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Posts published in “Year: 2011”

Forgetting

I do not want to forget you
And
All your smiled faces pacing
Our
Memories in faded slide shows
Of
Those days, the nights, our
Trips
Along reality, mind’s delightful sugar.

Now.txt

Now is not the time to forget what you have come out of. You are more than now. Now is just a thin film over your eyes, with vast cities, rivers, mountains, and land beyond. Good is where you are and where you have been; all to come is difficult and trying until that, too, becomes good.

What am I searching for?

What am I searching for?
What makes me think what
I have is not what I need?
I am a tree, having found
A never ending supply of
Nourishment, but still
Sending roots in another
Direction, just to know
My surroundings. Bullshit.
I am more than a tree. I
Am a fat king who still
Looks for more food. Fuck
That.

The Rules (Break ’em).txt

I once thought
The rules were
A means to
Greatness; a
Way of conform-
ING to expec-
Tations and
Being able to
Show worth
By being better
In the gates. Now
I know, as all
Trespassers do,
The lawn is but
A plot of land
Surrounded by
Billions more
In every direc-
Tion, and a
Single is worth
So much less
Than the whole. Now
I know the world has
More vertices than
X and Y. Now
I know the world has
More subtleties than
You and I. Now
I know that all we have
Is here, where
We are; and He
Tells us how
Far that goes.

— and they play along the arm

There they crouch/
And play along
The arm of a couch
Ripped apart
By comfort’s needs
To be where
No one can see.

We lay here,
On a couch that
Has let us be
And been a bitch
To move. But,
Here we lay, where
Our family knows
All are near if
To be hidden or fall’n
Asleep.

Jaywalking

like the feeling when
we’re nearly there, where
we would be safe from what
we put ourselves through

Thump.

Thump.
Scratch/tear/pluck
Yawn.
The cats, finished for the day,
Fall to sides on carpet
And commence the semi-hourly routine.

(title)

Our little cats play
Tip-tap, tip-tap,
Chasing tails
On tiled floor

Cut | Copy | Paste

Lord,
I fight for my family. I may
Say words, but my heart
Is filled all the way with my family.
They matter most to who I
Have become, who I
Will eventually look back and see.
They
Are Your blessing and Your ark for
Me, my anchor when I fly and
My rudder when I float. They,
Whom You have set in my journey,
This life, are Your hands and I shall
Always strive to be Your fingers
Clasping a bride, Your fingertips
On the cheek of a newborn, Your knuckles
White in celebration of a child, Your palms
Outstretched to welcome a friend.
I will be who You have destined me,
And I will do it willingly, with only
Good intentions to slow my path–
Though, we both know You set those.

I Do Not Write

I do not write for you, invisible existence. I write for He who knows my name and loves me still. I write to jot and scribble observations of a worldly, spiritual, existentialist nature. I say nature in conjunction, though mean to stand it fully by itself. The logical, visual, visceral, foreign methods of expression sit, nestled in a batch of words that seem more shallow than a drip’s pool; and, I pour into them with every gland and nerve of this body I was given. I dry myself with slow breathing, only to soak again and slosh about when I wake. I feel like a weathered, angry man when my wife wakes me for what I must do before going off to indentured servitude of a much less harsh variety than was prior to our country’s freedom. I do not ramble; I stroll amongst thoughts as would a day-tripper to the forest: with a sense that there must be a time to leave, but having very little care to get there. And, too, I sometimes stop short, before any sort of insight makes its way through the text I’ve laid to dry, but forgot I did not wash them first.

I forget myself as easily as my PIN for everything other than my debit card. You can see I am but a forgetful bit of man, sunken and raised at the same time, with a hairline border to keep me defined.

Every piece of writing seems so much longer and lasting when written than when read. That’s why I don’t go back to read: disappointment in myself for what my self has written and recorded. Funny, I envisioned my life and saw, long ago, a continued emphasis on what it is I loved: dictation and repetition.

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