Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

The poem is a pied piper for the rats in my mind

The Sunday Dispatch 4.18.21

to each their own

there needs to be a reason

but hardly a rhyme

something to move

or be moved

a lump in the throat

or a rock to the head

a tether severed

a broken something

to kick it all into gear

a certain darkness

that slyly smiles

and dares you to go on.

*

parallel asymmetry

bells ring

beyond the silence

an empty hollow

fills the void

as a darkness draped in blue

envelops with its boundlessness

the infinite whispers

of heartache and nothingness.

*

long away

clutching anchors

when meant to drift

balance thrown

by the twitch of a nerve

collecting days

on the backs of

clouded mirrors

there is

nowhere to go

but around again…

remember this

every time

you think love

is gone for good.

*

set it down

anxious awakenings

dismantled to no avail

more sum than parts

broken keys

hidden triggers

no treasures buried

struggling to swim

in the sinking waters

when all we need to do

is float.

*

getting somewhere

when grappling

with gray matter

simple remedies

suffice

subtlety beats intricacy

contrary actions

over complicated schemes

but no matter how you play it

what is

will always matter more

than what should be.

*

up and at it

steps sprung

from sleep to wake

for no other reason than

life again

rife with chance,

change, or falter

whether enhanced

or detracted by circumstance

a steady flow need remain

for progress to proceed. 

***

“To suffer grief is to make a hobby

of resurrection.

To rebuild each morning from

yesterday’s ruins.”

  • Blake Auden

The Sunday Dispatch 4.11.21

spent in silence

from rift to bridge

passage to precipice

everything is always new

the mind is but a trap

that tells you different

nothing is without reason

but not some grand plan

for choice is the trigger

that sets the motion

and our intention

dictates trajectory.

*

last dance

dragged by the chains of illusion

thru the same endless circles

hypnotized by notions

that perpetuate our suffering

without which we can float free

and finally be liberated

from this hollow charade

that rattles the bones of our doom.

*

farther out or deeper still

starting points

and imaginary lines

riddle the psyche with

obfuscation and subterfuge

leaving crumbs of comfort

trailing down the darkest passages

so we can find our way

back to the light.  

*

resonant asphyxiation

choked

by our own hurry

and exhaustion

in a futile attempt

to escape the periphery

of empty spaces

we neglect

the temple gardens

therein

ripe

with the fruit

of all we need

and

slowly crushed

by the weight of all

we don’t.

*

beneath the wheel

embedded

in the illusion of structure

valuing projections

over place

creating destinations

in which to exist

straying from the garden

into prefabricated spaces

that offer little to the imagination

and even less to the starving soul.

*

pay attention

between the days

something gets lost

falling down the division

into the pulling maw

hardly noticeable at times

other times debilitating

but let not any piece be torn away

without a fight or a chance to be given

be ever vigilant and aware

to save only what is needed

and let all else go

the choice

is always

yours.

***

“Spirit is Life. It flows thru the death of

me endlessly like a river unafraid of

becoming the sea.”

  • Gregory Corso

The Sunday Dispatch 4.4.21

harmony, semblance, and disturbance

 

the heart walks the mind

in the dreaming hours

 

elements of wish, hope, thought,

become distorted when seen

from different angles at once

 

a collision of longing and logic

removes all sense from the equation

 

as the soul deciphers the myth

filling in the missing pieces

amidst the waking life.

*

something blue

 

locked in the tremble

and tumble of slow riot

 

a manic dirge of screaming silence

 

bones aching to escape

the cracked and trapping skin

 

as nightmares gallop and trample

the last remains of this tender heart.

*

responsibility of survival

 

traces of doubt

obscure potential definition

 

trust the difficulty

of each endeavor as

able to be overcome

 

war but a symptom

of the failing mind

 

keep faith

only in the heart

 

and guard your gates

with nothing but open arms.

*

elements and conditions

 

myth marauds as life

until consciousness cracks

and spills upon the streets of soul

turning city to subject

 

third eye perception

staring down the barrel

of loaded reflection

 

surveying the outward behavior

of the inner landscape

 

bound not

to consequence or ritual

 

but to the narrative thread

of the current beneath the waves.

*

be this the way

 

unfound and content

the nights alone become

a comfortable space

 

taught by the years

to ceaselessly transform

within any given parameters

 

to allow the unfolding

as the soul sees fit

 

to know without knowing

 

to trust the process,

take notes,

and most of all

 

enjoy the ride.

*

“Time takes life away

and gives us memory, gold with

flame,

black with embers.”

  • Adam Zagajewski
     

The Sunday Dispatch 3.28.21

morning stroll

 

a deep blue darkness

hangs just behind the eyes

uncracked by the finest day’s dawn

 

a place of lasting comfort

in which the lulls can be burdened

 

a secured station of retreat

when the blinding lights become

too much to bear;

 

go there often

and return refreshed.

*

collision

 

emotion sways

void of anchor

and foundation

 

a free falling

toward the depths within

 

gazing as if from a dream

into the dark currents of crash

and cascade

 

a constant flow

of conscious reflection

 

ever shifting and shaping

what comes next.

*

no better, no worse

 

difference changes

as years like vines

swing by unattended

 

no presence but vague motions

thru a culture of shadows

 

somehow things get righted

 

far beyond luck

something more substantial

 

a slight movement in the light

that brings other options into view

 

and we graze the barely tangible turning

taking notice for future reference.

*

undone

 

confirming the definition

of insanity once

and again the same

 

still shackled to certain

unbreakable habits of being

 

having already licked a few

of the more pressing behavioral ones

 

i find the work mornings

increasingly difficult to brace for

 

there’s a pressure, upon waking,

that immediately takes hold

 

mentally cornered from every angle

 

so i’ve learned to deal and expect it

and let it have its way

 

until it eventually lifts, as it always does;

 

i guess

it’s not such a bad thing

to begin most days with a concession.

*

headroom

 

drop below

the cave of consciousness

 

deep in the dark shaft of the mind

 

sense a greater opening

beyond knowledge and thought

 

a boundless ceasing

of barriers and borders

between time and space

 

where nothing is all

there is.

***

“No soul that aspires can ever fail

to rise; no heart that loves can ever

be abandoned. Difficulties exist only

that in overcoming them may we grow

strong, and they who have suffered

are able to save.”

  • Annie Besant

The Sunday Dispatch 3.21.21

comfort of thunder

 

too often

we fool ourselves

by turning away from

our own personal truth

 

maybe because we think

if we fully embrace it

the darkness of it

the fear it holds

the strength it takes

 

we might never return

 

but we learn

quite the opposite happens

when we fully accept

everything there is

to feel

 

and that bowing

to the harsh realities of life

only enriches and expands the space

in which we exist.

*

turning gray

 

past wickedness aside

along with premeditated intentions

half-assed at full bore

 

restlessness now abandoned

for a steadier wake and an easier sleep

 

a broader smile

a deeper groove

 

and the peace of mind

of a mind at peace

more often

than not.

*

grain of salt

 

gamut run

a thousand times over

 

mazes of the heart

minefields of the mind

 

keys and combinations

parting shots and bitten bullets

 

whether staring at the wall

or drowning in the river

 

sweating, shivering,

drunk, stoned, sober

 

every angle covered;

 

to believe everything is an arrow

pointing the way forward

 

is to believe

you will always be

exactly where you should.

*

escape route

 

untried turns

broken keys

 

as love falls

for the shadow

of the heart

 

left only to this daemon of device

served well for all the downtime it takes

 

a better use yet to be found

but for the soul to survive

word by word

 

often strung together

with nothing more

than the thinnest thread

of hope.

*

anywhere from here

 

no urge to fight

no fight to flee

 

endurance quietly honed

strength found in smaller numbers

or better yet in the golden ease of solitude

 

with peace

never more

than a breath

or two away.

***

“When an angel carries away my soul

All shrouded in fog and folded in flame

I have no body, no tears to weep

Just a bag in my heart, full of poems.”

  • Elena Shvarts

 

The Sunday Dispatch 3.14.21

an open invitation to nowhere

 

there is another way thru

a secret that is always known

 

a beckoning from the longest road

to walk into the fading day

 

to get lost to the light for the better

to find a place both above and beneath

 

a balance

between everything

and nothing

 

a space

to die just enough

to live

a little longer.

*

after the fall

 

years stained

with pallid reflection

 

a slow parade of tiny horrors

fading dimmer by the day

 

until something turned

something gave way

 

everything

suddenly

gone…

 

but in its place

a blank and gleaming slate

upon which a new leaf would turn.

*

tenacious vulnerability

 

delicate tasks

can break the skin

 

fragility is our nature

as is strength

as is perseverance

 

but hardly embraced

or celebrated as it should be

 

to be broken again and again

is the only path to a stronger resolve

 

and the only road to persistence

is thru the cracks in the heart

painted gold by time.

*

red sky, blue moon

 

beyond the breaks

beneath the falls

 

the current remains

broken and redeemed

 

a mirror for the light

a bed for the darkness

 

ever forward

both away from

and toward

 

every waiting shore. 

*

will and wake

 

leave left for the leaving

lean toward the better ways of being

 

take the lonely roads often

and light your own way

 

use the wisdom of the wind

to your utmost advantage

 

for there are secrets

nesting in the clouds

 

and all we need to do to find them

is rise.

***

“Another world is not only possible,

she is on her way. On a quiet day

I can hear her breathing.”

  • Arundhati Roy

The Sunday Dispatch 3.7.21

the weight of the heart

 

it takes a while

often much longer

than expected

 

to put pettiness

and obsession aside

 

to cut bait

and finally realize

 

of all things reached for

little comes closer than

what is already here.

*

dig

 

wandering the night

thru the mind’s eye

 

grazed by regret

and chances lost

 

i still find myself almost at ease

deeply breathing in the darkness

 

comforted by its spaciousness

and promise

 

endlessly amazed

by how it often affords me

the gift of piecing together

a poem or two

 

from the words hidden

beneath the stone of the heart.

*

i still see you

 

behind the sadness

in the soft light of a better end

 

thru the window

on a sunday

in the rain

 

when i close my eyes at 3am

 

when time reminds

of the empty space beside me…  

 

but only because you were the last

and the closest memory i have

to being alone

 

or at least

that’s what

i keep telling myself.

*

wellspring

 

heavy this room

with metallic sounds

of wire and wood

 

heavier still

with a deeper resonance

of low vibe and key

 

choir or cacophony

equally inspirational

 

all has its time

all has its place

 

as it comes

as it goes

 

and over and over

everything is new again.

*

nevertheless, all is well

 

damned by appearances

it’s often only downhill

as soon as i open the door

 

maybe better and best

to keep to myself

in a room filled with music

with a head full of words

 

but alas,

necessity still dictates steady employment

that requires me to venture outside the confines of my cave

for most of the week

 

so i’m prepared

to bite the daily bullet

until poetry starts

paying the bills

 

and if it never does

well, that’s fine too.

***

“The soul should always stand ajar,

ready to welcome the ecstatic experience.”

  • Emily Dickenson

The Sunday Dispatch 2.28.21

soft edges

 

all along the gone between

a sharp tenderness eludes

 

as the heart stutter steps

toward nowhere fast

 

like a baritone

straining for the high notes

sometimes it all just seems

too far out of reach.

*

silver sorrows

 

framed photos

of broken hearts

 

as ageless longings hover

searching for an easy place to fall

 

the over-burnishing of ever-afters to the dullest jade

can sometimes work wonders for the heart

 

poke hindsight dead in the eyes

let the past smolder as it will

 

step forward

and surrender

 

knowing now

that love can never win

until you let it.

*

facing the façade

 

scattered in silence

only echo remains

 

a meandering and aimless fear

suddenly dialed in

 

hoping for gold

beneath the shaken foundations

 

with no other way

of finding out

 

but walking

thru the fire.

*

time away from time

 

a soothing darkness trips the mind

in the bright dawn breaking

 

destination removed

 

settled

in the comforting space

of nothingness

 

void of clock and calendar

 

exposure stalls the routine

duties shuddered for now

 

with only words

only rest

only peace

 

to adorn the day.

*

so it goes

 

mindful of the gaps and the turnings

and the undercurrent of unease

that stealthily permeates

as awareness subsides

 

still plugging the lapses as they arise

knowing they always will

 

to simply continue

on a steady course of progress

and acceptance

 

locked and unloaded

every step of the way.

***

“The true and durable path

into and through experience

involves being true… to your

own solitude, true to your own

secret knowledge.”

  • Seamus Heaney

The Sunday Dispatch 2.21.21

dread mining

 

sifting thru

the dark ingredients

of mood and matter

 

crushed by the weight

of impending shadows

 

lowered into the depths

of awareness raised

 

countering

the conscious effort

to sink

beyond

return.

*

gone so close

 

a cloud covered midnight

in the mirror

 

all things past

all things still here

 

as a grief like love

holds the darkness

like a lost lamb

 

in the jaws of a jackal.

*

bound for nowhere

 

broken frames of reference

splinter at the thought

 

last times gone

but lingering

 

reaching for a memory

that has yet to fade

 

with nothing new

or of any note

to take its place.

*

no time  

 

circled in the middle of nothing

bound to soulless measurements

of arbitrary space

 

hindered by unnecessary components

tethered to the mysterious mechanics

of make believe

 

when we can be everywhere else

 

beneath and beyond

and above

it all.

*

dissonant inertia

 

wind rushing rivers

thru the rolling valley

 

as the bones of the city

rattle thru my graveyard dreams

 

as the storm of the eye

burns with crash fumes

 

as the ecstasy still tingles

27 years later thru a wormhole synapse

of the time-warped mind

 

i am somehow still there

but better yet still here

 

listening to the same song

that first tripped my wires

to a higher frequency

than the minutiae and banality

that had already stolen

far too much of my time.

***

“Three-fourths of philosophy and literature

is the talk of people trying to convince themselves

that they really like the cage they were ticked

into entering.”

  • Gary Snyder

The Sunday Dispatch 2.14.21

 

purge and process

 

empty the pages

of ink and lie

 

breathe inside

the candlelit shadow

of no regret

 

own your actions

give them space

 

and claim the void

as a dark canvas

patiently awaiting

the next bright strike.

*

pedestals of apology

 

bathed

in the blue light

of the heart

 

disbelief momentarily suspended  

 

we can still walk

the same path

side by side

 

no matter

the distance

between us.

*

eyes deep

 

ever drawn

to bare and beautiful windows

leading to other worlds within

 

where secrets of pain and kindness

bask in each other’s strangeness

 

while bringing a bit more light

to the darkness of my days.

*

minimal exposure

 

simple pleasures

are often enough

to get me through

 

an empty room

an easy breath

a poem

a song

a peaceful sleep

 

it’s when i reach

for the bigger things

that i tend to stumble

 

like the reasons,

the answers,

the meaning of it all…  

 

or being the apple

of her most beautiful eyes. 

*

of parts and pieces

 

left for good

the wrong ways gone

 

though not before

their dark wisdom imparted

 

keeping safe the soul

from the graver consequence

of arriving too soon

at the intended destination.

***

“Only by learning to live in harmony

with your contradictions can you keep

it all afloat.”

Audre Lorde