Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I often wonder how to characterize myself
I wonder for far I'll go(fall) in my allotted time in life
Perhaps I will(won't) be able to meet the (low) standards I set for myself
The difficulties of life sometimes give me cause(greif) enough to think this is an (un) reasonable prospect.
Indeed, perhaps I should stop comparing(stressing) about the perceived accomplishments of my peers
I should(can't) see that my victory do not depend of the lives of other, they are mine to achieve(fail).
I (don't) think I can do this. I (don't) believe that the (brittle) temperance I'm building for my self will achieve something.
Being (un)able to learn from the past and (un)willing to apply myself to any venture is(n't)
It must (not) be worth it in the long run I (can't) feel it
The ringing in my ears tells me that my efforts must (won't) be for something good.
Voices in my dreams demand that I (don't) do something with the gift of my life
My (lack of) motivation is key
Do (don't) make something of yourself, my code of conduct
I can (not) overcome.


I'll wake up early in the morning, still restless, still exhausted
My teeth will feel like rust and my bones like wet bricks
The amnesia will be temporary, long enough to feel like my home is foreign
but bref enough to snap me back into reality
I'll get off the bed with brisk, learned speed and make my way to the bathroom.
The prepping starts in the mirror
I'll look at my sleep ravaged face with disappointment
and weep with insecurities before washing them off with water
burning myself with cleansing streams
the face I see will be the truth
it will not suffice
ineffective at keeping questions at bay
my face attracts accusations and queries like so many ants to waterfalls of sugar
no questions need be asked
causes for concern need not be mentioned
insight into the mental factory is not mandatory and your press pass in not present
this face must go, but not through knife or scruple or fire or writhing from my hands
this face must be concealed
So, I take my hand, motion my palm down my face and edit the truth
Oh, hello! Pleasure to see you.
the facade stains me, remove it
back to the shallow waters
the reality is too bitter, cover it
Ah! Good morning, how have you been?
the clever ruse falls off
the sagging man behind the curtain revealed
I pause for breath, repeat the process
No exaggeration, stillness in my disguise
It fits.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The Factory

The Screens catalog visual history
        First trip to camp
        Second week of school
        all the time spent with a video game controller in hand
Conveyor belts sort out mental consideration
       Feeling on things I should have said
       didn't say
       regretted saying
Over in the corner is a computer filled with plan and orders
       Future goals and accomplishments 
       Dreams to be acted out and fulfilled
In front of me are a collectons of levers
all neatly labeled, all clearly controlling the complex machinery
My emotional cortex distilled into warhouse efficiency
I view the neural workshop from the vantage point of a simple desk
Looking over the factory's work, observing it's proces for a long as I have
the detailed records and the catalog moments
all presented with excruciating clarity
I consider
every minute of everyday
every cold winter and sunless morning
each rainy day and stale night
what would happen if the factory stopped?
        To what end would it be if I smashed the screens
        purged the ghastly images from record
what ease it would be to stall and break the belts
        forget my words and their worries
        what would meaning would shutting down all my plans, however grand or bland or unreal
But, looking down at my desk, placed right within my grasp
is a simple switch
and with a simple motion of the hand I could shut my factory down
I consider placing a hand on the switch
just to see how it feel
Just to see if I would

Monday, October 29, 2012

The Traverse

I wake with the suns mercy
Whatever pain physical numbed by tragedy spiritual
Abandoned in the waters
A large plank my only means of survival
I contemplate letting go, let the waters take me
Drifting comes easy, no need to move, not cause for daring action
close my eyes and let the waves rock me to sleep
I spend the nights watching other sails
other boats
I could cry out to them, beg and plead
some see me, moving close before changing course
Others make their way through the waters, their glow reflected in the clear nights sky
In my defeated rest, I hear the waves part
a familiar sound not witnessed in ages
Another ship, much closer,this one a mix of dark and light colors
 it could notice me
Curved to glorious form, sails shaping the winds into curls
My passages is negotiated and granted
The time aboard is conflicting
Some days the winds fair well and the seas are open for exploration
Other days the air is dead, and I sit, breathless
waiting of a tomorrow more favorable
I wait at the boats edge, old thoughts of the cold waters come to pass
Motivation settles in, rumbles of fire ignite in my chest
I cast off thoughts of failure
When high winds rock the seems of my new ship
I adapt
When the sky demands a dual and blades of blinding light rend the sea
I dodge with the grace of dolphins
I brace myself at the endless rolls of clouds, daring them, scoring them
I traverse this worlds fury, the majesty of ship inspiring me to heroism
Inspiring my dreams, my thoughts.
I wonder, after my fever dream ends
after the might of the world has proven too much
after I lift myself up from the sands of the beach
bested by the winds and wails of the earth.
I wonder if the ship out in the distance is mine.


This post has been featured at: Poetry Blogs.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Soul Trader

You don't come to his(her) door by accident.
There are no walk in visites. You know someone and they make an appointment for you.

When an appointment is made you're given directions, and (s)he always just so happens to live close to you, you'll come to a purple door. Maybe the door whats always there, maybe it will be gone tomorrow. Maybe the door is in a small building or maybe it's in the back of a restaurant. The door is always ice cold to the touch. When you open the door you are greeted to room that is as (un)pleasant as you want it to be. (S)he is always sitting in a purple throne.

When the Soul Trader talks, and (s)he will move you with speech after speech, you will feel compeled to take his(her) offer. You'll know full well the consequences  you may have even dreamt of them the night before, but you will, sure enough, take the deal.

This deal will, at the time, seem like a bargain. The feeling of warmth as you shake his(her) hand will stay with you as you leave the room. Whatever your terms were will be fulfilled to the very last letter. Your eyes will be filled with most golden of suns and the moon will shine it's heavy rainbow halo's on your bed as you sleep. But, soon. Not the first year, or the second, or maybe not the first ten years, but one day, and you will know the day. The Soul Trader will find you. Every door you see will be the same etherial purple. Every road will lead in circles. You will be called, you will come back to his(her) room and you will fulfill your end of the bargain.

Unless you can recommend someone more substancial.


                                                                                Agitated,annoyed, aggravated
                                                              Groggy, Ghastly


The Weight starts off light
easy to care, easy to bear
the waters rest comfortably at my toes 
I start to walk
Briskly at first
no cares or concerns, the path is clear and the weight light
soon the waters are at my calfs
I ignore it, I shrug as my stride slows
then waters come to my knees
I stop, pause and observe the lands
the change of course makes the burden grow
but the waters sink
my sighs ease my brow
the waters become calming
my mind grows complacent
my next step sinks me
I let myself fall
the weight is of no consequence
my decent ends at sands depths
I collaps at the sudden surge of mass
the waters clean
encompassing ocean become bitter desert
steams singes my skin
the air boils the bones
but I struggle
arise from the sand
My steps rhythmic
The Weight rattles in my ear

Saturday, October 27, 2012

No Time to Lose

I recall a dream I had several weeks ago. I somehow gained immortality and lived out several life times in the span of 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep. To the best of my recollection, it went something like this.
The 1st Year:
Nothing of any relevance, life goes on as it always has. Days come and go, nights linger.

Years 3-5: Standard of living improved, but the mood has taken a somber road. Depression? Perhaps  but why and for what?

Years 6-10: Several changes in appearance, once long hair now completely bald. Peak of physical condition. The complements are daily and consistent. Finally make progress with carrear.

Years 10-20:
Several old friends died. Natural causes. Questions about youthful appearance hand waved with speeches about dieting and positive outlooks on life. Old Romances sought, rekindled, devolved, and reconciled.

Years 21-45: Relocated. New country, new language, new customs. Regrew my old hair. Every time I run my hands through it my spine tingles with nostalgia.

Years 46-88: I have developed a routine. Travel to a new place. Change my name, gather new friends, grow with then for several years, then move on. Keeping contact with certain people is tricky, but in time they pass. I watch lovers blossom into their golden years, friends reach new succeses, old enemies rot. It entertains, but all to soon does the somber feeling creep back into mind.

Years 89-133: I have seen the extent of the modern world. Sights, historic events well documented. Tragedies witnessed passionately, but one day I wake and find myself in a melancholily depression. This pitiful stupor ends, thousands of miles away from my home is some city. The waves of the beach wake me and my adventure ends where it begane. The daze of morning ending my immortality.

Reminisce: The Early Mornings

The night hums its end song
low light, mechanical air fills the room
the sheets are stale, used and worked
the smell glows in the back of my mind
it lights it way through the days dark halls
bends the corners of months gone by
lights yesterdays candles
blows out tomorrows lanterns
last months stage lights come on
the old arena opens up
repressed feelings gather in
they hold up pictures of last month
last year
last time
the next morning
the next moment
the declaration of separation
treaties of evection
manifests of omission
They cry for recognition
pleas of readmission
the sun denies them admission

Friday, October 26, 2012

Sleep, a warehouse full of thoughts

Start in a factory
In the back are memories
each labeled
sorted according to relevance, mood, desire
Over in the left corner are desires.
Check for "big dreams"
damaged packages go to QA for processing
The front of the building contains lingering thoughts
We'll be having a meeting about the past week
Reflect, review and contemplate yourself
Our revenue of the Self is fluctuating
Turn out the lights when your eyes gets heavy

Skyline: Blue

The breeze is surprising
my skin is indecisive
Waking was painful
The flesh feels felt pitiful
absent of resolve, devoid of ambition
fractured by todays older brother
the hours turned pained flesh into numb constructs
Warm cup in hand
Clean breeze outside
My skin relaxes

The Pit

I jump into the Pit
Dust, bits of brown
pieces of plastic
specks of dirt
The dance between my eyes like snow in december
The first box is easy
the second is hard
the third harder
and harder
and harder still
my breath rasps
beads of sweat taunt my face
I lift
hold the box close
set it down
watch it roll down, bump on the rails, out of the pit
Legs jittering
I remove the floor panels
More Boxes

The Purpose of these words, dreamed and relayed.

One of the greatest discoveries about myself is that I have a love of writing. Creative writing to be specific. It's a means of escape and a mechanism of reflection. The goals of my words is to paint a picture for the mind, cook a meal for the soul and make music for the heart and it is all based on a dream.

The dream starts in the middle
Hair unkempt
eyes caked
blood shot eyes half baked
rosted in the heat of summer
left to simmer and fester
goals burn to a fine crisp
dreams boiled into vapor
I walk the day in sweat
dreaming with shame
perpetrating with disappointment
In my hands in the last record
last testament
Will and legacy
I wait under shade
hidden from the judging sun
The records are a dedication
for my friends and lovers.