...takes root...

A cumulative request
To love without concept
Of what may or may not come.
Not to love one, but
To love life
Despite the curves of the unknown
Impulse
Unpredictability
The unforeseen bumps that steal us away.
Residing in skin
Resilience takes root
Better to have used mine well
And earned battle scars
Then to have loved without depth.

Lunch...

Lunch on Monday...

Opus X

Nocturnal
Turned intricately down.
Hinging jaw,
Wagging;
Running with wolves
A capability- refined.

Where, the use
Of diligent expenditures?
Growling,
Indistinct.. Just within reach
Of detectable,
Delectable.

Lucid huddle
Of grass and red blankets.
Finagling shoe-straps
And piercing sunlight
Preparations- defunct
Orderly nothingness.

Orders on paper
Write to hide, the right
To say nothing, the right
Reveal nothing, to write
In exchange
For-  more nothing.

Opus X
Preamble to 'almost'
My 'almost' something
My 'almost' nothing
My unsavory masterpiece
Of perfected seclusion.

The 'X' in this case
Is red.
A brand, a burn, a scar
Turning tricks out of tricks
Filling the void with-
Void.

The rapture of the melancholy
Is the ode to the nature of their ground.
Standing hard to the laurels of morals
Despite the pilfered loss.
Deep regret, swapped in lieu
Of stalwart responsibility.

Worth the trade?
Ask me again when the deepest of wrinkles have set in
And Grandchildren come a calling for cookies and milk...
Tugging from a hemline sown in love.
I strongly suspect, the answer will be,
A "Yes".

Lunch...

Thursday...

...its dogged insight?

The smaller lines speak softly.
And in a sense, crave more.
In reading the intimate tones of another
I lose myself in the melee...
I owe the unfolding of my own tongue- more due
Than I owe my eyes the ruptured reading of another's woe.

This is my condition - my human condition
With a blistering backlog of all that awaits.
The refluent thoughts serve less purpose
I need to grip the throat of what is to come
And grab instead the grope in the dark
For all the action that lies in wait.

There will come a time when the 'Cease'
Puts a final wrap on all I've eluded to
And nothing more will ever move forward.
Why not then in this Now, don't I hold the hand of Action
And beckon something other than discord,
Into the stoic rib-cage that 'handles' my heart?

This torso of stone becomes restless in its disgust
Mutiny, if it could- to wreak havoc on arms and legs that cave in.
Could the study of trigonometry better equip the triangle,
To angle it more effectively towards purpose?
And wtf is its purpose... its use...its plight...
...its dogged insight?

The Bending

The day bumps into me
In a somewhat orderly fashion
I careen about in perpendicular thought
The pattern of my musings-

Unpredictable.

Organizational skills belie the output
A quest for process is on autopilot
My savvy heart is at unrest
For a pair of palms to please it

The psychedelic churning of all I preside
Tightens my already twisted fist
Permeable skins that ease off layers
Beg to become fused with foreign oil.

This focus is mute. It has been.
It must. There is a rhyme to the reasons
That stoke the continued need to plant
Stoicism at my chest.

To stand at this attention is an awesome duty.
The risk, too great, should I lose sight-
There is so much good that I have fostered
And for that, the bending will ensue.

A smile in a moment of weakness-

The welcome of proper standing takes note.
My efforts are unfailing.
To be Just. True.
And  Strong.