IX

Those who love will gain love in return.
Those who possess will own nothing they earned.
Where the line stops, I step on over,
And feel the world fall from my shoulders.

I’ve taken my sorrows and turned them to stone,
And built out of them a home, I call my own.
I’ve now made a deal to let the ceiling fall.
I held it up until I couldn’t bear the weight of it all.

Those who wait along the line, will wait through their many lives,
Those who are bold to cross and bear the pain are given a surprise.
Where the courage birthed from, a thousand woes,
And the story begins, a growth from the shadows.

I plan to leave a trail behind,
I plant my seeds to give back to this life,
I will not wait with the others, I will now follow,
And let another life go by that’s hard to swallow.

Through the rubble, a house that once was,
I find my greatest moment, a feeling,
A key to fill the hole in my heart,
I unlock the greatest purpose, to love
Without expecting anything in return,
Even to be loved.

 

The Freest Feeling

The Freest Feeling

In transit, a seagull squaws above,
My eyes rise to the occasion.
But it is what the seagull squaws about,
That catches my ball of attention,
The freest feeling floating along.

A helium balloon wiggles up
Through a crisp sky of azure,
A forest of clouds burst from the horizon,
Topped off with a drizzle of golden sun honey.

Everyone around wonders why,
I stare blankly at the sky,
Their thoughts direct to trouble,
The badness rains from our atmosphere,
But no-
I recognize the freest feeling,
As the balloon climbs so high,
Nothing can stop its silver back,
From twinkling with the stars.

A little further in the distance,
A second balloon tosses and
Flips around like a fish,
Just as free and just as beautiful.
What a strange coincidence,
But the freest feeling never travels alone.

Cold Creek Memories; So Warm Now

In a cold creek, we let it fly,

Then we reel it in.

In a scraped up aluminum canoe, comfy enough for just us,

We fish for pumpkin seeds,

Primped in fading, orange life vests, with our bucket hats like real men,

Dreaming of snagging a big mouth bass,

But surely it was always a myth.

 

It is these days, when the sun crinkles its nose,

Pulls the clouds in front of it,

And leaves for a cigarette.

And yet, that thought would never

Brush the finite layers of an innocent me

In this canoe.

Instead, I’m drinking old- fashioned bubbly, soda pop,

Reveling in the cartoon I watched last night,

To my best friend.

 

Remembering this now, I taint it, dilute or pollute it,

Until the creek is murky,

The sun hasn’t returned,

And there are no fish to be found.

Then why am I fond of this memory?

 

Sometimes, it takes more than just remembering to bring it all back.

 

From the distance, in shedding cattails, and tall shrubbery,

As the canoe grinds against the rolling stones underneath,

A white stallion, its nose dipped in black, breaches from the forest

And gallops across the field.

When the horse has become aware of distant eyes,

It freezes, lifts its heavy front, dirt caked, hooves,

And bucks into the sky,

Like a wolf at full moon.

Then just like it came, it left,

Me wordless, until now

When I relived the memory.

The Blues Part III

Blues are the crush you can’t have.

The orange without juice,

Summer without sun.

The Blues close your eyes,

And tunnel down your throat to the bottom of your tub,

It scrapes the edges clean, until you moan and ache. ache

Ache…

 

Blues paint Picasso’s beauty,

Sing Ray Charles’ melodies,

Makes a grown man cry.

The Blues are the most human thing about us.

 

The bird whose lost its baby to a bully of a wind,

Could never chirp the blues,

No fly squished on the window,

Hooked fish,

No blood cell.

 

I walk into a speakeasy,

When the times are tough.

I let the bartender serve me a stiff drink,

And after awhile, I let him pull an overcoat over my back.

Because the Blues are caring,

The blues know sadness,

Better than an astronomer sees the stars.

Anticipating the Meat Wagon

I demand now,

Who takes charge,

When the Wagon of Di

Rolls its bone sharpened spiked wheels of eternal malice,

Up my winding overgrown driveway,

And the shadowed horses of fire-blasting manes that flicker,

Lick their wounds & charred skin,

Crusty flakes of of ash coating a trail dusted by their roped tails,

And the the neon red lanterns bouncing around,

Hanging off spinal pole-arms,

Pumping the blood that makes the red intensify,

Is it you?

I threaten now

Who is the boss,

That rides inside the wagon of Di

Snoozing upon a pile of cracked and fragmented skulls,

With plump white worms of spiraling chainsaw teeth

Dive in and out of the eye holes,

With scattered half eaten hearts of big and small,

Bleeding into the black oil plush floor,

Veneered by a lengthy, enigmatic quilt of ice

that molds to a tossing night terror plagued form…

Do I know Him?

I will deliver the fucking coup de grâce,

To whoever is in charge,

When the wagon of Di

Halts at my doorstep, burns it down,

Extracts me from a deathly slumber,

Draws a bastard sword to my throat, but nicks the thinnest line.

Retreats like I am the mouse and it is the cat.

And returns with an insatiable appetite, smelling my blood.

But when He stands toe to toe with me,

Eye to eye,

It is impossible to attack or defend or question

The one who is in charge of the wagon of Di.

He is a vengeful me.

Mother(The Time I Got Between)Earth

Mother(The Time I Got Between)Earth

It has been so long, here,

Six feet underground,

But no, I am not at peace.

I would choose to stay

Where you put me,

But never,

Will you come back to place me elsewhere.

During these times,

The Sun and Moon were a fucking aggravation,

I laid when reluctantly admitting to Sleep’s nag,

Prayed, because sometimes, that is what you just do.

I was afraid,

When you, The Tangerine, rotted off

My Tree of Life, so suddenly.

Desperately, I needed to learn how to depend on myself.

Eventually, I did.

Throughout the process, though,

I encountered in battle,

Once again, The Struggle Within.

To where I self- tested and experimented with

Orgasmic pinnacles to pressurize every tender & callous feeling.

Dawn after dawn,

I bashed together loose clay

Collected from great depths in ponds of my thought,

Trying to sculpt something useful.

Shaded pencil marks of me will never return,

I color with crayons now,

I burn the wax to paper,

Convincing myself to remain

A Blue-Blooded, bold Jasper,

Wishing for rounded edges like new millennium cars.

Now, I am an adventure-

Merrily digging upwards through the dirt with bare, bloody fingers-

Amending my friendship with Sun, Moon, and Sleep-

Budding flowers on tips of branches, anticipating fruit sweeter than a Tangerines-

Preemptively bombarding The Struggle Within so it lacks will to flare-

Firing the kiln in anticipation to glaze my utilitarian ceramic-

Admiring every color just the same from red to indigo.

I am an 88’ Pontiac Safari and content with my jagged resemblance to a wooden box.

Back To California

Back To California

Sun drenched days,

Where I can get my brain a little wet,

A place I was never meant to forget.

And there I’ll take off-  just like I left it, once,

In a dull, sullen daze.

For now let me be,

All I want is my shoulders weighed down from work,

Daydreaming all day, and dreaming all night,

Finding ways from wrong directions to right destinations,

Just to jump back into the Pacific Sea.

When I give my blue goodbyes, and have final run,

Everyone will try to set my hopes ablaze, but none of it will burn.

I’m heading West-bound, California, to grow and learn,

To make a no one a some one, and to show everyone.

I have a one way ticket with golden edges,

My name engraved and departure,

There’s a lot of silver lines still crossing my mind.

War before Armageddon,

I’m going to the Golden hills/ lands.

For a resurrection.