A Picture

Drawing, tracing a figure with a fingernail

scraping against the pavement as the mid-day sun beats

down on the street, radiating from every surface and evaporating

every drop of moisture from the skin of his brow

having already produced beads of sweat resembling

raindrops collected on a leaf.

He feels the pressure on his finger, the subtle scraping

of his nail as it slowly fractures and turns to dust against

the coarse top of the black surface, dragged like a stick

in the sand along the beach, taunting the tide to wash it away.

He saw the movement of legs and skirts and pants and briefcases

and bicycles and cars and dogs as they moved past him.

They moved and he remained still.

As he slowly draws circles and squares and

triangles to create his figures his cuticles catch the surface

ripping the skin from his finger and creating

specks of blood that draw contrast as the red

blots of his life mix with the white trail

of flakes that represent his solid mass.

He felt the skin under his nail catch the pavement and stopped

and thrust his finger into his mouth and tasted the blood as it trickled

slowly on his tongue. He touched the raw skin with his tongue

and felt the smooth yet raw skin that tinged with pain

as his tongue brush against it passing along to find the pain.

He touched the injured finger to his lower teeth, slowly feeling

the wet, slippery ridges that existed on ivory that was so strong.

He looked to the sky and stared at the sun which had revoked any sense

of relief simply with its presence. It touched the beads of sweat on

his brow and stung his eyes as he stared directly at this white beacon.

He stood, feeling the pull of the muscles in his legs and the creaking

of his knees as he rose above the ground and looked down upon

the pavement that had become his canvas. He looked down

to the pavement and saw the collection of circles and squares

and triangles and he saw the world. He saw humanity he saw

his soul he saw lives of those around him and of those who

had walked passed him as he created this picture, some not noticing

him others dismissing him as crazy or homeless or a runaway or

a junkie or a poor artist. He looked down and saw the world.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Tracing

Holding the line that tried to sway my mind while

tracing the steps that fell between what I've denied

and my desire

I couldn't help but notice I had lost my smile

facing the mirror and the oncoming emotional tide

you did inspire

But we have nothing left that won't turn vile

as we shout and scream until our love has died

and our hearts retire

©2012. All rights reserved.

A Bench

He sits on the bench waiting for contact, any sign of life that is willing to make a gesture

in his direction that will prove that he is not forgotten, that he is still alive.

The sky is grey and the streets are cold and empty. As he stares at the steel buildings

a bitter wind grazes his face. He winces, feeling the tears slowly forming

in his eyes as his body contracts to protect itself from the unrelenting cold.

Though he cannot see it he knows the skin on his face has turned white from the cold.

His thin and patchy beard offers little protection, and the holes in his clothing

remind him that no matter how hard he tries, no matter whose help he seeks,

no matter how much time he sacrifices to find any hint of comfort that

the cold will always disregard his well being as it satisfies its own selfish desire

to remind him that he is only so strong.

As the city comes to life they pass him by. At first they come slowly, barely a crowd ever

forming in front of him as they wait for the bus

as they read the newspaper

as they buy a cup of coffee

as they walk sleepily, yawning and covering their mouths

as they wait for the traffic signal to turn

as they hail a cab

as they check their watches and curse the sky

He sees them all as they come together in front of the bench. He has awaited their company

for so long, and now he is surrounded. He waits in anticipation, giddy for the first one

to reach out and make contact, to smile or nod, to say "good morning, sir."

Every set of eyes sees through him. He runs his thumb between the wooden slats that make up

the seat of the bench. He feels the pits between the varnish that have crept up from years

of curious fingers and unforgiving bodies which have tormented throughout their existence.

His eyes wander skyward to see a face in front of his. Its hazel eyes are set inside of a deep brow

which has furrowed as it has set its gaze. The coarse black hair that sits above the brow has been meticulously set to the left, showing few signs of age. The skin surrounding the mouth and cheeks is freshly shaven with no pockmarks. As the mouth begins to move his anticipation heightens.

"Alright, Frank. It's time to go. Yo know I hate to do this, but I've told you a dozen times this week. You can't take up the space in front of the bus stop if you don't use the bus." A silver flash reflected off of his blue shirt as he outstretched an arm and pointed away from the bench. "Please move."

He stood up, staring at the man with the hazel eyes and furrowed brow and coarse hair and freshly shaven un-pockmarked face with the blue shirt that flashed silver on one side. He looked down to his right and walked toward a stone wall and sat in front of it. The cold wind had conspired with the stone to create a domain in which there was no escape from the cold. He brought his knees to his chest, and as he exhaled a violent wind swept over every inch of his body, permeating every opening in his clothing.

He looked to his left, back to the bench. He saw it as a pedestal that offered refuge from

the bitterness of the cold, unforgiving stone. He looked to see a well-dressed man in a grey suit

with a briefcase approach the bench. The man in the grey suit looked at the man with the hazel eyes and furrowed brow and coarse hair and freshly shaven un-pockmarked face with the blue shirt

that flashed silver on one side and smiled. "Thank you, officer" he boomed. The man in the grey suit 

looked down to his right and shook his head.

"Fucking bums."

©2012. All rights reserved.

A Field

The wind gently swept the tops of the flaxen wheat, stretching upon the rolling hills

seeming to expand into infinity and heaven as it swayed back in forth as the wind calmed

then regained its strength. It pushed everything in its path, creating a ripple along the landscape

as it moved from west to east across the land.

The green grass below that rested and called its home the top of the earth shone through the wheat

offering not only a soft blanket to the thin and coarse wheat stalks, but contrasting their own

natural colors against the other for the pleasure of any one lucky to be a witness. The blades 

of grass moved quickly in the wind with only the stalks of wheat protecting them as they absorbed

the brunt of the swift push of air.

The noon-day sun illuminated every speck of earth that could be seen, with only a few trees

along the hills offering any shade or relief from the sun when it became unrelenting.

They, too lay their black limbs across the sky to receive the breath of the wind as it passed

through their leaves and branches, gently stirring and rustling them, creating a sound

that echoed through the otherwise empty landscape.

Green leaves, flaxen wheat, the black limbs of the trees, were all set themselves

upon a cerulean background, purely the deepest blue imaginable, tainted only by small

white globs of clouds that passed along as a reminder that the wind was moving. The blue 

backdrop absorbed them all as it claimed itself the master of all, dwarfing any piece of earth

with its boundless reaches that confined it all from the expanse of space.

The wind continued to move them all. The blades of grass quivered violently, the wheat swayed,

itself rustling and singing a song with the leaves on the trees and together creating a harmony

of nature that played each time the wind came to move them. The song was different each day

but each knew their part with precision, creating the most calming and deafening beauty known.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Salvation

She walked and walked down the road she thought was salvation

toward the ever expanding horizon where the light shone

It opened its arms and welcomed her home when her skin turned cold

The sun spread across her face, turning her eyes from stoic green to amber gold

and the warmth penetrated her skin and into her bloodstream filled her body

with the safety and comfort of the home she had once known

Her bare feet seemed to float above the pavement, but brandished the marks of each step

she had taken along the way as she searched for a savior in the lonely desert of her mind

The wind shaped her black hair around her face, brushing her shoulders lightly in the ebb and flow

of the unrelenting heat then cool offered as it passed over her in the yellow light.

Her knees bent to touch the hot, black pavement – on her right a white line stretched before her

into infinity as she gazed upon the endless horizon, the distant sights morphing in waves

as heat radiated from everything that surrounded her. She was fully alone, forsaken to endure

the vastness of this place and of her mind without any means of escape.

The clear yet cracked nails on her fingers resembled the cracks in the dirt that surrounded

everything. They scraped along the pavement, leaving but a subtle mark upon its surface

which would easily wash away – a mark, much like her own existence, which was 

but a small scratch on the surface that eclipsed her very being.

As she looked to the dancing, radiating heat that stretched in the continuum before her eyes

she saw everything that was and could be. She saw her own eyes and the meaning behind their gaze

the cracks and sores on her feet which bore the scars of her journey thus far 

the silken black hair which swayed in the breeze, caressing her neck and shoulders with the touch
of a love she had never known, and the cracks in her finger nails which proved that this had all

brought her to her hands and knees.

In all of this she saw defeat. And in defeat she saw redemption. And in redemption she found salvation. 

In salvation she found acceptance. And in acceptance she found the life beyond this that she had known 

as struggle and despair.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Light Under

Light under foot and heavy in heart

The feeling of running and wanting to stay

continues to tear my mind apart.

"What would you do if you were me?"

has haunted this soul since it was spoken.

"Where would you be if your heart was free?"

has made me question every moment.

I've become hoarse in voice and spirit

All purpose and intent have receded to discontent

I am no longer aware of why it matters

With only the thought that I should foolishly repent.

©2012. All rights reserved.

A Love Note

         It doesn't bother me that you will never see this. I don't mean to pretend that I am keeping all of this a secret. I'm not like that. Some things are meant to be seen by all, others are meant to be seen only by their creator. In that sense, I am God. Theses letters, the paper they are written on, are all the humble believers of my existence. Without any hint of doubt they accept my plan as fate. They keep me company. And their loyalty fills me with a sense of not only pride, but also narcissism. I am their one and only – the most important. As I write the letters on the paper, each greets me with a sense of anticipation. The letters proud that they stand for my word. The paper maintains the honor of supporting the weight of my ideas. Together they create a bond that lifts me above anything that this world can create.

         And you. You are the critic, the cynic. With a glance you make it all dissolve. You strike down my morale. The letters begin to falter, and the paper can no longer bear the pressure of my hand. Your eyes cast a look of doubt that shakes my every belief to its core. As I write I catch your gaze and feel my confidence wane. Each iris seals a ring of doubt around my mind, and your pupils probe my soul searching for my true aim. You are the Lucifer doubting my system. And your eyes are the renegade angels at your back ready to stand fast. From across the room you question my will and ability to hold my ground. For that, I hate you.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Purgatory

The coward stands idly, surveying

what could have been.

Knowing full well now that the aim

of his soul is lost.

Not crying or screaming because he sees

the hand of fate.

Words spoken so loud he is deafened,

devoid of the touch of sound.

He reaches and grasps to find nothing but

the weight of the world on his chest.

The light consumes his eyes to blackness,

his senses now draining from his mind.

The hand points sternly to cast him aside,

leaving him to wither in this

perpetual state.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Misery

I can see the panic in their eyes

as they struggle to find something,

anything.

They will work on through the night

in hopes that they will not belong

to misery.

Their steps now reduced to a shuffle,

they trudge and wallow, mocked by me.

As their limbs now slowly pound the pavement

Searching for the dreams that have

wasted to the sea.

Hungry and frail, they gaze upon the sky

hoping for a miracle to end this mindless

ridicule.

But it is all their own, the only thing they know.

So another day dawns with the hope that

it will be their last.

©2012. All rights reserved.

Streets

There was something about them. The way they felt, their smell. They turned the soles of shoes black. They were filled, even if they were completely empty. They gained their soul from love, hate, passion, opportunity, blood, spit, sadness, anger and joy. It all bled together to forge a layer of grime that kept anyone from truly being able to know their soul.

Their touch was not forgiving. It was always rough and scolding. And even though they rejected all those who fell to them, countless minds flocked to adore them, be welcomed and to walk along them in glory.

Only those who lived on the streets came close enough to know them. They became blackened and stained like the streets, they smelled like the streets. Their skin became rough and pocked like the asphalt. They had so much in common. And still the streets would never reciprocate, they remained an indifferent host even to those who had nothing left but a place on the streets.

And every day they died there. The streets claiming their souls, offering their bodies little more than a cold, hard slab to the once warm flesh which itself was slowly morphing and becoming cold and hard. Only in lifelessness did they finally become one.

©2012. All rights reserved.

New Life

It's been over a year since I have done any updates with Blogger. While life itself has not changed much, my ideas and desires have - to an extent. The process of hand writing short stories and poetry has been an outlet as of late, one which has brought me great frustration and pride.

As I continue to write, I plan to type up some of my work to Blogger. I am hopeful for consturctive feedback. Please enjoy and bear with me as I do some updating.