SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

I want to throw
A party,
Where every invitation
Comes in a tube,
And it’s held in a community theatre,
And in that tube,
Along with the invitation,
Are the instructions,
And all the necessary pieces
For a model rocket,
That can actually be fired off.

And then between the invitation period,
And the party itself held elsewhere,
In a black painted box for dreams,
And this world of let’s pretend,
Where time can bend, and never end.

The ones and twos and threes and fours
Invited for s’mores and stories on elevated floors,
Through side doors,
On the First St.
Would complete the project
As individuals or as teams,
And then at the end of the evening of let’s pretend,
Comes the firecracker from your dream,
Blowing all of the rockets at the same time,
While listening to Rocket Man,
Drinking a fine example of
What
Our personal favorite is.

That’s how dreams continue to
Kill death.

These lives we rest upon do not aid us in the quest for why. They are fabrications of our psyche, manifested to blanket over the truth of the why to maintain walls for the purpose of self preservation. Perhaps how can be found within them. Perhaps they can serve as a guide as to how not to achieve. The true essence of why can only be found in the deepest darkest recesses of our subconscious. Those places we are constantly living In fear of someone truly discovering and unlocking us. Where then could we hide besides the veil of death itself. Even then the truth might be revealed anyway, and we would not only be unable to defend ourselves, but more importantly we would avoid any natural consequence of our actions and somehow wouldn’t have fully earned the pain. We have now passed the solstice, so I must acquire a new taste in drink for the purpose of turning a new page. Paying homage to a tune from years before, I will be my own voice over as I whisper the truth to myself in this otherwise empty museum. I both have and have not.

I stand beside the man as he constantly adjusts the focal point of his eyes. He leans in to tell me, what the rest of his body is letting me know is a secret, but only whispers unintelligibly and appears disappointed. He walks away five paces and looks disgusted with me, but I cannot figure out why. It is Christmas Day, but he has denied the meal, the stocking, and only hesitantly acquiesces to the card. I get the sense that he will either lose it or give it to someone else, but I know I won’t be allotted enough time to find out. He is convinced that the giant vehicle has just left with my own flesh and blood tied near the steering column. He asks me if I am going to do anything about it besides just stand there and let it happen. I politely let him know that I am not related to anyone on the vehicle which just served hundreds, but then left with a skeleton crew. He becomes more visibly, shall we say ashamed at my denial of my own flesh and blood. Perhaps the man is malnourished and, as a result, mentally ill. Perhaps, just perhaps he is aware of something deeper that I am missing, and can’t for the life of me understand. More slurred words. More gibberish. More whispers from a dark source crying for help in a different language. Perhaps the fairy dust will come my way eventually. Perhaps I will run into him again along the American river. On this day of the prospective savior’s celebrated birth, I am utterly lost. This city built around loaves and fishes does not seem as though it is a pretend set. It looks and feels and smells like the utterance of a small child’s nightmare cast in natural sunshine, under the beneficence of a relatively peaceful Segway to a different dream. But, very real. The despondency and resentment I have can be let go for the purpose of growth. I can learn his language, and untie my flesh and blood. I can circle back to the statue of the bear pawing at the water gathering the elderly ladies who are obviously steeped in prayer. Where do I go from here? How can I breathe the same? Tomorrow may be another tale to witness or tell. I had better get my rest.

Beginning with excitement, and soon thereafter ending in pain,
Close calls announced wrong, which break a make or break game.
In the hours of darkness, not many hours of sleep remain,
I still look for that sense of community to which I’ll ascribe my name.
Hidden rooms downstairs, through hallways, around corners, through doors,
Give way to nicotine fixes, good convo, and the aftermath of gift exchange,
The heat confined in the musky draperies takes opportunity to outpour,
Giving way to the coolness left in the wake of players range.
We all have jobs to do,
We all have goals to seek,
We all have bills to pay,
We all have utilities that are due,
Deadlines each week,
And moments we don’t know what to say.
These unite us, confine us,
And remind us they don’t define us.
However, when we leave our prints on the windshield,
We also leave our mark upon lives,
And the same things which unite our moments,
Erode the reasons each of us strives.

I forget what I said sometimes, or perhaps wish to is more true,
The selective ears propagate fears,
And create a schism between me and you.

Quaint little phrases with predictable lyrics,
Dribble from my mouth to the screen,
Meanwhile my soul lies in unheard hysterics,
And I can’t put a finger on what it means.

I seek out a dim corner of the warehouse to weep,
Over my losses, and those that I’ve caused,
As those are the enduring secrets I keep,
Not the few and far between applause.
My jaw clinches, my eyes well,
As though I’m chewing on my own death,
My nose bridge tingles, and temples swell,
And I can feel the loss of my breath.
How can I remain present with an effervescent past,
How can I boast, knowing I’ve hurt those who deserve it least,
Most of the clinched fist bit doesn’t last,
But the overall feeling isn’t released.

What can happen that will bring about genuine change,
Along with a genuine sense of belonging and hope?
I can’t keep seeming out of sorts and strange,
I can’t keep fabricating my very own rope.

To climb or to hang, to swing or to pull,
To tie or to knot, to coil or to tow,
To dock or to anchor, to connect or to whip.
These choices like others create a reality in which I reside,
In which I dwell.

These choices though with good intent have been ill,
And caused harm.
These choices have caused resentment, and bitterness,
And frailty, and compartmentalized thick walls
Around hardened senses of worth.
These choices have caused torment, and haunting,
As well as a lack of birth.

These choices have been prayers in action,
Though good intentions back their front,
It all amounts to bleak distraction,
And a failed stunt.

Am I afraid to run? Afraid to close? Afraid to reveal that which no one knows?
Do I return to starts to race again? Having lost before, with a now similar intent.
Do I take it on the run? Can I take care of my own heart? Can I trust another to if I cannot do it with any consistent sense?
Am I the only one? Is this the only part? Am I somewhat resistant but more intense?
Too many questions, not enough answers.
Too few living lives, too many cancers.
This book can open, just as it can close.
We’ve come to the end of the run of certain shows.
We breathe, we sulk, we complain, and we draft.
When we fall, we check to see if anyone saw,
And listen to hear if they laughed.

Excellence can breed hatred, while worry can breed distress.
Less can be more, but I’m not sure if more can be less.
Too much perhaps, or the wrong item for all involved.
But it’s too late before we know it’s gone,
Love can come disguised as greasy overalls, and problems unsolved,
There is no time machine, and there is no magic wand.

There is only authentic loss, and lasting joy.
Most sells itself as the gray in between.
That is the vast gravitational ploy,
To both erode and demean.

The battleground is now,
The question is where not when.
The means is how,
And assessing the irrelevant then.

Fingers get pointed,
Excuses get made.
Brows get anointed,
And cards get played.

Self interest screams louder,
Than what may be better for all,
The most annoying shouter,
Becomes the most often heard call.

I can’t be around it anymore.

I cannot pretend to enjoy its frame.
But years from now no one will remember truly what was behind each door,
And few will remember a name.

The message speaks with resonance to whom it is intended to mend,
All of the black walls cannot create a complete loss of the light.
The sun still rises on the other side my memorable friend,
Even though here and now it is darkest night.

Beneath my gruff irreverent exterior beats a heart with one purpose indeed,
Yes of course to pump the blood to every part that’s in need,
But more that’s more not less, to represent the truth for all time,
Line by line and page by page, and for my heart the truth is this,
You are my greatest love of all time, now and when,
As well as my greatest miss.

Do we begin anew, or do we begin again? We may always remember how,
Though we may not remember when. We may remember what and why, with only a vague recollection of who. But, I will always remember the what, when, where, why, and how of you. Our lives are changed more than rooms that we rearrange to suit our needs. We play back the videos of our lives, but do not share with others the feeds. Our wounds get pushed down below the surface, so only vague bruises show where they bleed. And the funds come through, but we can’t chew on the mouthful that truly feeds. Can we begin again? Will the tunes still resonate as they did? Will we ever truly remember, or truly forget those tragedies when we were just kids? I want to want again, but basic needs are met and I sleep. I want to begin anew and yet my vows I’m unable to keep. These feelings pass, but longings do not. They merely become better hidden over time. They’re let slip out, though no less devout hidden beneath lines of rhyme. Wherefore is why, and how is a statement, who dat is a regional term. Parents ask their children what and when. Children give answers that are minimally firm, and grandparents give answers more zen. I think what you think. So, please tell me what that is. I’m waiting while others scoff, berating, for you to answer this quiz.

When the beginning returns, and the young babe learns to speak wise,
The fires burn, consume what we earn, and mar the face of disguise.
Only then will some second guess, others say I told you so, and still others who have not a clue what to do. But not I. I will sit on the edge of the sidewalk with a vacant stare, hands in my palms as I weep. In a fit near the ledge, above an outline of chalk, wondering what promises to keep. I can feel the minutes seeping away, my breath draw to close as I run. I can feel the same pain day after day, until closing moment from moment begun. Mozier asks to be taken to church, Jay Z commands to take them to church, but I already feel bad enough and don’t want to go. Have I hugged for real in the last two months? Have I bled and connected with earth? Have I felt joy in the deepest sense even once? Have I felt the unending sense of worth? Who is petty, and fickle? Who draws my soul completely out at the small rate of a trickle? Can a benevolent God know me, my purpose, and pain, that only seem to subside for a while? These items of mine no more divine than the dew on the grass by a smile. No less than the clouds in the sky, no more than the soil of shoes. But the people still congregate in groups and crews, and I am still left to choose. This comes to be a development within the confines of theatre and art. But also combines with the loss of not being with her, and not playing my proper part. A deep, unrelenting, bewildering sense of contentment, regardless of circumstance can characterize joy. A child’s birth can leave us speechless at worst. Our high can pass, though troubles amass, were left anticipating the burst. No errors. Faster speed. Putting up with the choir for now. We have the pieces to give us releases, but E.T. Cannot call or forgot how. Help me sleep before the day that rises will meet me with tomb. I want to go back in time, to before I was even in womb. I want to go back and disconnect. To remove myself from the plan. I want to never be. I’m sure God will understand.

Please let me die in my sleep. There won’t be much to remove. This life has made me weak, living as if I have something to prove. What I believe I could do, rooted in ego, is beyond what most others have done. What I actually have done is pathetic at best. As a boy I assumed my life would be an extraordinary one, but right now, I’d just settle for rest.

Forgotten hymns and myths intertwined, which bring up memories and tears. Songs we’ve heard, places we’ve dined, and some of our greatest fears. We can’t erase, nor go back, though often we wish that we could. And I may face the uneven sidewalk through the crack, but I’m not sure if it does any good. Photos jar us, as we know those far from us stare at the same stars at night. Kneeling on the gravel, as life seems to unravel, more so as we grip it tight. Have I passed any tests? Pleased any guests? Made such an extraordinary change? That a multitude of other’s burdens have lightened in their chests, allowed them more rest, and combated the fact that people are strange. If someone isn’t ever truly given a chance, or they don’t know how to take the chances they’re given, you cannot judge their potential by the way that they dance, or by the quality of the life they’re now living. If someone is loved and nurtured and presented with options that play to their strengths, and taught a vision of life without bleakness, they will be less apt to shove, feel less tortured, and go to great lengths to find and grow relationships that complement weakness. There is no button to push, no date to be entered, no hatch to close, and no doc to consult. We can only move forward though we best learn in reverse. My brain has become mush, I am my own dissenter, a thorn looking for its rose, and my heart feels the tumult of curse. It hurts behind my eyes, I don’t know if drinking helps or it hurts, in the hallmark section labeled ‘karmic surprise’, I’m eating my just desserts. Why is it that dreams are out of grasp? That my heart yearns for so much more than it can have? That I don’t feel that any of it is too much to ask? And that I yearn for the grave? Sweet end to this storm of chaos, feels far too far off from my sight. Complete mend to this warm heart toss can steal the ache from my plight. Let me breathe it in. Let me exhale it out. Let me search the night for the answers I’ll never find. Let me beat my own body to death or worse, even if just to kill my mind. Let me know the peace of belonging, let me know the warmth of true love, let me say the right thing, not do the wrong thing, and keep my eyes set above. Let me open my mind to hold the entire world, and then close it to bid it good night. Let me keep that intense sense that somehow, someday this will all be alright. Let me sleep beside Annabel near the sea, in the hopes that she wakes and chooses me back. Let others somehow see the ways I am not a creep, and the ways in which I do not lack. Please life give me the chance. Please universe understand me as I am. Please God find a way to use it for good. I have yet to get on the floor, let alone dance my best dance, and my heart hasn’t yet shown what it could. I’ve glimpsed in brief, learned in moments, and seen the potential as to know how it may have felt. But, until that time, as life beats and unravels, on the gravel I will remain knelt.