It's Time

It's time to start something
It's time to start something akin to unraveling
It's time to begin to being
It's time to knock off the rust
When time graces and when time sprawls
It's time to start mending menacing moments
It's time for breath and healing
It's time for the great unwinding
It's time for the great unwinding from the sky
Breathless in an ocean of infinity
It's time for waxing and waning
It's time for waves upon you both warm and jarring
It's time for resting upon the tops of heaps
of motioning rumbling unrest beneath you
It's time to realize that the morning creeps into your room
and shakes you with an anxious sigh
It's time to pass between a stage
and know that life and death are interchangeable words
It's time to pass the rung to the space below

MM 4/2012

Manic Distraction

Exposed tooth in an icy bath
Raw skin friction never ending
Chisel away to a hollow core
Volume open-space self loathing
MANIC DISTRACTION
Looking out the eye of a funnel
Daily planner-narcissism
Seeking out things soon to be hated
Another voyage onward and upward
MANIC DISTRACTION
Offer solutions without any problems
Waking up just feeds an addiction
Blazing paths are scorching earth
A demon's aborted exorcism
MANIC DISTRACTION


image courtesy of  http://healthyme123.com

Shapes of Motion

The days are the shapes of motion. Formations extending bursting outward. The majestic solitude of motion. Ghosts across the landscape.

Echoes and ringing and screeching halts. The drift you feel so deliberate. Deaths become marks on a timeline. Pain becomes a void sprung forth from.

The days are the shadows reflecting. More than just time or light. The motion ever-defining what it means. To scan or to plot the course.

I'm looking at my hand as a map. So coarse and worn so often used. I'm the jagged detail that is cast. The spade that plants the stake.

It Gives Lift

This time is the tiniest drop. Not swelling or throbbing. Just the crest of the wave. In and out the fields of vision. The only distractions may lie. Outside of circle or sphere. A figurative death. Billowing smoke and escalator tread.

With pinpoint precision we wait. Plotting out the movement. Or negotiating silence. Deliberately washing our hands. The lonely call to action. Random intervals and inconvenient. A figurative mass. Of the drowning and the surface.

Days In Frames

The week ended in messy tones. With pieces of past lives spread out. Like wreckage scattered across the highway. Paths were blocked. And those involved were left to stagnate. Wither off and die. Or to move on. Some are soldiering through across uneven lines. Pure pain or slow but steady drips of bliss. It's reviving. Oh how it reminds you of life. Some lost to sickness- internal or external. Collapsing or transcending. Those were shots too cold to call. As the pieces shatter into tiny little shards or fragments. Little pieces that cut your fingers as you gather them. Hardening skin barely left open. I'll call for you.

Shades of Gray Turn Black

The shades of gray turn black. Lonely and empty sounds of night. Of ships leaving their harbors. The rippled and broken waters of the past. Slowly become less disturbed as the journey fades.

Moments thought as beacons. Are divided into two distinct marks. Little souvenirs that move across a continuum. From the sentimental to mere nostalgia. From something shared into self defined.

The sounds of night amplify. So loudly through the song of loneliness. So resoundingly through the mirror of solitude. Through the strangeness of the movement. From blinding pain to sedate contemplation.

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Cold Reconciliation

I buried a heart. a heavy piece of cold stone. ravaged earth in the backyard. a hole 11 years deep. the spade is a line of time. reading with the last marks left blank. the last pages are so blank. and light just trickles through bare limbs. down onto this vacuum. the space that occupies a life. is to remain uncorrupted. so uncomfortable to play pretend. new beginnings or some other bullshit speak. supposing some things not meant to be. they just play themselves out. a burning fuse that drizzles out and dies. lights that turn themselves out at night. taxing the circuitry. a sad backward glance at the scene. casting a backward shadow on.