trickster

 

just a small setback
for what is real
underneath the feet
for sounds which ring
when touched under layers
of dust and bling
it may have been sheet rock
in the mists of time
now its quicksand and clay
may still be solid
six feet away
my feet, my dignity
tangle and sink
but my mind
grows clear as day
I cannot dispute
the nature of soil
I can only slide away

 

 

ma-donna-ona-rock

 

but humans care for each other
you're talking to a broken mirror

 

but tears are meant to stop our bleeding
you weren't there when the glass was dropped

 

but isnt compassion a human faith
only while the frame will hold

 

but we all walk, with the same hopes
rattling a bag of jagged bones

 

but I bled, because I allowed your cut
and the path is red, the glass is red

 

but our souls are both, precious and tired
only when glass is left behind

 

but why is your hate, so close to my life
because, whats yours, should have been mine

 

 

prepping for a tailspin

 

what could be the world throwing a new sunrise up the heavens, emergent blue, gleaming slowly, is also sheer panic and clinging to an old worn heartbeat, mustnt stop, no matter what, or all will be lost.

the long black boots, the odd huddle of bright clothes on the floor, the storm outside, the shapes and corners protected from rain, the concentric squares of gadgetry, the little minutes between music and pauses, everything is on the balance, as we go tumbling off

this speed is but a roaring inside, the sky, is detached and blue, also cloudy and beautiful, the horizon is untouched

there are pills and potions to curve a banana embrace around the screaming heart, there are numbnesses and soothing noises, there are breaths that can be taken oblivious, there is an eye to cloud lock that can be held with fierce concentration, reality is but a switch away

reality is neither relentless nor still, its more strings of excitement and calm tugging from both ends, it is music, ebbing and climbing, it is a curiously dissatisfied onlooker claiming balance among chaos

somewhere beyond the sky lives clarity, with a straight line horizon and five pointed stars, and to find it, there is no other way than to believe and keep looking, even as the ground is rushing up

 

depth perception

 

my feet have seen forever
in the void, and clawing out
but my hands dont open palm
life is far more beautiful
from the inside, and you
my mystery beyond reason
at the peak of a vista
why do your eyes
stare down the void
how does your compassion
move mountains,
when the object is you
how can I hate you,
I dont even understand
the essential you

 

 

bells and whistles

was it an old door, frozen compressed,
rusted by flashes of heat in the edges,
in a stone wall, pockmarked with oil,
sliding across, in stylized drips and curves,
the wood rectangle in between, untouched by grease,
you know it will creak, if it ever opened
a wishing well, an enchanted garden, a magic faraway land,
what would the other side be
maybe the same underneath, concrete and brick, brown painted,
artwork on oils, eyesore, veneer, finish
some doors must always be tried,
and when the skin lies, ask the debris