SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

Here’s how it usually starts, I’m up late when I should be going to bed. I should be falling asleep, but I’m reading for inspiration instead.

I come across a single line that strikes a chord, and bounces around in my head. And I have a moment that I tap into everything stored, a moment I completely love but dread.

I’m heading to work to do some dumb thing,

And I feel that spark inside,

Knowing the writing is coming, 

And I’m going to have to find a quiet place to hide.

You see the spark comes when you least expect it, a simple line in a comment of text, an innocent challenge to write a song, I know I can only help guide it but never completely direct it, I know the craft is next, 

And I know the spark may not last for long.

Not a song but a poem,

As I’m not a song writer but I

Know ’em,

And I hope the inspiration never ends,

I will write every single line by my lonesome, although I don’t own a single one, I know I’m already borrowing the title from one of my friends.

1. Finding, or better yet making, the perfect gift at the perfect moment for someone, knowing they will weep with joy for the knowing that at least one person in the universe gets them and understands.

2. Receiving such a gift, and writing a heartfelt thank you note by the guide of your own mind and hands.

3. Watching a puppy try to drink from a sprinkler, and then be a lil’ tinkler as he or she dances in the makeshift rain.

4. Watching that same doggie slowly grow old, still being there to love them and ease their pain.

5. Hugging friends, family, and loved ones at a Fourth of July barbecue or, better yet, a wedding.

6. Barely remembering the conflicts and quarrels with them, and when you do, letting go and forgetting.

7.Praying to an unseen power, but witnessing and feeling that power through love.

8.Feeling down in the dumps slumped over, and then that power with the warming sun, guides your gaze above.

9. The hand on your shoulder and the perfect hug which let you know it’s all going to be okay.

10. Being there to be that hand, and be that hug, to brighten someone else’s day.

11. Closing the thick blanket of a curtain on Saturday eve after a lovely late night, crawling into your bedgasm, and whispering a delighted, smiling, closed eye shout.

12. Drawing back the same curtain on Sunday morning to reveal a gorgeous day, rife with the possibility from great rest, that beckons you out.

13. Or, your favorite player, on your favorite team, scoring the game winner and everyone in the bar erupting at the exact same moment in time.

14. Or, that comfortable silence right after a soulful song while along on a road trip with your partner in crime.

15. Your very first sip of your favorite hot beverage, on a crisp fall night sitting fireside in the mountains by the lake.

16. Sharing that moment with your dearest tribe, with the perfect vibe, because all the difference in the world they make.

17. Saying goodbye to an aging loved one knowing in your heart that there was nothing left undone, and there was nothing left unsaid.

18. Showing with that same heart and that same mind to others what they meant to you in their stead.

19. Signing or clocking out at five pm on a Friday knowing the draining week is finally through.

20. Or, better yet clocking in on a Monday morning if you truly love what it is that you do.

21. Opening the care package from the right person at the perfect time when you are miles and miles away from home.

22. Getting to the point in life when you are so at peace with who you are inside you know that your home is wherever you roam.

23. Climbing up to a crook in a favorite tree where no one else can see or know. And, watching like a bird simply free, as the world passes by below.

24. Also, sitting perched in that spot in your tree for long enough that, in your own bones, you can feel it grow.

25. Laying down your burden of a bag, after a long hike through the crag, in the high desert where not a drip of water drips.

26. Anticipating that first sip of ice cold water you’ve carried, finally crossing your lips.

27. Going to the bathroom when you’ve held it for far too long,

And you’re finally catching a break from work.

28. Getting your grade back on line, seeing you didn’t get those questions wrong, Then watching a YouTube video of a grandma twerk.

29. Getting that daggone splinter out of your hand, that had been bugging you for a day or more.

30. Talking with your bestie who will always seem to understand, even if they can’t relate to what the rant is for.

31. Seeing something which started the size of a single grain of sand, that you plant, grow into a tree with fruit in store.

There are so many flavors of sweet release to savor at the buffet of life,

And these are merely but a few,

I hope we, each and all, taste these, and many more to combat the strife,

Before we draw our last breath and are finished with what we’ve come to do.

So there you have it,

The flavorful forms of sweet release,

Totaling thirty one,

Like an ice cream cake,

On your thirty first birthday,

From Baskin Robbins: Done.

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.