A Spell of Seconds

A spell of seconds,
sweet-sweet sweat,
the taste of skin, the smell of tongue,
his gaze consumed
- intent and will – his eyes,
a deep dark wet become
he starts out sweet then marks
his kill.

I may be dinner or his pet...
but either way we get our fill, though death,
may be our final thrill.

I know not,
what fuels this visceral silent rage--
what built this impermeable cage,
what kindles unspoken desire--
our inexplicable Fire smolders my will
to resist, and gives me
chills.

Our lyrics strike
odd harmony,
disjointed on a scale of harshly-soothing notes,
a melody of alligator daffodils and shredded pantyhose,
tangled sheets on broken glass,
arrhythmic rugburns,
scented sunshine and
a hint of ash.

We refrain--
in syncopated pulsing--
from Promises never made but
understood
Muting logic tossed
aside amidst the rush and throe of water-
falls,
anointing tall, moist, softly-
sharpened
blades of grass.

Dark Days, Light Waves

We've all thought about the enigma called life, it's purpose, its point(lessness.)  Perhaps we've even wallowed in ennui. And some of us have been carried away completely by the currents of our despair.

Some of us wash ashore, and awaken, with the grit of sand in our mouth, and the taste of blood on our tongue as a reminder.  For some it's a trip taken many times. And then there are those that never make it back to land, and instead relinguish their will to the ocean's refuge.  But I've no place or right or even knowledge to judge that decision or its outcome. 

Only one day can I remember being close to that point, but ironically the catalyst was not from any earthly plight, but rather from a detachment from it.  At the time-- aptly reduced to date-year 911 -- I was so far removed from 3rd dimensional perspective at the time, that I didn't see a difference in ending this lifegame to rejoin the universal energy, if this one-- given the enlightenment I'd reached-- offered no real outlet to play out the reason I knew I was supposed to be here. 

I won't forget that day, because I was without a car and a workmate drove me home.  Dark clouds were swirling in the sky, and I vaguely remember him telling me they were shelf clouds and could lead to tornadoes or other such disasters.  I half thought to myself- 'bring it on, then,' and took the picture above.  I got home as the wind started to blow hard and angry, uttered a genuine but weak appreciation for the ride, and stumbled into the house in a numb stupor ready for this existence to be over, and at peace with it. 

Truth be told, I was far too exhausted to remotely have been able to actually harm myself in a corporeal manner on that day, but my mental state and its spiritual attachment to earthly continuance was as far removed as my physical desire to breathe one breath more: moreso than I can recall it ever being before or since.  Hell, I may have been close to spontaneously combusting for all I know.  But something held me back. 

I could say it was a call I received almost immediately when I closed my front door.  A call, not surprisingly, from my cosmic twin/higher self-- or whatever the hell he is or I am to him, for we oscillate in purpose and roles-- and for that I suppose I graciously thank him.  Or I could say it was my inner light smacking some sense into me, or perhaps it was the antithesis... the sick dark side of me wondering just how much worse it could get, tempting my inner cat to extend one more paw into the cauldron of curiosity's lure.  I don't think I'll ever really know. 

I'm still here though, and thankfully more balanced and grounded between all dimensions.  I doubt I'll revisit that place again however, but I can say I've seen the edge, felt it blur, and almost became one with it.  Surprisingly without fear or regret or shame.

I think about that now, because recently I received news that an old schoolmate had died, purportedly of suicide, and it has deeply impacted myself and several people I consider my soul family-- as well as others.  These people, including myself, are artists of various trades, mostly poets and writers at the core, and we all admit to battling the black disease of thinking and feeling too much, teetering the high-wire between the dark and the light, compelled to understand the reason behind the seemingly irrational, and finally merge the duality that constantly threatens to drive us insane. 

For it is indeed a mystery zone we traverse throughout this life journey-- despite our (mostly) normal clothes and normal lives.  Yet we're slave to sleuthing it nonetheless, despite futility in finding any real solutions, the probability that there exists no answers to the unanswerable we seek, and even more frustrating, no tangible questions left to our disposal to ask.  Only silences.

And so, with these recent events, we've been discussing the poet's curse:  what it means to each of us, what it means in light of recent events, what relevance it has at all for that matter... in the grander scheme of things.  What is it that drives a person to the edge, and convinces them the best alternative is to succumb to its lure, bleed into it, become one with it?  Some may say disillusionment, others' claim freedom from pain, and I would posit, for some, it stems from achieving a certain state of enlightened objectivity regarding our corporeal existence in the cosmic whole. 

Regardless, we're trapped for now in our earthly minds and hearts, connected only through our spirits and energy to try and understand the impacts of the now, the then, the hereafter, and the complete inanity of time in general. I wish I had an answer to give them, not to mention to give myself. But I do know this in regards to my own version of the poet's curse.

I've indubitably had many dark, dark, thoughts throughout my days, and only one real compulsory occurrence to actually do something about it, but I think the sick curiousity of what the next day (or even moment) might bring keeps me from succumbing full-on to the thanatos urge. I'd like to call it hope, or faith in that complementary eros factor which comprises my very name and nature, and for the most part I'm sure all of those are strong drivers behind my tenacity to stick this life out no matter what nasty little shits, grins, and twists are thrown my way.  

But at times I think my persistence stems from a morbid fascination to see just how far down the abyss can go, whether there really is a rock bottom, and what resides there, if so. To see if I can flip that bottom upside down and make it top, like an hourglass.  And if I can't, to see if I can succeed in climbing out of that abominable pit stronger, wiser, purer, truer, and more attuned with all that is. To discover that perhaps heaven is hell and hell is heaven; or perhaps they are one and the same. I wish I had a lighter feel-good answer than that, but I can at least say at this point it's a sincere and authentic one.

Either way, it keeps me keeping on. If for no other reason, to tell more stories. And I guess I consider my inexplicable draw to the dark and to the light a twisted kind of blessing; one that allows me to understand the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful in the diverse spectrum we call human existence; and hopefully--someday, somewhere, somehow-- I can transcend the dichotomy through experiencing all of it, and help others reconcile their own.

So perhaps, ironically, my version of the poet's curse is also my saving grace.

5.7.1972 ~ 8.10.2009 ~ 6.29.2010

It’s not the outcomes that I’m scared of

But the truth that will not cease

There's no chance in the forgetting

Cause the truth don’t bring you peace

For how can you unknow it, when it’s there but doesn’t speak

And how can you unlove it, when you feel its every beat

The only remedy to memory

Is to pray to never think

The only hope to stop the knowing

Is to kill what you believe

No,

it’s not the answers that I’m scared of

But the truth that won’t un-be

And a million fears and wishes

Will not set the bastard free.

what will

5.18.2010

Cows have 4 stomachs.
Or so I've been told, to aid in
the digestion process.

And I have four hearts,
maybe more, though
they all seem wanton
toward the same sweet palate.

Effin' cows.

Can you hear the rumble over all
these sounds of silence?
This prolonged muteness
non-linear digestion
is moot.

There wasn't enough time
at the moment
to appropriately answer
your question.
What are you looking for?

I'd ask the same.

Slaughterhouse 5'd,
2 showers all in one
day.
And what a second rain
it was!
Caught by surprise, I quite was,
still am

One snapshot, out-take,
mesmerized, two unawares
bely the mask.

I's to two eyes realize
the hiding truth
behind the curtained ruse.
Tell me what
you see.
perhaps i'm just confused.

To reduce it to mere
clandestine perusal causes pain,
Authentic beauty
makes me
ache.

Hearts beat, breathes breath,
unperceived, 'til something makes them
stop. and notice a
miracle at work
here.

How long has this been going on
I'd wonder, but care not
Now
for cow stomachs,
or hiding,
or the viceness of niceness,
or public disclosure regarding
my preference in
vegetables.

I'm far too lost in the forest, searching
where the marker meets
your trees, digging
to decipher apologies
from gratitude from pleas.
How purely obscure this meander
of mine, of yours
of ours may seem to be.

until Falling
Awake this morn
that dreaded seven lettered-word
sung if I
fell...

sanity, survival, or not
the can broke open,
and

i heard.