fresh ink

Penning fresh ink, suggesting that I care what friends think, or what they would have thought if they would have lived long enough to have thought it.  It keeps returning like a gift I bought for myself, and yet somehow I forgot that I got it.  It seems these dreams I had for myself fifteen years ago or more, I would recommend against somehow having by a different one now.  But I’m mixing metaphors even though I can’t seem to remember how.  Pushing against my temples, locking my lids, being a matter of courage to focus on intent and outcome both with some of the least among us:  kids.  How can the eventual become the present without the passage of time?  Did I forget my place, or bring disgrace to the idea of creating more?  Ferlinghetti’s poet climbing on rhyme may be risking absurdity, while I am searching for the door.  To leave.  To stay.  I could shoot you once in each knee cap with a pistol in Bristol, and shatter your nose with the blunt end of the axe.  To bring you to your knees as you brought me to mine, and laugh amidst the attacks.  I could stain your forehead with scalding coffee, just to watch the expression change on your face.  But then I would be you, and you would be too, and I don’t want to be a waste of space.  The art that is hung may not be the most valuable.  The journals that are saved may not endure.  I’m clutching at sand sifting through my hand kissing the value that will be remembered as pure.  Forgotten hymns with monotonous  tunes play in the background of a dreamscape.  My saddle blanket gathers dust in the corner.  When the hand tool punctures the slender nape, it will be too late to warn her.  Accidental misfortune.  Drunken inuendo.  Brain boiling as criticism goes in one ear and out the window.  I smile to deflect the onslaught.  I laugh to misdirect.  I stare blankly when I know that I’m caught, and I pretend to care but can’t collect.

Forts can be constructed by walls from wounds.  Windows that are opaque can conceal more than they reveal.  The stained glass landscape cannot cover over the innocence that we steal.  I want to see your eyes through the water as I drown you.  Just to see the expression change on your face.  But, I will plot and plod, knowing I am not God, unsure if my heart even has its grace.  Help me to forget the tragedy and remember the triumph.  Help me to be thankful and grateful but not dead inside.  Help me find the places in this world to flourish and be inspired, without having to go in my own head to hide.  Help me to see the light behind the clouds, to hear children’s laughter rather than cries.  Help my takeaway message not to be that my message is taken, foresaken, and denied.  The lotus is lit from behind.  The cross is lit from in front.  the moon is lit on both sides.  Years ago I called a homer.  Days ago, I waited to bunt. 

Fresh ink embodies the wet inspiration.  It conveys the message that we are here now and may not leave.  It is the embedded nature of the targets we strive for, and perhaps the reason we grieve.


Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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