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.