SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

I feel that absence when I breathe,I feel that absence when you leave,

Like the air has been stolen from my lungs,

Replaced with water, and then wrung.

And that water collects in a pool on the weathered ground,

Mixed with tears, a realization of unspoken fears,

And a heart that no longer pounds.

It used to gallop, it used to leap,

It used to saddle up, it used to keep its beat.

Now it watches the water soak into the cracked up soles of my feet. There is no discreet, or murmur across this street.

Just a sense at rest, and at best, 

That I’m somehow incomplete.

Maybe my soul is vexed wondering what’s next, so I release some text, so that outside holds the hex.

Maybe I’m too open. Maybe not enough. I can only hope when you move on it isn’t rough.

But that’s the tough part though isn’t it. Finding a new normal without the closure from the old. Blocking out the haunting, even when you’re wanting someone to hold. Not calling, not texting, pretending to be interested in the next thing, smiling as though everything is a blessing when you have less sing, less dance, less love, and less of one last chance left before the breath is gone for good. This heart can’t take much more of not being understood. If I could I’d make everything at once be completely known, but I’m a wounded child who’s completely under grown. Over thrown by miscommunication, a denigration of my spirit, a lack in relation, and you’re not even here to hear it. I fear it’s either too late, or else it never was, now there’s ben’s morning yearning, where before there was a buzz. I know I’m learning to stuff that burning deeper down. If I could I wouldn’t even let it keep coming round. But it’s always there. Always has been except in momentous occasions. The hollow, the loss, the wound. A trinity of invasions. I have tasted other, but never enough to remain full. Just like milk from mother you move on to the malnourished dull. I want vibrancy, and comfortable silence. A partnership where no one leads, without even a hint of violence. But I attack you, and you attack me, relationally. For what, wanting to be free? To be heard? To be understood? To be loved? I remain in this cage, mute to your deaf, with nothing left but the shove off from shore unloved, unintended, mind bended, heart broken, awoken from the dream. Being told to let it go and move on, but I can’t seem to play without my team.

I don’t wanna crawl in that hole with your pigeon. Having been given a smidgeon of hope from y’all, I’ve made the decision to engage you, and make you listen. To enrage you as the sweat glistens–within that thin layer between hand and mic–that lets you know somethings missing.

You see me as white. A’ight.  You see me as a man. Okay then.  You see me as old, I’ve been told.  You might even see my tatts.  Congrats.  

But, do you see my heart? Or must it yet be revealed? For I’ve played too many parts, for me to allow you to simply steal who I am from me.  The whole is greater than the parts sum, see?, than the parts some see.  A poet is the only label I haven’t gawked at during the talk back, or mocked at during a long chat after the fact.

I don’t wanna crawl in that hole with your pigeon

You do not yet know why I was brought in to your life,

you have no idea for how long I will stay.

I am you,

and you are me.

Coming back from an unknown point

in the future

to disagree.

What sense does that make?

Do you see?

You’re fighting yourself,

at a different age.

Your ego is shattered,

but your own hand

battered the cage.

This acting, this becoming, this being,

is seeing you for who you really are.

And it can be freeing to see that 

you’re not a shining star.

You don’t stand out,

you’ve become what you feared.

You’re an unknown Magellan,

while the pirates get cheered.

You won’t take a hand out,

but an ultimate demise is neared.

I am you, and you are me,

we are one and the same, don’t you see?

The message is in the bottle,

but the glass is dark.

You’re swimming at full throttle,

but your the chasing shark.

Stop.

Breathe.

Close your eyes and see.

I am you, and you are me.

Driving down the road aimlessly,

the only aim being to remain aimless

other than small miniscule impromptu goals

along the way

in order to maintain the sense of

release,

adventure,

momentous wonder,

thriving,

breathing,

and beauty

resides in that hallowed place.

A man and a comfortable vehicle

on a road trip through mountain passes,

sitting alongside a pristine alpine lake,

roaming through local thrift shops,

crossing over state line,

only to cross back again,

on the full circle.

What realms do we delve into when we sleep? Can we begin to pretend we are in charge? This upper lip quivers, while the lower is frozen in fear, attempting to replicate a waking performance. Only better. The clavas keep the time while blurry imagery adorns the border of the mindscape.  I stare at the open palm of my hand and then close it. Intentionally. I reopen it and turn my hand over, staring at my totem of a ring.  Begin with me again, forgetting all that has come before.  Reside with me in darkness, breathing in the steam from lava rocks freshly poured.  I cannot be dissuaded or deterred.  This will not be the end as I know it.  Else I have already died, and this is the aftermath.

Why am I still crying,
If it didn’t matter, and it doesn’t?
Why would I call it the greatest love
Of my life if it wasn’t?
How many years worth of pictures,
And songs, and trips, and conversations,
Are too many to edit, select all, delete,
Going through life with artificial stricture,
By ending, in essence of as they were, certain relations,
Sends one spiraling through life incomplete.
But, I digress, this mess of blessings raining down,
We call living, may not be felt in the receipt,
Or the cap and gown as one graduates from
Gift to giving.

I cannot reconcile the past with the future,
Nor can I the present with the past,
And the exact path that suits your demands,
May not be, for me, what will last.

I revisit old ground before we met,
And it’s colored still by visions of you,
I can remember countless moments I’ll never forget,
If not the exact lyrics and particular hue.

Please just don’t repudiate me,
Please attempt to see my enduring love,
In spite of absence, and lack of sense,
I could understand if you do hate me,
But I wish below me, beside me, and above me,
Were all equally intense.

Baby, my moods may swing,
And my dance may not keep,
And my words may get muddled as I age,
But to me joy you brought and bring,
With you I slept and sleep,
I wrote and turned the page.

I’m in the control center of the fort now. Tis a good place to be. Not really intended for more than one in this space to see. I resort to how some can go with the flow and get by, and others need to plan out in advance from big details to nigh. Triple layered comfort outermost favorite sweats. Typing on a separate keyboard connected in space. Living to get to no regrets. With mortality always staring me square in an unscared face. How many innocent folk take a plea, get victimized and repeat the tree somehow with grit and grace. Watch the hourglass sift or extend the moment in a collective series of presence. Always.

And they said they would not fight
if the moment arrived, and they had a choice,
but in this world of might makes right
the sentiment makes the moist rejoice.
The hardened could care less either way
for they are determined
provoked or not, to come to blows
and this more than anything
shows
their wounds
not yet healed on the inside
from the outside.
and the they who said they wouldn’t fight
find themselves drawn in over time
because they see the discrepancy between
ought and is within crime,
and among the attempts to say what you mean.

the wedge of snow atop the ground will
reflect more light than usual on this
gray and dreary day.
the fighting and accursed spirit
will be sent away.

And they proclaimed they would not worry
unless the time came and they were given cause,
because if we fall while in a hurry,
the video will get roccous applause.

Bobby McFarrin urges us,
but what the heck happened to him
has he got worries of his own?
now that time is looking grim.

Forgiveness comes in different heights,
under different lights, with perceived different rights,
but living without regrets takes belief in remembering
forgets, but not necessarily an ongoing relationship,
though one will always have been had,
This cheers benefits letting it rip sip by sip,
and writing words to be stirred and start bending bad.