A Plea, From Within the Jaws

I find myself confounded, often, as to the nature, distance, and direction of the blissful road the soul must travel, to find truth, beauty, and contentedness. With swirling, frozen winds by night, and tepid, bewildered desires by day, I feel myself pulled to each end of the infinite abyss; The abyss of mortal imprisonment and divine, consuming fires. Should I become a cloud of ash, and mock the silent stars, as a swarm of arid embers? Or, should I rest at the bottom of the sea, only to sink further, shouldering each crushing burden, and complete my metamorphosis into pale, apathetic stone?

Neither?

Then what, I beg, is the alternative?

I could tease each ambition that flickers in my eyes, as one would tease the naivety of a child. I could lay my heavy heart upon the breast of a beautiful woman, and we could breathe fresh, romantic fires into this dark world. We could birth a freshly tenacious, confused soul to travel alongside us, until we depart, leaving the traveler alone once more. I could heal wounds, teach minds, and console hearts. I could tend pastures, build monuments, or write symphonies. I could spread my soul, like a blanket, and cover as much as this earth as my strength could warrant.

Or,

Should I simply swim in rivers, nap in fields of wildflowers, and sit, pensively, atop each mountain peak I can reach? I could sing with the birds, dance with the wind, and return each kiss the sun lays upon my brow. I could do all of this, and I could do none of this. It’s all comfortably pointless and painfully divine.

My fingertips have never met its surface, yet the texture pulses through my veins. This thundering tempest forces me into shelter, yet, with each vicious flash of lightning, it illuminates the path. It’s always bellowing out thundering laughter, each time I hear its voice; Only after issuing its challenge of “proceed, if you dare, for you must, you precious fool! Immerse yourself, frail, immortal spark, amidst the crashing waves, starving fires, and mocking skies.”

Each time I hear the call, I’m paralyzed. The passage of time coils and sinks its fangs into its own tail. It flails, like a cyclone, destroying every horizon that would behold such a crucible. Until, eventually, I am so alone, so consumed, and so drenched in vicious absolution that my eyes weep fertile tears of disgusted revelation. Each drop that falls from my face moistens the consecrated ground. Each falling penance feeds a verdant sprout. They grow into serpent vines and gritty, curling limbs of moss-choked sapling growths. A forest reaches from the barren dust and clasps its hands around me, as if it were lost in prayer. Then, at every sun soaked edge of life, a flower blooms and bleeds out every fragrant sense of pious bewilderment my frightened heart can beat from my fertile soul.

The world begins anew, and I’m still confused. Must I be obliterated to gain sight? Must I curse my humanity? Where is the road, the one road? Is it in the grave, or among the stars?

The Sunken One

I had to kill it.
I had to make you hate me,
Before it killed me.
I had to burn it.
This tempting bridge which,
Every night I would dream.
A dream of marching across
My shambling hordes of sorrows.
I would have drown you
If you ever gave me the chance.
I’ve never seen the surface.
This sun, under which you dance,
I’ve never had the pleasure.
I want you down here.
So I made you hate me.
This day may burn me to ash,
Before I ever lay beneath it,
And watch you glow,
With someone else.

An Explanation

I would picture blackness
where there might be life.
A simple,
sentimental attraction
to preconceived plight.

No garden bench serene
could convince me
of such peace.
A warm heart seems obscene
because of this disease.

Please,
Spare me your judgments,
I’ve already heard it all.
A life that is so loveless,
it seems no life at all!

This truth I know.
You must see that I agree.
It’s not the life I chose,
it seems to have
chosen me.

But, if you’re really listening,
let me speak one truth that’s missing.
Pretending makes existing
all the more
constricting.

So stay,
and hear the echoed sorrow.
One day,
perhaps even tomorrow,
I’ll be okay.

I’ll be okay.

Ghoul

I am cursed

by a passive, leaden burden.

My vitality is strained.

For why, I’m not certain.

A disease, perhaps,

crass and furtive;

my eyes; shattered glass

beneath fast flowing curtains.

The foundation is cracked,

all the lumber is rotten.

I sit and I laugh,

at all the hope I’ve forgotten.

This home, how it moans,

as I lie here alone;

if I let no one in,

then no one can go.

It’s too rotten for guests,

I guess it’s for the best.

Mold has infested the pantry,

rats have nested the gantry;

To eject me from this tomb

would take true necromancy.

Message In A Bottle On The 37th Floor

To those who find this,
Take comfort, for I have found it.
The edge we seek, the limits of humanity.
I took a peek.
I peered over, cautiously.
My knees felt weak.
Vertigo, you should know,
Was the least of my fears.
Falling, a fate met only by tears,
Not me.
I made the leap.
You see, we seem to be surrounded by darkness;
A bold, black outline of time,
Marking the distance we crawl,
Before the cliff fall.
I stood.
I stepped through the shadows
And fell through infinity.
I soared through halls of Aztec gold.
Flew through the lost, sunken city.
Crashed through the gates of heaven,
And left not a trace.
Made not a peep.
None but a slap, and a crimson stain
On the concrete.

Field Notes

It’s a mind-body connection problem. The PTSD

of a life-threatening addiction. The weight

of a depressive condition. The prison

of insanity. We have to face the truth

We have to find direction.

Having a reference point is helpful but,

it kills the romance. Sanity as a goal, a place; it’s

quite the commitment. Really kills the moment.

It simply orders, “This way to good, this way to right.”

And so we cling to our petty rebellions,

our egos and our lust. Eyeballing the fantasy

of healing and growth, while not having the courage

to ask it on a date. Too scared to fall in love.

Too weak to love ourselves.

So, the balance tips, the chest deflates.

Virtues decay.

And we’re left sitting, anxious.

Alone.

Cooking Show

I have a new drip
dropping into my brain.
It tumbles and flows,
through channels and veins
spreading and creeping,
lighting fires,
extinguishing pains;
a crude alteration
to my landscape.
A projected horizon flickers;
dimly, it withers,
melting into something new.
Brewing within a bubbling,
bulbous cauldron,
filled with thoughts, fears,
and fleeting emotions.
A recipe lost
so long ago.