A Fault, a Seed

The flaw runs along the length

of my pale, clay and shale torso.

A tectonic fault

brought about by wanton weather patterns

iridescent shifts

fffin the eyes

fffin the palms

forgotten hymns remixed within

embalmed Toonami psalms.

 

I learned how to plant trees as a child.

Often they grew, thanking me for the soil.

You’d think, after years of building life by

filling spaces for the betterment

of the (immediate) world

I would know how to re-purpose a shovel,

I would know that one needs to add each single, solid, soft layer

of earth, of mineral, of sand and solar love

one at a god damn time.

All the way from the bottom

up through the star

hidden in the bridge of my nose.

 

Instead, I took a 2 dimensional spoon from some cartoon on the tube
and slammed it against the surrounding edges of my canyon
smiling at the delirious, dehydrated state of the being I was, laughing at the deepening, increasingly busted state of the psyche I toiled to correct.

Shrugging sunburnt shoulders and exclaiming, with no certainty and no care for it aside, “hopefully the dust settles such that all is well and fine, the hole is filled and once again we can think about sunshine, or perhaps even a solitary emotion rooted in more than air and empty arcs.”

Would you like to know why, dear writer, you will never be worthy of the sun? Of that last cup of water, of a kiss beneath a crimson blanket as the song you hate most plays and you forget to care about the overly crusted chorus?

No matter how long you spend dreaming up a field of molten love and distant skies fit to brim with salubrious storms, no matter how many drinks you can fit behind your glazed eyes before the night is done, and no matter how few times you say “I truly despise your character”, the smoke will always fall off of that same balcony beneath the same moon and it’s neighborhood stars.

Friendly?

Ah, but no one said friendly.

It was always assumed.

Your heart is gold and your hands are cold, Halsey.

But my heart is a weak and fearful sponge, and my hands are too recklessly uncreative to find a way to say anything better about that which pumps them full of purpose, second in and second out.

I know what you’re asking, dear writer. It’s what you always ask on nights like this. Nights where, you feel you’ve finally beat enough dust into the air to hide the fact that there even is a canyon anymore. A gap of any sort. One can hardly find an uneven surface, so long as they refrain from wincing.

“What do I do? How do I finally do it? Why am I still like this, even though I am no longer like that?”

I will never have an answer better than this. This. What you are doing. Actually thinking about helping and doing your best to go and go and go until there is some sort of brighter future on the horizon, for you, or for anyone really, to chase.

Keep going. Create the horizon. You know you want to because you keep looking at it, asking, pleading, knowing it will not answer. So make it answer. Create the horizon, and dye the storms with your eyes.

I cannot help with the canyon, however. I’m a poem, not a therapist. Get a therapist, and make sure they have the right kind of shovel–the short handle one with the nice plastic grip surrounding decent iron, the one you used to plant 100 trees in a single day. Let them toil away at you, as you toil at the world. Everyone needs help. Get help.

Get help so that you yourself can help. So that you yourself can finally, maybe, perhaps at last, sing the song buried at the bottom of your canyon, the one that needs good top soil reaching all the way to the surface. The one that yes, will then need water every single day after the hole is filled and yes, the one that will need sunlight from each separate dawn until the dawn’s respective end and yes, mulch that will not simply be tossed away by the next alcoholic breeze.

You want to finally sprout? You’d like a tree that means something? A day where you finally feel worthy of a kiss, of sweet songs written with the quills of the moon?

Soil. Water. Sun. Mulch. Love.

Love throughout.

Love instead.

Love even so.

Love, in rest.

Now play me out with the droopy notes threatening to end the concert of your eyelids earlier than expected. There are jobs to do that tired folk should not be doing.

photo credit to lunacameo

The Clouded Sun

(This is a piece about a character I have previously worked with. I believe there are other pieces with him on this blog, but it has been a while. Anyway, hope you enjoy!…Mark pieces are always strange.) 

Mark knew it was time to hang up his coat, but he just could not bring himself to release the fabric nestled firmly between his fingers. Both hands gripped at the shoulders of his medium length brown jacket with the aspiring-to-truly-be-wood buttons. It was unclear to him why he would feel such an attachment to this coat on this particular day, as the snow had finally ceased for the time being.

Mark decided to simply wear it. Then, halfway to donning the oaken fabric, he paused. Mark returned to his previous position–arms in front of him, fingers gripping the shoulders of the coat. The warm coat. The dustless, soft, burdenless cloth…

I am unable to release the one thing in this world capable of shielding me from the least bit of harm. You see them, hung across the mantle of everyone from tall and gray to portly and crumpled up on the sidewalk. What is the average being to do without a piece of fur to call their very own? The sun is the great betrayer, promising us all warmth and comfort, only to leave us without so much as dry land with which to bring about sustenance. The crippling anxiety of the End, creeping up all around us as the trees breath their final breaths and the animals hide away from the world, damning it for all it has taken from them. Why are we so cursed? Why must the crusted ice of the sill spell so much doom in our deepest of hearts? We do not grow from the seed that sprouted alongside the brightest day, nay. We are the forfeiture of a long forgotten failure, we are the final product of what lived through death and kept going despite all signs of the Apocalypse posted around our parking spot. We brush the snow away from our windshields to live our normal lives and forget that we are the seed that held out. We are the cave dwellers and the food hoarders. We are the fearful, the murderers, the intruders. We are the seed that survived by any means necessary. The world tried to tell us our time was up, and instead we devoured each other, we devoured our own kin, and for what but fear? We know not what lies beyond the gates of the dying woods, and so we quiver and tremble and viciously grasp at scraps and tangle with the desperate need to let go, and the urgent flow of blood and marrow telling us “NO”. Thus we lived and what have we to show for it? We tremble yet but subtely so, behind our coats and our cars and our lies of fine days. We do not care for the planet that tried everything in its power to get rid of us, as we are a parasite and always have been. Yet we lived, and now in spiteful greed we strike back, living as best we can even in the seasons of slow demise. We do everything to take from the planet what made it green and lively and great, and we cover it with gray, the staunch and silent gray it tried to silence us with. We are a mean, hateful entity. We do not live and forgive, but try to make this great round beast feel the pain we felt long ago. Some disagree and try to reason with those of wallets aburst, but they are truly the lucky ones. Those with the most look at all their surplus and all they can see is what their deepest heart truly fears–their stockpile freezing over, decaying, leaving them alone and cold and quiet. Thus they are louder, more greedy than ever, and they–we–will not stop until we have the impossible number, the very soul of Terra torn from the flesh of the Earth in our grasp, giving us the sun itself, bottled and tame. All we wanted was warmth and peace, and in taking that from us, with each passing orbit, we became evil. We are born with the knowledge, the silent hatred of powers outside our grasp. You made us this way, and now, though you are stronger, we will make sure you come down with us.

…Mark blinked a soft blink. Through his lashes, he could see sunlight through wetness. Dew, and daylight, with oaken warmth beyond.

With a nod, he put his coat on its respective rack. He made sure it was not touching any other jackets in the area, and made his way to his desk, giving a wave here, a smile there.

Clouded, the sun slept.

Apologies for Humanity (Prose Poetry)

If you would simply cradle your face within a pair of hands unaware of your own, perhaps it would become more just for you. Perhaps the days could blaze by unassumed, the buffoon of your indecency unladen in the current motif presented before the crowd of clocks and beggars. I,

Could count on my own two hemispheres

the amount of time it took me to realize a smile is not always a grin, and that oftentimes the tick and the tock do not chime in time with the quarrels of your speech, with the patterns of your personal grime.

Be that as it may, I do appear the one left beyond the gate of iridescent impunity, if only for this day. If only for every day, in an equal sense. Bring to me the ledgers of your soul, please. I beg of you. Show me every single date that defies the human notion of fucking the fuck up. It isn’t an unnerved chime, clattering along the ankles of your day-to-day. You are as broken a clock as I, and the signs point along the same lines in my palm, spelling out fine decorum, I assure you. That is to say,

I am no fancy beast. However, in a duel of dinner etiquette and sass, I can squarely toot a horn louder than your own. I will take no pleasure in it, but there you have it.

Please. Do bring your own fork?

Burn Coal Breathe Soul (Prose Poetry)

I must confess how utterly brilliant the flaring of nostrils seems to those who are entirely devoted to floating through the magnificent space between the infinitely etched lives moving at constant speeds of exhalation. Moreover the dreaded lack of backbone would better serve one who truly does not believe in anything aside from the grease between their knees and elbows. It takes more than spotted air to dot the lungs of those who actually breath as if there is more in a day than drinking and dying. Surfaced now is a blatant misunderstanding of who it is that creates empathy. There is no factory for the mission between your mind and your vision. You are the coal miner as well as the train. You can become fast if only you would destroy the very nature of obstacle. It is no fault of the coal that you are unable to fly. Invest in less grounded shoes.

Slumber (Prose Poetry)

I dream of colors who know each other by name. They leap upon one another, establishing a dominance only known to the kingdom outside civilization. The reactant rocks and emblems of walks combine into a singular emotion, and it does not rest. The body lies in slumber while the mind sits in a corner to wait, a corner of itself, watching the proceedings of its own uncertainty. Warmth is present, but fails to pierce the skin. Lacking any oceans, the heat folds instead of holding, lapping at a flesh inconsiderate of what it houses.

Singular stretching reaches a goal. Symbolic wishes push away action. If one is to wish upon a star, they should seek the dust within. Fairness is only present in the binding, everlasting battle between the blanketing Sun and the stripping space that surrounds. Greet the cacophony of yellow to red as you would the white space between the blues of rest. These words are easy to consume, yet altogether difficult to digest.

I am the first to know when light should linger.