumble here, a fumble there, and yet again I tremble in mid-sentence.

Shoulders Back (a found poem)

Untrained diaphragmatic bone mass,
Elongating and exhaling stars.
Critical to good posture, extend your foot at 24 degrees.
Tipsy the exaggeration, so stand still and sit tall.
Hold for a count of ten, a stove, and words.
Your torso works in a logical sense,
Presenting oxygen with smooth, wavelike intake.
Good posture.
Good posture.
Good elbow to palm alignment.

Pretense?

Complex, I float somewhere in the middle.
A spectre of my intelligence,
Condemned to haunt, to meander;
Restless and unobservant.
Stuck in my throat with the bundles of words almost said,
Stuck just to the left of the affection I almost express.
Dry pupils and stand-still contacts
That choke my tonsils and quease my stomach.
700 tons of anticipated judgment
Crushing the calcium in my bones, leaving
Dry limbs and stand-still initiative.
Shattered shards and shrapnel
From battles I didn’t fight, but should have;
Stray bullets hurt more than intentional ones,
They tear flesh more than front-line fire.
Groping through the murk of who I tell myself I am,
I lose track and traction,
But then I resolve, and resolve, and resolve
To break out of this poised and noble Statue of Liberty
That stands tall with sealed lips and tarnished skin;
Some representation I’ve turned out to be.

Sometimes… Erased

Sometimes I hear something that hits me like a
tidal wave. That first impact almost
knocks me out, but I hold on if just so
that I won’t miss a single little blue drop.

Sometimes I see something that stops
me with a bullet to the chest. I’m frozen
where I stand and each breath comes
heavier. My blood stops flowing in my
veins and covers my clothing. My mind
wants to give up to the rest it sees, but my
drained heart cries its eyes out as my body stands,
then kneels, then crawls.

Sometimes I hear and see something that
with the combined force of gunshots and tidal
waves wipes away all that I ever knew, all that
I ever felt, all that I ever thought was true.
In an instant they are gone and my eyes
search my soul for something to grab a
hold of, but their is nothing solid left;

Except you.

Pins and needles,
Needles and pins,
Fiddle-dee-dee and all is right again.
For where does sensation go to die?
And where are the thrones of the deep blue sky?

Sharp is the pavement and the moss that grows,
On which side, dear? Sure, I don’t know.
The trees’ twisted fingers, the quivering branch,
Brushing the chill from my taut wrinkled skin.
Precious the fight and the choice to give in.

Sunshine fuzz frames moonlight dust,
And aquamarine seascapes create a
False sand-shifting, star-shifting,
Face-lifting song of worry and woe.
Who asked the statues which way to go?

For Somewhere lies shapeless
And nowhere at all,
Until someday – Wait, what was that?
Oh, just the driftwood souls, the last-chance kings,
And my frantic compulsion sings.

Uncomfortable

I don’t know how to transform,
How to merge myself within myself.
I see them peering,
Through the keyholes I see their concrete questioning.
(Are they peering?)
(Do they care?)
Plaques on the walls only scrape away the
Plaster, somehow missing the point.
And trepidations of color crackle betwixt
The flashing colon of my alarm clock.
(Would you make up your mind?)
For pigmented half-moons and gold filigree
Just won’t cut it anymore.
Rice paper transparency versus beleaguered opaqueness.
(Why are you so monopolizing?)
(Is it free parking or charity?)
My blunders, they burgeon and break apart,
An obstruction of character.
Falsifying myself  – within – myself.

Growing Pains

An expanding of the heart;
Stretching, Growing.
The scars of torn muscle;
Requirements of emergence.
Bursting at the seams.
The throbbing in my heart.
The moths escaping the Radiance.
Illuminating; Chasing dark shapes,
Out the crevices. Juxtaposing
with Shipwrecked self
And train-wrecked dreams.
Rebirth.

Strike a Match – Inhale the Smoke – Light the Candle

Paper to write. Paper to edit. Paper to turn in. Paper to burn.
No time to play with paper.
College ruled and frantic procrastination.
It’s late in the morning, so tired of being awake.
2am, 8am, 2pm, 8pm.
The same over again.
Humming that same song.
No notes, no words, no rest.
I just want to play with paper!
Shut off the lights.
Turn down the heat.
I’ll take my connotations and run.

Deux

I am two persons.
Not one.
I may look like one,
A single person, whole.
But I am not.
I am two.
Seperate.
Linked and connected.
Torn.
Broken.
Frustrated.
Standing.
Kneeling.
I am two persons.
Not one.
The essence of self.
The essence of Him.
Pleasure that kills.
Kills Him.
Sorrow at murder.
His murder.
My murder.
Water in my eyes.
His side.
Seventy-two.
Empty hours.
A transformation.
Lumiere.
Joie reborn.
Etched in white.
Over black.
La peinture du Paradis.
Blanc.
I am two persons.
Not one.
Dead and Alive.
I am His.

Urban

Listen.  The rocks cry out.
             The rocks cry out.
Streets cry out, “To the Glory!”
Yes, even the pavement.
The city lights, they sparkle.
Glass and beams of architectural
Praise.
The glint of sun reflected in steel.
A bustling of life that whispers
Your Name.
Firetrucks and ships.
Surfboards and street signs.
The rhythm of homeless percussion.
Guitar riffs in the park…
Bring Glory to Your Name!