Determined to remember the beauty in my life

Our Bed a Spot of Life


Sleeping next to you I breathe your breath.
Am I dizzied with carbon dioxide?
Or have I been snared by the promise in your
gravitational pull?
I orbit around you and revolve,
my source of life
in a cold, airless abyss.
The lashes of your closed lids
entice me to the paths
my lips would take, tenderly brushing your cheeks.
The water betwixt our tangled limbs
overflows from my soul
finding perfect repose in your embrace:
stretched beyond perfect relaxation
into ecstatic harmony.
I melt beyond my earthly
container and mingle with you,
inseparable and home,
expanding until I am permeated
and assimilate you into my being.
Our sweat joins from every pore
and we dream peacefully
in and throughout one another.

A response to being a reluctant consumer of an oppressive culture

Consumerism

I watched as the flesh yeilded
scabbard-like
to the repeated thrusting of a bloody sword
and I hated.
I hated the Man
composing the law which ravages humanity;
I hated the woman
all eagerness to please and fading into non-entity;
I hated myself
who joined my voice with those in the horde,
despairing that my whimpered protests
were lost in the squall.

Borne from boredom and reflection

Ruminations on Giving Up Hope

Each Day passes away
as I pass away.
A cycle of sleeping and waking:
always sleeping and never resting,
relentlessly shaken from sleep
never fully awakened.
Even the wraith of me fades.
What a hardy shade!
It dwindles to a lone atom,
ever dying yet not to be extinguished.

a snapshot of a fragment of where i am right now

i find myself totally inadequate for writing about the big things. i am afraid to write about things that i know are common to all humanity, like the problem of suffering and justice. the problem of a good and merciful God and a shitty world where everyone suffers and nobody is able to and/or nobody cares enough to do anything about it. i find myself struggling to bestow wisdom when i am totally unwise. that's really it i think. i want to fix it, or to make it palatable, but i can produce nothing without cliche. it seems wise to say there are no answers sometimes, but now i think that's just a prideful way of saying that i have no answers.

Rough Draft... Michael Thinks its too Melodramatic

I Know Your Head Aches

Scream, cry, prick yourself and moan...
You'll never get home...
now lick your wounds.
... always alone, you'll never get home.

Off on a shadowed island unattached and bound
ever on and into nothing.
You are nothing where you are
your self and alone.
You, the cause, are not the solution.
You, the lonely, are not a home.
So flee on, and as fleeing
descend into void.

This poem is inspired by CS Lewis's very short story called "The Man Who Was Born Blind"

Tribute to Things Unknowable or Uknown

The light, when it illuminates, does not discriminate.
Embracing all in equanimity it self-eviscerates.
Doing all it can to share its heart
its plans are fraught with flaw,
and in showing him everything
shows nothing at all.
The Man Who Was Born Blind knows only what the light contributes;
the ease it brings to his commutes
or unease (all other senses reduced).
The light's soul is mute,
or so it seems,
to the man, moot.
But when the glory so often un-looked-for
and more often unseen "comes to light," as it were,
he shoots through the mist to grasp that which he knows not
and plummets empty-handed to the rocks.

For Neil

Box

What a poetic word is box,
and it in all its ways is yours
my dear, dear friend.
The box and the word together
(is there one without the other?)
contain you and you them.
Yet only one god
there is
the box and the word for the god,
and the god self-bound ever and unto
the boxish, boxing, box-ed box.
You, you've got your box.

who the heck knows

Forever Is Not So Long

Out there is a canvas
all gradations of black and white and metallic shine,
but flecks of life here and there
among the synthetic bustle.
The organic punctuates--no--it defines.
It punctures the plastic surface
and the real escapes in bursts;
irrepressible shocks of air which force us to breathe and know.
And know whom? Or what? Or whence?...
Or why it is we know not until it happens upon us?