Burr push through, prick first.
'Good Enough' echoing still, the beauty in the voice
Transcending.
Becoming something worthy of calm,
The new priority.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Indentation, the invitation
to begin.
Ignorant, built-in layers
Squeegee themselves without hesitation
To the context of dialogue
A stripping tool, now required
to enter into the arena of blunt.
Those 3 modes of communication
rotating in perpetuity
The body knows the mind, and yet the mouth
it wants to project a stymied version
On how to manage the constraints
Of what may need 'saying'.
To this, honesty must abide
Or transgressions will form around the default compulsion
Of all we suspect in ill-informed error.
I am willing to rub away the layers that destruct.
Situational awareness clings to sight
Gutteral verbs launch themselves
Out of the catacomb of insecurities
To lie in wait for the lips to throw forth their names
As pessimism attempts to claim its victory.
There need not be a portent to every point
And understanding can float nearby
willing to be defined by something greater.
As old mores fry in the heat of their rejection,
I will choose to break the stiff joints of my mental, survivalist default
Bringing the process of something greater
To all I encounter, forthcoming.
As savage exposure lays low
Motioning through morning ignites.
My mother's daughter is cautious, aware
Analytical.
The motivating variables rotate
Intersecting with the web I am weaving
The woven, internal cord- still taut.
New patterns of strength, building
Lengthening the drive to push on
Peeling out, when the skid becomes relevant.
I am here, reinforcing the nerve to launch
Onto Southwestern roads, I roam.
The coffee, the melted mint, the billowing morning smoke, our lungs pumped full of elation.
To know, believe, and love in the future as the will to design and execute, WILL succeed.
To have home, and to hold the floor of our owning...
Without fear of confrontation of any kind.
Safe in the power of taking a tall stand, against muscle wielding of moody temperament.
Everything here
Outdated.
Skin, touched. Not only touched- Loved.
Rosy hues returned,
In places that had begged to be seen by another
For far too many years.
In a moment of time, a stretch of seconds
Outspoken energies would override stubborn entities.
The words shared for near a year,
Reflecting back in earnest, echoing, laboring, begging for 'further'
A green t-shirt of Irish luck, worn in form of sabotage
The deliberate 'avoidance' in me, chastising morning's choice.
There was no jinx, as 'luck' would have it
Only the drive and the candor of a heart too pure.
And He is now Mine and I am His.
I have been canvassed by him wholly,
Thoroughly loved and held and made happy.
What bliss is this that I have now been assigned?
Only the happy smile, and, with ease, welcome in what is healthy.
And of that He has made me...
The happiest I have ever been.
And smiling, even, I suspect, while sleeping.
Nights without his closeness will be few and far between.
