Underfoot

It was a dry day in hell when I died.
The sun bore down on an autumn sky and the hardening leaves, seemed to fly
on a gust of wind
on a one more time
But time was as brittle as their lives.
And life no longer seemed so contrived
as the day stung clear in my eyes
oh the eastern sky
could never hope to hum a reply
to the red and orange sense of last night.
When we still hung about.
When we swayed in the rain
and cackled as we swelled and we rose again.
But those days are underneath us now
or we are underneath them.
Should we rise to meet them
these feet, them.
We'll see, then.
Ho, hum under the glorious sun
cracking away underfoot
we lost touch
when we got touched.
And everyday before just passed.
Just past.
Oh, now comes the dusk and the breezes
where we incite sneezes
and tell-tale wheezes
leaves out of season
leaves, out of season

New Morning

Good morning Raleigh.

A drive-by shooting happens in an instant but the memory pierces you forever. And in that forever, the instant drags its heavy feet towards infinity. What was once a flash becomes a slow dawn rising, and at this point you're either a vampire or on your last day before a long jail sentence.
Welcome to the morning after. The drive-by becomes a great starting point for some pretentious, born-again blog entry while you smoke your own ashes. There's no more reason for a minor memory, for a flash to (enter mixed metaphor) ruin the entire roll.
Sure, a couple of pictures might have been affected, but I'll be selling them under a pseudonym and the pretense of a new art form. I'll claim they were carefully rendered and exposed just long enough, etc, etc. At that point I'll drop the guise and make millions off of a book claiming to be the sole surviving interview of a man whose true masterpiece was his deception. His art was actually the realization and self-manipulation of his 15 minute fame.
I'll use that as the dock for my writing career and dive. Who cares if the local kids push shopping carts off the edge for kicks? I'll dive in just the same.
Splash.

mad world pt 1

In these mad times, who are we but the embryos of futility, dragging our carcasses across stone lit dawn? Where haphazard circumstance bleeds viscous phlegm onto a blind god's palms, compassion is irreverent. Liquid is liquid- might be rain, might be blood, your word against mine. How then do we stumble forward, hoping at be to catch a break and not be cast off with the flow of tide? At peak hour for moratorium, the best we can offer is paltry and honest submission to our chemistry, to the science that give us sight, and the sighing that rings our plight. Never letting the effortless stipulations extracted from half-beating hearts bear the torch for the day's grudge yields only the optimal insignificance required to coexist. The dotted red lines speak truth but neglect the frenzied art of the moment, and sometimes cynicism is mistaken for reason in shaving with Occam's razor. If only half the centerfold desires of the moment were manifest in tranquil awe before our wildest imaginings- maybe then could we actually participate. Maybe then. Maybe then becomes the idealist's repertoire and, to the ears of said judge, grandiloquence.
So we spit in the gentle faces and wipe away our broken tears with a grim hope that shiver is reflex and not mode, that the humming is pretense, and not the song. Shy, shy away from the glimmer. Shy, shy away from the tremors. Never again insult or castigate the hand that blends truth in the slip of finger and calls it art.

No, no, we are not the sole surveyors of this anomaly. We instead ratchet up and ratchet down until the bolt's too tight to slip and worn of grip. In my fondest memories somewhere, a hero swarms the battlements and waves no flag. He swings no swords, he sings no chords. Just watches as prophecy unravels and reveals then turns in spite, and burns in flight.

Never give to the thicket what the tree will drop of its own accord.

drowning in the syllables

the lexicon I'll never know
I'm drowning in the syllables.
wading in the conjugations
is the soul of saint I can't defame.

where is the future for the modern man
hyper aware of how the seconds pass?
eyes on the world that swirls about
wristwatch makes a fine, fine bracelet
common faces in common places
rusted sardine cans fished from open seas
on the crest that will build to break foundations
of the pillar that shades where the turtles breach.
cascade, cascade, crescendo
fad fades black to innuendo
a thin grin smeared on a chap-lipped frown
dimple deep puddle where you soaked your gown
and the alphabet soup cutout to ransom dish
glue encrusted fingertips that failed to grip
the ledge from which you shrugged the common tongue
and gave in to the lingo, the lingo, the lingo

the lexicon I'll never know
I'm drowning in the syllables.
wading in the conjugations
is the soul of saint I can't defame.

Interrupt... pt.2

Does your sway coat you in mid-July?
Unwashed since Winter's wane
Still worn. For what?
Lack of hook?
Slack of shrug?
Anticipation?
Fall beckons its pastel gloves,
In humming winds around you.
Your scarf slips slow
as the cruel song plays.
The drone drip of the soaked through pockets
the cold dribble pasting hair to layer.
And all the while it's still July,
and sway should not be folded or hung
or shrugged
but flung from limb.
Tossed in heaps in lost and found bins?
Among the pinks and hues of fade
that fashion's fling saw fit to drop?
Or the fad fling many
felt fit to forget?
Better yet to burn
or turn for those whose felt is art,
or held for those who winter threads.

Disarm, disrobe. All in the same breath, crawl in the same vein. The blood flow ripples through rivers, so don't let your rowboat raise hairs or razed flare will boil to burn. (And knowing the smell of singe...)
Sing instead and stroke.
Fording suits you so much better.

...as though the world were as it should be

"We live as though the world were as it should be, to show it what it can be"
Angel, Season 4, Episode 1- 'Deep Down"

What a quote, eh? Sure it's taken from a television program many found kitschy or cheesy, but Angel's messages about the world reflected the goodness that can come from recognizing what's worth fighting for. If you know me, you know I can go on for hours about the relevance of Angel and Buffy, and you know that I like to; but this quote resounds with me particularly as an educator and humanitarian.

In context, Angel delivers the quote to his son Conner after having been brought back from the depths of the ocean by Wesley. Wesley had betrayed Angel in the prior season and this act was the beginning of his redemption. Angel told his son this line because Conner was awestruck at the fact that his father survived and was whining about the lack of fairness. This is a simplification of what occurred, but essentially Conner was rebelling against the fact that he was dealt a bad hand. And Angel's words resound from the heart of the show. No, life isn't fair- your background, the cards you were dealt, your job situation, your position in life- but that doesn't make it okay to to take it out on the world. Instead, show the world its potential. Angel then tells Conner that he's not quite ready to become a "Champion"- someone who fights the good fight once made aware what's going on- and proceeds to kick him out of his house.

And sure, the notion of being a "Champion" seems to belong solely to the realm of a fictional world with monsters and alternate dimensions, but we can take a cue from it, can't we? How easy it is to complain about something and then pout. How simple it is, if you think about it, to get wrapped up in simple, reactionary emotions over trivialities. However, to show the world that it can be better and to speak with confidence when faced with a daunting challenge- therein comes the struggle; but therein also emerges our inner champion.

I'm working at a difficult school. Ranked among the 6 worst in North Carolina. It would be really easy to give up, it would be really easy to simply complain. But I can't take that easy route; I won't let these innumerable odds weigh me down. Am I a champion? Hardly. But I'm working my way there.

But it doesn't stop at work. I'd like to pursue the other causes I care about more thoroughly this year. I also have many things I wish to achieve this year- including: learning to play an instrument; writing more; reading at least 2 books a month; etc. And sure, many of my desires are personal, but the achievement of my goals is a mirror for others to look into and find equal greatness within themselves. By living as the world is as it should be I show the world that it too can improve.

I guess that's my operating principle for this year. Live as the world were as it should be.
Join me and do the same.

(Cue Angel theme song)



(Just kidding)



(Or am I?)


(g)

renewing the confidence in my teeth

Do teeth hold the memories of words?
and if so,
Do faulty word decisions spawn cavity graveyards?
Does the enamel wear well when washed with weathered words?
or does it flake off... like Gumbo-limbo bark?

Food I suppose must mingle as well
to sew the patchwork collage of nostalgic quilts
in which we wrap ourselves with
during winter's wicked fits,
or leave collecting dust in the tomb of our pits.

Well then what of crowns?
And tell me, what of the fillings?
Should I fear a loss of muse born poems
at first hiss of the drill bit?
And since the bold roast fuels long hours of inspired verse,
is whitening the most frightening thought short of a sudden fist?
No wonder the old suffer Alzheimer's kiss
in between the gum and dentures
still sits enough space to slip
despite the pliant grip.
And when we delicately floss
to disengage the detritus
are we saved
from the lies read out loud in disguise?
Are we tending the fields, while we're bleeding to heal,
and do dreams of losing teeth herald
lexiconic decay?

I haven't had confidence in my teeth for years,
maybe that's why I'm so afraid to speak out, or out loud.
(Or why when I do, eyes roll and smiles fold.)
But if I chew hard, or bite down instead of tear
will my words aid the way my thoughts are often indigested?