Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

The Sunday Dispatch 1.10.21

stay with me

 

guided thru spaces

 

amazed by grace

and its subtle advantage

 

sailing a ship out of time

on waves of unease composed

 

holding fast

to the endless horizon

within.

*

a knife like night

 

swift from shadow

a coming known

all the while

 

still

an element of stealth

holds true…

 

the dread of expectation

carried far too long

 

thru a cold enduring darkness

that may never have needed

to be.

*

ruin gardens  

 

too much thought trapped

in the concussive spaces

behind the eyes

 

staining instinct

with the colors of emotion

 

second guesses

thrice removed

 

a subtle eviction

from spaces of soul

 

epiphanies denied

in search of a brighter void

 

running on the fumes

of some forgone conclusion

that anything happens for a reason

 

while slowly

dying on the vine

of false fruition

 

forever striving

to be brave enough

to believe the truth

of our own convictions.

*

beside the point

 

lifted from meaning

beyond the reach of reason

 

in the bright shadow

of dancing flame

 

life becomes life

amidst the golden

cacophony of silence.

*

embrace

 

snug in a dark dream

 

pleasantly haunted in the low light

of the conscious attic

 

you remembered me

and took my hand

 

as we kissed

until our awakenings

pulled us apart. 

***

“One common wire

One sliver thread

All that you desire

Rolls on ahead.”

  • Patti Smith

The Sunday Dispatch 1.3.21

as the night turns blue

 

stalking the lonely hunter of the heart

word by word thru the wilds of solitary otherness

 

too stoned on hope

to remember the burning quickness

of love’s last leaving

 

while tracing its scar

down the page.

*

last flight out

 

years’ worth of days

left somewhere else

 

the nights soon to follow

deeper down the well of oblivion

 

until a somehow semblance

of sanity graced the darkness

 

a gift of light

lifting life right side up

 

and all i had to do was let go

of the very heart that saved me.

*

love story

 

always lingering

some dream somewhere

 

where it all starts and ends

so much better

 

but nothing means anything now

and it’s easier that way

 

(more that nothing means nothing, i guess,

and anything else is everything,

if that makes any sense)

 

relieved of all the weight

attached to all those moments

and chances thought missed

 

when in fact

it’s all still here

 

living

breathing

 

and ever present

within all the moments

to come.

*

hope turns a key

 

crying lightning

down in a ditch

of dead dreams

 

shaking ashes

from our wings

and broken stars

from our hair

 

eyes alight

with intent and purpose

 

we find we have fallen

only to rise again.

*

turnover  

 

caught by the mirror’s deflection

an image returned to sand and stone

 

a dream to glisten

in the needled light

 

a reason to be still

 

implying a change of direction

in the lick of the wind

 

and a slightly altered course

to make all the difference.

***

“Go to the limits of your longing…

Let everything happen to you: beauty

and terror. Just keep going. No feeling

is final.”

  • Rainer Maria Rilke

 

The Sunday Dispatch 12.27.20

soon enough

 

precedence taken

by instinct and momentum

 

knowing never

the shifting ground

to settle

 

but stretches remain…

 

to focus and forge further

keeping heart in sync with soul

 

so that the means

will justify the ends

 

and love may again begin.

*

thinning the herd

 

quarters and thirds

running on the fumes

of vapidity and rumor

 

stalled in notions

of heredity and tradition

 

fighting the truth

with everything but

 

doomed to choose a baseless battle

in the race to the grave

 

oblivious

to the selective nature

evolution lends to survival.

*

sentries of the heart

 

laced with shadow

keeping watch

amidst the undertow

of passion

 

wary of wanting

wise of will run riot

 

stationed in the empty spaces

between the lonely hours

 

ever ready and willing

to some day surrender.

*

down season

 

gone ahead

in the left behind

 

soul stalled

in the long of the night

 

the years

nothing more

than a day in the life

thru karma’s window

 

damned

by the praying knees

of altered consciousness

 

hail the storm and drag

of weighing anchors

 

drunk and tea totaled

on the last wave of light

 

where the distance

removed from the shore

is all there ever is to know.

*

once and for all

 

chaos ordered

by the reigns of reason

 

bombardment deciphered

by sense and awareness

 

breath will seek the air

peace will find the mind

 

the light will forever return

 

to the heart

and the mind

that is always open.

***

“I broke something today

and I realized I should break

something once a week to remind me

how fragile life is.”

  • Andy Warhol

The Sunday Dispatch 12.20.20

descending

 

all in the undoing

loosening the holds

to make way for better grips

 

remastering old ways

with brighter vibes

 

hope sprung

from the dead air

in the spaces between

 

a ruin unwrought

from the broken road

bending again

towards the light.

*

the night we burned down

 

bows taken

in strange corridors

 

wheeled away only

to return apart

 

madness tremored

soon to break the bones

of love

 

as the short

and final straw

was drawn.

*

unshatterproof

 

nothing beyond the day

yet still the moments sputter at times

 

snagged on a thread of desolation

spinning down the well

 

chasing an uncatchable breath

as the sharpened gears turn

 

thru the bowels of the hours.

*

dread and the known unknown

 

deep

in the dark endeavors

of the psyche

 

beyond

the still moments

of presence

 

an almost impenetrable impasse remains

 

ever tempting the soul

to give up its chase

for peace of mind.

*

lifeblood

 

teeming with low light

cloaked in small hours of contentment

 

far from the work and worry

on the other side of the sun

 

there is a soft and quiet space to occupy

beneath the watchful eye of a solitary candle

 

providing safe passage

thru another night.

***

“Break a vase, and the love that

reassembles the fragments is stronger

than the love that took its symmetry

for granted when it was whole.”

  • Derek Walcott

 

 

The Sunday Dispatch 12.13.20

day for night

 

turning times

coiled in the habit

of routine

 

recklessness abandoned

for the steady flow of light

and time

 

horizon wide

the heart follows suit

 

trading states of confusion

for matters of trust

 

done with mirrors

of bitter reflection

 

and the towering shadows

that separate past from presence.

*

so slowly gone

 

love before the eyes

a wick and a spark

 

a wax moon

burning down

to an empty glass

 

all the ways we turn

torn thru and worn out

 

and though the heart

be mercilessly beaten

 

one final kiss

is all we ask.

*

etymology of reality

 

be it virus

or divinely inspired

 

to each our own perspective

from the cave inside the mind

 

from the spaciousness

of peaceful psychic plains

 

to the narrows

of pride and prejudice

 

to see how we are

is to be who we are

 

we exist

both in relation to

and independent from

our selfness and our otherness

 

masters

of our own destiny

 

reliant only

upon the moments of decision

 

in the ether between

thought and action.

*

same old song

 

dead hearts beaten

as passion burns like the red on a rose…

 

this night no different

than thousands before

 

loneliness breeds a certain kind of strength

 

at least enough

to endure yourself

and whatever madness may hold you

until love takes its place.

*

the last rights of longing

 

dreaming of a night such as this

cold enough to burn…

 

when it all adds up

when the darkness all makes sense

when the heart finally falls into place

 

and all the waiting

can finally be put to rest.

***

“The struggle itself towards the heights

is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must

imagine Sisyphus happy.”

  • Albert Camus

The Sunday Dispatch 12.6.20

trajectory of the heart

 

down in flames

or up in arms

 

of all the ways to go

destinations never known

 

often to break

but never to harden

 

tasks taken time and again

ever held open long after closing time

 

in high tide and low light

we all are the last bastion

of love’s true home.

*

dear departure

 

as blind as time around the bend

in the rush of all things come and gone

 

there shines a different light

than ever seen before

 

in each moment

we tend not dare to forget

 

when we finally remember

who we’ve always been.

*

sometimes gone  

 

somewhere

on the moon

of my mind

 

staring out

into the blank darkness

of inception and demise

and everything

in between

 

i can’t help but wonder

how we ever find the light.

*

it was a long way down, but i needed to go

 

nothing tastes like death

 

i can still feel it sometimes

in the back of my mind

 

systems shutting down

reality untethered

 

lost in strange places inside myself

shook and touched

 

a palpable madness of the darkest ingredients

embedded in my being to this very day

 

and all the reason i need

to keep things straight and narrow

 

in the broadest and brightest terms of a better life

for the sake myself and everyone i love.

*

shelter of the soul

 

the void inside the flame

from the darkness of ignition

 

bursting forth

from shame to glory

 

as everything waiting to be

suddenly becomes

 

an instant

of infinite arrival

 

where everyone is safe

beyond the bounds of time.

***

“…let the mind beware, though the flesh

be bugged, the circumstances of

existence are pretty glorious.”

  • Jack Kerouac

 

 

The Sunday Dispatch 11.29.20

scorpions and unicorns

 

under the sun

and behind the eyes

 

beneath the canopies

of cosmic consequence

 

we fathom equations

and navigate the stars

 

only to always stumble

upon the same answer

over and over:

 

nothing

is ever

in control.

*

the unwinding bend

 

coming into view

beneath the season of decay

 

what slowly rises

from the abyss

 

is either

the beacon of

a new beginning

 

or the tail lights

of our last chance

leaving

*

stimulants and source codes

 

choking

on the fumes

of thin air

 

slipping

between weak connections

into the red nights

of unfair warning

 

shots parted

thru loose wires

and enlarged pupils

 

slowly engulfed

as the once healing technology

now breeds a nation

of invalids

 

with none

but ourselves

to blame.

*

vigilance

 

wiser times beyond us

one can only hope

 

these days seem dark

even after the eventual

changing of the guard

 

so be right

with who and what

you are

 

because the meantime

often has a way of becoming

a whole lot worse than expected

 

if you’re not paying attention.

*

left and leaving be

 

patterns unbecoming

 

hard fought habits

eventually eased into submission

 

from sharp shoves

to gentle nudges

 

a long, long road’s worth

of dust inhaled and swallowed

 

now

there is only here

to contend with

 

and whatever it has to offer

is all i need.

***

“Sun and moon move like a river,

light and dark; just sparks from a stone.”

  • Han Shan

The Sunday Dispatch 11.22.20

bright spot

 

idled threats

of aggressive malaise

 

boisterous bellows

from bottomed out

denominators

 

meshed and grating

unmoved by gentle friction

 

the alpha echelons

grope for fistful after fistful more

than anyone’s fair share

 

teetering off the top

into their sad little pools

of powerless pride

 

an inevitable eventuality

well worth its karmic weight

in gold.  

*

in with the out, out with the in

 

fallen from dream

into the stranger day

 

walking the highway

to the low side of the road

 

ever sensing a perception of intent

to appreciate the experience

of joy and happiness

 

that rises

from every past darkness

endeavored.

*

learning lines

 

none too concerned

with death and taxes

 

the long days started early

often without the longer nights

even ending

 

from one vice to another

ends only meeting to pass each other by

 

the means the only matter

 

creeping ever closer

to that one last shot

 

over every edge after

with nothing else to break

but the fall. 

*

finding home

 

landing hopeful and haggard

nothing waiting but the hard ground

of a much longer road

 

farther from the day one

than ever imagined

and far lonelier than expected

 

finally growing accustomed

to this solo flight

 

with its dips and dives

its peaks and plateaus

 

and all its kisses goodbye.

*

stones and crows

 

sinking skyward

all but dream and love is true

to those beyond its boundless grasp

 

cracked by clouds

of salt and whisper

 

cutting the shapes of mountains

into sacred ground

 

while the eyes of every storm

watch in awe.  

***

“The size of the place one becomes a

member of is limited only by the size

of one’s heart.”

  • Gary Snyder

The Sunday Dispatch 11.15.20

beneath a broken flag

 

if unity

gleams no more

 

still the sun will rise

still the days will come

 

even as division

reaps its dividends

 

and atrocities are uncondemned

 

our compassion

will never be overruled

 

our persistence

will be unmatched

 

and victory will

never be out of reach.

*

beacon of awakening

 

up from the earth

 

signals rising

a flicker in the din

 

power transitions

thru the veins of a leaf

 

tracing its lines

back to the light.

*

end of ends

 

rolling thru

veiled in shadow

 

a steady hum

beneath the wave

 

burning on

defiant in the downpour

 

grown stronger

from the storm

 

and more peaceful

despite the pain.

*

bones in the attic 

 

only your own ghosts

will haunt you

 

in the corridors

between the last chance

and the next

 

hiding in the alcoves

 

blowing out the candles

in the chapels of your mind

 

rattling the blinds

on the windows to

your soul

 

all the missed chances

all the lost love

 

calling your name

from the clouds upon

winter’s tongue.

*

long lost

 

slow the burn

from bitter pills swallowed

 

ways gone south

only to mend the brokenness

that follows

 

once here

now gone

 

once gone

now here

 

steps retraced

to every new destination

 

and still

so much more

that remains to be seen.

***

“The secret of joy is the mastery of pain.”

  • Anais Nin

 

The Sunday Dispatch 11.8.20

rain me a river

 

as another stroke of midnight

hovers in the dark blue distance

 

i wish to dream of you

 

dancing upon a thunderhead

in the clouds of the smallest hours

 

my eyes searching your flourished lightning

for a better salvation that what waits

upon my waking.

*

downed

 

the broken beat

of this dark red heart

echoes in the gray afternoon

 

fooled and felled

by the love least likely

 

numberless

have become

the breakings

 

far too many

to not have learned

the lesson

 

yet here i am

fragments scattered

in unrequited reachings

 

toward those

who would really rather not

fall my way.

*

wild once

 

sheltered from the mad city

as riotous joy explodes thru the night

 

times ago it might have been me out there

on fire with victory and hopeless abandon

 

with no reason not to paint the town

every goddamned night

 

in for a penny

in for a pound

 

but some lines we cross silently

somewhere near the half-century mark

 

maybe knowing better

maybe just tired

 

cutting our losses

and sitting more out than in

 

content to have lived thru it before in one way

and live thru it now in another

 

maybe just feeling grateful to still be around

long enough to see things from the other side.

*

crooked lines

 

for real is all games and gamble

fate nothing more than a spinning twister

 

ripping things up from the root

and heaving them every which way

 

chaos is the norm

nothing ever makes sense

 

it is only our mind filling in the gaps

that makes it seem that way

 

we are here and not

always and never

 

and that

is all.

*

don’t be long

 

outside

circles remain

broken

 

let go

to drift

with the debris

 

assuming the best for now

and for the sake of these words

solitude need be my lot.

***

“Midnight shakes the memory

As a madman shakes a dead

geranium.”

  • T.S. Eliot