A thousand implications. (12-13-2011)

Sometimes I do the dance of misunderstanding, chanting to myself, 'no body gets it.' You tell me I'm confusing and I assure you the feeling is mutual. I am the fool, but for a thousand times have asked you to read implications of experiences that you do not have. No one criticizes themselves like this, where they can foresee the selfish man that others have tried to consume with condiments. No one has the tongue for the raw elements. It is the preparations of the knife, discarding the fat, and catering to your tastes that we unite in a meal. Dancing alone keeps me away, until I get tired of all that, and return to gardening.

The Sin of Thoughts (3-8-2011)

Concerns of status, of position, and loss thereof, travel in thoughts, taught to be afraid. I, a performer, and observer of such things, at times will negate my desire to play, and ponder any meaning of why. I wonder if I am suffering, if my dreams are escapes, or visions of a world man will one day come to know.

In my drive home from work is the religious pattern of turns and thoughts. The sky, the clouds, the trees can only be noticed when I am empty of all those things. I turn on the air to imitate the cool breeze from a former verse, as though it could replicate rotting sentiments. I will play with words to discover a description of the opening in the clouds near the horizon. I want to tell you how the ends of the clouds are like tails, in a line, in some parade, moving at one speed; not one of the parts moving faster or slower. I want to replicate something private, expose it for viewing, and believe that an imitation won’t scar the fact of its genuine mother.

I wonder why I am angry, but as it occurs, I rarely consider its source. Is it because of my friend, the time I spent with her, the way she has influenced me, and now that we’re away, that anyone else is not her? Can’t they see me as she does, learn to treat me the same, or is it that I’ve held her so close, afraid to release her, and do the same amount of work with a stranger?

What will my confessions produce in the minds of the striving? Can my subtle doubts wake man to the emptiness in his heart so he isn’t afraid of the hollowness he has carved? Can I make friends with the privacy of God, keeping our door open for those willing to sit towards the face of the sky? I’ll keep the air blowing, and my heart in practice, hoping that my promise never has to deal with conflict. Better yet, I’ll release my promise, and forgive this deity for the sin of thoughts.

As I am Dead

Was it the cold nip on my legs that lead me to those nights, waiting in line for the club, and how difficult it was to wait with such a desire to be noticed.

What did it mean to be young and so full with thoughts of men? What would you say of a man who wanted to be wanted?

It’s totally useless, how amazed I was at the bird, swooping back and forth in a reoccurring U-shaped flight, in between the branches of the tall pine, over and over again. My amazement has no bearing to the night or to men. My amazement has no meaning. It is completely empty, as I am alive, watching a bird, as I am dead watching men.

Breathlessness...

I recently discovered in an old scrap book a poem I wrote when I was probably around the ages of 10-12. I can still remember, very specifically, that I was at my grandparent’s house, in the back room, sitting in a large reclining chair. It was either late spring or summertime, during the night. The windows were open, and I was experiencing the breeze, and the sound of a few lonely cars driving by on the main road in the isolated country of Pennsylvania. I don’t remember what was happening in my life at the time, but I recall, in that moment, I was experiencing a profound awareness of myself, where I felt like I couldn’t breathe enough air, that my lungs were bottomless, almost like the feeling one experiences when they contemplate the infinite. I felt the large, vast, open space of the dark night. I felt incredibly alive. I then recorded in that moment this poem, questioning what it meant:

What am I doing?
Why am I waiting here?
Why can’t I say something?
What is this feeling I have inside me?
Why do I feel this way?
All I did was read a book, and think a little, and now I have a weird feeling in my stomach.
Is it god?
Who are you?
What do you want?
Why do I feel Déjà vu?
Is my death near?
Explain!
What it is about music that gets me going?
Why?
Help me cry! God! I love you.
Am I in Love?
Marry me.
Children?
My heart cries!
Love is the answer!
Help.
God loves forever.
Me.