in the end
what was it
just another set
another job
days at the office
copier jams and
expense reports to
send to accounting
it’s just another day
feeling like the sewers
laid in the dirt
washed over by the filth
of legions of those
you’ll never know
but were somehow
built to serve
#.90- Recurve
love is the passion
that one day flickers
helpless and wild
as a candleflame
starved for wick
dancing down a wicked spiral
but a simple procedure
a solid gas
hot wax
formed carefully
around an oiled stem
a spark
a connection
oxygen, friction, an eruption of flame
searing brilliance
bliss in plurality
spins the dance once more
a clever cosine
an endless whip
the sting of which
is blissful
a firm cue for vivacity
to burn the brightest
#K- You
you
the one
monolith
the sky overhead
the earth below
molten essence
poured one day
into a mold of surreal
beauty
Venutian drama
cast in sweet marble
within
without
from your lips is spoken
from your breast issues
from your hands is crafted
the conjuration of essence
pure
the taste from within you
your sacred communion
the sight from without
your shining green eyes
the touch from your hand
your encompassing warmth
the smell of your skin
your wind of the sea
the low alto purr
your siren song
upon you I could grind myself
to the essential core
skin stripped away
thoughts open wide
cast at your feet
in trusting prostration
to be the cuckoo
in the wrong nest as usual
a suit of blue feathers
for a blue bird
ill-fitting and shabby
gets chased away
but never intended to eat
anyone’s eggs
from a set of palace gates
ancient and battered
polished to a gleam still
the sun shines, yet
here, gray machinery
colors foreign misery
spotted with squares
of mangled turfgrass
i clutch the iron bars
cool and blank in my hand
workmen and mechanics
sportsmen and mathematicians
all united as one eye
the eye that stares at me
it blinks, and averts
through my oxidizing blinders
a path leads up the hill
where beauty resides
i can see them there
those with no true name
defying aesthetes for ages
a series of locked doors
but please
i call to no one
i only want to stand in the hall
not in your rooms
do be kind and let me in
for i’ve no home out here
a twig cracks beneath my feet
i couldn’t even be a pauper
a peasant, carrying buckets of shit
away from the stony hold
for a divine whim
falling out as a boy
i kicked a pair of rocks to the left
the key in my hand
hewn and sawed for years
never will fit the lock precisely
something about the eye perhaps
some tick of the hand
can’t make the slots and bumps
fit the lock i know so well
Generally, I’m considering just about everything a failure at this point. My life as I know it’s hanging on by a couple of strings, and now I’m precariously suspended over a yawning pit, contents uncertain. With my luck, it’s probably nothing simple like lava. It’s probably chiggers or scabies.
I guess I’ve just got to hope the strings hold.
So I got a 75 in my algebra class. It’s probably the highest I’ve ever gotten in a math class, but I can’t keep myself from feeling like I failed. It’s stupid. I know. I shouldn’t care, I hate math anyway, right?
Maybe it’s just stupid. Maybe it’s all stupid. Moo cat fail no meat on fridays, what?
Never again, never again.
Back to lucidity for a moment: I hate Tenacious D. They’re not funny. Jack Black is a dipshit. The other guy isn’t any better.
Okay, back to nothing, and in nothing I’m going to stay. I’ve lost my sense of the future, and I like it that way. I think the future was even more oppressive than the past, and I’d really prefer to forget about both of them. Some of the past could stay, I guess. But I don’t like the future. I want to go home.
I have 500 pages of a crappy novel to read in three days, my head is broken once again and I’m not certain what to attribute it to.
This is really the sort of thing I wasn’t expecting out of life, you know, this place down here. Today I was walking outside work and I smelled that smell of the wet foliage that smelled like home and I thought to myself ‘why did home stop smelling like this’ but then I realized that it wasn’t so much that home had stopped smelling like that, or maybe it was that I stopped myself from smelling it.
And it’s gone.
Just burn the whole thing to the ground, and go about your business.
the breaker, but only that
the stingray’s barb
there for your foot only
i’m here, an eye piercing the ice
waiting, still waiting
it’s your move
but beware
Not ever such that once was assembled properly, now dissected and splayed all about in bizarre and alarming patterns.
Scattered in tatters, a failure to adhere.
For ever now, my good lad, the lies are open to be seen, baking right there in your little oven, a casserole of modest invention, a little overdone now, should be taken out.
You never thought it would come to fruition, did you, but so naive, so naive, you never saw it coming.
And here we are, sundered and reformed, beaten, stretched and christlike.
Flaming wings beating against air that refuses to move at your touch.
A pile of ashes your springboard.
Where to, then?
Where to?