Posturing

Long live the metamorphosis of day

I read and reread what came before

Meaning locked in memory, for the most part.

No more pondering what has laid claim 

Taking in noise has me believing other avenues

The core of what I am has done better than I had hoped.

Excelled in the attracting of what was needed and when.

Drawing into my resource pool, energy of the highest order.

I think back fondly on the peaks reached in my past,

Loving that they mark territory in which challenge was accepted

Without compromise. 

I did not once trade my urges for something I could not handle 

...the morning after.

No stains depicting decisions that got the better of me.

I lift, I squat, I shift my posture

The future - induced.

Floating in the maximization of all I am needed for

For now, luring with profound intent

The life I have been longing for.

Within reach.

Gap

The speed in which we run, divided.

The air we breathe, estranged to the point of choked.

Chasms to cross with no direction

Save the tidbit of attention thrown.

This world, morphed into moments to collect

Without regard for the depth of connection

For fear of vulnerable revelation.

A half-life, to be certain.

How precious the memories of treasured experience.

A curio of moving trysts, 

Born from lusty, well worn feelings.

Stock sold, bought, and then traded.

The unlimited satisfaction stuck firm

In places where the heart and head roam

The sweaty psyche lives on,

Basking in earned memory.

Father

 Sweat wake, sticky motivation

Beaded collection of stove top manipulation

Orchestrating some way

To grant reprieve to the fear, of what comes.

86 years and to land in this pit

Of gauze and terror. Fuck this wound.

Goring cannot be the answer, though it is

For now.

So I lift, I lighten, I attempt to distract

By any means necessary,

In the event that we squeeze one more quality day

From this man whom I call 'Father'.

Boys

 Turbulent arrival, circling back; third time's a charm.

Visibility- zero, and the Hail Mary's carry on.

Montana, owning the honor,

of housing

That precious, Roaring Fire.

The Lubbad Boy, sending evidence of visual charm

A place where perhaps his guitar strings can vibrate.

It's good to 'touchdown' to such musing.

And The Cady Boy, most loved of them all...

Returning.

Amid the flux of intense happenings

The gems present themselves

In rare and rampant form.

Blow

 Old phrases reread, boom. Who I was then,

Harnessed. Perfect restraint, controlled.

Today, sleep peels back revulsion as avoidance clings.

Pages turn, little evidence left of mindset. Intentional.

This blockage is revolting.

Resistance is the counterweight

As horizontal momentum plumbs

Losing minutes to gluttony

As reform looms.

49, you unfit oaf.

Punch yourself in the face.

Uncork this period of lax and let it blow.

Fucking Let It Blow.

I do.

Day begin

Forcing typical pattern to take a hike. 

Into the wherever of whatever,

That most fantastic replacement word 

For, fuck you.

Friday craves a shucking

Of dead momentum.

Objects serving less than sentimental value

Need no longer be a prop.

Surveillance of a collected decade

Bring deadened noise,

And new motivation to dare.

Dare I chuck the muck that pretends to matter?

I do, 

I do.

Him

Look to see to feel to think

Swayed. Contour, influencing the night

Lured into this space

By masculine order

Willing.