Tearing

The sheet of reason folds between
and fiction crumbles to each side
a folly souring, tumbling,
catching on to the soaring in vain.
Below the sun, within my insistence
lies a man, enfleshed and walled in
corroded
a chord struck from his cerebellum
into the seething feelers, his doormat
feet, his welcoming opportunities for
breaking communication.

He is a careless depiction of truth
looking at itself in a shard of ice,
aware of its forgetting consciousness,
lost in the colder opposition.
Bowed down, he personifies a scrawl,
a tumbleweed fitting sideways into a
pax-deprived corpse.
Tactile
voices squint at his myth,
persuading him to forget his doings
to welcome his waitings on the stool,
going outward into memory's friendship
dawning again after a night of
being awake, faced.

This is how it feels, to be embraced
by the denied self, watered by feeling,
dowsing already ashes,
already stinging because of rifts and
supposings.

I frowned while the souvenirs
were reminisced and corporeally
timorous, before they synchronised
and came together a paradox.
I ask you now to sit with your reflection,
walking in the difficult directions
to the birth of a man of meaningness,
presently absurd
and living lives and life
as skinned synonyms.

Lack Thereof

Words,
and in the spaces in between,
mines:
to be careful where you step is to
step where lines are dreamt
but soon forgotten.

Words,
and the eyes that read them,
signs:
to understand means to stand
under the post and point in
the right direction.

Words,
and where the letters meet,
bridges:
to speak is to move across
incorporeally into another's
set of teeth.

Words,
and behind the physicality,
thought:
to be or not to be and electricity
surges through neurons and
passes by me.

Words,
and what it all really means,
nothing:
to be left imbued by what is true
is to never have left love and it be
forever with you.

Beyond The Word(s)

Before I named it, that was it.
Those abundant skies are beyond
the vapor in my lungs, but there's closer.
The reflection in the puddle on the sidewalk,
the tears behind the water.
I did not cry to be heard, nor seen.

Before I named it, that was it.
Now it's just words on a canvas,
the paint about a picture of regret.
Now it's a second guess, mistaken
for the way it could have been
but taken as the nail that bled.

Before I named it, that was it.
Heaven's doppelganger's wish fulfilled,
directions misremembered, spilled
coffee, blood, thoughts on the carpet;
and leaves. Now, I've forgotten.
So now, I can remember again.

Going

Teeter-tottering on the edge of reason,
Wondering how long it will be until
The knife cuts deep into my opaque resolve.
Is there not long to go?
I can feel the dial turning on my clock,
An emotion switches to another.
Back here I am sitting, waiting,
For the last thing to go wrong next
And for me to fall in a straight line
Of repair, recovery, reset, repression,
Until there's just about nothing left.

Because, let's face it,
What really matters doesn't matter
And what doesn't really matter matters.
So is the web spun, twisted.
Why would we say we want it different
When we expect it always this way?

Such is how God delivers the goods.
Feastingly, our mouths: open garages
With vans of servitude parked inside.
Ready to be taken for a spin
Outside the parking lot
On the soaked roads at night
With the streetlights mirrored
In the darkened flesh of the ground.
There can't be any people here
Except cameramen and the
Director.

That's right, Him.

I don't blame him for tragedy
For two reasons:
One, it is not my blame to attribute and
Two, I cannot attribute blame where it is not.
If a guilty man were to sleep
He would sleep with his blame
And no woman nor man,
Could take it upon themselves.
No one lets go of their cross
And we carry them on our backs
In the heaviness of pain
With the anger of blame.
Imperfect tools.

After all, the weight will break our bodies
Not in a literal sense
Because that wouldn't make sense.
We'll all be smiling in heaven
In the metaphysical bliss
That's, oh, oh, so close
That you can feel it more and more.

Teeter-tottering on the edge of reason,
I'm finding no answer where none is supplied.
Riding in the front seat,
I can pretend that I am going,
But the truth is
I don't know how to drive.

The great lesson I am learning is that
The less and less I struggle to survive,
The more and more I know I am alive.
That's why I never wrote the script,
Just followed the directions.

Such A Desire

I'm going on the path of feelings once more, in the hall of exploration. It's like I've got a bridge almost pouring within out towards the screen, my canvas. So this feeling that I want to express shall cross this bridge and be communicated. That's right, grow legs and walk. Or slither.

I've met many people in my life, and I shall yet meet more. There's people that stand out though, for some reason. One of them arouses a very strange feeling within me. I'm not sure if I can get it to cross the bridge but here I am trying to lure it. I want it revealed. I wonder if this sentiment is a response to who they are, who I am, or the image that I have of them, because there is a difference between the first two and the last. Who we are is the same. But I would like to know if how I feel is due to the recognition of myself, maybe a hidden untouched part of me, within the other person, or if it an attraction of a different kind? How is this related to me? I've been trying to guess, and so I make the call now to receive an answer. I won't know the reason for the feeling until I'm ready to, and that's fine, but what the feeling actually is... I'd like to know that. Just because I don't know what to do with it. Some would say... just feel it. It is a feeling, after all. I feel feelings. But people act on feelings. I don't want to do that, I want to act on what I know, which is sure - and thus the decisions made are based on a solid unbreakable foundation. Feelings to me are more of a puzzle piece, ready to be placed in the right spot under the glass pane on the coffee table. They are like directions on a map, they tell me where I could go, but my going should be based on my knowledge of what I'm going there for.

Have I tempted you to cross the bridge? I sound like a devil... why do I need to tempt things? I don't, that's an illusion. So the bridge is set in place. It might come straight onto the canvas, but it first has to pass through my mind, which I am un-tunneling. I might not see the answer. The bridge is to a feeling, so I will feel it and I'll know the direction it's going. It is within.