October 12, 2014

The front door opens into an airy living room. You can walk through to the back porch ahead. The white curtains sway romantically as the ocean breeze wanders in and out again. There is the faint sound of a crooning female voice that accentuates the air. It’s a lonely tune, a perfect complement to the house itself. The chairs at the dining table have been sat in, as are the ones in the back porch. There were people here, a painter and a man with half a face. There was the painter’s husband and their baby boy.

It is a haunting dream, one that follows ever so often. These marks go deep into the bone, they pierce the soul. They are ghosts of a time gone, remnants of those forgotten. It is a place where the self resides indefinitely, as nothing less would do. It is where the heart realizes its supreme loneliness. Here lie the trappings of a conscience laid bare as the phonograph spins round and round. Like the rose that buds and blooms and fades and falls away, she sings.


September 16, 2014

I’m here
I’m listening to your sounds
I’m feeling your crushing waves
of absolute force and precision
warning me to get down on my knees
and brave the chaos before the calm
and I’m here listening
to everything you have said
only to see where you are ahead
the form in the distance
coming closer and beckoning for color
anything that will make your plight
appear more palpable before sense
yet I attain truth before your arrival
and see everything with new eyes
a new soul, a new mind
the force with which I try to understand
yet cannot come to terms with
as it is so overwhelmingly beautiful
this clarity of the senses
a justification for all that has happened
to appreciate everything
and expect nothing
and see that above the skies
all else is simply noise.


August 28, 2014

I sometimes lose my sensibility in others
to the point where I no longer recognize my values
where my sense of self is lost in their actions
that unwaveringly bizarre note of obligation
as if I owe them my good deeds and willful thoughts
while there is no greater judge of pragmatism
than my own windowless heart in its body
although these people do not inhabit my mind
they do not know where my frailty comes from
they are merely looking in from some distance beyond
and I find that I have no contract by which to obey them
and cater to their ridiculous whims
as I can be just as singular-minded as them
and lose nothing but my own sanity
on my own selfish terms.


August 25, 2014

Check all the emergency exits,
leftover inventory should be stocked,
the isles are clear and equipment is returned.
Exit through the red double doors
as the last person takes their leave
and the clock strikes midnight.

I run to my car and turn up the heat.
It’s time to head over to meet everyone,
maybe have a drink or three before morning.
We laugh at the grueling week it’s been,
complaining of the neverending day we just had
and cheer to a night with so many limits.

I cruise home on a dark and brisk freeway.
I turn up the volume to Thomas’ high-pitched voice.
I think of the synthesizers and how they remind me of him.
I wonder what could happen in the chaos.
Like a lasso that aims too high,
I fall short of my target in the moonlit road before me.


August 9, 2014

You intrigue me with your definitions, euphemisms, lifestyles.
I look in from the outside in earnest,
attempting to think of myself in the same context.
The way you speak to others in your glass box,
how you articulate your thoughts in the confines,
it makes absolute sense and yet none at all.
You fascinate me in so many varying ways,
my overwhelming hyperconsciousness holds on,
contemplating meaning behind what is at best mundane.
For I am one with your box, I play a role in your box
but I have never truly belonged to your box.
The painting that I search for cannot be found here,
it does not reside in an artificially fortified construct,
it lies beyond the wild greenery that awaits my discovery.


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