shining a bit more brightly than yesterday
I’m not quite sure what to do
with this crooked M
that always shows up
W in my head
with soft white fleshy bits
that I take great care to not tear
as I scribble the skin
with various colored pens
and mark with art and precision
the invisible paths of energy
that coincide no matter the angle,
no matter how dark the white becomes,
or if it’s M or W or neither
or both,
the lines are still the same.
This poem was inspired by and written upon a McDonald’s napkin.
Stare long enough and you will
see (possibly forcedly) that
everything comes in pairs.
I know, I hear you, I know,
This thing, that thing- single things.
Stare harder.
Some pairs you
own some pairs
are you.
One such
I keep on breath,
Mouthing it in and out.
Tongue to find,
Teeth to pull
the bottom from the
top too far away,
lock on bottom,
rip to swell
a now unbalanced, mismatched pair,
But when I close
my breath my
bottom returns to top.
Has it been 2 years
so soon?
(so long)
Seven-thirty days about, now
Seven-thirty M follows A
representing
Seven-thirty mornings failed
to find one of
Seven-thirty versions
incomplete, like you, yet not
close (to you)
especially now in this distance
of time, worse than miles
but having saw you once
recently in picture only
I laughed (at god
knows what) and asked-
Seven-thirty days
(so soon?)
so long.
-if I still mean it
or ever meant it
I know I tried
Seven hundred and thirty times.
quieted i reflect upon,
realize quiet should be
quiet and i still my mind
still pumping from off-beats
of music, of blood, of
synapses deep
inside a mind that refuses sleep
and whirs and whirs and whirs
with enough spinning to wake
from real dreams, the dream of life, dreams of dreams,
or maybe figure
which one i’m in
this time
seems like
all the same fantasy
to this unquiet
mind pushing
forward, through, skull,
whirring and revving,
speeding toward quiet
faster and faster and
we all know how that ends.
(splat)
I smell like
peppermint rub, sweet and sour, and money,
each my reward for prostitution and honor.
I bet I taste like
salt,
not the gray, clumpy, healthy kind, but
the kind pure white, refined by fire
‘til it burns everything it touches, including and
especially the tongue.
The week has been infinite, about
eighteen, nineteen
hours total, that I can remember
smelling this way, tasting the fire, the others
a blur
of radioactive, accelerated second sweeps
that may as well have never been issued.
Belly full, I waste away, thinner,
thinner,
gorged on nothing,
thinner the spirit,
the invented premise to keep us tethered here, and
fatter than ever.
Each gorge requires an hour of sleep.
I sleep non-stop.
Exchange the weights,
ignore the smells and tastes,
choose your realm (state of waste):
the ascetics or the hibernates.
my face is tiny blades
each week met strong by
stronger blades that cut
and the victor is a toss up
for mine are many
and they are but one
(or three or four or five
depending on who you believe)
but my blades fight and
fight forever despite
rust on either side
’til the other blades die
off and dull and pull
instead of cut
while mine remain
and cut and burn but become
soft with time
and need new blades to
counter and keep
symbiotic and sharp
(or so occam says) but
i do because i do
and they are because they are
and we meet
and fight
and give each other purpose.
revisit the old days, the ancient times
of fire and magic,
give numina the words
to listen, to speak, to write
an inevitable creation
of wills inside the light
where darkness exists as
it always has, and will
if chosen still, but rarely
is it ever
true to see
words of such power prevail;
and the darkness makes me laugh,
or rather those that condemn
it for its troubles that
we all need…
how do opposites not see
the inconsistencies in
nonrational logics or
rational fallacies -
just embrace light as
both light and dark
as it should be.
i have stolen my Death,
but for yours i still mourn
in this life away from Life.
i have forgotten how to swim,
quixotic- attempting to walk the surface,
drowning like the Others.
oh, how i pray to be atheist,
to live in a world of facts
buried three feet deep in the beach,
up-side-down, head-first, eating sand.
despite, at least, and still
I play in the water.
