poetomachia

I am a twirling center of consciousness
Bouncing your way with benevolent fury
Get out of my way!
Get out of my way!
And you’ll miss the impact.

and now the hours drag and
my breath is held against
some unforeseen hoped for
prophesied forgotten
pain

do we understand
do we know
and yet we dare to draw near
can we hope to understand
audacity is our warrant to search
but this same entitlement is bourne
of the gift of cleverness

the thoughts grow cold in here alone
as i wait beside myself betrayed by my
affinity for soundless words and empty promises
if i want to be blue, i can do that without you

big industrial world
trains and planes
trucks crushing me
the noise a music
for our society
the crowd of humanity
can we find a place to be
squeezing the life out of the trees
these are bitter and twisted
thoughts
sent from the lord
of hopelessness
a cancer upon the earth
a cancer to ourselves

i don’t care if it is hot
i don’t care if it is cold
i don’t want the monster
to eat my soul
i don’t want to give up
in the face of anything
but hold to that which abides
and remains never a thing

every moment held and then given
are these the raindrops uncounted
or the blooms unnoticed
blood shed for noone in particular
and forgotten in a moment spectacular

are we left to our own devices?
to search out and find our godheads?
to discover the god within ourselves?
take the helm and pilot the ship?
sailing into dark storms
powered by our own courage?
to read the signs and place hope
in the evening red skies?

or have we in the face of nothing
decided to live in delusion?
buy the lie cheaper than
capitalist gods?
ashamed belief in a community of possessions
owned by nothing but our ideals

if your cerebral cortex doesn’t pull you through
what are you going, going to do?

i dare to count the things which i’ve forgotten to hold
and too often numbered the calluses of things held
far longer than they should have been, become bold
approach the table of memory and partake what is offered
exercise the laying upon to behave as though lain aside
all this is response neither promotion, reaction

the clouds are buoyant on the horizon
distant, and pure in their ambition
hot water, luxury poured down my throat
dispelling the chill of apathy and despair

what if we stumbled upon a man dying
humbled by his wounds, wordless in awe

leftover expectations
too much expected
enough to share
disappointment to grow