WoD - Clue

I don’t know what’s going on. It’s going to be insignificant in the end, I suppose. I want to answer these questions, but I haven’t a clue as to where to begin. Or even who to begin with. There’s going to be a beginning, and a middle, and an end, and there’s a story in here somewhere, but when I find it I’ll be the first – maybe the second – to let you know. It’s happening, now all at once, and then there will be chaos. Oh yes. Chaos.

WoD - Curse

I’d curse you, but if I did, then maybe I’d use the wrong words and accidentally cure you of your illness. Your sick mind that thinks everything is about you…and me. About us, about what we could be, if we were to get together beyond dusk and the falling stars, under the apse of the sky and sigh together, so close until breaths that were apart, were one.

I’m done.

These consequences aren't criminal - just confusing.

Lost and losing are actions with consequences; not knowing where you are is a fact of existence, a statement of pure unadulterated truth. Once you find truth, you go forward.

Maybe silence is the moment when we realize we are lost – but wanderers live best when they do not know where they are.

Meager Reality

I sat under a clouded sky and watched the lightning bugs as they flashed their death signals to one another – each trying to find a True Love before the biological clock ran out. I saw clouds dipped into soot and drenched in ashes, growing darker, darker and saw lights grow brighter. I caught Life and Death – inescapable metaphors of reality – in a breath, in my hands and realized how meager existence really is. I’ll step out onto a blade of grass waving in the wind, and put out words, in hopes they’ll reach something in someone somewhere.

I don't know you and frankly I don't care

The medium of words connects us – somehow, some way, we’re locked in a mental embrace with one watching the truth unfold and the other seeking to understand.
It’s a two way street, this connection of mind and soul, this heart and body exchange.
So maybe I’m speaking from the outside, looking in when I say, hey –
We’re all brothers and sisters here--
But really I’m on the inside, looking out to let the new children in.

Is someone thinking about you again?

I live
in life’s sweat lodge.
There are few
shivers,
few moments when someone
may be thinking
about me.
But many,
many
when I think
about everyone else.

Everyone else

"Everyone else"
exists as a mental puzzle
like trying to understand
the limits of the universe
or how to take blue
out of purple.

Part Two - Whatever

Take a moment
on the sidewalk
around noon
and stare –
look around
for the woman
with the twisted mouth,
hiding tears,
the five-year-old
tying his shoes,
the old man,
walking a tiny pink bicycle
and holding a balloon.
Tell yourself
these are the people -
What they do
might be of no import,
but maybe,
just maybe,
even seeing them,
has something to do with you
and what you
are supposed to become.

Part One - Whoever

I have no idea
where you are,
when you are -
but sometime near dusk,
look out the window.
If the clouds are water-
colored, dainty
parchment pink -
there’s someone out there
who wants to tell you
something.
Your job is to find
whoever it is.
And learn it.

Memories I just wanted to give away

Money isn’t the answer
to memories.
If I knew what was,
I’d tell you.
But I’m still there myself,
trying to forget
a year of silence.

difference: anger and frustration

the difference between anger and frustration
is

frustration keeps the emotions in your own hands; you can do something about it; you can make a choice

anger puts the emotions in someone else's jurisdiction; you no longer have a choice to make

A dose of self control II

A good story is something that touches the heart,
activates the control centers of the mind,
makes us think,
and feel,
and sometimes…hurt.

The best story I ever heard
was told in short sobs
from a man the size of a young child
who had begged on a street corner
all night long,
with every rich man and woman
walking by, hands in the air:
-No money, no money.-

After a story like that,
I hand over what I have
when I can,
and always make it a point to smile,
and say, hey -
Take care, brother.

A dose of self control

I knew a girl like you, once.
She destroyed herself
by putting others first,
always.
She had a second chance,
and destroyed others
but putting herself first,
always.
There’s got to be a medium -
maybe not happy, always,
but there.
Some safer road to walk.

I think we’re different;
I walk the streets
Saturday nights
handing out cash
to the homeless
who tell good stories.

The pieces of poetry that cut the most are the ones you know ought to be true but just somehow don't apply to you.

When you tell a story like this one, you don’t want people to look at you and back away slowly. You want to put your words out there and then look into their eyes and find acceptance, if not open welcome. You want to have them embrace your emotions, if not your person. But when it happens – as it often does – that they back away with that wild animal look in their eyes, you know you’ve gone too far, and that maybe telling them why you’re here doesn’t bode well for your futures together.
But what can you do about it when you’re all incarcerated for killing someone you should have loved?

Stephen King

Breaking hearts, kept in jars on someone else’s desk.
Broken hearts, pieced back together on the potter’s wheel, moulded and shattered, then with a little glue made mosaics.
Healing hearts, beating again, but strangely, these frankensteinian creations, shaped out of more than one.
Pieces, parted from their original function – a little bit of Stephen King strung together, and still:
The heart of a young boy, in a jar on my desk.

If I feel rage

I won't deny it.

I won't fear love.