Tag Archives: madness

Listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts

There is always a place set for you at the table of humanity. Here we feast with all – the music makers, sword wielders, word smiths, lovers and politicians – the dreamers, dealers, doubters, passionate doers and delayers – the seekers of truth, liars, queens, princes, and paupers – the young, youthful, the old, frail and frightened – the mourners, merry makers, joy keepers and neglectors. Here we feast with all and it is up to us to find the conversations which delight us, eat and drink of the wisdom which most fills us, and toss the bones of our fears or freedom to the beasts of our past.

So, listeners, readers, finders of lost thoughts – spell weavers, singers, and painters of possibilities – be well to hear the things which give you joy and dampen out the clamoring mess with your songs.

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Fickle is the realm of the heart

Fickle is the heart

joyous of a day

jealous of a star

balm of a tear

weary of a sigh

and yet I would not trade

its wisdom for all of the world

not a piece

not a fraction for

every certainty the Gods have to give

I will carry this fickle beast

within my chest

and let it journey me

through places near and far

let it teach me courage

and to be here

where you are

so be it

the whimsical mystery of

the ambrosia of life

so be it

so beat it

fickle be the heart

but in love

it, and I, shall remain.

Here it goes again

((have a melody, but not sure this is ready – wanted to post for your thoughts anyway))

.

Here it goes again

your voice echoes down the hall

lingering out of reach

and beyond the light of it all

.

I scream but no words

make a sound

scattering on the floor

like broken glass on the ground

.

my hand brushes shadow

like a ghost in the mist

smoke filtering

from between your lips

.

I can’t stand this

.

I must be invisible

I must be unseeable

I must be invisible

a ghost in the heart

of your world

.

So

I write your name in the stars

I tether the wind where you are

I gather tears to make it rain

I build castles out of daisy chins

but I am invisible

.

(aside)

This side

this side is difficult

this side is difficult to embrace

This side

This side is hard

this side is harder to chase

when all the things I dreamed

are less than what they seemed

still I  try…

But

Here it goes again…

Cold Floor…

Cold floor

bitter dream

I sit

lingering frustration of

words remaining sealed

in cages

mounts fierce echoes in

silence.

Hands long to move

like old ink across new paper

to the ticking of thought

and fascination of favor

but for days

the sun and moon have greeted

a blank slated mind

unable to untangle

and bring forth even a prayer

to honor the blessing of breath,

no only

silence.

Eyes scanned the testament of nature

searched blade and throng of

fowl floating in storm billowed cloud,

approached and reproached

the edges of nothing for a glimpse of

Gods

a muse

a spark given

if even out of pity

deafening silence within.

but I have come back with

silence.

and languish

here in this

space

the canvas

blank

the

lined horizon of possibilities

clean

and the audience of

futures beyond me

remain

silent.

Worthmont High

It stands

beneath the limbs and

merriments

the canter call of

time

its bricks reach up towards

multi memoried

skies

as intrepid feet

lean forward

push onward

skuttle backwards

laugh and mingle tears

within its soul;

It stands.

It stands

amongts the triumph

and struggle

its cold stone veins

leading the just and

the mightly defeated

in ordered hours

and lingered speeches

in the pursuit of

knowledge

the pursuit of gain;

it stands.

It stands

in silence

a witness to her shuffle

his hesitation

her fixation

his motivation

her courage

his redemtion

to Monday callings

and thursday maulings

to Tuesdays lastness

and Friday’s madness

it stands.

It stands

as its voice goes unnoticed

its brick notes and

roof top melodies

linger a testiment

unspoken to the fortitude

of perserverance

and the suppliment of

faith

For in these halls

little souls stand

and she makes sure

she never falters

never gives sway

for all the comings

and goings of a day

the black the blue

colbalt and shrew

madness and

due of tears

she stands.

For someday

when hands stop lingering

over plastered walls

and paint stops mending

the cracks and fall

ing spaces

when voices stop

and doors weld shut

she will be remembered

for the words

emblazoned on her skin

 

“Knowleldge is found

with open hearts, clasped hands,

and couragous spirits”

 

and

She stands.

I AM

Cerulean peace

mascarading verimuei of

persian plum bing

echoing in mind’s sky

like a gypsy moth

motorcycle gang,

looking for lightswitch

raves and hued

tinboxes of marmalade

memory

speaking with

coquelicot tails of truth

and shipwrecked words

hung on springtail

shiz ogg ony’s

orange weighted thoughts.

I am stones set against the hills

Aztec black

achromatic

pirate motorcades

worming through

otherworld roads

pillaging ghost hall verbiage

turbid mocking bird calls

in the hopes electric violet

dreams

glow brighter there.

There were my Oak tall darker

self waits patiently plotting

to feast on the Elder silver sung

failures

of a golden aluminum mind.

Mint mingled with meaning

tangled

forks pushing straw braiding

creepping vines of

mental loops retracting and

reacting to the envolope

of time marching backwards

and spell crafted lines.

I am rythem

I am rhyme

I am london calling

Bell tower mourning

the loss of porcelian

knowledge

book covered middles

and shoes sole mustered glory

I am walking low

and hiding uninvisible

fae almanac verses

I am color me chrystal

tranglewreck borders

laughing at the horders

of words in head

that bears a sign

flashing Red

open for business

but I

I having nothing to sell.

I am sour pill bitten

snakeless tooth smitten

electric force cork drumming

mental note strumbingover

Moroccan pyrogen

seducing ubiquitously

like a neruotoxin

in silky perfection

a glue tin ation

verilent in

the prusuit of

faith

and calling the mice of fortunate

ransom to

stationary spilled out on

earthen green tables

laid to rest and memorialized

on sombre ink and ivory paper.

Who is Wesley?

Part 2 to Wesley’s Words

The face was circled
to near perfection
in faded red
on black and white
with the words
‘what is a life’
written pain
stak
ing
ly
small along the white
edge
neither mingling
meandering nor merging
with the photo paper’s
story
but filling Mason’s head
driving his hands
veined with hours
of plays, throws
and connections
to waver over glass
trace the words
to perfection
and wonder
what is a life…
…what is a life?

The circled
young boy
stared out from
hundreds
other faces
eyes seeing places
and dreams of
the future
so obvious
was the obliviousness
of this
young man
as if his dreams
were so far out
there was no
light
no future
reflecting back.
then the words
what is a life…
…what is a life?
came slamming back

Coach was old
his words made no sense
nonsense
figure it out
figure what out?!
why, how
when?
This is ridiculous!
Mason didn’t need
this…

What is a life?

The picture hastily
shoved to precariously
to haphazardly
tossed to the
edge
to the edge…
crashing smashing
tumbling down
from the bedside
to the ground
in pieces
frame and bits
lay more than just
a photo graph
a softer edge
lay unearthed
from tomb of wood
and glass.

LOCAL BOY
DEAD.
Five teens where
questioned in the
death of a local boy
this evening.
A call tipped off police
to patrol the area
off of 5th and Grand.
A scream
A scuffle
A muffled
brawl? perhaps.
The line went dead.
the operator said
The line went dead.
The five men
remain in custody.
Names withheld
due to the sensi-
tivity
of crime
and time
but sources suspect…
a sixth.

Mason skipped the rest.
Local boy, dead.
his age
ripped from a page
of yesterday
lived on the other
side of tracks
with
a nobody no letter no jacket
no money no future
no life
no life cuz
he’s dead.
Found with a pink barrette
clutched in his hand
and F@66%7
scrawled on his back
in indelible ink
to obviously sink more meaning
as his attackers
tattooed their
judgement into
his black and
blue
skin.

what is a life?

An article 30 days later
stapled
and worn
confirmed a sinking
suspicion
The 5 were part of the
Local High 6.
but no proof
no
ev-i-dence
no recollection
or defection
of witnesses
no sense of right
or wrong
no candle light vigil
no memento or
mournful sigil to mark
the young life passing
by.
Even this passage
was relegated in
subterranean
cache
just above the lottery
numbers
page 8
where this hate
ful incident
and
obstruction of
a justice-less life
for
Wesley
was left
to be forgotten
as if it would be
forgotten
and
it was…
save by one.

and
Mason kept on
tracing the words
in his head

What is a life?
What is a life… 
worth.

911 TRANSCRIPT – May 7th, 1969
Police Operator 2472
What’s your emergency?

{{Whispers}}

5th and Grand
a scuffle, fight, a boy down.

What is the location?

5th and GRAND!

{{typing}}

5th and G.R.A.N.D?

YES!

{{TYPING}}

What’s your name?

My name? I.. um… Mar…
Damnit man
You have to send
someone?
like now!

{{typing}}

Can I have you name son?

{{more typing}}

Sir,  Let me get your …
Sir are you there?……………
sir…….
hello?……

Lines of In-Between

Lines of in-between

pixel painted perfections

precariously perch

above the door way

in an effort to ambush

thoughts with raven

accuracy

dooming any sense of

reason

in the mad mad mind

called me.