Pillow Thought

pillow-thought
a moment—
I had one

the walls of present-
future-past melted
into the aging skin
that drapes my skull

the thing I thought oblivion
became the everlasting and
all was moisture and body-heat—
love, compressed into temperature

the discordant many-voice these
ears have known, familiar-drifted
like dinghies in a passing mist—
rudderless creations, forever bobbing

strained through a lead crystal
colander, dripping out the holes,
emerging as streams of light-catching
prisms, projecting in full-spectrum color

life seemed a speck
as I fell into a white
space, without dimension
engulfed in dust-devil
energy ribbons—kinesis

five senses, my departing lovers
smiling, hand-combing tousled hair
under the discovery of dawn, and I hear
the thump of their feet down the stairs

and the courteous shutting of the
                                                               front door

they are callers with tangled
string—each afloat like kites
given to ficklest winds, knotted
up in high, dead branches

all experience—taste
smell, thought, touch
the muddled haze of after-sex
and my always nagging wanderlust

become
                one
                        sense

                       the
             only
sense

a knowing without words
and a feeling lacking expression, a
comforting blankness of All that
I would never name 'love'

neither was it a kind of peace—
indeed, no word has been or
yet will be invented to be
spoken by tender lips of any shade

I am before my
birth, and beyond
my death, and I
feel it all collide into

                                     singularity

I think it's called

                                     Beauty

Thoughts 01/28/2017

It’s come to my attention (rather recently, in fact) it is the popular opinion that I am considered by many to be a ‘dark-side’ writer. You might have figured out by now that I’m not one to let thoughts go lightly, so I’ve been allocating some headspace to this one. I’m a little surprised that I’m believed to be so shadowy. Most who meet me in person during my day-to-day comment on how cheerful, light, and funny I come across. Let’s delve into a public analysis, shall we?

It’s true that I don’t shy away from darkness. Why would I? Some of my most potent emotions and ideas are born in the realm of the unseen. They very word ‘dark’ implies a sense of mystery and the unknown—stuff that is difficult to make out. Existing solely under the bulb of an omnipresent illuminator strikes me as an incredibly boring way to live. Beauty is cached everywhere. This is true for the things we can’t (or don’t want to) look toward for inspiration.

Darkness is the uncharted. We who examine it are Old World explorers, tracing out the coastline of a foreign and foreboding across-the-sea continent. We stray far from home, and often wager much to do so—sometimes we may even lose our way. We press on, though, always seeking to uncover the ripe, aromatic bodies of the fresh and the new. These are invaluable commodities to us. They are the currency of raw experience, unfiltered and unabashed.

Writing about love, hope, and inspiration are all wonderful endeavors. In fact, we need those touchstones to which to return after our sojourns into the wild. We may spend years feeling out the black, but we make our homes under the rejuvenating glow of the sun, where we recharge our psyches as we prepare to set out again.

‘Going dark’ is about expansion—it’s about regularly embracing concepts and feelings that most people would rather avoid. I don’t believe there’s much to be learned from living in comfort and ease. All that is lit is already known; it has already been explored. Anguish and discomfort are poignant instructors from whom we learn to grow as humans. When we are content, our primary concerns generally center around remaining content. This is a kind of pleasant stagnation. We don’t feel the need to better ourselves, because we’re all right where we are. If that works for you, I think it’s marvelous. It doesn’t work for me. I am constantly driven to push beyond what I already am.

I write not just to communicate. I write to expand—to discover more about myself, the world, and my relation to the others caught within this deafening wind storm. Sometimes that means diving blindly into the night. And, sometimes it works.

Flightless Birds & Fireballs

flightless-birds-fireballs

I am not love, and
lust is no object I possess;
attention is a cardboard city
strung with garish Xmas
lights.

I am not man or woman—
my present state attained by
psychosomatic chromosomal
elimination.

I am not indulgence or delight;
the food I chew is cold and
bland, plucked from a gaunt
metal grid under the pale
light of a wheezing
refrigerator.

I am not corporeal, my
two-dimensioned body
won’t be discovered in
sunshine or by dark,
for I have sidled
into a realm of gray
on gray—an endless
archipelago of mist-clung
uncertainties.

I am not the skeleton key to
your locked strongbox of
happiness or despair—
not the kindling or the
matchhead to strike
sparks upon your dry
desires.

I am not genius, nor am I
revolution at the tip of
a sword, the end of a
gun, or in the gleaning of
catchphrase words on a picket
sign.

I am but moth wings,
passed through the slits of
too many fingers—my flight
powder dispersed among the
unstill bodies in a ceaseless side-
walk shoulder rub; wiped
like chalk off a board by
a populous that I can’t call
kin.

Earthbound, I sit on a slab—
legs crossed and parted, a
silhouetted jet plane, grounded
on the tarmac by
an inclemency of
spirit.

I have picked a perch from
which to watch the dusking of
our kind—I bathe in the holy
heat and glow of come-and-go
wildfires, punctuated by the
distant ripples of exploding
souls.

And this is how we
end—slathered with
napalm gel, lit on fire in
a frenzied dance of hugs and
handshakes, setting all the
other people ablaze in a
brief, impersonal
embrace.

But, remember, I am nothing and
I am no one; so, I resign to
watch and wait, and
wonder, before I curl
fetal, drifting into dream,
as one by one, our once-
flames flicker, smolder, and
wane—

myriad
solitary
cooling
suns.

Just Ruminating – Poets Speak

Some of my spoken poetry has been featured on Just Ruminating, a blog that showcases a broad sampling of talent from around the Web. I would encourage you all to visit and peruse its rich and varied content.

If you would like to view my audio tracks, you can find them on Just Ruminating via this link.

Many thanks to Rob for the consideration!

Horns Blast Down the Walls

horns_blast_down_the_walls

I slithered to this swivel chair by means forgotten—
the one with the flattened padding, fatigued
like a smooshed Atlas, muscles turned to jam under the
near-constant weight of my ass and my troubles—its
patterned pleather armrests, cracked and peeling in broad
strips, like elastic, translucent skin, dead shedding
from too long spent in the sun—eroded by years of my sharp
cogitating elbows, that nursed my bulging brow more often
than not, during mystical solstices of intuition and
nameless mundane mornings, when the remnant booze
steamed out of my pores through sweat-stiff denim,
as I would attempt a ritual self-resurrection, praying to a
miracle carafe of black coffee and one too many cigarettes—
the casters at its five-pronged base, like a star, still wound with
fur from at least three housedogs, old-age dead a while ago—
yet I have had a constant companion in the inanimate, as I sit
and sit, and still time creeps away in lurching tectonic slips—
my brain gone water-mad from too long spent staring into
life’s funhouse mirrors, lost in hallucinogenic nostalgias,
and my heart is parched and porous from this unending
drought, where the only nourishment is the white-hot
bead of the eternal star above and the dust of undertowing dunes
that shift beneath all things I have shaped, swallowing whole
the hollow pumice casts of every gemmed soul who’s drifted
through me, like an instantaneous disintegrate, cascading
down the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, leaving desiccated soup bones
of my many-peopled life—the buildings, art, gardens, stories, and
music now a skeleton village of ghastly reminiscence, frozen
in the instant I lost my population—so I kick their skulls down
its narrow streets of harsh abandon, poking my head
into the open-air houses and greeting the stillborn
figures of my friends, left standing upright, stuffed
and mounted by the divine taxidermist—and of course
I slump into a chair that’s just about ready to gasp its last and
give up the ghost, and I wonder if that might not also be
the most humane tack to set for my own internal fission—
to fling myself into the out-back dumpster and sledge
down the ruins of this decaying urb, clearing ground for
a new developer who’ll lift up some high-rise apartments—
this seat and I (and the universe) think it probably for the best


Some stream-of-consciousness trash for you. I was apparently too lazy to punctuate.

Purge by Nicholas Osborne

Forgot all about this one. Oops!

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

purgeinside me thrives a wild need
stretching—twisting its shoulders

a malignant fetus, in utero
sired by seed from the
ravenous vacuum of deep space
a gifted thing with unending hunger

hot pangs that rake at my guts—
cigarette cherries gently teasing the
softest walls of my organs

they beg me to loosen and leave
to smoke me out, until all that
remains is the pleasant and echoing


empty


drained of yolk, but hollow-intact
like a blue-spotted robin’s egg—
a boon to the eye and fingertip but
at heart just a porous façade

its zygote, a decaying mucous drip
dangling low and gelatinous to
bring feast for the blue-bottles

I want to blow away with the wind
or fade away under blankets as I dream
or be elevated to heaven or dragged down
to hell—if we believe in the stories

maybe reincarnate as a cancer cell
and spend my hours dividing…

View original post 188 more words

blu-tac-lois e. linkens

Featured Image -- 1626

Stunning work from the pen (or keyboard) of Lois E. Linkens. Seriously.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

i will wipe your lipstick from the glass,

scrub the rings

off the coffee table,

and throw out the toothbrush and its plastic mug,

that sat

balanced on the sink

like a rock

on a cliffside

as if it paid rent.

you always knocked it off,

with your baggy sleeves –

you’d wet your hair

when you rinsed your mouth.

it was cold when you kissed me.

i will take your photo out of its frame,

and move your letters from the drawer.

i want to leave your diary by the bed –

if you visit, you could leave me a note,

if you wanted.

every day i have checked –

but the pages still are empty.

i will throw it out.

but

i will leave

the little knob of sticky tack

stuck above your desk

by the picture of bowie,

your fingerprint engraved

in the soft dip

pressed on…

View original post 93 more words