Sunday, June 21, 2015

Momentary Blips.

Pound after pound of Archival thought
Knee-deep ink
To rid myself of claustrophobic thinking
I surmise, there is a trade occurring.
Here, on a desolate plane
No eyes intending discovery
Just the plain, seeking simplisticism.
And if the word won't heed-
Make it.

Tolerate the intolerable
I do it every day.
I taste cleanliness, the freshness of which
Exfoliates my innards, depleting monastic tendencies.

But I do love this life, amidst the loss of visceral pleasure.
It is okay to behoove of what I know I am giving up.
And sometimes, 'okay' is a word that I can look in the eyes
And crave less.

In between these momentary blips
Patterns are forming.
Gesticulating (word- adored) among revolutionary Gods
That impugn the 'by and by' with their 'just out-of-reach' energies
Outlines, bold and profuse with muscular definition
Weakening - never, in the interim of fluctuating interplay.

How lucky is this life to have been gifted
Masculine mentors, at the virtual ready, channeling through their utility
Their absentee care and cognizant charity
The few words blown softly into my iron sternum
Softly, gently, taking intangible black holes, and
Filling them with warm, unshaven care: expectation-less, effortless
Whole, in the most twisted, inexplicable, nonsensical sense.

The vat between the worlds that I frequent, and the one I inhabit
Is a vast, protected, barricaded, obstacle course of defeat.
I locked myself away here when a broken rudder and a map turned sour
Had torn themselves into ten pieces, shattered beyond repair
What to do with the headless house that soon lost its arms?

Retreat, repair, recalibrate, reconstitute, reconvene, recoil.
Rid myself of the river and its condescending backwater.
Bilking the warm forearms of trust and security.
The hour wanes from happy morning towards gratified solitude
But before I can get there, I must taste again, the belch of decay

I tread lightly here, and still, the sinking in of thigh-high mud made of shit
Cloys and sucks me further, punished for wandering too close to such fire.
I know better than to allow the unaffected portion of my steam-rolling resolution
To meander too closely to cliched holidays that will always singe, given half the chance.

Roam away, directed by the strength of arms that clench a future
Built of the trust of self, without the intrusion of apologetic ineffectiveness.

I have to keep walking forward, further into this hapless set of circumstances
In time, fruit hanging nearby, ripened and joyous
Can be eaten in sunshine, nourishing days to come
Profuse with laughter and even melancholy joy
Consoling the weakened fighter,
Robbed one last time, of tools worth losing.

Astute in direction.
I will live to see the fields I dream of
Dancing under the softened fingertips
Of these hands that go so long without the warm palm of a partner
To call each other home.

And for now, that is okay.

I am aware of what I am trading.

..and I continue to trade for more of the same.

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