Second rings place flew going

A second hand
stuck in place
reflects the opposite of a warning —
time isn’t moving.
It’s stuck.
Nothing going
No growing, changing, losing.
“Time flew?”
No, but the frozen moments
stuck to you.
Stuck tacky like glue.

A place you couldn’t forget.
Losses you wouldn’t cut.
Rings you rung around your neck
like wringing hands
Wrung out laundry.
The sun + stagnant air
wouldn’t dry it.

Where do you think you’re going?
Nowhere but here.
The same old goddamn place,
year after year.
Until you’re old enough
to know it’s too late.

Second chances and racy romances
flash like mirages.
And what’s left over
is stale left-oers
no-one’s gonna eat.

It’s too late.
No take backs, right?

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SSBJ 2014

It was something I had to go through, not necessarily something I enjoyed. The results were an ebb and flow of feelings I did not expect. Words crashed against shores I did not know I had in me. And waves rose against tides I did not know would recede.

Here are those things. Incomplete pieces rambled straight from a hum to the page in an over-hot tent, alone but for a drum.
___

I have fears now,
confirmed doubts.
Things I only dreamed about.
Ways I could reach you
that’ll never do.

I was trying to be
a way I thought was good.
It wasn’t good enough.
(and) I was working on
plans to get us through.

You shot it full of holes.
Now I’m leaking water
and I’m losing blood.
And oh dear god,
someone help me out.

But hush now, you.
It’s getting late.
No one likes you when you shout
about things you can’t figure out
cry out loud
double over and roll about.

We always tear our ears away
and turn our eyes away
and put our back’s to other’s pain.
Like if we can’t hear
and if we can’t see
and let’s pretend this time so mayber
It’ll go away.

But broken hearts and lonely bodies
end up in ditches all around us
Hole in the chest
or slit by the wrist
or hanging, swinging from a neck.

We get together and say
“What a tragedy.”
“Oh, if only he’d known.
Oh, if only she’d known.
Oh, if only they’d known.”

But no-one knows a love
that stays hidden under sheets
tucked down so deep
crammed into wells and pockets
hands and darkness stuffed down on top of it
hiding from what it might’ve been.

And no-one sees a light
tossed under a blanket
tight knit wool so colorful and bright
it tricks the sharpest eyes.
So, please.
Use it to cover your senses
cover this scene,
and all the places you’re insecure about.
Then, when you’re done: tell me,
how does the love get out?

Oh if only she’d known.
If only he’d known.
If only you knew.

Some hearts are empty jars,
receptacles
where the collective hurt fills up.
Fill them to the brim.
Hands try to reach out,
to tip a bit out,
but no-one wants to get wet
or messy
or share the weight of it.

Too heavy.
Too weighty.
Too steep, they say.
And in the morning, someone new is drowned in alcohol.
Purple, bloating, floating in the river.
Bloody matted mess, hit by a train.
Shot in the head, brains on the wall.
And oh well.
Oh well.

The world is a wheel
and it keeps on spinning.
And if you can’t hold on —
well, you get my meaning.

Don’t cry about tragedies
you did nothing to prevent.
“Isn’t it too bad”
like now, you’re so sad.

Maybe this is hard to hear,
but go ahead and listen if you dare.
Moments we walk by,
pass by,
let slip by without turning
or thinking
get lost like breath in the winter
drifting off into nowhere
Things get missed
and hearts get lost
and it’s got consequences.
Not because of some far-off god.

But because the world’s a wheel.
And it just keeps on spinning.
And when you can’t hold on…
well, you get my meaning.

Maybe at some point
people might’ve done some good.
But these days it isn’t living instinct
that gets humanity by.
It’s: eat your own for dinner,
then sleep with a belly full.
Wak up midday,
and wonder where your friends all went.
Then cry about the isolation,
get up,
dine,
and do it all again.

All the while feeling
like somthing isn’t right.
Empty.
Like something’s gone missing.
Something you miss-placed, but you don’t know where
because you don’t know what
because you never had it.
So you look crazy
and act insane
and people now keep their distances
and maybe that’s not all that bad.

Because loneliness and isolate
aren’t the best companions,
but at least these friends
don’t set a table
and eat you for dinner,
crying all the time.

“How sad. How sorry
we are to do this to you.
You lost the lottery.
What are we to do?
That’s just too bad.
How sad.”

It’s a bad world.
No, it’s a dead world moving forward.
No more “hope” to cling to
hope in our own destruction.
We keep forging forward.
Keep making things worse.

So lift a glass
full of poisoned water
and toast to no-one
(be)cause everything is gone.
Pick up a factory-made fork & knife
and eat your love tonight.
Or eat the air
and starve it out
and wait it out
and wait it out
and wait it out

We’ll just have to see who wins.

If not for these…

Canto yokai rustle, unseen, in tall brush and forests. They exude illusions like twisted antlers or cut-off heads from trunks of bodies. Their eyes peer through full moons and satellites as they catch light, flare, and disappear against the black sky.

Those signs, among many, are how you know they are there. Little tricks that make you think again. Twisting dust tornadoes made of leaves. Deer with long antlers that come toward you and gaze at you, then disappear behind the branches of a weeping willow tree.

You don’t know why but they keep the pain at bay.
You don’t know how but they protect you when you are most alone.

Sleeping alone or lonely feel about the same. If neither is what you want, then test your mettle, magician — and head out into the world. You can always find what you are looking for if you know how to seek.

You’ve always been a seeker, a hunter, a night flier.
Don’t stop now because the weather’s gotten a little rough and a little cold.

The difference between the tower and the star?
Where you are looking, that’s all. It’s a matter of perspective. Upheaval or healing depend on where you are putting your eyes — not your feet. The ground may still shake and structures still break, but if you look out at all reality, you can see a better sight. A way to a home you didn’t even know you had. Signposts to lights you didn’t even know you needed. Guides to places you never even dreamed.

Feathers for death

Waiting for a break-through to pierce through the dark hanging grey.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Waiting for everything to bleed out. To be so empty that there’s only two choices: get up or die. Hoping, at the end of the day — the shock will be enough to ride.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Funny laughing at jokes that aren’t jokes at all. Staving off nightmares that aren’t in dream time cast in dreamland with faces I don’t recognize. More like twisting tangled turnings of the same moment on loop, ad agnosium.

I’m sick to my stomach. Nothing swallows the hunger. Nothing stuffs down inside that hole. But ice cold water flows through it and runs chills like tributaries up my arms, down my back. Throbbing hot but tingling, like at some point, I stood there too long and went numb.

Clicking clocks keep going. The moon’s in a new phase, but I’m so far away that I didn’t even notice. Burning scents that do nothing but make my mind run in frantic circles around the same center, at exactly the same circumference.

Pull one more pin out, unstack one more block. The levee’s already broken, so who cares? You aren’t repairing the wall, replacing the city, re-stacking stones on places you’re going to be living in.

Oh, no, minha doce. Didn’t you notice?
You’re moving the dead.

Ghosts like blackberry thorns snag on your skin and clothes and hair. Prick your knees if you lean in too close. Slice right through your barriers without any warning at all. Draw blood with one slight misstep.

You need a clever winged creature to get you out of the mess you’re in. But you don’t believe in angels and, despite what bitter mystics seem to think — birds are birds. Hunting worms and building nests and minding their own piece. They caw overhead because you happen to be passing by. Not because it means anything at all.

Your like-creatures saw something in you they didn’t like and so shed you like old skin.
And what are you going to do about it?

Ha. Ha. Ha.

You prefer feathers to flowers for the reminders. Discarded, shed, preened, and left. No mind paid to where those feathers flutter or how they rot away. The birds from which they came are long gone. You hold between fingers a remnant of a lack of necessity. Brush smoke and tie to your metal beast symbols of an obsolescence you can understand. One you feel deep down.

Maybe the birds aren’t calling, but laughing as you carry their trash around. Collect nail clippings, attach hairballs to the corners of your bike and the edges of your eyes. Like if you gather enough of this useless mass — it’ll attain a tangible meaning you can burn through.

Ha. Ha. Ha.

Nice try.