Biology is a beautiful spectacle
Beautiful, but tyrannical
Brutal by any measurement
Breaking, constantly, and re-arranging Itself, bit-by-bit, spiraling towards Infinity where it meets death
Partially or fully,
Where I wonder why we're still going
Or whether what's gone
Is worse than what's still living,
The fear of loss and of existing
Dialectically breathing dust into awareness.
Soft, shifting dust
Puzzled out perpetually into pieces
So nothing stays complete.
Not brains nor bodies,
As nature clamours to dig deep
And pull us through this twister
Whether or not we comprehend.
I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.
Men, women, and persons;
You enigmas of violence, misery, sex, and boredom;
How are you feeling?
To what end is your violence?
To what depth does your misery brood?
What comfort have you found in sex?
What madness does your boredom uproot?
If you're honest, I would guess, every answer, some way, stems from love.
Acknowledge this with me if you expect my intimacy.
Deadly trickles of anticipated dread
Are familiar enough to her to seem distant
But presently and always keeping her comfort
Likes years of experience following pivotal decisions.
Dusty and dark as her place of dwelling
Were the unfurnished caverns of her intimacy.
Too long empty is as vulnerable as untouched
With the burden and ferocity of memory.
Language unused atrophies like a muscle,
Remaining unseen negates the power of recognition,
The faces of a friend, family member, or companion
Turn feral as forgotten dogs to such a creature’s intuition.
There, in her lair, were the worlds where she dwelt,
Distinct and unapproachable, like light too bright to see,
Away in a darkness unbroken by trouble or fright
Her life, locked so preciously away, ever outward seeped.
Damn every fragment of those unresting feelings
That scissored her apart from every body where’s peace,
The creature of anxiety speaking tongues of the mad
Sleeping separately and sound in dysfunctional dreams.
I fall asleep to voiceless thoughts
And wake up to morbid day-dreams.
Out drips excretions from serrated prose,
The monologs of lifeless playthings.
Like playing dress up in foggy streets
Where every few feet has potential to be anything
And I can be whatever I believe
Until the sun erases my possabilities.
It eats me away with every dull moment,
Goading me back into my imagination.
Creative spirals of disparate mumblings,
The umbilical straps of my safe haven.
Eventually I’ll wake up to freer days
And slumber securely in a psychic Hell
When all my debts have been repaid
And I don’t slip away so well.
Happy New Year, Everyone.
There’s no denying it’s been hard. There are many faces I’ve missed and harsh realities to swallow. Still, it means a lot to share these scraps of prose with everyone who comes along. I hope you’re comfortable and secure tonight, and that we’ll have even more to share in 2021!
I imagine that every generation experiences death in their own way.
In our old age, when that stop is more than ever certain,
I imagine every generation leaving behind a legacy
And giving scope to life in how they feel their last days.
As Grandpa was dying, I imagined the kind of mind
A man born in the fifties would carry while he survived,
And the sum of all experiences before he met the end,
How they measured up to what he saw and all the things he’d been.
A man who worked machines, watched tv, and prayed
Died hooked to a machine, with the television on, praying.
The same shows he always saw were the last ones he watched,
And the cigarette in his fingers was the last thing he touched.
Will I die surrounded by the things I see today?
Will I understand the world as I do now, the same way?
When my generation finally slips into the grave,
I wonder what the others will think of how we passed away..
A neverending summer is coming
And then, will all of us live authentically
With space to grow?
On a transformed planet
How deeply will we confront ourselves
To become something more?
Our chaos, our need, drives far ahead of our rationality,
And rationalizing our needs only breeds further chaos.
The narratives we believe in feed the roots of our beliefs.
Skies burning, tensions rising, anger, anxiety, malaise.
Nature pressures us from every angle,
Guiding us forward to communities of love and
Societies of strength.
Flaws and preferences notwithstanding,
Will we shape ourselves to live abundantly or
Apply pressure to stay restrained?
They say love conquers all as strength enslaves.
Compassion may carry us through tumultuous times
As Egoism may grind us through arduous days,
And how will we console ourselves when the hot breath of summer comes to stay?
There are characters and stories I’d always imagined growing old with,
Looking back on forever as formative to my being,
But while growing up changes a person and our worldly understanding,
Stories often remain undeveloped and unchanged.
There are moments in books that once thrilled or astounded me,
That were once profound, insightful, or full of mood,
And while many of those words still make me feel something,
Their meaning seems to change as often as I do.
Themes that represented the concepts I believed so perfectly
Have revealed themselves to be shallower over time,
And writers whose minds seemed so beautifully percipient
Have fallen behind perceiving the experiences of life.
It’s sad to watch something beautiful be diminished
When circumstances change how it reflects in our gaze,
And characters that fell so easily into our hearts
Transform into beings from which we’ve become estranged,
But, if there are stories we’ve grown away from
It means that we’re growing all the same,
And becoming new and better people will always alter
Our understanding of what the past means.
Sentences and ideals that mattered then can still matter
With new understanding settled into the narratives we’re making,
And the stories we’ve left behind can still inspire us
As we renew our loves and troubles into characters worth creating.
When the weight of a thousand deaths
Becomes clearer to you,
It reveals how narrowly we think
Of our life’s disposition.
The film-like determinist bewichment of
Upsets and dissipates like snuffed flames
At nature’s assertion.
Travelers return from their dreams
To waking isolation
And open their eyes to an absurd reality
If only for a few moments.
With respect to life and death,
And the consciousnesses thereof,
Look into the mouth of darkness
We’re apart of.
Disease, it must be said,
May be more human than some humans.
That our entirety can be so fragile
Is our consistent condition.
When we remember our narratives
Are ours and ours alone,
The one we share demands consent
To have our comforts overrode.
In the busy days of Death,
What comes will prove our honesty,
And our actions will project
Our real characters into history.
Considering who and what we are,
The choices we’ve elected to embody,
What follows is the shadow of ourselves
And our inherited responsibility.
Impositions of misfortune
Are the most substantial opportunity
To engage with life’s true quality,
And for me to say I love you.
What makes us happy?
Well, what gets us through the day?
Compliments and memes,
Dreaming for the future
And sleeping next to someone sweet?
And what makes it work?
What makes the meaning maker?
Money and jobs,
Resources and transactions,
And the endless need for labor?
What does it mean?
Weren’t we making it last verse?
Something that we earn,
Something we’re still learning,
A fantasy or a needed story,
A reason to keep it going
And to believe we have worth.
They cross and collide,
Meanings, means, and distractions.
Moving more apart
And then again together,
More despair and satisfaction.
Movement made momentous by the mind,
Our language for a moment’s passion?