Dispatches from the Suicide Hours of Immortality

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

The Sunday Dispatch 10.24.21

[undisclosed]

present in this void
this gift of emptiness 
to simply let be

no objective
no definition

formless 
in the dark gray din 
of thoughtlessness…

sometimes nowhere 
is the most comforting place 
to reside.
*
[curve and square]

committing soul 
to the sacrament of exposure

stars arc across the sky of mind

connection sought
from one abyss to another

a shower of sparks 
divides the hemispheres

as the shape of breath 
consumes the air.
*
[the whole of nothing]

a hope for better things stashed away 
in a dark corner of thought

daring to be discovered 
by the contrarian heart

the ever longing skin stretched 
across these slowly dying bones

sums and differences 
and variables and quotients

futile equations 
of emotion and reason

of near misses and fatal flaws

the algebra of need
the chemistry of pain

the call and choir 
of echoed silence

utility and uselessness

the ache of years 
when memory begins to fade

it’s all just an endless trustfall
into the waiting arms of night.  
*
[no more than death]

a burning crow stare 
from the slender wire

felt thru dream 
and pulled to wake

curtains parted 
to a darkness in flames

words peeled 
from painted walls

as the heart 
drowns in thin air

touched 
by the tenderness 
of mercy

at last.   
*
[transmutation]

seek clarification of intent
amidst the tidal waves 
of daily distraction

for love 
can only be found 
in presence and attention

lest no pride 
obstruct the healing truth.
***
“If our heart were large enough
to love life it all its detail, we would see
that every instant is at once a giver
and a plunderer.”
-	Gaston Bachelard

The Sunday Dispatch 10.17.21

[harder the fall]

still the last

burned like a shadow 
into this burial ground

nothing means as much 
as anything once did

as longer whiles stretch 
across the canvas of my soul

and the final words of this heart 
have yet to be written.
*
[uncertain terms]

grown accustomed 
to the dread

hanging 
just beyond the hope 
of anticipation

the waiting graves 
of day after day

the heartbreaking loss 
of time and all it holds

this weight upon the mind
forever pulling me away.    
*
[immaculate deception]

temporal excavations 
of memory suspended

nerves endlessly exposed 
to gardens of unkindness and 
the curving grade of inclination

as the crumbling facades 
of frantic measures topple 
toward the seas of madness

and the bang of blame 
echoes uselessly thru the canyons 
of the damned.
*
[gardens and graveyards]

beneath the years
beneath the skin

born of beauty and burn
in the downtime of the heart

between the spaces 
of love and loss

where we all fight
our own hell

an ache of longing is felt 
deep in the bones

it comes 
to greet the flowers 
that have grown in its stead

and to gently remind 
that everything ends.     
*
[depth and weight]

rolling slowly 
thru the fog of mourning

always something missing
always something lost

but it’s alright

we need some spaces left empty

for whatever 
is on the way.         
*
“All I know of time
is that it seems to be forever
taking me away from the things
I desperately wish to keep.”
-	S.M. Klees

The Sunday Dispatch 10.10.21

[different corner, different light]

similarities familiar
still present thru the distance
of years

side by side
together apart

holding close
the best pieces
of each other’s heart

feeling faintly home
in the dust of memory

a warm soft place
unbroken time and again

i will hold
this one last promise
before giving in for good.
*
[under wing]

untaken stock
low in the heart of matters

still to rise
day in and out

pulled
toward the wondering lust
of too long alone

caught in the trap of mind

rolling thru
the unwritten pages
of blank expression

and the useless expectations
of things never known.
*
[the path of least]

just enough to remember
just enough to forget

sailing the low seas of in between

beneath the blue
of touching beauty

above the waves
of rollick and fury

scraping the sides
of a near even keel

nothing more needed
nothing more wanted

as ever it is.
*
[stone still]

invitations politely declined
to sit with the words yet another night

as the leaves
have begun to break for the ground
and the nights
extend their jurisdiction

these older and poorer bones (read: wiser and more responsible)
seem to seek the solace of solitude
in companionship’s stead

more often than not.
*


contentment
by way
of completion

joy
by way
of resistance

pain killing
by kindness

simple measures
for drastic change

swing the mood
right the ship

carry on.

***
“The difference between
a garden and a graveyard
is only what you choose
to put in the ground.”
- Rudy Francisco

The Sunday Dispatch 10.03.21

[reality and nothingness]



here between the sighs

the nights so eloquently executed



by futile words of fragility



like daggers

thru the darkness



down the lonely page



into

the bottomless well

of want and wait.

*

[turn of the blade]



licking salt

from dark wounds

of forgetting



holed up

in the heart

of the mind



forever

just a dream

away



from

tasting you

again.

*

[unspoken]



words triggered



sometimes heard

differently than said



penetrating the darkness

to crack the core



to break the cycle

of want and woe



to bring a new kind of peace

to a hard, lonely heart



only looking

for a softer place

to fall.

*

[out of hand]



the numbered ways

of nothing days



loveless

in a dark corner

of the mind



pulling the clouds

down one by one



the sky

as meaningless

as the ground



clocks smashed

calendars burned



we are everything
we never wanted
to be.

*

[landscapes of the soul]



strange constellations

map inner space



pointing toward hope

in the hollow of the mind



where secret roads

lead to the questionless destinations

of riddled redemption



places in the light

unmarred by the peopled clutter

of concrete and steel



where voids ache

to be warm with presence



in the glitter

and dust



of everything

broken.

*

“Spirit is life

It flows thru the death of me


endlessly


like a river


unafraid


of becoming


the sea.”


- Gregory Corso


The Sunday Dispatch 9.26.21

[sounding the depth]


vantage askew
for better views
of nothing

just the ghosts of illusion
playing their parlor tricks
disturbing all that is well

listening for whispers 
above the echo

as the ground makes way 
for the sky’s lament

for even the vast highness 
of wide-open space
 
can become low 
with emptiness.
*
[sadly ecstatic]

all this time
passed and left

still the beauty 
of your presence 
remains

emerging 
from the darkest hour 
of dreaming

to set the heart alight
for better or worse.  
*
[dust to dust]

steadily turning
dependable inevitability 
remains unchanged

fuck all else to do 
but embrace the adventure 
of unknown circumstances

no routine is ever set in stone
as much as we believe it so

some will bend
some will break

but sooner or later
all will fall.
*
[astronomy of the heart]

a glass cracked sky
beneath the poison well

a calling to the edge
of all matter and myth

to search between
the empty spaces

for more than words can say
for more than eyes can see

stories unspoken
but for the light
of distant stars

drugged by the pull of obsession
drawn by the madness of emotion

to the joyous rapture 
above and beyond the reach 
of all things mortal.   
*
[future imperfect]

scenes of a life
 
of hopes threaded
and stitched

somewhere between 
the here of then and 
the now of always

there is a chance for change to be spared

to return 
while still maintaining 
forward motion

toward a new horizon

brought forth 
from the presence 
of promises past.   
***
“Brave love, dream not of staunching
such strict flame, but come, lean to
my wound; burn on, burn on.”
-	Sylvia Plath

The Sunday Dispatch 9.19.21

[promise and demise]


from the first catching of flightless breath
to the final thrust of the heart giving way

it is obvious 
there is far too much fanfare 
for the beginning of life

and far too little 
for its completion.
*
[dime thin]

threads bare in the wired mind

backstreet memories of desolation 
and the dirty hiss of freeways

never as far as we hope 
from where it can all go suddenly south

ever fanning the last flicker
until eternity fades.
*
[beauty and strangeness]

drawn by compulsion
to unthink certain thoughts

to keep distance 
between the wanted 
and the given

the needed and the unfound

pulling close 
the covers of the heart
to protect from the inevitable elements

leaves only 
half a life lived.
*    
[conscience and confrontation]

draped in billows of unseen breath
pulled by wave after wave 
into the drowning air

own warnings unheeded

the fool 
too often suffered
is i.

[dreaming song]

beneath blue firefly lights
presence drifts toward waiting slumber

where the soul walks hourlessly
the miles of ghost town 
where the truth 
has buried 
her gold.
*  
[burning down one side]

no easy rest 
in the fog of forgetting

just the weight 
of reason and oblivion 
to contend with…   

and oblivion 
has long since ceased 
to be an option.
*
[taken to heart]

of luck and riddance

straws drawn in the dark
still no new ways of knowing

like pulling teeth from stone

between laughter 
and kisses stolen

the unspoken truth 
becomes unbearably clear.
***
“We should invert our eyes
and practice a sublime astronomy
in the infinitude of our heart.”
-	Léon Bloy



					

The Sunday Dispatch 9.12.21

[little with ease but all the easy little things]

scold and smolder
blame besets the brightest souls

but endeavor is nothing 
without endurance

the weight of everything 
will wane with every breath taken

if entranced 
by the beauty 
of simplicity.    
*
[no remorse]

of lust and wonder
thorned and brushed

beneath the burning canopies 
of monumental indifference

innocence is purged 
for the sake of progress

holding nothing more sacred 
than conquest and division.  
*
[beneath the scraping sky]

the fear of falling never leaves
whether high or low

the chance always remains
that all can be lost in an instant

it matters not 
that the odds are just as good 
that all can be won

but to live in the dark 
with the slightest hope of light

is the closest 
some of us ever get
to having it all.   
*
[open air]

use space to advantage
headlong and soulwise

much of life 
is in the in-betweenness

where possibility gathers
awaiting a nudge or a spark

a lift or a pull in some direction
outside the lines of expectation and routine

let no moment pass without 
the thought of where, how, and who you are 
embedded in the fabric of your being

everything unfolds from there.
*
[residence and resignation]

know where you stand
draw your lines within reason

maintain a healthy balance 
of firmness and sway

bare your soul 
and share your heart

but the true key
is always remaining 
strong enough 
to surrender.   
*
[currency of words]

poetry is survival

embedded in the bones
the muscle memory of 
tending empty gardens
and learning to make do 
with next to nothing

thriving in the dark fields
of loneliness and lost soul

finding endless new ways 
to feel alive

while the rest of the world 
continues to kill itself a little more 
every day.
***
“The only courage which is
demanded of us: to be brave
in the face of the strangest, 
most singular and most inexplicable
things that can befall us.”
-	Rainer Maria Rilke 

The Sunday Dispatch 9.5.21

[greasing the wheels]

momentum carried
from the wake of dream

even if only the weight 
being dragged from the void

get something out
as soon as you can

a word, 
a scream, 
a breath…   

something 
that says 
you’re 
alive

and build upon that
as best you can.
*
[easy out]

less broken
with no real investment 
to return

but still coming up   
on the low end of higher hopes again

seems i’ve grown somewhat accustomed 
to the leveling ground of fall after fall

or possibly 
the true and final hammer 
hasn’t yet hit. 
*
[arbitrary minutiae]

just enough 
to fall away

just enough 
to pull you back

everything 
sways and shifts
yet so little of it 
has any real meaning

all the rules 
and pointed fingers

all the turning gears 
of useless machines

everything 
cursed and crushed

with so much more to praise than blame

but here we are
further downhill

still claiming 
the mountain top 
as our own.
*
[subsequent autumn]

close enough to touch
before it all becomes a ghost again

some days 
longer than others

some nights the same

we all muddle thru
knowing little more 
than we did at the start

this thing of love and falling
never gets easier

until it finally does

if at all.   
*
[breath of the earth]

holding open hands
raised beneath the sun

float amidst the rays
slip into the clouds

be everywhere at once

as all 
are meant 
to be.
***
“Progress is the rest the body needs
and the peace the soul requires. 
Progress is man’s well-being.”
-	Knut Hamsun 

The Sunday Dispatch 8.29.21

[hand over heart]

it can all be so simple
if only we’d let it

no games
no signs

just honest words and actions

and enough space 
to operate independently 
while still maintaining 
a worthy connection

soulful and exquisite
moment by moment

until 
the music 
is over.
*
[that something]

the gravity of the day
that pulls you out of bed
when it’s the last thing 
you want to do

the touch 
between the spark 
and the inferno

the laughter 
from the darkest corner 
of the mind
that somehow lights 
a better way

there is so much more 
than what we think we know

be still

and
let 
it 
find 
you.  
*
[residue of design]

no matter the coinage of phrasing

there are spaces and cracks 
where chance and choice end up 
when things seemingly fall apart

shards and shakings chipped away 
by the tenacity of will

that remain lodged 
in crawlspaces of consciousness

holed up 
in the hollow of the hull 
for future purpose

until such the time 
when all the torture need finally 
be worthy of the reward. 
*
[here before]

ever the difference
finding its way in

falling to one side 
or the other

but never with ease 
does admission come; 

holding on 
to leaving trains
will scrape the soul raw

and only strand the heart 
in the middle of nowhere
again and again.    
*
[ill use]

light jarred 
from the startled darkness..

as spiders crawl the heart 
spinning white webs of longing

the skull 
slowly turns 
within the skin 
of sacrament and abandon

something inside 
suddenly stops ticking

and finally
we are free.         
*
“It is good to be solitary, because
solitude is difficult, and that a thing
is difficult must be even more of a
reason for us to undertake it.”
-	Rainer Maria Rilke

The Sunday Dispatch 8.22.21

[the burn and the beauty]



dark roads of broken gold



the night holds no wish

beyond our reach



vast are the oceans of the mind

spanning the sprawl of soulful endeavor



ceaselessly chasing the fires within

to light the way home.

*

[compulsion and convergence]



simple silences

twisted out of context



spaces measured

in sighs and loss



figments and fragments



all the trappings

of mind made misery



conspiring to concoct

the perfect storms



that continually shipwreck

this fragile heart.

*

[loss is ours]



so much

for the high minds

of solution



there is a creeping

and un-outrunnable pall

rapidly approaching



and though there is a slim chance

we still might indeed have the last laugh



it will undoubtedly be

with our final breath.

*

[let love]



leave not open

the gates of neglect



shore up the hatches

and bases covered



it all comes back around



leave not for dead

the lifeless shadows

of slights thought unseen



for they eye return

when least expected



wherever you go

whatever you do



lead with your all



all the kindness

all the understanding

all the compassion



for it is far easier than you think

to keep your heart as light

as the air you breathe.

*

[step it up]



signs emerge

brighter in awareness



yet still visible

even in dim concern



but all too easily brushed away

into the heavy undertow of everything all at once



we’re always given a few chances

to see what needs to be seen



but we’re not always looking

with the same set of eyes



the light is always changing

as is our vantage



and no amount of dollars

will ever help any of it make sense



when the only thing

that needs to be paid

is attention.

***

“Life is a continual process of arrival

into who we are.”


- Maria Popova