Caelum

There is a space

of our own creation.

A place,

we share.

Soft red carpets,

and book shelves

of empty books,

filled with stories

yet to be written,

with crackling fires,

and raging storms,

where we twirl

and dance

in the warmth

of the fire

and each other,

where we smile

at each other

in the vicious rain and wind,

despite the chaos,

beauty will emerge

from him and I,

because we both

choose

to be here,

to stay here.

Reality

The rich stand on the throats of the poor, they smile dinning on rich fatty cakes, from their yachts and in their ballrooms, they look down on you at 60, with the outline of their boot print on your neck and say thank you. They’ll rip the food from your children’s hands. They’ll use them as bargaining chips while convincing you it’s about money. When they win, we’ll hail their victories knowing their absence of virtue. They’ll spend endlessly, for more power, for more resources, for more.

We wander home in bright streets, unable to see the stars. We stare at the wild, an art exhibition imprisoned in digital signals. We take night strolls to stare at the peaceful concrete jungle, illuminated by streetlights we don’t need…to smell the exhaust of our impatience. We attend cathedrals created by man, to connect with a thing that condemns its existence. We give them money, so they may hoard and craft grand altruistic illusions. Even as mother earth, sends her vines to reclaim our atrocities, we rip them from their roots and claim we know best.

We turned love, into a game of vanity. Raw fingertips, swiping for vain arousal, hoping for love, settling for those who tantalize the senses, who stimulate the nerve endings. We traded intelligence for popularity and wisdom for thumbnails. Poetry, reduced to two lines of a catchy song. Music, reduced to a 15 second bridge for quick punch lines. Lifetimes of craft dwindled down into 30 second intervals of butchered craft so that the popular can strengthen the hollow.

We do all this, and question why the world is dying. We do all this as the herd claims that god has abandoned us. If she stares patiently watching, when it requires bloody hands to turn us from the cliff’s edge—then perhaps she has, more over, perhaps its justified. Reject the herd, walk the other way, run for your life. They’ll chase you, because you’re not like them. They’ll try to convince you to kill the light, to kill the crazy. You’re not crazy. Run damn you, run. There’s still light out here, not much, but enough. When you find it, keep it alive. Keep the lighthouse lit, there are souls drowning in the dark. Just hold on to it because we’re counting on you.

Academics

At its highest level, is answering unanswerable questions, by sounding concretely certain of your answers, knowing you’re full of shit, hoping they don’t notice, being certain you don’t belong in the room, and feeling overwhelmingly outmatched, and yet somehow walking away feeling satisfied…and more confused than when you walked into the room.

Ü

Reader malfunction,

line cutter,

to old to care,

a computer error,

a frazzled attendant

a teacher,

a memory,

a printer out of paper,

a router auto reset,

empty paper towel roll,

…empty toilet paper roll,

empty box of dusters,

memory,

sweep,

memory,

vaccum,

memory,

Thomas,

memory,

almost out of gas,

line cutter,

to old to care,

slow petrol pump,

memory,

memory,

skip 15 songs,

memory,

phone call with a sweet lady,

memory,

call home,

memory,

Pay Bill,

memory,

rage,

memory,

love,

memory,

kind…

…patience,

…silence,

…patience,

…silence,

…patience,

…peace.

Dear Sister

May these words traverse the Iris

and find you in Oblivion.

I know you’re scared,

but I need you to wake up.

There’s to many of them.

I need your help.

I’m falling short.

They’re breaching the walls of Eden.

I need you to smell the smoke.

I need you to see the fire.

I need you to hear the screams.

I need you to hear the alarm.

It’s time.

The world needs us,

now more than ever.

It’s going to take all of us to turn them around.

I’m doing everything I can.

I need you to wake up!

Sober

My fingers will dig into flesh,

I’ll scream peeling away the rage,

blood will pour out,

staining the carpet.

The cracks will reopen,

my chest will feel cold.

Fury will be my companion,

reeking havoc on those I Love.

Muscles will tighten in the cold,

I’ll rip them from bone,

Every nerve will die.

I’ll walk out in the sun a bag of bones,

cold and long since dead, for them.

In spite of you,

I will Love them.

Tomorrow’s Deep End

I know it’s coming,

It does every year.

No matter how much good

you throw at me,

I will never forget

what you’ve taken.

Save your platitudes,

they only serve as insults.

The Dreams,

The Gifts,

The Storms,

The Kulning,

…The Rage,

…The Numbing,

As if it’s some scale for you to balance.

I hope you fucking choke on them.

Dear Diary

For just today—can you go fuck yourself.

I’m just not in the mood

for the incessant ramblings of a mad man.

The dragon sleeps,

leave it be.

The Poet

How lucky you are to Love so bravely.

Rest

There comes a time when the caffeine maxes out, when the body refuses to take more. A time when the burn of cigarette smoke feels more masturbatory than soothing. A time when thoughts rip wildly from one corner of the mind to the next. When the weed only creates panic, and the music shoves you instead of hugging you. A time when every time you try to think, it’s always about her, and the feeling that the world is ending right in front of you..and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re not sick, you’re just awake. If I could I would take the burden from you, but I can’t. So rest, rest deeply, as much as you can. Save your strength, because there’s more to come—but don’t worry about that right now. For now, just rest.

“God damn you, I Said Create!”

The walls are closing in. The night is quiet. All I can hear is that god damned voice. “Just put it on the fucking page!”

Roses

Tonight, I remember you and sit in the scent of roses, wishing you were still here. Even in death, I feel the cold against my shoulder, and I know you’re here. I don’t know if that’s enough, not really anyway, but I lie and tell myself it is because it has to be.

Gifts

Love is receiving heartbreak in a gift wrapped box, with open date you can’t see, and it’s the single most precious thing you will ever be given in this lifetime. Keep it, for as long as you can…trust me.

Children

You executed their fathers, leaving them in the mud. You raped and murdered their mothers. You destroyed their homes. You left them starving in the streets. You killed the people who rushed to their rescue. You exploited their suffering in the name of security, nationalism, and ‘justice’. You weaponized their love for each other. You killed the people who tried to tell their story. You have forfeited the right to forgiveness. Should they forgive you, it is a reflection of their divinity—not yours—but you have lost the right to ask for it. Your soul has been scorched.

Eternity

You’ll find it, and then you’ll lose it. So, don’t worry about it. Sure fighting to hang onto it is pretty normal. But you will lose. It’s the fight that you’re not meant to win. You’ll get angry…then depressed. Sooner or later you’ll begin to understand. Eventually you’ll light a cigarette and take a deep breath. You’ll breathe smoke and be happy again. You’ll delight in the little moments that remind you that none of this is forever. You won’t remember but you will understand that this is just a play, and nothing matters. Trust me—that’s worth so much more.

Shit

Shit…I’m desperate for more adventure. The last time, I ended up in bed with the military industrial complex and mil tech companies. I don’t like where this feeling is going.

The Trainman

When my ticket finally arrives, let’s not delay. Give me a quiet seat in the back with a window. Ask the bar keep for a stiff whiskey with some branch water. Then, leave me in peace to watch the window, and remember her. This dreadful place can keep the rest.

Paradise

If this is paradise,

then let my blood,

and consider,

my pound of flesh paid.

Suspicious Little Creature

I don’t trust you, joy.
She arrives glowing—
cracking beautiful things.
A vain little creature,
in a porcelain mask.

Joy is sugar on the rim
a glass full of poison.
Always sweet—
till something breaks.
Left costly choking.

Let me vanish into shadow.
Leave me be.
Let me make something that’s mine,
where none can see,
and with mud of earth in my pores.

I don’t want joy—
just meaning.
Let its weight lay honest.
I"d rather feel the culling of truth,
then fall to its dulling.

Don’t trust those who smile too widely—
Their light is borrowed,
and reclaimed just the same.
There’s always something hiding
in a face never wavering.

Losing Real

For those who have found the real

screwed it up and lost it.

My heart aches for you,

not because of the loss,

terrible as it may be.

There is still beauty in the loss.

I mourn not for your melancholy.

There is grace in your longing.

I mourn for you.

For your moving forward.

Even if you find it again,

you’ll never trust it.

Even if Heaven silver platters it

You will question Heaven’s motive.

You should question Heaven’s motive.

You see?

I mourn your loss of the real.

Know that,

even this loss,

is a liberation.

This is—freedom.

This is—true choice.