Tag Archives: self

An American Dream, Almost Forgotten

Blood-soaked visages and fetid rags fill the space before my eyes. You would have me believe that it’s all according to plan? The blunt-force trauma, the brain damage, the bleeding belly-wound that signals a final turn into the worst possible outcomes… How do you justify it all? How does it sit with you? In rusted manacles and filthy, putrid trousers sits the man, the woman, the Geist. Hardened hearts bely broken minds and haggard breaths, the death throes of a bygone era. Will the builders and the founders save us from staggering one-legged into the apocalypse? I shall await forever those things promised to me in my youth. We’ve all the time in the world.

An American Dream, Almost Forgotten

Lying there

staring out the window

look at things you cannot see.

Those little pictures in your head

reflected in the eyes atop your face.

Not broken,

but whole.

Down below

in streets unclean

where windows break

and saxophones wake

perhaps the eyes atop your face

would find themselves adrift

in one foreign little place.

I only wish,

come hell or high water,

that there upon that street

will your eyes not come to rest

for I wish a different future,

with a fair sight fewer sutures.

Fly, fly, fly

little bird.

It’s time to fly away

right on out the window.

The world awaits

your tired little eyes.

New Year.

Welcome to a new year, friends and all. I’ve not written in quite some time, nearly three weeks to my remembrance. I’ve got something for you that I hope makes up for the absence and rings that funny little new years bell. No more tears, no more fears. I’ll be 23 this year. Everybody hates you when you’re 23. Please enjoy the piece today. Without further ado…

Transience of a Midnight Passerby

One day I wish to wake

from this ever-present, all-encompassing sliver of a dream.

I rest here, without laurels

on remnants of those things left behind

by former residents of the periphery.

It is not that there is nothing here.

It is only that this place is transitory,

it is a placeholder,

a way-station for all those who might find their way.

I lie here,

untethered from the place that comes before and the place that comes in consequence,

on an old bed of straw and linens

expertly and serenely tied to an aging cedar frame.

I’d hoped to find a little more peace here.

Perhaps I’d hoped to divine some meaning from the splinters I’d get sleeping in this worn and tired bed-frame.

Those little wooden splinters tell the story of a thousand years lived in a world so loved that every single lover has died right there by its side

no matter how ancient she might become.

It is only that I lack the knowledge and wisdom required for further reading, lest I might learn how this old cedar frame came to be.

That,

I don’t think,

would be permitted.

Soon I’ll move on,

washing away my time here along with the stains in my bedding and my clothes.

This is nowhere,

certainly not somewhere,

and a place that no one can truly stay,

for only it is no one that lives here

and He I have not been able to find.

Before those wooden halls and vaulted ceilings call me home,

I’ll find one thing so worthy of a King.

It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Psychosis

Good morning, everyone! I’ve got a post today that I think you’ll be quite fond of. Perhaps you’ll gain some insight, perhaps you’ll gain some enjoyment. Whatever the case, I think you’ll be intrigued. Without further ado… Please read responsibly.

Company

Can you hear?

The sounding of the drum?

The beat,

the chorus?

Sitting there between the shadows,

kicking my feet at the edge of the world.

All alone now

in the quiet dark.

The contrast has never before felt quite so stark.

Those drums again,

there,

in the distance.

Can you hear them?

Hoofbeats that draw ever closer.

I think He’ll be coming soon.

No matter,

I needed the company.

Rhythmic tones beat in tune with every thump and thud

inside this broken God.

The motor’s out.

I’ll scream and shout.

No matter,

I needed the company.

Crepuscular

Good afternoon, everyone. Have you ever looked into the twilight? Have you ever seen them? Those crepuscular things… Perhaps they look more sincerely into you. Without further ado:

Silence of the Lived-In Ghost

No.

It is so.

They cannot see.

No, they cannot see.

Those things that find their way

into these eyes of mine.

They do not know.

How those ghosts cry out…

No, they cannot see them.

They cannot hear them.

Their cries,

their screams.

They cannot see those eyes,

the eyes of ghosts

inside their hosts.

I have seen the dark,

how those ghosts traverse it.

Caught between the night and day,

it’s past their time

with nothing to say.

No, they cannot see them.

But these ghosts, these specters,

they haunt my nights

and stalk my days.

Perhaps it is so

that I am among them,

watching and waiting

for my time again.

Caught between the night and day

in that little place

with nothing to say.

The Banks of The River Lethe

Good afternoon, everyone. You have died. You stand here, like those heroes of old, on the banks of that sacred river Lethe. Your ascent to the heavenly realms of Paradiso now secured, you step carefully into the dark and starkly opaque water. Your sins, desires and memories washed away in sacred bliss. As a child again, you are innocent, no longer condemned, but redeemed. Welcome to the rest of forever. Without further ado…

Settling Debts

Haunting orbs

drift across the water.

They come towards me,

stealing away my light.

I am fading.

I flash and flicker;

I am the torch over which your fingers

quickly pass.

The specters

take my flame.

They wear it

and make themselves whole.

I am as the hearth

in that certain dearth

that follows November.

Swept away,

is all my heat.

Through the mist

is seen defeat.

I know why they’ve come:

The debt of one infernal sum.

I cannot pay,

I’m ashamed to say.

This will make their day.