Suffice

 Would I settle for the ghost of you?

Abyss of days between the Us and You

Thousands of days have passed since we could see 

Who we were, who we had become.

And that letter you wrote, ringing true to this day

All you felt and the wisdom behind your words

They carry your sentiments still locked in the chamber

Of all the beauty we felt, before the road split into two.

That twinkle in your eyes, your laugh, your smile

The authenticity of everything you shared in our bubble

The world that only we knew, and the injury committed 

To that tender, intimate and precious fellowship we gave

To you - to me -  to each other.

That day in your room on Wintergardens,

The rain on the windows as you sat in your chair smiling

I knew then that to preserve the best in you

I would stay until I could stay no more.

The time came and in that transaction, I traded

Everything you gave to me and all the ways I felt

For new life, new love, and the legacy of Us - born anew

In the heart of our child; a girl, soft, sweet and true.

"...and if I can't be next to you..." 

I settled for better than the best of You.

And though "...I miss you more than life..."

Our memories suffice.

A.G.

 Invigorated, visual bliss- descending

These burners, once lit, pop and moan for encouragement.

The sleeping zone, aged and dilapidated

Grown mute with time and inactivity...

Has been lured once more,

Into intoxicating leads.

Much of You...

 "Here's to the babies of the brand new world,

Here's to the beauty of the stars..."

Lyrics that roll decades forward 

To stick in my psyche for periodic enjoyment.

I have committed to memory those things that elate me

From so long ago, like these lyrics, initial joy remains.

Wired the right way, and gratitude abounds

The path has been set and continues to unfold

In such a way that I march through in confidence

Trusting my gut, bones, head and heart.

It occurs to me that Solo is a State of Mind 

One that I was born with. This belief system is not learned

This is not formulated out of necessity, this is who I am.

Who I have always been, who I will continue to be.

In love with the loyalty, the dedication, the perseverance

In love with the tenacity, the resilience and the bare-knuckle battles

They were always going to win, as this form of steady

Is untouchable.

Reasons, explanations, descriptions- irrelevant

This tune is mine alone for humming and enjoying.

Control is the single-most powerful action we can exert on ourselves.

And when that act is wrought to its core with conviction

The likes of which are built for ONE mode - 

There is tremendous honor and satisfaction in welcoming each new day.

To rise to action in continued motion that has  long laid the groundwork

Of a lifetime of 'The Good', the will to live flows proudly.

Of the two, my Father is built this way, a Stoic to this very day.

And the rebellion necessary to engineer innovation, is not to be underrated: Mother.

She was contained in the vessel of her design; wild, beautiful, and strong.

Unyielding. I am much of you, and mostly him and blessed to call you mine.

Fresh

 Practiced mania sent out in pulsed waves

The puppeteers up top enjoy the view.

Orchestrating chaos as the nameless benefactors

Pick their teeth of rotting meat, to make way for

Fresh kill.

Tickle and Slip

 Here, before any words spoken,

I sit and analyze thought.

What will Thursday bring?

Thursday, will bring, whatever I induce.

January 13th, a day to design with intent.

Ideas swim, muses distract, intention must

Be the solid Victor.

Sleep brought cumbersome dreams 

Of misplaced jewelry, hanging from threads

In places that dementia would only know.

The message here is dubious, lingering

Is there use in deciphering?

A single copper ornament, lost to its pair

A friend, recently stripped of all familial company

The cast in order of appearance was particular.

What philosophy is carefully placed in this setting?

Where my pillowed head floats in controlled chaos

Meaning, mulled into deep, wordless explanations,

That coast in agitating vibration,

Coaxing distraction enough,

To tickle and slip away.

Free

 In later hours the wrist takes its liberty

Vision dances loosely on the brink of slumber

And still, the compositions present themselves.

With less control there is more risk

The relaxed state promotes flimsy with flow

A grace-line that knows to roam freely 

When sleep takes its leisure as limbs give in to rest.

Two nights now, a slight pattern - forming

The wavy vibrations toy with visible dimension...

Or so I am told.

To what do we attribute to, this midnight muse?

Who glides in gypsy formation

In indelible strokes?

As the severing of workloads cement themselves

I too, like the wrist, post-slumber

Take some Liberty of my own.

Who knew something so powerful as an Inalienable Right

Would be proudly invoked

In a world now parading with the illusion of 'Free'?

Boise Boy

He sends, I read

Punched. 

His words, stirred

Aggressively making their home

Inside me,

As they always have,

Stitched in tight.

Vultures swirl, encircling

Eager to dig in...to...

The viscera. 

Inky tendons, tightening

Flawed indelibly into view

An expulsion of pages

Dictating turmoil. 

Throat rope tangled

Controlled fray, exudes

Blinded eyes that 'see'

"...bone dry words form 

from twisted lips 

come from 

someone something strange 

a throat deranged..."

We roam in tune best

At these distances We have known

From flurries to salty sea

~And anxious knots in time that rots~

Betwixt the Now and He.