SIDEWAYS EIGHT PROJECTS

(Late Entry – Written 6/30/12)

Draped over me like sweat on a smoltering day in Savannah is the concern that I’m somehow missing out on an opportunity.  My eyes reflect the simultaneous temperament of a puppy and a volcano, but they can be so filled with love and peace.  These candles allow for dancing shadows that reveal shifting caricatures in an otherwise still face.  The eyes can appear golden as others are in their being.  The being can have an aura of healing that is palpable.  The psyche of a boy plays hide and seek with the shadows rather than living free in all instances.  Bandages become irrelevant after enough time behind the wheel rather than with toes submerged in the white sands beneath a palm.  What does this all mean?  Is rambling a sign of chaos or am I simply still searching for the one who will help me lay the pollished stones across the beach.  Can you read between the tides?  There are so many developments taking place in the photos snapped by the mind.  So many sound clips echo in the poetry of the soul.  Will you go on this journey of a lifetime?  What do you pack for such an event?  Or, is it better to leave all baggage behind, and gather your wants and needs along the way?  I extend my hand into the thick air longing for cooler environs in the thin places this world has to offer.  If you would like we can create our own world anew that is within this one we’ve grown up with.  A world in which dreams are commended, not belittled.  A world in which women and men can play as girls and boys in the rain, laughing as they get wet and closing their eyes simply so they can imagine the pattern of stars before them.  Help me light the way to our world and paddle with me.  I will wipe the sawdust from my eyes and look for the spark that is within you.  It may feel faded or subdued at times, but it is there.  It helps light my way home at times.  Perhaps we met in another life in another world and have unfinished business.  Perhaps we never met before but should have.  Perhaps we won’t ever truly meet.  We who can traverse the universe in song and each other in laughter.  This heart has much to give, and gets bigger with every spark it finds along the way.  It is my hope to have a connection, unlike the internet,  that is never timed out.  But rather, grows and grows and grows such that the horizon itself is jealous of its breadth, the sea is jealous of its depth, the starry night is envious of its height, and the apple of the King’s eye longs for its core.  I whisper a brief ‘I love you’ and though no one will hear or know or care, I still smile and close my eyes.

This eventual fear transposes itself upon a portrait of a younger man in the form of regret.  How can the caretaker of a sickly animal arrive to the conclusion that death, here and now, is the best outcome?  These are not the smiles of the rag tag boy with poppy seeds between his front teeth, and breath that smells lemony fresh.  This is breath of rain, smiles of family portraits, and memories of etched glass laid over polished stainless steel.  Lofty ideas?  Enough to be accepted into a program of any significance?  Pecking away at the keys, one finger at a time, like a blind woodpecker who has been poisoned by the chemical treatment in the columnal telephone pole.  Sleep deprivation.  Memory loss.  Slurred speech.  Fragmented ideas.  His bill reaches for fish.  His deeds are an attempt at good.  Music still gets writtenelsewhere though he resides in silence.  Flashes of lightening dwarf the thought process of a self proclaimed artist.  Is he afraid of Virginia Woolf?  Significance placates the lesser mind he has inherited from choices.  Time travel is only possible theoretically in quantum physics, and practically in dreams.  Do you know the secrets of the ancient Egyptians, or the present day hoodlum cowboys?  Let me go peacefully into the night.  Let me simply drift and only think manana .  Alvin dia this will all make sense.  He laughs at himself and his silliness.  He could plot an assassination attempt here and it safely wouldn’t matter.  Readership has sunk off the coast of an inhospitable island.  Good deeds are not enough, and Lou Reedwrites the track for the colored girls.  This faith despite ineptitude carries abrilliant laughter with it.  Sharks’ teeth will not be worn.  Let it rain AND let it shine.  The days ahead are brighter and less fraudulent.  Sweat out the toxins.  Chuckle out the pain.  Work out the problems.  Talk out the mistakes.  Act out the advice.  Read out the selfishness.  Give away everything.  Place a stone in your pocket.  Stride out into the river’s current.  Leave an incoherent note such as this.  Hide the truth in plain sight.  Wear the best jacket you have.  Bow your head.  Say your prayers.  Submit to the greater.  Throw away the agenda.  Touch other’s hearts and lives but not your own feet.  Know that loving is its own reward.  Draw your last breath in appreciation.  Give thanks to those who’ve made a difference.  SHUT THE FUCK UP’. Listen more.  Absorb more.  Love more.  Be more.

My head is doing cartwheels, while my heart is doing flips,
I sit outside after midnight with barefoot heels, even as the temperature dips,
I can’t seem to make proper sense of how I feel,
or tell unequivocally what is real,
even though there are pending sips.
This sense has me within its grips and will only reveal
its all encompassing passionate truth when I succumb
and am humbled to the point of exhaustion.
Eventualities play out before me, sometimes like clockwork,
sometimes with surprise and intrigue.
However this sense of need scares me,
as it is relatively foreign and doesn’t seem to be relenting.
How can something build on one side,
and be unnoticeable on the other.
How can one man choose a bride,
and another choose a brother.
What matters inside
is that there is light and love for
the dreamers of this world beside the cynics
and the wounded and the forgotten.
I’m not the only one dreaming,
and I’m not the only one who has been rotten.
How many acts do we allot when the ballot box is full
and the voicemail cannot be saved?
Teach me how to live the Golden Rule,
with a Golden One who is engraved.
Marked by the hand of the artist,
with a semblance or more of dignity
and perseverance, and hope, and dreams.
I can get anxious this close to the big city,
Especially represented by so many teams.
Can I see to your core? Do you scoff at mine?
The blades of grass tickle my itchy feet,
and only my own arms intertwine.
My shoulders roll back, my head bows down low,
and some people seem to simply have a knack,
for just being and letting things go.
I don’t have that core connection that is sought,
I long to help with protection, but I am too soon forgot.
I want to drive out the darkness with love,
and live in the now with light.
That doesn’t fit MLK like a glove,
but somehow they are both right.
Can I breathe a sigh of relief as I sit?
Am I simply a bully focused on the scoreboard?
Do I rant and rave and throw a fit,
to show my heart can be torn more?

All that matters is what is,
regardless of feeling or juxtaposition.
If you could have any one wish,
would others even understand your rendition?

This systematic exploration of possibilities
may stay the course and relay a message across time,
but the author can be replaced, and some can kill the trees,
that give us the paper to write such rhyme.

Tell this story.
Dreamer meets dreamer.
Soul meets soul.
Brother meets need.
Sister meets hope.
Time is quality.
Movements are expressed.
Music plays however faintly
or at full volume.
The rider may be in balance,
and what is inside her
might be extravagance.
But it also might be a curled up ball
waiting to bounce.
The release of energy from a fierce effort
that is impassioned and dialing the sun,
makes us reticent to see if there is something left for
the end before the race has begun.
Pieces interlock.
Stars move across the sky.
The release is the sit and talk.
That love is the reason why.

When you’re good, aint nobody better Baby.  When you’re bad, aint nobody worse.

Perhaps the only way we can be copasetic and obykaby, is to let off a rant in this curse in verse.

Let the words disperse, and let divine light fill me.  I still see you even though you aren’t present in the traditional sense.  We are going to fill this void, or be destroyed, whichever happens first or is more intense.  The flag on the summit blows off in a harsh wind, It litters the mountain with sentimentality, struggling in its prime to be vitality.  It is right now that we are gonna be forever or never be.

Life, at least mine, is not usually that eventful.  What if Fox News correspondents found it behind the toilet and published it.  That would be an end to my career before it began.  Tragedy comes in many small scale asides. This could be among them.  If, however, I did keep a diary I think that it could befilled with poems, monologues, inspirational quotes, streams of consciousness, and detailed stories about current projects in the DMV area or otherwise.  Whew!

I see you and your worth, though it is more than I comprehend. I see you giving more when others are at their end. I celebrate your birth, as well as each and every friend. But it is through a veil of rage and wounds that I see you along this blurry path to mend. When I question what it is that is worth the struggle and the fight, as well as the comfortable silence, and the applause, I have but one suggestion, and I might just drop a few jaws. This sense of good prevailing gives me dreams I cannot remember from the previous night. What I ought, and what I should, do not always equate with what I want without hesitation that is even slight. I fly only in metallic angels that charge now for meals. I drive when I must and when I should. But this home on the range would seem a bit strange if the heart is not in it for good. No matter what. Walking through the fire and singing. Text doesn’t stutter enough to match the bells in my chest that are ringing. Does this compute? Does it linger in memory? Do the words seem to cling to your eyes like a dress. Is it mediocre but cute, fluffy but not absolute, with no sense of longing for them or me, as the collective story is merely a mess. I see you fighting, pushing, smiling, and loving. I see you making, and calling, and breaking, and feeding. I see you calling out to the abyss, searching for meaning amidst this tirade of torment. I see you ready for the parade of enormous torrent. If promises were always broken we’d have no reason to make them. If my word were my bond would others know? I promise my words are not fed from the bottom, but that they fly like a firefly glow. If pieces were revealed, and truth be told, you would trust my heart, as I yours. But our deepest concealed desire to break the mold fills up the basin as it pours. Some may see clearly in a glance. Some may dance all night and never see. The chance we never take, may make or break, and only one chance is me. Things that never go written come out in other pieces, though we dig and peruse and some still cannot absorb what is true. I sit and I read, I write rather than bleed, and the only one I miss is you. I see this effort from a heart of gold, and the results may not always be what you wish. But revenge doesn’t mend as a hot or cold dish. I hold the idea in my head that I can be more, that I am more. I pause in my day to see you. These words while I sleep, and my fingers strike the keys, construct riddles steep, and will not succumb to the please. I forget the acclaim that I have garnered. I rise from my chair and I walk. The drunken kudos praise never stays, but I cherish each time that we talk. I see you creating and planning. I see you painting the sky. I see you in the stillness, and in the realness. I see you as the reason why. Hearts cannot bear to love as much, but they strive, for they feel they must. I see you reminding me I’m alive. I see you with a will that will never bust. I hear your echo in the time of dusk, and I laugh over the crest of the hill. This is the time for great days and fulfilled nights. This is the time for errand strays and errant knights. Have you figured out the plot and the longing? Do you see why I unearth the vines? I want to own but with a sense of belonging. I want to cut through all lines. I want to see you when I meet my end. I want to know my efforts were never in vain. I want to call you my friend, without any agenda with loss or gain. Loss only of inhibition. Gain only of love. Push with me, pull with me, stand with me, fly with me, knowing enough is never enough. We must give more than enough, to be more than alright and better than okay. I see you in my mind at night, and with the first break of day.

There is more good than bad, though it doesn’t always feel that way.  My heart stops like a watch submerged at its ten year mark.  I think I splurged in purchasing sway, but somehow missed the lesson on which bills to ear mark.  I wish you the stillness of heart like a Montana frost, but with the warmth of a summer day at the lake.  Into whichever river you are tossed, I hope you bend and make.  I remember the Buffalo park outside Denver, and Gas Works park in Seattle.  I remember crossing the plains, with no sleep but pains, imprisoned.  What is you in for? Who do you have to battle?  I hear the rattle, and I feel the beat.  Longing for a compatible paddle, to sail amidst these streets.   I love the poet within you, as you win from within.  And its in the best interest of all who are fighters to keep their chins down and in, but with their eyes on the prize.  I see the character unbroken, though the physical body may be fettered a bit. I see the heart of a lion, and a will that won’t quit.  These dreams we have unspoken, push into waking day, and the things we have to choke on, will soon be making way.  The site of future walks remains unwritten, and may only be written along the way.  And whether you are completely smitten, or just planning on hitting the skins in a minute, will make all the difference in inference and perception of the way.

I am able to say with certainty that I don’t often use the word ‘hate’.  I can only claim to have touched death’s doorstep twice in my lifetime.  Both times were near drownings.  I for the most part do not wish anything or anyone harm or for misfortune to befall them.  I hate raccoons and, one in particular, I will go out of my way to help as best I can for the mortal coil to be shuffled off.  I might drown this particular one.  You see, there are certain things that just shouldn’t happen in this world.  I am nothing amazing, but I aim to find out if I can create a hat out of his hide.  Of course I would never wear it.  That might be a bit too morbid.  Perhaps I’ll wear it on the second of June next year.  Perhaps I will recruit an angry mob with pitchforks and inspirational music.  Mr. Duck you are missed and loved.  Mr. Raccoon you are living on borrowed time.  Enjoy it while it lasts.

Forgiveness comes in many shades, as do lamps and peoples’ faces. And whether you’re dealt Aces and Eights, or Black Diamonds and Spades, the same things occur in different places.

How many pieces of Reeses

Does it take to release this

Sense of impending doom that never ceases?

The best plan I ever heard was the Word

And doing whatever He says or She says

Or whatever it is that We says, when what

We get is a life of regrets, you and I mets, and

Feelings that you may have been defeated.

So long as our needs met,

And my feetses can rest in the peace that’s on the earth,

That another may have had the misfortune to have bleeded.

And now I know that feetses is against the rules,

That we had agreed upon way back in recess,

But I’m gonna sing and swoon to a different tune,

And do whatever it is that completes it.

So long as the message registers uptstairs,

By anyone who reads it or needs this,

That or the other thing or perhaps even

Believes it.

How many peace blitzed cheese heads,

Does it take to install and instill a window sill of still,

And cut down in every possible way that is exceeded,

Unless it is absolutely for surely needed,

Or somehow helps Cleveland or Drew Carrey,

In the episode that is most repeated.

Okay, that last bit may have cheated just a bit,

For the sake of it seemingly extemporaneously

Continuing in the same rhythm that we’ve set,

From the moment that we met….

This night here now as we set a stage

Upon which we ship ideas in this Caribbean

Cheap set to each other in different forms

That we may or may not normally warm to

Or even see it.

Or get it.

Or let it bounce around in our mind

Until it freed it.