Thursday, February 27, 2014


Shards litter the morning
Victory bubbles in irrefutable belligerence
What win is this, that seethes in vicious malice?
As moisture leaks from reddened pores,
My countenance slows for nothing
The adaptation here is of loathsome envy.

Fuck the donor that weakened one night
His own impending darkness, the victor of fear.
Bumbling about in the blackened ambiance
Hidden red-hot borders burn, once shoulders and elbows relax.
This is madness, this door of impugned warning
Stay out- Stay out! A new sign must bear post.

I abhor this waste, the human element here is mute
Strangled by the sheer stupidity of an unknown soul
There can be no pattern forming here
Of benign indifference.
Serial numbers of warfare, discharging in thought
I grasp the tightened wind-pipe
Cinching one last puff of anger to dust;
This putrid oxygen is immutable.

And so in haste, I turn my back on the uncontrollable
Bowed in conscience for all I purged
Misdirected in my haste for answers.

There is a vein pumping somewhere,
Clean and healthy, aware of all the wrong that couldn't be helped.

And like an oil-stained miner that has been taken over by greed
I too, disengage my empathy
Galloping instead, after logic that has been starved by desperation
And the hell-bent need to wring-free of recent histories.
I am chasing a foundation that anchors in, belly-deep,
To bedrock born of virtuous champions.

To triumph in a time like now would rob me of more sensitivity,
I am torn between the care and the canker.
At 41, challenge only grows;
Like a steam-ridden locomotive, driven towards hell.

Sunday, February 9, 2014

Can't; Won't

Can I take that wounded offering
Into the warmest fold of my coat
And set it at ease with full care?

I can.

Can I slip a palm onto the tension that crawls
Weaving in and around all this stifling air?

I will.

There is a broken heart, kneeling
Heavy and filled with regret
Longing for that last effort to rewind

I can't; it won't.

Vibrating guitar strings bury their ache into my ears
I become immune to the wish to stay away from such sorrow
I instead want to be near;
Close enough to hold the hand of such pain
And alleviate the burn of loss in random, semi-permeable moments.

Dark, tousled, strained
I am the landing for such torment
And why is that...........

I am understood in the affliction I recognize
Drawn to burden and the wish to soften;
I am backwards in my need to repair.

Heavy healing is looking outright
Introspection still seeks to heal the loss of another

I am handicap in my directives

Focusing less on the inner toil and leaning more on the ease of other ships

Where was this affinity born?
Surely not through want of ignorance
Perhaps on a day late in May
When language was just a muffle bouncing off space
Did my afternoon pattern experience a blip

And from that moment on, seeking solace for others
Became the inward desire that my life would choose to placate.

In any case
Musing on dialectical happenstance is tiresome,
Yet miles from boring.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

M. R. B. Jr.

The thump in my chest is heavy, buried under the weight of disease.
I am choking on the worries of a benign life, super-imposed.
Or is it?
Perception, malevolent in nature
The pressure of platelets pumping heavily is fucking with my thoughts.
What is it that I have inadvertently inhaled that now wishes to drive my thoughts-
I've swum in muck before and so again, I must learn to slice through the dingy water
Cupping nothing to drink and only oxygen, to flush away this bloated stagnancy.
There is a turning point here;
A rough and unfamiliar course that deviates and yet longs to tangle me downward
Another test for the road, I suppose
To coddle my morals and seek relapse into another ocean;
Consumed by waves that lap a choking reflex

I kick, and kick away to move forward
Forward and into a more curvaceous exploration

A bucking of what wants to be addressed, and yet, for here and all the days after-
Has only earned the right to be recalled in disgust.
I can't loom about in memories that have me hog-tied with a vengeance for things of a rotting nature.

Yet to dream without a compass, into a slumber that swims into subconscious longing
What torture defines me in the waking hours to follow...
He's there again, indifferent and without the gentility needed
To reverse the suppressed memories of those that climbed about
Laughing, tickling, needing his care.

What destroys a man that never breaks?
A man, who, taking pride in an ego built upon regret
Lives on in squandered loss
Blindness? Apathy? Giving a fuck, for the fuck's sake of saying so..?
There is cruelty afoot, banging about in cantankerous victory.
Folding into the blackness of not belonging.

We are a headless corpse, and the body we built lies dying
Dying that never ceases, and for what?
To continually echo of all we did wrong, despite of the right?

I am left here, baking in the sun without protection of any kind
Shielding only those that did nothing to bring on this ravaging abandonment.

The mountain is tall, so tall and often without end in sight
But I continue to climb, even on days where the foothold slips,
And I find myself thrown miles back, onto ground already traveled
Soon, I will earn the reasons and secrets for why the return of tomorrow
Will block any renegotiation's.

I build a new nest,
Strong and with heavy reinforcements.
But light enough to fly to new lands, where four hearts can bathe in cleanest waters
Rinsed free of any backwards memories that will serve to tack them down in insecurity-
Insecurities that have earned no right to be clutched by hands without responsibility

The severing of such heavy memory is one bastard of a case
Rising to the challenge was always my forte
So, in one solid and stoic ejaculation,
I ask these blatant scabs to peel free for the last time
Removing themselves from the delicate balance of all I attend.

My wish is to be successful and without waste
As 41 delivers another year of deepening respect and worship
I pick up my load as I always do, in renewed faith and understanding;
That no matter what memories may surface and scar
I take the blow with accuracy and maturity
And not flail about in wasted tears, for a man who lost his sight.