poetomachia

Today is the day you can be known by a new name
All masks are borne of shame
When the blood rises to your face
You feel the burn of shame

What like on a hot day feels better
Than cool water splashed on our face
Head, neck and chilling down the spine.
Could this be the new wine?
Shed to renew and be named again.
He is the one who names us and calls us.

Slowly my grip slips from reality
Believing everything you had to say to me
just had to say to me
Now, I brought something which can’t be replaced
But it seems that it will remain misplaced
renamed displaced.

The gods fill our malls and screens
Open our eyes to their power and presence

The luxury of you
The meaning of me

Those humble beings
Give God a glimpse of human meltdown.
What happens when a man fully views his state and future? Listen.
If you have eyes,
Watch them perform.

~8888888~

Fly like Dedalus
See them fall.
They are exultant.
God weaves the sentiments.

~8888888~

Small
Doing this thing somewhere in the middle.
Quizzical
Plumbing to achieve a double-barreled understanding
Know very clearly that they are going through something human.
Know very clearly that you have no idea how it will end up.

What happens, when seed meets egg and a whole lot of shit is laid in the road?
God only knows. But that’s the thing. HE DOESN’T know.
He watches. And he listens. To his oracle.
To this sodium pentathol rave of what it means to be human,
for Johnny to live, live with a small a.

Night Tonight
Day Today
The moon and the moonlight
Tolerating no malice, burning so fiercely
Giving hope to good, illuminating everything
It is the substance for all that is
But it is nothing at all
Night Tonight
Day Today
The moon and the moonlight

Don’t give an inch
Don’t crack a smile
Cause it is going to
Kill you after a while

I heave my chest in a final breath before I stand to reach for keys
To unlock the door, step out and salute the floor
Beyond the glass
I start my car and go home

Though I may fall asleep a hundred nights alone
There is probably someone who thinks
There are probably some who dismiss a thought

And though I try to tidy up
And make appearances
I feign delight at dark silences

Doors close with fidgety friends forgetting their placelessness
Their placelessness declaring a glowing space in their rooms
Rooms that hold potential
But promise nothing
I gather my perturbations in a bucket of constricted control
And I sit like Buddha. . . but, laughing
I mock the ghosts
I MAKE the ghost