Read yourself backwards and find me
reaching out through the bending black
Pivot on that punctuation you once placed
and find the run on sentence of my madness for you
Twist and love and bend to reach me
be patient as I echo you
-not repeating your essence, but acting out my own-
In real time with yours
in this fractured mirror existence
Place my overhead projector sheet soul over yours
see the jumbled mess splayed on the wall
A tangle made by two patterns pure
only deciphered when seperated
And placed side by side.
The light refracted in such a manner that it transcended genres and met my eyes as nostalgia.
Photons transmuting to little messengers alerting my bones to the presence of your ink in my blood.
The breeze shifted waves of grain with such splendor that I took pause at my own frivolities.
Barley seeds sparring with my dissolving kernels of guilt tumbling through the underbelly of a dry ocean.
Peculiar, how external stimulus can plunge one’s soul back into the reverently internal. Peculiar, how our gates unlock.
Peculiar, how our drowning need to escape a present of our own construction will convince us of certain novelties. Like the delicate dance between the breeze and our brains. The personal poems a sunset writes our lost loves. The frayed stitching of loss and growth we thread through these mediums.
What other creation can we net for our own assurances?
The plateau I panted on rocked too and fro after
you pulled me up and your eyes were the only
thing that kept the image of granite twisting
to sea foam at bay. Here in this rocky range we
set out though now my head is filled with doubt.
We were attempting to summit.
You stopped my plummet.
Though the smell of salt is so strong
I’m held at pause as if something is wrong
and even though we want to carry on I’m
suddenly suspect of the bubbling liquid seeping
up through the cliff.
The sun beats down the same as it did on
the climb. As I drive our company’s flag
into the peak the ground gives way and my
flag is now an oar being pulled through the algae.
What I mean to say is I believe we throw around
the word epiphany way too often as if we have
some semblance of what the notion of solid means.
We celebrate our moments of victory and rest
while I believe our perches mock us in jest.
Is it possible to start searching harder while
we stop searching all together?
But I suppose we only have our retinas
and I shouldn’t be so harsh.
I wrote this today because I saw ripples
in the hillside and boulders warping into
waves and the blood of the bodies stacked
from the seafloor masquerading as trees
in the valley below.
And I saw your hand help me up over a ledge
I didn’t know I dangled from just as the
gravel formed rows of serrated teeth and
the crabgrass grew gills.
Now I don’t know if my gear is really
fear or what even to hold dear on
this rocky outcropping I dread to truly be
We are climbing the wrong mountains because
they are oceans yet somehow our pickaxes keep
us buoyant enough to love and to kill.
All I know is the only image
that seems to not flicker from land to sea
is that of you and me and pressing deeper
into that seems to be what God meant
when he told us to Love Him.
semi-formed imprints littering
the basement of my brain and
the paths i’ve carved the same
don’t be angry with them please
don’t cite my actions they have
no dog in this fight no
signs up in defense
while i wish i could breathalyze
my patterns and take them back
to the station
my best bet is to barrel role back
to ’98 and sit my deafening pulse
down for interrogation
Scaled in gold.
Forgetting my bones,
I recall when.
Laughing in our moments
like anyone else’s
but they were ours alone.
Scrunched up noses and heads stuck in shirts,
we laughed as we turned our faces from shade.
All of my clothes
dripping in gold,
none of which fit.
Trying to shake through the
coating back to when we first met.
You loved the way I skipped
and only the ripples saw us kiss.
All of my regret and
all of my hope.
The way that I’m built and
the end of a rope..
swing with me.
all that I do is a poem for you in this meadow we made
I know I can’t write and I know I can’t tend
but I can turn from shame
when lips cry not for what the soul needs most
we are gifted regardless
that which we don’t have the strength to know
this man among men is most richly blessed
it’s times like these I swear
the wolves howl harder for the
sun. as if they left the moon’s
call wholly undone. as if they
are screaming for a chance to form
themselves anew before their nature had begun.
if given the chance, what would the pack change?
the matted hair, the torn trail of the hunt must
count for something.
i cannot say where the forge
of our hearts rests, i’m doubtful
the maps we have sketched hold
even a clue. but what choice!
when giving your best
simply doesn’t carry clout,
when best means the world
to someone the world
cares nothing about.
one must strive to start anew.
when that beating vessel crosses
from red to alabaster blue,
set sights to soul’s horizon
and relentlessly pursue.
Exorcise my eyes, soak them in gasoline. Reinstate
to homeostasis then try and tell me how you’ve been.
Maybe then the iodine infused assurances will burn
up with my vision of you and we can both move on
knowing that allowing lies to permeate persistence
is the saddest thing anyone could ever do.
Look past the scar on my neck and the knife in my pocket. Push
through to you, me and the Great Questions we would always posit.
Maybe then we could hold our heads high and know its not
the end of the road; reconciliation has never been
the true escape. Alignment of the other with the self
seems only one half the scale.
The lightning rod connections my brain makes when I spiral into that home only I know and keep reserved for the times the people I love the most seem so far away and the stranger that lives in my brain knocks on the front door and asks for a minute of my time///
This. And all of uncertainty’s aggression
leaves me still with one question.
Are you able to see me?
love as the moon
steal not the night
unveil the details of the dark
give light to the small, long-suffering footprints
pushing so earnestly through the snow
grasping for direction
stilting for home
love as the moon
steal not the night
experience and attest the questions
that colonize your lover’s chest
The kid looks so comfortable and numb;
leaning on that crutch named routine.
Stockholm syndrome with himself, viewing social
mingling akin to bursting into smithereens.
Views the whole lot as Catholics’ do
evangelical bands; convinced each one separately
thinks they’re sketching with Michelangelo’s hands.
He has nothing to offer, he is ostensibly jaded;
touting lessons on a spectrum that has already faded.
Same kid, different emotional emergency;
this time looking back on a fugitive community.
Sentimental nostalgia threading the disguises he weaves,
we all masquerade abnormalities you wouldn’t believe.
No one can do right save those whom he can’t have
anymore, too busy missing what he missed to score
new loves to adore. So he tumbles round waiting for
a new pile of flaws and imperfections to ricochet
just right enough to leave an impression.
This kid, this cycle, braggadocios quest misperceived;
navigating an impregnable dark claiming ownership
over the light to lead. No different from the particles
held back by a sieve, his psyche withholds substance
and lets pass the naïve. Hence corrosion of the very being
he wished was perceived, he fails to see the heart of his actions
which acts as the cleave.
Closed as many doors as he’s opened he’s forgotten how to leave.
When he finds what he’s looking for, it will be smithereens.