Life and/or Death

The World War One documentary fuses itself into an irreplaceable 50 minutes saved in my brain. The Germans, the Russians; regardless of nation, their intent of destruction is stomach wrenching. Words used in this documentary are Gothic in nature - far too primitive a syntax to be used as colloquial. Field of blackbirds, exhaustion, funeral procession, torture, poisoned gas, extermination, death rate, etc.....

The sounds of birds break the horror film's demeanor like a laugh in a slaughter house. These are human beings, tainted by biasness, enraged by presuppositinos.

I am sure that not all were racist ignorants. I imagine teenagers around these theatres of war angrily spitting upon their faulty governments and blinded predecessors. I imagine the revolutionaries, vainly suporting their non-support. Muted to their own destruction, for revolution changed everything but solves nothing. I imagine loving one who was drafted, and the hollow insides that would venture to collapse at every words of war.

War unwravels. War mends. War unintes.

It unintes the cowards. It unintes the brave. It unintes the blood-thirsty. It unintes the protectors. It unintes the gung ho. It unintes the anarchists.

Welcome to the most disgusting paradox life has to offer.

but such is life

plastic flowers turned acidic waves crash through the graveyard and its inhabitants.
the harsh wind strips warmth from all, and only black ice infringes.
my soft eyes open to the bitter agent of chill,
evoking muddy tears that confuse my demeanor.
and me.
i remember, with unstable steps, my familiarizing days with the graveyard.
i pass the great window slowly, baffled as to why the dead are intentionally made visible to the living.
how i wish i were a manatee.
able to dispose of the dead to the depths,
never again being forced to remember
that all things die, that i have died several times, and will continue to die.
but i am a manatee in human form.
large and imposing,
small and shadowed,
exploring the deplorable burial grounds.
looked upon as a freak by the surrounding brightly colored fish.

abstraction

it's terrifyingly comical - the ignorance in which i've been dwelling.
demeaning, that most profound realizations are issues we instinctively know in our heads, but are too proud to say with our mouths.
revelations are derived from the most sensible obvious facts.
and yet, we humans are only allowed to feel accomplished when we skew life into complication.

i am animated by an idea. i am not the patron of an idea. i evidence the idea. and what better to expose and sponsor and idea than a five-sensed breathing relational human? i am the mediator between the watchers and the unseen.

my words translate foreign tongue into colloquial speech. they do not compose the standard; they explain a minuscule aspect. my attire reinforces me. i am not defined by my clothing anymore than a wolf in sheep's skin.

i, today, realize and repent for living my life backwards. my words have revolved around trivial nouns.....and not the imperishable subject.

enliven the mute

...sing praise upon the harp unto our God:
who covereth the heaven with clouds,
who prepareth rain for the earth...
psalm 147:7-8

storm clouds paint the heavens
with a myriad of charcoal balloons.
the skies groan with their pregnancy
like my body groans to take flight.
the curt gray pier's edge
reminds my feet not to plunge in attempt.
stimulating wind breathes into my hair
with the smell of winter
and the taste of spring.
all is black and white here.
here, i plead my Father for color and joy.
a lone raindrop replies,
cleansing the murky tears from my eyes ashamed.
consolation descends with a multitude of messengers.
like drums and cymbals, they beat the harbor.
the sooty opaque costume of pinebluff lake
is shredded by the silver rain
to reveal its royal blue belly.
each cascade rings, like a harp,
merriment from the water's strings.
i dance – my mournful insides feel a shout of orchids.
my sooty eyes opening sea-green once again.
my voice, the harp, clouds, and rain
shall sing praise unto our Lord.

Hope of a fish

The flightless wavering body pulsed froward and slowed in an undying rhythm. It examined every observable space of the circular fused glass barrier; searching for an escape. It's one eye is void of life, exactly as it's fallen one.

Perhaps it truly believes that all the world could be seen through half of sight. Perhaps it's unattached eye was still open when plucked out, only now looking forever down so that half his perspective remains unchanged. Perhaps his pale sallow skin swallowed the eye whole, sucking it inward to derive him of half the joy he could have glimpsed.

Sight equals survival.

He is hollow - halfway gone.

A mirror is presented to his face, where he views his corrupt condition. Vibrant scales turned putrid and moldy. Playful wings turned numb hollow fins. Gagged by his wretchedness, he monotonously circles, glimpsing upwards, towards the window, where his free eye wishes to be.

Reverie

Sew strong wings into my shoulder blades.

The needle's pain would be well worth it
To rise at the eagle's pace
And to allow whipping wind - my bones to lace.

Break the windows! Let me out!
Every muscle pulses in prolonged desire
To escape the ones who feed to devour
And to free my cluttered ears from their roars and shouts.

I need shelter from angry hands,
And warmth to clothe my crawling skin.
You fancied, perhaps, Valor's chance,
Victory's satisfaction and Freedom's breath.

There's nothing here left to reminisce,
Instead an expected end to attain.
Soar with my out of this gnawing abyss
My strong owl and loyal friend.

Untitled: For lack of a better idea

Q. "Why don't you talk?"
A. "Because I have nothing worth saying."

God knows the world needs not another talking head. My ideas are not mother or virgin or even daughter. My ideas are whores and daughters of whores. Taken from thoughts that were once genius, but were used until invaluable. I actually wonder if there is anything left to discover in the world. Anything left to say that has not been said already.