Re-Painting Our Slate

Constant metamorphosis

Cannot undo past realities.

Heritage and origin

Remain set once cast.

Growth and empowerment

Are forever before us,

But we cannot transform

Without carrying the past.

Remembered or forgotten,

Experiences create shape

Beyond any given moment

For us to configure.

Wishing and wanting

Provide no escape.

The harshest influences

Of our history still linger.

Desiring to overcome

And create something better

Requires and embrace

With the ghosts of our affliction.

Such bitter tastes

Often burn as they’re swallowed,

But sorrow’s recompense

Is the price of our ambitions.

 

 

Between The Cracks

In systems complex,

A function unaccustomed,

Between the tall spires

Of civilized estates,

Wander weary children

Unburdened by order,

Creeping through the cracks

For scraps of a niche.

Workers and worriers

Consigned to commission

Could scarcely fathom

Such anarchic fashions.

Scouring the cities

For profits and pleasure

In whatever scarce amounts

Their subtleties can acquire.

These unguided forces,

So volatile and so reckless,

Surviving as a single self

Amid so many societal tempests.

Uninhibited by customs

But restrained by necessities,

Hunger, stress, and heartbreak

Without a remedy or a compass.

Unlost without direction

And unashamed without justice,

The wisdom of disorder

In nature’s law is too apparent.

Live on or die,

Obtain or go without,

Learn quickly or be snuffed

Like a candle blown out.

So the builders and planners

Imposing straight lines and roads

Offer little but questions

For these wanderers to pose.

“Who are you helping?

Can disorder be owned?”

Calling from the cracks

And splinters in the road.

“Enforcements must be vain,

For surely you must see

Nothing can be owned

And everything is free!”

 

 

 

 

 

Genesis

Oceans cascade

From unfathomable heights

Into the vast sculptured crevices

Of the planet’s bosom.

Numerous energies

Transmutated by tempest

Thrashed and torn asunder

Into pools of perfect chaos.

Writhing molecules

Repeatedly rearranged

In unprecedented forms

Of which many are miscarried.

Fortune’s devices

Favor but a few

Particular arrangements

To persist amid such tumultuousness.

Fluctuating forces

Pound vitality into matter,

Precipitating its progress

In discordant detumescence.

Patterns emerge

Inevitably in chance variables

Until at long last

A seedling erupts.

Implanted erection

Upon a rugged stone surface

Surfacing into the light

And its first growing pains.

Searing agony,

The flower’s contorted face

Gazing towards the sky

And screaming

“I’m Alive!”

 

 

 

Pleasant Springs

I don’t know why,

But cruelty always lived in that town.

Maybe it was in the water,

Regularly dosing the inhabitants

As it was swallowed every day.

Perhaps it was under the influence

Of some madness inducing parasite,

Indifferent to it’s casualties.

Or maybe it was cursed

By the remnant of some spirit,

Exercising wrath against the living.

Or maybe it was just cruel.

All I know,

Is that it was hardly innocent.

Behind the pleasant persona

Of a quaint woodland town

Lurked a sea of illness,

Brutallity, and active hate.

To walk the streets

Was to be exposed

To those who stalk the weak

For hardly any cause at all.

Stories of random beatings,

Robberies, and rape

Would circulate so often

To be an ever-present rule.

The law,

The real law evident to all,

Was the Melian Dialogue.

Never spoken, but even so,

Obvious to all who saw.

Small town America,

Christianity and moral life,

Those superfical platitudes applied

So heavily to disguise

The ever-present disscordance

Dancing before their eyes.

The same persons clamoring

For prayers in church gatherings

Walk out continuing

To prey on one another.

Maybe it’s the water,

Some parastie, or spirit.

Maybe it’s a culture

Of sickness they inherit.

I don’t know

What caused the place

To be the way it is,

But cruelty lives there

Nestled deep

And all do as it bids.

 

To Never Be Preyed Upon

To never be preyed upon

I learned

Either hunt or be hunted.

Be the breaker or the broken.

Swallow your sentimentallity

Or suffer.

Locked away in vaults

Of cold cruel steel,

Behind bitter dispassionate bars

Biting empathetic hands

I live

Looking out

At everything that’s kept away.

To never be preyed upon

Is to sever all your heartstrings

As each one tugs your veins,

Pushing them away

Before they draw you out,

Exposed, vulnerable,

Easy prey.

And every broken heartstring bleeds

In the buried vaults unseen,

Untouched by any hand

The writhing wounded psyche

I identify as me.

To never be preyed upon

Is to never be free,

Looking out to see pleasures

I wish I could’ve been

Open and tender

In such a way as to be

The delicate flower

I’ve sheltered to keep

From being preyed upon.

I weep

Behind locked steel doors

Ashamed of myself,

Afraid for myself,

In solitudes keeping

Too weak to be anything but

Never preyed upon.

 

 

 

The Sinking Razor

Back and forth

Swings the razor’s edge

Cutting every second

In perpetual rhythm.

Sleeping in distress,

No syllable expressed

Of the grinding apparatus

Against our bosom.

Frivolous in deeds,

Expedient in needs,

As the pendulum swings

Deeper through the chest.

Insouciant appearing,

Lacerations searing,

Tickling tender nerves

And numbing all the rest.

Revelry in laughter

Midst superficial chatter,

Ticking ever onward

And bleeding fibers pale.

Gaiety and madness

In masochistic gladness,

Sinking through the heart,

Defiant shallowness impaled.

 

 

 

 

 

Luna Under Ashes

I awoke,

Unsure of who I wanted to be.

Ashes fell from the overcast sky.

This happens every now and then.

I watch while making up my mind.

My possessions do little to assist,

Insufficient to help define.

My wandering thoughts distract,

Muddling every link I find.

A fluttering flake of ash

Descends and falls upon my eye.

I’m coated in the grayish dust

But still, I can’t decide.

I remember I was something,

But I know I don’t want that.

It lasted while I could,

But it isn’t where I’m at.

From gray to gray the sky revolves

And then from gray to black.

I’m shrouded in an ashen cloud,

Alive and inexact.

A vague idea still persists,

But it’s tangled up in doubt.

Endeavoring to fix the form

That’s tarnished in and out.

My restless mind has overstrained

And craves to leave me deep.

I’m swallowed under piles of dust,

Thus blanketed I sleep.

 

The tinkling sound of water

Streaming down

A silver fountain

Sweetly soothes

My troubled mind

Like smiles from precious friends.

I yawn and stretch

My brittle wings,

Glad of being found again.

Soaking in the pool,

The water crisp

And crystal clear,

I find I’m staring back

At my reflection unobscured.

“Love,” she said.

“You’re beautiful and

All that you should be.”

I close my eyes

And hold my breath,

Then plunge into the deep.