Vanish

Where now

Now that North tore away?

Not like fruit that rotted

Rather fruit long rotted and blown to powder. 

Psalm 23

Coagulate no more.

Leakage into clear form

Conviction is pure.

Patience to persevere

While torture skewers

Is wrapped tightly in layers.

I am a laminate

To serve, protect, and,

Perform under fire.

And I have.

I am.

I continue.

There is nothing greater

Then the great Almighty's intuition.

I labor naught in indecision

Only turn to face the warmest answer

To which has continued to shed

Over, under, and all around me.

The LORD is my Shepard; I shall not want

Jump

Explain in keener detail

Of the whereto from here

The locked in feeling of 'this'.

The Sunday blast strips most noise

Seeking effectiveness on how better to perform

The ablation so strongly desired to break into

Causal Nexus.

The sun dutifully rises, and with it, I roam

Outward and away from the true mark of each day.

I sit with these hands, aware of their tooling

And the constant misuse of their time.

Effort is a driven course with each moment, precisely held

It is my wish to practice excellence, but, up until now

It is only cerebral.

Ingestion of influence has been roasting

Confluence of the other minds that name those I love most

Has taken its fill. 

T.S. Eliot, regaled.

I am irascible in my dead quest

Owing nothing to myself, but,

The brunt reality and acknowledgment

That I am the blockade,

The very blockade to my own stagnancy.

Wasteland.

Written and rewritten, chapters on end.

The blueness in my veins now curdling with

The evaporation of time wasted.

The gravel of some, the rumblings in their throats

Scrubbing my insular cortex.

I cannot be what I am not, and,

I cannot further this agenda at the back of my own line.

So,

Jump.

Or be damned by my own complacency, to no end.

Pound it Out.

The great slowdown, begun

No cicadas to calm the rib-cage

The disarray, manifesting.

The heat comes to dry out the remnants

Of a life, long-lived.

I knew this.

As deficits deepen

The compass strains to steady

Where that fuck is the answer

To calm concern?

I know, I do know, Oh how I know.

The rummage of MORE diving lower

We are not designed for forever

Bones know when tendons are through

The resistance towards final change

Lessening. And I feel it.

I feel him loosening

His grip. His fatigue. His need for rest.

I am here now to soften transitions

In any way I am able.

My Gibraltar

Anchored as the greatest Sailor

My life has known.

The Good Lord knew that to be born to him

I would pack in his strength

To live creatively, by self-propelled design.

The gift of DNA

Perpetuating.

Life unlimited, for all we can carry

I load the stock, as I do, by default.

That hammer and nail still needs building.

I loathe the goodbye that is headed my way.

I will never be ready.

Still, I understand.

Second Fiddle

And when the West was won, it was left behind.

A Beeline to the Northeast, the trophy obtained.

E.E. Cummings, perhaps no longer second fiddle to my beloved T.S.

Those musings will have to wait greater dissection.

The inflammatory reality of this same Unit after these many years

Damn near indigestible. And yet, the thing is

I can feel that thin layer of dust-coated forearms,

A high desert spice which gives cause for giddy knees.

That place I tucked beneath every single speck of cell

To patiently await the final anchor- dropped.

Those days when we first met, are clutched close even now

They have never waned in the twilight of any last gleaming

Instead, the effortless patience of delayed gratification

Remains the constant, steady, backstroke of my life.

"Who am I, darlin' to ya...? Who am I?"

Is what I sing to that beloved Southwest Muse.

Perpetual lyrics that have married their meaning to my own.

Power

We are tired

And in our fatigue, 

We mangle potential. 

Driven by responsibility 

Motivated with goodness

To shoulder through the granite 

Of difficulty

The straight road becomes narrow. 

A precarious underling

My toolbox now, 

Shifting the crowbar to

Center stage

For my ample hands to yield. 

The fog of my pause, clearing

This latest plateau

Must be reduced

Shuffle

The consummate Self

Ever transforming.

As the eldest jovially spills

I tune to brighter tones.

This sidewalk is unfamiliar to me

These birds and the uneven pavement

They welcome  this tourist's soles.

I flow through my gate in breathless admonition

Those trips must be taken

The dusted path of Boholano styling, and

Welsh meandering.

From lovingly tended gardens to 

The sea of Visayan kayo

I am called to action.

While joints and muscles still push for progress

The mental soul needs feeding.

The luster of crossing borders glows ambient 

Ascending to higher rungs

My ladder,

Reformatting.