Chasing Pleiades

You know,

In the grand scheme of things

We’re all beasts, compared to someone or something

So,

You were far too surprised to find me

Running in circles

Chasing Pleiades

You dismissed it as nothing

But I assure you, it was someone or something

And I’m still running

But not far enough or fast enough

I can’t run on all fours, like in my dreams

But,

In the grand scheme of things

I’ve been surprised

To find you chasing me.

Clay Crumbs

When statues fall out of love

It’s a split of two ideas that define each other

The crumbles are just little copies of the combination

And there’s nothing left for ruins

They just become ruined

Like we’re all ruined

There are no melds held important

Just crumbles to value, or clean up

The Pangs of The No Place

This is no place for one who sees clearly

No place for one who hears melodically

No place for one who breathes cleanly

And no place for one who feels

Anything

And it’s changing me.

In ways I will regret

Though I cannot refrain from

These changes seem unavoidable

Inevitable

Though maybe correctable

The darkness used the tools of

The blurring of time

The taming of repetition

And the terrorizing threats of alienation

To sew us into a fowl quilt

For whatever it so desires to smother.

And what beasts we’ve become.

I’ve seen

As we wrap each other

Just to keep it off of ourselves

With amusement streaked across the crows feet our eyes

Which only feeds it

Which only darkens us faster, deeper.

This is no place

No place to find future.

This Sleep Scattered Life

Of all of my minimalisms
Of which I've sorted

The few I display now are only hints
After completion of a thousand piece puzzle

Born of revelations
Beaten ‘til death or curdle

In the hopes of wringing out a fellow human, or guitar string, or skyline

But they're all just playing-with-myself
Lubricated with my favorite compound molecules

And everything I choose to minimize, in time, causes me to lose out on fellow hearts.

So, at least all these words I find are my conscious
And will always be mine, despite any coming-to-mind adjectives

Whether yawning awake, or rambling on a supplemented overdrive

In this sleep scattered life.

People

Make fun of whatever the fuck you want

Make fun of whatever the fuck you want

With no care to what you may breed

With no slight of what scars you’re resurfacing

Because fuck them all

Fuck them all and their sensitivities

And their struggles

Because you’re so unique, so funny

Pointing out anything

Anything at all

Should be allowed for you

And only you

Because we’re all your TV show

We’re all your characters

We’re all your canned laughter

We’re all your musical score

So make fun of whatever the fuck you want

Fuck them all

Let it breed.

The Sigh of Everything.

Your mother is in disparaged hysterics

                Knee deep in her horror and sorrow

Your sibling much the same

                Though more blindsided with confusion

There is a common feeling of frustration

As commonly shared as the dirt around you

Where their feet now rest

                While working

It all seems so absurd to them

And so, may be so.

Now

The thought of all of this

                The possibility, at times

Is all that keeps you alive.

               Mother; Sibling

And the unmentionables.

                Ventilator; heart monitor; Doctor.

               

So

If you, one day, wake to realize

The possibility of none of these thoughts mattering

And that you wouldn’t be leaving behind anything

For if you become nothing

Then everything, in relation to your lack of You

Will also become Nothing

Then, these thoughts will become, well...

Reality, perhaps, dies with the beholder...

And so, you live

With the secret heart

And the secret mind

Of Everything.

Funny Nose Glasses and The Fake Mustaches

Cold breath. What else could I do

But watch the vapors rise?

I could complain.

OK. So I did that, too.

Because those funny nose-glasses

With the fake mustaches

Where no match

Not even narrow disguise

For the wing tipped edges

Of my flamboyant sentences

Which I grew to nary

Care to disguise.

And the beer

And the pills

And the paintings of a fall

And the lack of understanding in the many faces of it all

And my chartered trail
Starting at my sopping expectations
Ending at my many, many, many -ness and -ish endings.

(Eyes skyward and left)

The human being can be built to die hard

To explode

To collapse under its own weight

To ignore, or feed off of, the warning signs trained and ingrained

The human being can flip out its center, and wear its organs on the outside
All depending on mood

And I am no exception

And I am many moods

Which can flip, switch, mutate, or rotate

With no moment’s notice

And sometimes go unnoticed

Much to my outward relief

And inward resentment.

Then there are the friends

Who willingly take jokes

And sometimes when you’re the joke

It doesn’t even hurt

Sometimes the feathers are plucked near a sensitive node

And just like that

Defeating your appendages of flight

Silencing you in the wind

Re-birthing glimpses of a frightening absolution
Adjusting your posture by the threat of scandal

And Damn near clocking your lack of...

Whatever.

Have you battled something everyday?

Have you swept the sides of dirt roads?

Have you ignored yourself while patterns swelled?

Have I hair sprayed my thoughts in place? Have you tried washing them out?

Have you tried to rid the frizz and sulfur in such a humid place?

Have we crashed yet?
Can I open my eyes, now?

Sitting in your passenger seat, I used to subtly check your mirrors.

I’ve since surrendered.

I’ve thrown out the funny nose and fake mustaches.

If I survive this ride, I’ll have earned my next disguise.