Archive | August, 2014

Despite How Much I Adore Warm Socks

4 Aug

Grains of desert cling to my toes
As if obedient to my plea that my feet shall never leave this earth.

I see warmth.
Negligent to the rays lubricating the nape of my neck
With my own perspiration,
And the breath of the sea with its foam.

In the worn books on nomadic bookshelves;
In the multicolored metal upon which muscles are strained;
In the orange dust where I have walked
This time last year —
And the year before;
In the ripened hands that kneed the bread
That has risen with our prayer
And savored on the nights given leave to relax,
I see warmth.
Paradoxical – Diverse Unison
Hung before every door hinge
Each outlet interconnected with strings of the same brand,
Colors of sightly varied hues
but interwoven
Behind the blue of the sea
And the white of the sand
And the brilliance of the stars on the nights spent awake.

I ask only for warmth to embrace my toes
So they may not find reason
In winter socks.

Airplanes

4 Aug

Suspended in an altitude beyond comprehension
Space from four sides compresses to our heads
As if too lonesome miles above our homes
To survive without human contact.
Greedy intentions from a pitiful source,
It consumes the sound from our lips
But regurgitates the rumbles of the jet,
A justifiable reminder of the thousands of inches we pass per-second.

The neighborhoods filled with homes;
The playgrounds filled with children;
Piercing their territorial sky with nothing but a fleeting welcome
As the white metal inches
From the normalcy we’ll never counteract.

Friends Between Deadlines

4 Aug

Time and I shook hands in accordance of priority,
And yet it slipped
As clay molded into the other.

Though priority seems irrelevant
As sketch finds friend in word
And paint aligns with ballpoint,
(Strange intermingling with the air between skin)
Innovation sculpted in the throat
And hung in rows of blank sheets under the shade cast by our tongue.
They rip by our words
And cough, then, the hues
Splattered into the space around our lips
That is freckled
As the art couches to fit between artists

3… Four…

4 Aug

Keep count;
How many bricks must creak loose from this temple
Before these hands begin a massacre
And beat it to dust?
The threat of this indiscriminate slaughter,
The battle cry rumbling from the base of my palm,
The anticipation for chaos to revoke chaos
Has infected my thoughts, as though parasitic to potential positivity,
Light not shown and yet welcoming the light.
1…
Two…

You Tell Me…

4 Aug

Is obscurity not a label?
If anything, is it not a label of the unlabeled,
of the uncategorized or inexplicable?

A Painting of a Tree

4 Aug

My imagination streaks a picture of a presence in a fashion as idealistic as luminescent light illuminating this coffee shop. I chain myself to the acknowledgement that idealism is only oils coated behind biased perception, playing behind eyes that saw too much anyway.
I’d see intermingling branches when I’d peer above myself, not in the crude, harsh interaction of wood against wood, but instead the content, interweaving leaves of adjoining stagnancy. The energy emitted from those arms, trudging in equally submissive unison, interjects the preset tension of external qualms, gentle coating my hands and softening my fingertips. I do not see roses growing from the cracks in the pavement, nor do I see colors drenching the blown up advertisements crowing our heads. But, accepted obscurity, adjoined challenges, defaulted respect, I do see, and each hint of our positivity strips away the debris from my chest, the warmth melting the remaining grains of past ignorance.
Let fate set a gilded frame on the solidity before our roots into which we can rest, not for the world to perceive but instead, to lock us in place, to ensure us into a proximity in which you can see my every flaw, every imperfection to the stitch of my skin. Though that which makes me human looms like a blotch of ink on the corner of your glasses, our quarrels can be dismissed as imperfections as well. These marks that taint the space between us make us as human as we are.
But our humanity only catalyzes the rest, only prints the blank sheets of looseleaf upon which we will both drag the pen. Abandon predeterminations, misconstrued romanticism. Just speak, and let speak, as the birds that lie on our interwoven branches do the same.

September

4 Aug

I have marked four pages
Since the blank loose-leaf manufactured last September,
And yet all I could want is to write you away.

Metronome

4 Aug

The gentle padding of the routine jogger’s strides along River Vale road could be heard like a metronome from the opposite side of the town. Which laid, understandable, about 12 square miles from where she ran. Though the midday sunlight streamed through a crack in the blanketing clouds, deeming it an optimistically decent day, the only sounds able to be heard were the thumps of the jogger’s relentless feet beating the already-beaten-down concrete.
The squeaking tires or the occasional passenger along the town’s single main road rang like a foreign instrument, interrupting the orchestra of practical silence of which this town prided itself. The jogger, by mere cause of routine, would pause her metronymic steps about the entrance of the Country Store, where she’d order their famous Pike Roast, enjoy the bitter energy warming her throat, and thus continue her daily path along the silence.
The Country Store, and all of its secluded corners, served as a reservation for teenage recklessness, the air encompassing the lingerie musk of all the “firsts” experienced there: the tentative first kiss of exhilarated middle schoolers, with the intention of infiltrating adulthood; the first swig of Jack Daniels by the time-constrained freshman, all with the apprehension that the next call to his phone would be by his omniscient mother; the first horribly conducted “puff puff pass” by the group of sophomores who swore they never would, six years before. All the firsts, all the experimental actions taken by kids who thought had known better, billowed upon that earth like grey smog from the chimney of a fireplace. The under-nourished ground absorbed that smog as if in hope of some water, and yet the firsts continued clouding as children continue growing. Like a cycle. This town, I’ve realized, is a cycle.

I Can’t Lie; I’ve Known

4 Aug

The music did nothing to pacify my shaking hands.
The coffee did not sooth the palpitations of my heart.
The metallic taste of anxiety,
Tentative recognition of an inevitable outcome,
Interminability pooled near the walls of my mouth
And dried lips.

And yet these symptoms of dismembering woe
Always laid prevalent, dormant,
Only resurrected
When I forced my negligent mind to recognize a reality
In play behind brilliant wallpaper.

This could not exist.
This could not exist.