Paradise
Bowlby first proposed
We yearn for paradise
For comfort, nurturance, and warmth
For protection
A return to the womb
Of all secondary objects
A shade gray of perfect
Rests the offshore paradise
An embodied perfection
A trinity of Edens
When your eye captures the horizon
Its resonating purples
Melting into a setting sun
Breezes caressing and embracing
Beckoning back to the great ocean
The birthing of the lapping creation
Against the shore
Calls us back to paradise
Satisfying the yearning
A return to the womb…
Distribution abnormal
Once upon a time
there was a line
that ran east and west
beyond the horizon
over time the line began to change
it was strange
as it became
a hump with two tails
the hump fought the tails
as in tooth and nails
desiring the tails
to be like itself
the tails sacrifice to the hump
those that seek to lump
their sense, feeling, and thought
as comfortable and safe
the hump grows ever strong
especially when it is wrong
pushing its shape
to overwhelm the tails
for it is frightening you see
for it might be you or me
suffocating under the weight
of the hump of comfort and safety
if we are the tails
and we allow ourselves to fail
realities are lost
the line grows shorter
the tails wag the hump
much to its chagrin
for new realities to be found
for explorations to begin
the line must flourish
so the tails must grow
and the hump must diminish
The Antithetical
She expresses what I am not
at least not openly
at least not consciously
somewhat in denial and
somewhat denying
Is this the rage not expressed?
the love cloaked in hatred
the tolerant prejudice
or….
is this my true being
unfettered by politeness
liberated from the shackles of convention
a new beginning. . .
It seems a darkside only by comparison
for benchmarks, or guidelines, or parameters
are ghosts
fleeting
in then out
here then gone and back again
So what is real?
in a fragmented world
is antithetical health
or illness
perhaps an expanding horizon
or constricted awareness
What then and which how?
at the turnpike
which way now?
mixture or separation. . .
does it shake out
and how?
Ode to What Never Was . . .
Oh, the times we could have shared…
the moments of laughter
gales of laughter
coursing through our bodies
stomachs tightening, chests heaving
leaving us panting
avalanches of laughter
with eyes watering in contentment
Oh, the times we could have shared…
the moments of anguish
the tearing of our souls
the searing of our hopes and dreams
the endless tears, the resolute hugs
nurturing, protecting, cherishing
strength
and vulnerability
Oh, the times we could have shared…
the moments of anxiety
the fear of others discovering who we are
our hearts beating rapidly
our palms sweating profusely
our collective sighs of relief at our collective strengths
facing the world again
Oh, the times we could have shared…
the moments of joy
unabashed, uncommunicative, unexplainable
happiness
our visceral beings on fire, emoting fireworks
impatient for the next moment
in a sequence of next moments
grinning, skipping, shouting
extending heaven
Oh, the times we could have shared…
but didn’t
avoiding
rationalizing
deflecting
suppressing and repressing
expedient and shut down
stoically asking about the weather
ignoring and forgetting each other
lost moments
recalled wistfully
with the shaking of a head and downcast eyes
Oh, the times we could have shared…
Exhaustion
It had been a bad day
in a bad month
in a series of bad years
that blurred together
nothing ever seemed to change
a Chinese water torture of sameness
drop
after
drop
after
drop
after
drop
of mundane sameness
vanilla…
he was tired, no more than that
he was fatigued, exhausted
exhausted
as usual
from the grinding repetition
of shaving
of brushing
of showering
every day
day in
day out
He felt a cost, a visceral gasp
a spiritual ache
somehow…
in something
somewhere …
He grew wearier, if that was even possible
driving in
driving out
day in
day out
every day an adventure in monotony…
He yawned, his need for oxygen
unable to trump
the blaring radiospeak
the white noise of transcient
djs voicing apathetic opinions
on important issues of irrelevance…
His body grew numb…
slogging through traffic
longing for a song, any song, a broken melody
to sever the talk
to break the mold
to crack the veneer
of
day in
day out
nothingness
I should write something, he thought
a clever turn of phrase
a poem, perhaps
at least a reason why
but…that seemed unlikely
He grew drowsy
wearily contemplating an inconceivable explanation
I might be interesting for a moment or two, he mused
someone else
may be spared
of walking the same steps
driving the same drive
listening to the same talk
sleeping the same sleep
those scavengers that haunted Ebeneezer
picking amidst the gossip
entertaining a smorgasbord of possibilities
cracking the veneer
of
day in
day out
nothingness
His eyes closed further
yawns increasing by the second
he was so tired, so spent, so done
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
only seconds
5 of them probably
of anguish and pointless struggle
of panic and idiotic regret
He thought it ironic,
the body’s struggle and longing for this
He understood
it came to him
in many moments
in countless days
in never-ending years
he was nothing but a foot
removed from a half-empty bucket of water
He laughed until he shook,
an epileptic frenzy
feeling alive, senses tingling
hair standing on end
the sun clinging to his face. . .
He kicked over the chair.
Strangers Come and Strangers Go . . .
strangers come and strangers go
what is a stranger I will never know
is it a friend?
recognizable but distant
smiling with arms crossed
nodding with eyes turning away
fumbling with an iPhone
scanning the horizons
alarms ringing
propriety served . . .
strangers come and strangers go
what is a stranger I will never know
is it a lover?
hearing without listening
to thoughts
disclosing without sharing
pain
touching but not feeling
emptiness
Perhaps . . .
maybe just maybe
I am the stranger that comes and goes
who I am nobody knows
I could be smart as some but dumb as others
I could cry for justice sitting on the couch
gelatinous
for down is up
and up is down
google but please don’t bing
Or . . .
you can look it up
in many books, some movies,
and a few well thought out greeting cards
amidst all these strangers that come and go
who they are nobody knows
a speculation
a guesstimate if you will
emerges
in this jungle of strangers
viewed as
some being friends, a few being lovers
we still don’t know
who these strangers are that come and go
because
we are still alone
The Neophile
He shivered . . . violently
a wave of biting cold
crashing on his body
cascading in waves
Bereft of the shelter of affirmation
Bereft of the clothing of victimization
Bereft of the vehicle of rationalization
he stood alone . . .
seeing . . .
touching . . .
tasting . . .
feeling . . .
himself for the first time . . .
He was weak to this world
unaccustomed . . .
obfuscated by its vulnerability and potentiality
overwhelmed by its lack of limits and parameters
incredulous by its freedom to question while being grateful for its pain
His armor was finally gone
as was his shield
his mask
and his blanket
He reminisced . . .
they protected but were burdening
they deflected but were cowardly
they affirmed but were veiled
they comforted but were infantile
The biting cold of this brave new world
invigorated him
at the instant of his vulnerability
during his grasp of the desert of the real
For you see,
he finally became substance not hologram
a being finally…and…fully human
and . . .
cognizant of the journey to come . . .
ultimately culminating
in defining him . . .
For you see,
he stood alone.
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The Performer
He couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong . . .
His act remained the same . . .
He drew gasps of admiration
Provoking envious gales of laughter,
even with a bad act, a performance filled
with pissed off passion and heartfelt arrogance
conjured up respect
often grudgingly…
He was vital after all . . .
his schtick
his act
his guile
his performance
His troupe needed him . . .
He saved them once, actually more than once . . .
He remembered
instances
where they could have died
complete, final
deaths
suffocating, anguishing, tormented deaths
moment by moment
piece by piece
visceral
spiritual
deaths by angst
They were unable to move
he thought,
barely covered by
the flesh of dignity
picked at
chewed on
torn away in chunks
by a consumptive
omnipresent
beast
hungry for a
soul of its own . . .
I protected us, he reflected
I distracted the beast,
Showing flashes, shiny moments,
glimpses of what it wanted to see
I fooled the beast, he thought
It thought it was me
achieving
successful
entertaining
respected
liked . . .
That he knew for sure
Yet, he knew his curtain was making its way downward
The flesh
wasn’t flesh at all
but another disguise
a veil
He always thought of himself as valiant
a knight in shining armor
But the armor became suffocating
sucking the breath
out of the troup
rendering it something that it was not . . .
And so it goes . . .
The death of the performer
birthing
or better yet
resurrecting
a fragile being
not so eager
or deft
or persuasive
or beguiling
or pleasing
and definitely not entertaining
or popular . . .
but real . . .
unrecognizable,
feeling,
disturbing
and threatening . . .
but real . . .
I smell old …
I smell old . . .
the smell of the
same clothes
the same undershirt
the same underwear
the same socks
the same shirt and pants . . .
I smell old . . .
my nostrils flare
violently in disgust
blowing does not rid
me of the stench,
the bellhop
of death . . .
I smell old . . .
Is it me?
My spirit is willing
my flesh becoming
weaker by the moment
by the day
running out of years . . .
I smell old . . .
or
could it be . . .
fear reeking
the horror of
inheriting
the weakness
the spineless
the gutless swallowing
of a toxic
insanity
defecating on
the light
of hopes and dreams?
I smell old . . .
the decaying predator’s
stomach
still bilious
from the carcass
of prey
dead before its time . . .
The claws
shake
the snarled beak
quivers
but the poison
of death,
its perfume
of despair
permeates
desecrating the air.
I smell old . . .