Wednesday, September 5, 2012

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.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

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.

Monday, September 3, 2012

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.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

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.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

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.


Friday, August 24, 2012

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.