Concerning the Blank

One would think
a crisp, white plain
broken only with lines
of blue
and red
and sometimes a blinking 
cursor
would be met
with the spoils of prior
contemplation,
great things brewed 
in grey matter tea.
One should be reminded of
great masters
poised fingers over
worn keys;
thundering concertos to come.
Yet the perceived
masterpiece simply sits
behind otherworldly tension.

Dust tends to gather in these moments
tumbleweeds crisscrossing
reminding us of our own stillness
glasses fog, smudged fingerprints appear
temple screws mysteriously
unscrew themselves
and housework becomes an
exotic
sensual
distraction.

Paper cuts become a
dangerous
reality.

For all the notes that came before;
in showers,
cars,
unromantic dates,
and long,
lonely walks;
only the lost bits 
of grocery lists remain
the twice forgotten red onion
remains in the miserable
forefront
of your 
rotting,
prehistoric
brain.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Staring Back at the Dark.

These walls around me are so tall

but my nightmares persist;

an uneasy existence with myself remains

always.

The streets in my head

all wander about;

knotting together 

in the wrong end of town-

but my feet stay firmly, 

horribly, 

helplessly

in the right.

These days of endless summer,

these days of passing worry

are enough to keep my stomach

seeped in it's own blood;

it seems to clearly know,

what I've only been able to guess at.

Each moment falls away

and the rainfall gauge creeps along;

filling, and climbing towards 

nothing new,

nothing more,

nothing gained and

nothing spent.

I remember the idea of the road

the wind

the sun

the scrapes and bruises

forgetting to brush your teeth in dirty motels and

opening your eyes under the waves of a brand new coast.

Heaven exists in closed eyes

and bloody knees.

It seems my scars are fading

exactly when I want them to be raw-

pinned on medallions

of mistakes proudly made

moving towards 

something,

anything.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Untitled

I cannot stand the sight of their deaths.


Nights, interrupted with sweat and a chest of pain,
a towel down to soak it all up; then
sleeping again, but not on yellow-ringed sheets but unaware,
on bathroom tile and a time-flattened rug-
each morning realizing a phantom bender,
devoid of a single drink from the night before.


They are all older in the great scheme but younger in my mind;
they are forefathers, mothers, and siblings.


I hope to lose all of my warmth before then
for my veins could not stand the chill
my mind not take the jolt
and my head would lose the world in a dizzying instant.


Their deaths are ahead of me, always,
my life is looming over them and
I curse each time, at the youth wasted on self;
the same self so occupied with the right words
and the selfish pursuit of grey temples.


They will always be in heroic scale from
where I choose to stand,


and


as I stare upward and watch them flourish-
their lives rich, and their hard work realized-
I conceptualize my own mortality
and am unwillingly reminded of theirs.


Then, all at once, I jerk awake once more-
the rug impressed on my cheek,
and the lines of tile, marked red on my side.


I remain still, and listen
as a clear pool of shame
drips,
escaping my coward's brow.

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.

Bare Feet on Cold Tile

There are no compassionate breezes

that pass through the

inside of a warm room

in the midst of 

a sleepless

night.

Only feelings of ache
howl through hollow spaces

as I stare back at tossed

sheets

highlighted by a single, yellow light

stumbling through 

from the bathroom door.

Cracked porcelain tiles are

vibrating in my eyes

and I can't help but stare blankly at the

stale water sitting in the bottom of 

the bathtub-

leaving a little

stain

as it dries.

The figure

leaning on the edge of the bathroom counter,

looking back through a cloud of water-spots 

can't be me;

a phantom of insomnia-

a trick.

Imagery fit for a mindful doctor

float around the blurry thing-

allusions to events from the past week:

laughing children,
toys in a rain gutter,
a dead dog,
the seam of a women's torn stocking and
a pile of loose, blank paper
sitting on a desk by an open window-
fluttering in the wind.

failures

and fantasies


in a dark,
warm,
room.