an old blanket

sometimes silence is selective
and somebody needs to shut the door,
lock their lips, linger,
sit still long enough to study
the symptoms of singularity,
submit to sultry looks,
sunny days, and symmetry.

i wish i could confine my thoughts
and calm them to a coherent pace
at which they could be finely ground
and spoon-fed to my feeble mind
while drifting throughout space and time.
then i could sift through silt and smut
for single silvery specks of sanity;
surely somehow this would help me
grasp what’s right, what’s wrong,
and what’s real.
well, here’s the deal:
i may be second-guessing myself,
or on the off-chance that truth
is teaming in my veins,
this could be a classic
consummate confusion crisis.
the illusions i had harbored
when so hung-up on the chase
have artlessly been appropriated,
cast aside, constructing their case.
i emerge as six parts whom i want to be,
and half a dozen of the others
who’s hands have mixed me by the hundreds,
thousands, hundred-thousands,
carefully crafted and carved,
a vintage couture by the maker
(and countless of his creatures
whom i have encountered on my travels
to conquer the id and ego,
ergo,) essentially: i am.

in being this, in being,
in beginning to begin and build
and bundle from blindness
into blinding light,
the bay becomes buried in bedlam.
thus, we become.
when that final cry is carried
nowhere but in our hearts
and lost in our thoughts
and minds and monotonous
monstrosities of modern-day living,
we learn then to walk again in its wake.
in and of itself, it’s an awakening.

i’m waking up, and wondering
why i’d slept for so long.

having still not sorted everything out,
but making steps in the right direction,
i’m back to where i started,
and something tells me
i’ll be seeing you again too soon.

fuck it,
to those of you who
need to hear the words
reverberate inside your head
and eat you up from the inside
like the infestation of lies
into the lives of those
you meet and great
from day to day
in such dismay
that they can see
right through the screen,
knock you down onto your knees,
make you scream, make you bleed,
reciting their creed,
completely complacent,
consumed by greed.
i’ve planted the seed;
gain, grow, breed.
grain garners the dough
you mold and you knead,
bake, barter and sell,
the youth and your prospects
you’ll feed.

and you will ask,
“what has this to do with
such and such a thing?”
and i will tell you this:
it is nothing.
i am out on a limb.
i have no wings.
there is only so far down
that a man can fall
without sustaining
some serious injury,
both bodily, and as far
as injustice goes.

you don’t want to know
what it’s like this slow.

i constantly question
the reasons for objection to
all of the constants
and qualitative quantities.
one for all, all for nothing,
starving for strife,
strung-out on spite,
heavy-heavenly light;
i’m genuinely happy,
the feeling is nice,
but recognizing the emotion
stings sharp as a knife.
this back-and-forth bullshit
is just so concise.
oh, living! oh, life!
how ambiguous! so precise!

On Tradition

Aus Gott wird man gebor'n, in Christo stirbet man. //////////////// Und in dem heil'gen Geist fängt man zu leben an.


"If you're not living on the edge, you're taking up too much space." - anonymous




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