Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

the sunday times 6.17.18

nothing lost

 

eyes heavy

half way thru

 

slow time exhales

 

good use searches

for better outlets

 

no waste

for this dying day

 

trapped and triggered

 

light hangs above

tempting the reach of endeavor

 

to break the tenuous grasp

of lethargy and malaise

 

as other sides await.

*

grade

 

catching fire

behind the eyes

 

torrents and deluge

 

creeping brigades

of dread and minutiae

bombard

 

in the early hours

of another beautiful day

 

we wake

 

we turn away

or dive in

 

bringing every moment

that has ever been

forward into the next

 

every step of the way.

*

flowers in the wild

 

slow roll

of delicate

thunder

 

the brushing sway

of lonely fields

signal the storm

 

rife with impension

and unfounded dread

 

we break the same way we mend

we love the same way we die

 

whether it’s

subtly and quietly

 

or screaming hysterically

as we careen into a ditch.

*

giving way

 

in the moonlight of the mind

shadows wave goodbye

until daybreak

 

stolen away

in the vastness of dream

and expectation

 

assumptions denied

 

nothing left but a useless train of thought

 

yesterday was yesterday

farther away than tomorrow

could ever be

 

so here is today

 

to have

to hold

to be

 

whatever it is

we wish.

***

“Clouds come floating into my life,

no longer to carry rain or usher storm,

but to add color to my sunset sky.”

  • Rabindreth Tagore
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the sunday times 6.10.18

mystery & resolve

 

eyes met

ways deferred

 

long haul taken

on either side

 

to bitter and better ends

 

now

again

renewed

 

forward

together

 

into the unknown light

of what will come.

*

deep weight

 

strung across the days

time falls from meaning

 

hard to breathe

while holding your breath

 

the worst is always willing

in the ways of the mind

 

stopping

starting

slipping

 

thru the hands

of moments gone

 

as light unburdens the heart of its darkness

without diminishing its presence

 

just enough

to see beyond the difference

of everything that remains.

*

gone between

 

acts of balance

thru tides unbound

 

hearts amidst the wires

barbed and connected

 

bleeding stones

washed ashore

turning white flags red

 

to signal

both the beginning

and the end.

*

parts unknown

 

keeping even

thru the strain

of storm and shine

 

the down coming up

to return

 

waves relent before

the next big crash

 

but soon the sun, they say…

 

but sometimes not

 

for longer winters

of strange teeth

cutting deeper veins

 

glaring obscurity

slowly revealed

 

to trust

the fall

in time

 

threading hope

thru patch and scathe

 

expectation gives way

to nothingness

 

and the peace

of being at ease

with never knowing why.

***

“Perhaps wisdom is realizing how small I am,

and unwise, and how far I have yet to go.”

  • Anthony Bourdain

 

 

the sunday times 6.3.18

face down

 

no sign from

the other side

 

light low

and muted

 

removed

from equation

after equation

 

accept and release

 

control and none

 

needing only

truth and reason

to understand.

*

all good

 

hope walks the wire

night after night

 

high above the darkness

words at a minimum

 

trusting the heart

to reach out when needed

 

and bring with it

the light of day.

*

untied

 

half imagined

in dead night dark

 

shook from sleep

and strangled mind

 

to epiphanous admission

from new places known

 

arcing towards

a violet sky

 

the words

we dream

come true.

*

status quota

 

slowly steady

different pages turned

 

catching up

and stepping back

 

no rush

no wait

 

here today

here tomorrow

 

constantly becoming

who we are.

*

slate and blade

 

sliding frames

out of the context

of necessity

 

only the meaning matters

 

caught in the mind

patterns of disarray

 

the impetus of imagination

 

wonder is key

as not all maladies

seek a cure

 

but rather only a theory

or a story is needed

 

to follow thru indication

upward from mythological root

 

toward a wider truth

freed from the exactness

of definition.

***

“In a world whose absurdity appears to be so

impenetrable, we simply must reach a greater

degree of understanding among men, a greater sincerity.

We must do this or perish.”

  • Albert Camus

the sunday times 5.27.18

feeling real

 

extricated from lines of fire

 

training thoughts to illuminate

the dreamlike caverns of the wandering psyche

 

to bring light

to the daily darkness

of life and meaning

 

whether making a way

where none can be found

 

or breathing inside the wait

for the answers to present themselves.

*

strange waves

 

pieces of puzzles

 

patching creeds to fit

the cosmic crimes of karma

 

slight and victimless

save for ourselves

 

staring skulls in the faceless void

we are nameless and without form

 

the dream of a giant

asleep in the heart

of a burning star.

*

just once

 

all asked

 

faithfully

possessed

 

beholden

to no dream

of never

 

only her eyes

wide and bright

 

fathoming

the depth

of my soul

 

with a laugh

and a sigh

 

we

belong.

*

places of our own

 

good hard looks

inside and out

 

residences

of resonance

and remiss

 

keeping close the option

of being gone for awhile

 

behind the walls

of sorrow or joy

 

nothing matters but what does

at any given and fleeting moment

 

out of sync

and retreating

to our own devices

 

be they defense

or stability

 

we will return

fresher and brighter

for the time away

 

still

as hopefully hopeless

as before.

***

“The world breaks everyone,

and afterward some are strong

at the broken places.”

  • Ernest Hemingway

 

the sunday times 5.20.18

here again

 

streets gone by like years

and times of trouble

 

slow lines

of zero tolerance

 

mantle somewhat reclaimed

 

time returned

to never again

 

starting

now.

*

for the mourning

 

up from the hollow

and the valley below

 

to strangers bound by family

gathering for life and death

 

searching for the promise

of something greater

than all of this.

*

time in space

 

stared thru

 

down from walls

and higher planes

 

beyond precipice

and perception

 

healingly forward

into fire and refinement

 

tweaks of tongue and tourniquet

 

the storm of coming days

upon the soul

 

dissected

second by

second

 

and returned

to the abyss.

*

softly

 

grey heart black

stricken by revision

 

orchids hang like spiders

in shadows blind

 

back to caves

and haunts

and holy hells

 

as we walk

thru the fires of life

 

falling

one

by

one.

*

dog days

 

crimes redeemed

as trust reemerges

from previous voids

 

broken mirrors dusted

with greater presence

 

minor keys anchor the symphony

 

naught to mind

the failure of grander schemes

borne of bleary illusion

 

focused not on what is gone

and what will come

 

but solely

on what is good

and what is here.

***

“There’s nobody else to blame. You can’t fix it

and you can’t make it go away. It does no good appealing

to some ill-invented thunderer

brooding above some unimaginable crag…”

  • Lew Welch

 

the sunday times 5.13.18

two broken

 

lost in transmission

hanged time relents

 

falling forward

upon the breadth

of our bones

 

one breaking out

one breaking in

 

easy words fall deaf

from smallest talk

 

slaked by meaning

and conviction

 

deep in the kick

of love’s first glow.

*

life not lost

 

fever dreams fixed on crooked sights

too bright the darkness contained

 

here between sleep

and twisted sheets

 

morning dizzy

and shivering with runoff

 

the sky is open

to the sullen heart

 

aching to finally take flight.

*

habitual tradition

 

steeped and renounced

in the graveyard of generations

 

burning crosses

nailed to the psyche

 

youth bloodied

by worship and fear

 

until we are old enough to laugh

and bold enough to question

 

those who take ghost stories literally.

*

better use

 

turning wild

in the asphalt summer

 

too soon

the long burning days

 

heavy

upon the fragile mirror

of becoming

 

thru the ice

of every coming storm

 

beyond the projected image

of what we believe

 

we can only come to rest

on our own personal truth

 

as vague

or definitive

as we choose it

to be.

*

rage and grace

 

we come for battle

and stay for love

 

spat out into consciousness

from the cosmic womb

 

warriors from day one

 

fighting pain with joy

anger with acceptance

 

thru the rolling hills

of the meaning mind

 

the time between never and now

is always turning

 

from dream to nothingness

from desire to damnation

 

from life

to love

to death

 

ever falling

as we rise.

***

“You are born alone. You die alone.

The value of the space in between

is trust and love.”

  • Louise Bourgeois

 

 

the sunday times 5.6.18

out in the cold

 

held in a moment

by a dream never had

 

until the morning breaks in

 

and love

leaves only its shadow

behind.

*

scars and stripes

 

saved from nothing

by brilliant collapse

 

whispering wisdom

under breath and fallout

 

truth but the debris

of abomination

 

an afterthought

of penance and

remorse

 

offered to the gods of war

for too little death.

*

resolution

 

caught up

in the broken dance

 

new equations alter the balance

shifting consequence to deeper resonance

 

sides unwound

turned by underscore

and realignment

 

into different animals

of commitment and conviction.

*

bleed it out

 

steady hold

 

gone before

come again

 

elusion remains

 

every edge

ever piercing

 

days beyond days

beneath the wheel

behind the eyes

 

veering

from borderline

to battering ram

 

drastic measures seem reasonable

in the lowest light of the smallest hour

 

somewhere in the red night

of this soulless city.

*

in the arms of may

 

down in power

the days come swiftly

 

barking dogs of the soul

strangers knock leaving only footsteps

 

love in the wings

death in the air

 

always something

to rattle the bones

 

whether it’s life leading back

or away

 

or just,

simply,

on.

***

“I am alone here in my own mind.

There is no map

and there is no road.

It is one of a kind

just as yours is.”

  • Anne Sexton

the sunday times 4.29.18

heart of the valley

 

broken days saved

for better time

 

life shaped

in the sun and the streets

that surround

 

forward motion maintained

 

one and one

into the next

 

flux of permanence

and perspective consistent

 

wave after wave

to ride or die;

 

between words and silence

lay everything else

love can be.

*

breakthrough

 

quiet tension released

words free of blame

 

leveled up

from familiar places

 

far from gardens and freeways

 

simple complexities

come to light

 

breaking patterns of habit

and passivity

 

charge taking hold

in matter and mind

 

cracks traced in leaves of gold

 

for when brokenness is unburdened

its beast becomes the flower

it was always meant to be.

*

tomorrow’s dream

 

another night

no stranger than alone

 

haunting a familiar space

where everything went down

and slightly returned

 

nothing like anything ever was

 

but the same

in different ways

 

stirring in the darkness

of yesterday’s future

 

holding it all

so much dearer

 

than the day

i left

for good.

*

wide open

 

circled and crossed

 

all well

in any grander scheme

 

the blinds rattle

in the gray din

of sunday morning

 

far from clocks and calendars

 

out of stated mind

and things determined

 

fighting the blunder of instinct

to right the overturning

 

and re-emerge

thru the light

of day.

***

“even

in the loneliest moments

i have been there

for myself.”

  • Sanober Kahn

the sunday times 4.22.18

disclaimer

 

drained from sickness

the ritual may suffer

but not the words

 

feeling scraped out and spent

slave to the whims of this funny machine

 

all skin and bones and nerves

and shallow immunity

 

many worse off

and none to complain

 

so I’ll take my cue from them

and push things forward.

*

stone by stone

 

open vessels

primed for departure

 

armed across the bow

 

weighted and willing

with baggage to spare

 

pages bright

with the burn

of reason

 

we turn

and turn.

*

everything there is

 

heavy on the turn

easy down the river

 

the house on fire

the mind at odds

 

kickdrum thump

to a melancholy waltz

 

boxes of puzzles

hearts full of rain

 

precariousness and imposure

 

smoke

sobriety

crutches

cults

cat toys

 

trust and seizure

 

hand in hand

flowers and beasts…

 

today is ours.

*

rise to shine

 

tolls taken

bridges reconstructed

chasms crossed

 

beneath the same sky

as the ruin that preceded

 

now returned

to right sight

and stable points

of turn

 

peace made

with the sickest self

 

and the architect

of its creation.

*

no code

 

a sleeve full of hearts

and the fading low light

of loneliness

 

masks burned away

long ago

 

no reflection too harsh to remind

of everything else lost in the fire

 

as another year

turns its way around

 

from the wreckage

that threw me clear.

***

“…sometimes blocked in,

sometimes reaching out,

one moment your life is a

stone in you, and the next,

a star.”

  • Rainer Maria Rilke

the sunday times 4.15.18

something new

 

different again

best ways possible

 

little things

said and done

 

no pretense

no fodder

 

just an easy,

simple comfort

 

that has set the heart

quietly ablaze.

*

troubleshot

 

down to bone

and wire

 

past rethreaded

and held up to

the light

 

traction gained

thru acceptance

and amends

 

nothing more held

by the lure of oblivion.

*

long slow burn

 

stepping back from thoughts of want

parameters recalibrated

 

easing in for the long haul

 

rolling with the sway

of solid ground

 

with new skin

for old wounds

 

foundations fully forged

in the fires between then

and now

 

interdependent upon

the common denominator

of forward motion

 

we consciously set out

along our own roads

 

side by side.

*

better places

 

stranger lands

of soul and solace

 

balanced between

otherworldly realms

of bang, blame, and barter

 

complacence is self-inflicted

there is always a higher truth to find

 

ways part and come back around

when tending to the dusted bones

of memory’s silver hands

 

so many different eyes

for the face of love

 

yet none of them matter

unless we are here.

***

“I’m lost. And it’s my own fault.

It’s about time I figured out that I can’t

ask people to keep me found.”

  • Anne Sexton