journal-9, maker

I want to be a maker of things, not a destroyer. a deliveryman. life comes in small packages, discreetly, sometimes anonymously. a knock on the door. I'm unsure. shaken but enthusiastic. unmoved. I stare at the door. the knocking fades away. I live in a valley. I sleep by the brook. the water makes me happy. trickling water is a happy phrase. I've forgotten my address. it doesn't matter. the deliveryman knows it.

on any random Tuesday the empty faces fill my view. do mirth and gaiety know the days of the week? say "Friday" to yourself and try not to smile just a little. she says "FriYay" once in a while and it lights me up. her voice is home, as distant as it may be.

the Anhinga is sometimes called a snakebird. its adept at swimming and flying. two mediums through which to roam. the male constructs a nest before he even has a mate. anticipation... what a luxury of consciousness. a bundle of thrills... just... waiting... waiting... 

when I was much younger, I used to sneak out at night. I'd open my bedroom window, take the screen out and quietly climb through. the change of environments was instantly palpable. leaving one known address for another place that didn't have one. I wanted to make something new, somewhere else. somewhere beneath midnight's umbilicus the forbidden fruit was spread out for the feast. I wanted to be the one who knew where it was. I wanted to make my home there.

(Image from fravery.tumblr.com)

confluence

absence runs on

two rivers flowing

simultaneous of

rivers running and

two absences 

flowing

where the bends and

breaks veer sideways

and unstoppable while

the ups and downs 

break and veer into

bends

come alive in the end

returning to confluence

and gather as a joining

alive with the return to

what comes as an end 

in confluence

(My gif)

aye, the sailor

aye, the sailor grieves at sea

for love awaiting his lonely journey

  come sun, come moon

  come forth the tides

as hope recedes, the sailor sighs

aye, the sailor grieves at sea

as time becomes his callous enemy

  come brooding dread

  that love has beguiled

nigh the end, the sailor dies

(Image from fravery.tumblr.com)

frozen in time

we wait days

sometimes weeks

to spend hours

higher than high

follow me 

into a kiss

into a bliss

into a giddy 

recklessness

if our way

was to be had

we would

sometimes

be forever

making days

sometimes weeks

out of hours

frozen in time

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

pieces in pieces

I'm in my own head again

I don't like it here

  it scares me

war zone

chaos in a blender

the torture of many inside one

lunatic tied to a chair

the beatings

the beatings

they don't stop

boiling water in the

cauldron

small sparks set the

flame

keep the lights off

I don't want to see these

me's

these ugly

ugly monsters

(Image from georgepratt.com)

empty sandbox

quick-killed

                 atomic blast

fission plays above a body

where the scorched skin

still leaves a reek

the sandbox is empty now

dreams

  like childhood laughter

  of a once was

have dwindled away

all the earth returns to fire

  still green and blue in 

  someone's eyes

a memory relived like the

yesterlife we once had

all we have is now

  hold out the fist

  open the hand

where did it go

(Image from georgepratt.com)

honesty 

walks toward me

with an unlit match

held out in front of her 

showing me the 

innocent design of 

potential energy

before

striking it

before

igniting it

before

throwing it my way

fit to fire (my photos)

faultless body in the 

chamber

lubricated ripe 

and ready

love me the way of 

being cocked back 

and fit to fire off

small target of this

heart 

off in the distance

you are 

live ammo

aim for me

I am wide open

for you

head back

eyes

trembling in rapture

wrought

wrought iron is strong and malleable and becomes stronger the more its worked and has a melting point of 2804°f

I feel the first stage of burning at 118°f and my skin is destroyed at 162°f

I am hardly a wrought thing of anything, lush with flesh and a higher percentage of carbon. I am being worked by the day-to-day and the hands that've dug themselves in keep digging themselves in

the grind is making me stronger. stronger than what though? stronger for what? just enough for this weak body to live on for one more day and for one more day and for one more day?

finish me off at 1400-1800°f reducing me to a fine ash to be sprinkled upon the oceans

there I'll be dispersed, across great distances I will make my rounds. wrought by nature to become a stronger piece of my surroundings. a thing of everything

(Image from grunge.com)

sparrow

up in flight

my little sparrow

high, so high 

you've lost sight of

the ground

lost in flight

my crooked arrow

blind, so blind 

you're unable to

be found

fear as you might

the trailing shadow

unkind, unkind

as a predator

that hounds

into the night

escape to marrow

thriving, thriving

as if banished

but rehoused

(Bloody Sparrow by joshgalacticos on deviantart.com , my editing)

adding silver

because we are in motion

I am clinging on to you

electric night of current

adding silver to your

copper conductivity

we flow at varying speeds

and distance is irrelevant

think of me as I think of you

living and alive in the circuit

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

journal-8, transience

heavens in the sky above. mansions on the beach below. both are dwellings that I can't afford. midnight never fails me though. I am housed here. darkness hits from every angle. I'm more blind during the day than I am at night. right now, everything's accentuated. 

I walk a little further on this particular night, all the way down to the smallest light on the shoreline. its there that I turn around and slow my way back. by this time the clouds have passed, the stars have come out to play and the moon is perfectly halved by empty space and reflection. I can relate. and I see halves everywhere. all around. the ocean to my right, dry land to my left. the sand is half flattened by the waves, half chopped up by footprints. my thighs, torso, arms and head are clothed. my face, neck, lower legs and feet are exposed. my mood is half happy and hopeful, half sad and worrisome. I'm halfway through this walk, but I'm still walking.

its cold tonight. well, chilly at least. the stars are always cold out there. what a suffering it must be to only be seen after your existence, after you've been completely blown out. when in some future moment a random set of eyes looks your way and finally sees you, but you're really not there at all. you were. there is proof of you... but if someone were to travel the long distance to find you, they would arrive at nothing. wasteland. emptiness. perhaps only feeling your memory's warm glow along the way. (its getting a little colder now.)

transiency is didactic. its exceptional annoyance cannot be avoided. I live in a moment, then the moment is gone. I am a moment, from birth to death, and then my life is gone. I touch myself to remember I am here. there are three moments realized... the touching, the being touched and the actual thought that initiates the action. wanting all three completes this moment. finger to skin. significant or not. somehow I know it matters.

I'm walking under a spotlight now. a week has gone by. another night. the moon is almost full. you can't paint this picture or take this photo. its a turquoise smoke silvery dim that is astonishingly indescribable. I am wide awake. in the present. a simple 64th note in the complex composition of infiniteness. I nod my head to you O heavens, with your holy rooms awaiting the immaculate. I nod my head to you in the mansion, with your glass full of scotch and your wife in bed waiting. our thoughts could not be more dissimilar. I'm so alive in this bleak moment of permanence. this transience. but hey... its still difficult. besides, I'm just walking by.

fueled

pour more fuel on the fire

this pliable, this malleable

mindmuck of a mindfuck

disarray of illogical 

idioms and factums

where things make sense

that don't make sense

organized to equalize

not concerned with any

truths or lies

so hypnotized are these

loving eyes, placated by 

the thrill in the air

of a standard deviation 

higher than expected

when its all laid out

right goddamn in front of

the soft magnification

the aching dilation 

the lust trust and rust

that never seems to

acknowledge

poetry

is a much larger 

word/world

than imagined

(Image from mirrorsinner.tumblr.com)

reincarnation

what will I know of me

what will stay in memory

what will become

what if I came back as a

stone buried inside a mountain

never amounting to anything

what if I came back as a

diamond in a wedding ring

never expressing my own love

  (will you recognize me)

what if I became a speck of

alga among a billion in bloom

or a virus in the urine stream 

of a city rat

  (will you despise me)

what if I'm the fragrant smell 

of a teenage girl's first rose

or the delicious aroma of

movie theater popcorn

or the pleasance of

aftersex skin

  (will you delight in me)

what if I never meet you again

what if we only continue to keep

reliving further and further apart

what if this chance is the 

best one we'll ever get

  (will you live now

   and love with me)

what if I don't want to 

come back around here

what if I scream 

No More!

No More! 

No More!

what if its not my choice

oh god... 

what if its not my choice

(The Poet by Reynier Llanes on snowangelsoul.tumblr.com)

seeking inoculation

it seems immunity has

not been achieved yet

the distracted eye sits

in front of the screen

and absorbs the lie

bodies in the field

quivering and rhythmic

smoothly they slow down

abruptly they quicken

to the highs and lows

infected eye, infected I

bloated with assumptions

seeking inoculation 

without direction in this

misguided state of mind

endless knot

there's a binding night 

in front of me as the

wagging tongue of karma

waffles in the wind

love has yet to run its full

course through my body.

I've only just received the

injection and the site is

still beaded with blood

the wind blows, oh how the

wind blows so restlessly.

I observe the call to her as

a smooth rustling of leaves,

as a swoosh upon water

continuous, despite faults

and tangles through time

our endless knot transcends

boundaries and obstructions

hold me tight, hold me tighter

enfolding, flowing, forevering

(Image by creativemotions on fineartamerica.com)