And while the afternoons Raged...
“Es esto el amor?”
Eyes posed, fixated, darting, searching. Locked as in a wizard’s battle, wands held high, aiming for the heart. The silence pressed up against them, uniting the silence, anger, resonance of shouts that had rebounded through halls and reached silken ears. Silence like walls of water displaced by Moses, and ideas and emotions flew in between like messenger doves. He shifted his weight, his next words wading through his mind. Her face looked puzzled, shocked, like the man after he plunges off the 400 foot bridge.
“Es esto el amor?”
He asked again. Her tears were gathering presence, and small red ambient lights gathered at the rims of her eyes. He rarely spoke her mother language, romantic and passionate even at its smallest edges.
There were no words left in the void.
Violent storms and raging waters crashed in his chest; a vessel, a flask of bone, sinew, passions, hopes, thoughts, A Mind!
He then sat, hopeless, and let the next torrent of words, reprimands, retorts wash him, buzzing of an angry radiator. And inside, a question rang clear. Is This Love? The love he knew was understanding, joyous, elemental, solid. And here he stood on a flimsy plank of promises, plans, schedules, forecasts, premonitions. A solid yet questionable form. But then again, he thought, What is solid? Such questioning only leads on to more questioning, like a magician’s colored handkerchief trick or the paper chain you made in 4th grade. An endless stream of wanderings, realities, consciousnesses. When the buzzing, flashing exuberance dissipated, he carried his mind to a resting place. “The search for peace requires so much,” he thought. Or so little? A spider’s web of a road system, organized and chaotic, fractals he found in nature and himself. And he was unsure. Is this Love?
He was the writer writing the master novel, he would change the nation, change the World! But no one knew it-not yet.
Slap. The loud smack, skin on skin, slipping in slow motion, head turns, view changes. He let his eyes linger where they were left, like the man getting off his bus for his first job interview, clueless; without direction. A series of his failures, his life now becoming strings and spirals, interconnected and weaving, making the ragged towel draped on his neck, collecting the grit and sweat like a collector collects his obsessions. Like the desk he had at home, cluttered with bits and pieces of his life.
Boom, it filled the room as it emptied of his tobacco-stenched thoughts and ideas, sucked out by the cold world awaiting, jaws open and welcoming, an angler in his midst.
Crackle crisp shuftle, dirt gathered at his feet, small tufts of grass poking through among the time-packed, man-packed, car-packed earth. There were shopping-cart tracks leading away, out from under the bridge. He remembered as a child seeing an old woman leaving the Publix parking lot, making those shopping cart tracks he saw now. He remembered how the wheels shook violently as the old lady pushed the cart along, indomitable. He remembered her tired, old face that told stories, stories in every line, in every shade, hue, shadow. All she had lived. He let his thoughts drift off and dissipate like the smoke leaving his lips, swirling in the night air. Picture a man under a small highway bridge. He is approximately 25 years old, and carries small baggage, with a cigarette in hand. A small homemade star in the sky of the night.
At first light he got up, and brought one step to another, increasing his tempo, while shouts got louder. Deep breaths and shallow steps he took as he slid down the street, a bustle and hustle scene. With each step his mind flashed Polaroids. Sister, Mother, Smiling dad, Sister, playtime, car ride home, Mister, Sister, choices undone, structure, words, things unknown.
Being blasted. And I’m still government cheese, I’m still being operated on. The experiments continue, the conspiracy thickens.
And he took the last swig, ended with a spit, pills dropped, stamps popped. Bam bam flam rang tang shwam.
Then there he had realized that he sat there in the gutter, leaving not one cent, not one legacy for his mother, and his father was cutting the grass and pulling weeds at 60, while his momma sat inside getting tipsy to forget the regret that had welled up inside her, sitting in an empty tomb, a full womb, with a flourished yard, pink bright trims, a smiley sunface peeking out, hanging on a wall, a wallflower, a witness to what had been and what now is, with these people, these PEOPLE LOST in between the cracks of their easy life-couches, among the dirty pennies, lint, and old paperclips. Turn, turn, turn in your grave till there’s no place to go. Caught in a drift of snow. And this isn’t any old over-the-river-through-the-woods-occasion. This is your life.
The supermarket bagboy watched through his sporty glasses as you crossed the finishline of the good race. But you’re two weeks late, delayed by the clug clug clug of fermentation’s product in your glass and it wouldn’t have happened if you would’ve gotten off your ass and gotten the job then you wouldn’t be in this smog. Aha! You tipsy tyrant, get up and be known!
“So I’m still being operated on, I’m still government cheese,” he thought. He thought. Or thought he thought. Or acknowledged, or contemplated. Or… Envisioned it? Is all I am a lab rat, tucked away in a vat of psychadessens? Pick your choose and I’m outlawed again. Immigration of dopamine though synapse barriers, firing things fight his war. Is he finding truth? Uh-oh once again, drain drain there go my memories, swirl on down the dark tube. Boob tube comedies wack wack fast food heart attack! AND HERE I AM ALL ALONE I’VE CHOSEN NEVER TO HAVE A HOME! NEVER HOME. Never home. Drip drops cling to my spider web, and I weave it right. That’s just to be though, alright?
I am your view-changer, I am your drug,
I’ll change views, make the news from my writings
In this gutter bog. Because you know nothing,
And I discover it all. I solve the mysteries they
Call unsolved.
Looking for love in all the wrong places restrictions then different faces, you thought it was alright, make it past midnight, but you lost the Light, youth was Crushed, tell me who you are then we back to lime-lust. People start cussin it up, before they take it up, problems your disillusion, wide-eyed, you create confusion. You break ties make lies wake tries. Machinery crunches the back ground, make the unholy sound. Casual relations slide by the line, backsides. Every time.
And that day he emerged from the jungle, a retrofitted light fixture soaking in the radiance abundant around him. Newly born, informed to a degree. Simple pleasures abounded his smiles and with his arms crossed, he was Content. The notes drifted in and out of his ears like tides on a sandy eardrum, and he followed their peaks and depressions.
For tragic men we all are, You and I.
Binding our souls to slavery, given up to
Sacrifice.
Those sensitive lay life in the world
Hoping it will return whole and new.
They never knew that the only reason
That we dealt empty
Was because we gave it away
In hopelessness;
My Turn.
Hope you all enjoyed it,
Feel free to comment or question.
Eyes posed, fixated, darting, searching. Locked as in a wizard’s battle, wands held high, aiming for the heart. The silence pressed up against them, uniting the silence, anger, resonance of shouts that had rebounded through halls and reached silken ears. Silence like walls of water displaced by Moses, and ideas and emotions flew in between like messenger doves. He shifted his weight, his next words wading through his mind. Her face looked puzzled, shocked, like the man after he plunges off the 400 foot bridge.
“Es esto el amor?”
He asked again. Her tears were gathering presence, and small red ambient lights gathered at the rims of her eyes. He rarely spoke her mother language, romantic and passionate even at its smallest edges.
There were no words left in the void.
Violent storms and raging waters crashed in his chest; a vessel, a flask of bone, sinew, passions, hopes, thoughts, A Mind!
He then sat, hopeless, and let the next torrent of words, reprimands, retorts wash him, buzzing of an angry radiator. And inside, a question rang clear. Is This Love? The love he knew was understanding, joyous, elemental, solid. And here he stood on a flimsy plank of promises, plans, schedules, forecasts, premonitions. A solid yet questionable form. But then again, he thought, What is solid? Such questioning only leads on to more questioning, like a magician’s colored handkerchief trick or the paper chain you made in 4th grade. An endless stream of wanderings, realities, consciousnesses. When the buzzing, flashing exuberance dissipated, he carried his mind to a resting place. “The search for peace requires so much,” he thought. Or so little? A spider’s web of a road system, organized and chaotic, fractals he found in nature and himself. And he was unsure. Is this Love?
He was the writer writing the master novel, he would change the nation, change the World! But no one knew it-not yet.
Slap. The loud smack, skin on skin, slipping in slow motion, head turns, view changes. He let his eyes linger where they were left, like the man getting off his bus for his first job interview, clueless; without direction. A series of his failures, his life now becoming strings and spirals, interconnected and weaving, making the ragged towel draped on his neck, collecting the grit and sweat like a collector collects his obsessions. Like the desk he had at home, cluttered with bits and pieces of his life.
Boom, it filled the room as it emptied of his tobacco-stenched thoughts and ideas, sucked out by the cold world awaiting, jaws open and welcoming, an angler in his midst.
Crackle crisp shuftle, dirt gathered at his feet, small tufts of grass poking through among the time-packed, man-packed, car-packed earth. There were shopping-cart tracks leading away, out from under the bridge. He remembered as a child seeing an old woman leaving the Publix parking lot, making those shopping cart tracks he saw now. He remembered how the wheels shook violently as the old lady pushed the cart along, indomitable. He remembered her tired, old face that told stories, stories in every line, in every shade, hue, shadow. All she had lived. He let his thoughts drift off and dissipate like the smoke leaving his lips, swirling in the night air. Picture a man under a small highway bridge. He is approximately 25 years old, and carries small baggage, with a cigarette in hand. A small homemade star in the sky of the night.
At first light he got up, and brought one step to another, increasing his tempo, while shouts got louder. Deep breaths and shallow steps he took as he slid down the street, a bustle and hustle scene. With each step his mind flashed Polaroids. Sister, Mother, Smiling dad, Sister, playtime, car ride home, Mister, Sister, choices undone, structure, words, things unknown.
Being blasted. And I’m still government cheese, I’m still being operated on. The experiments continue, the conspiracy thickens.
And he took the last swig, ended with a spit, pills dropped, stamps popped. Bam bam flam rang tang shwam.
Then there he had realized that he sat there in the gutter, leaving not one cent, not one legacy for his mother, and his father was cutting the grass and pulling weeds at 60, while his momma sat inside getting tipsy to forget the regret that had welled up inside her, sitting in an empty tomb, a full womb, with a flourished yard, pink bright trims, a smiley sunface peeking out, hanging on a wall, a wallflower, a witness to what had been and what now is, with these people, these PEOPLE LOST in between the cracks of their easy life-couches, among the dirty pennies, lint, and old paperclips. Turn, turn, turn in your grave till there’s no place to go. Caught in a drift of snow. And this isn’t any old over-the-river-through-the-woods-occasion. This is your life.
The supermarket bagboy watched through his sporty glasses as you crossed the finishline of the good race. But you’re two weeks late, delayed by the clug clug clug of fermentation’s product in your glass and it wouldn’t have happened if you would’ve gotten off your ass and gotten the job then you wouldn’t be in this smog. Aha! You tipsy tyrant, get up and be known!
“So I’m still being operated on, I’m still government cheese,” he thought. He thought. Or thought he thought. Or acknowledged, or contemplated. Or… Envisioned it? Is all I am a lab rat, tucked away in a vat of psychadessens? Pick your choose and I’m outlawed again. Immigration of dopamine though synapse barriers, firing things fight his war. Is he finding truth? Uh-oh once again, drain drain there go my memories, swirl on down the dark tube. Boob tube comedies wack wack fast food heart attack! AND HERE I AM ALL ALONE I’VE CHOSEN NEVER TO HAVE A HOME! NEVER HOME. Never home. Drip drops cling to my spider web, and I weave it right. That’s just to be though, alright?
I am your view-changer, I am your drug,
I’ll change views, make the news from my writings
In this gutter bog. Because you know nothing,
And I discover it all. I solve the mysteries they
Call unsolved.
Looking for love in all the wrong places restrictions then different faces, you thought it was alright, make it past midnight, but you lost the Light, youth was Crushed, tell me who you are then we back to lime-lust. People start cussin it up, before they take it up, problems your disillusion, wide-eyed, you create confusion. You break ties make lies wake tries. Machinery crunches the back ground, make the unholy sound. Casual relations slide by the line, backsides. Every time.
And that day he emerged from the jungle, a retrofitted light fixture soaking in the radiance abundant around him. Newly born, informed to a degree. Simple pleasures abounded his smiles and with his arms crossed, he was Content. The notes drifted in and out of his ears like tides on a sandy eardrum, and he followed their peaks and depressions.
For tragic men we all are, You and I.
Binding our souls to slavery, given up to
Sacrifice.
Those sensitive lay life in the world
Hoping it will return whole and new.
They never knew that the only reason
That we dealt empty
Was because we gave it away
In hopelessness;
My Turn.
Hope you all enjoyed it,
Feel free to comment or question.