Author Writings

Neutral Graffiti

I'm a monochromatic being

distracted by a world of color.

I'm a black and white soul

assaulted by the deception of saturation

and shiny things.

In my mind I reside in an achromatic micro niche of crystal clarity.

In reality I slop through the chaotic overflow,

the splatter of

running liquid neon color

on a very neutral background,

running away toward an ocean of oily subterfuge with my will to discern

right from wrong,

that which is real from that which is fiction.

The loud, brilliant colors,

a distraction to take my breath away

and pervert my reliance on the virtue of

a heavy,

sterile blanket

that separates me from the thing

in the window.

The thing holding a wet brush.

The thing looking in.

Cry Not Alone

The edge of existence,

where everything is the most,

and the least.

Where your highs are the highest

and your lows, the lowest.

Surely someone who also resides

on the edge of existence,

on the fray,

some other empath

who occupies this space

will feel your pain.

And if there is no one,

cut me.

I will bleed with you

Forbidden Fruit/Underground

I am moved and

I am a movement.

And I am underground.

The things I believe.

The things I have to say.

The people I see.

The homage I must pay.

Where life finds a way.

Where night rules the day.

Underground

My execution will not be stayed,

unless

I'm underground.

When I repeat the things our Father's said, I do it from underground

When I tell a truth that lacks in popularity,

When I treat a fellow human with warm sincerity,

When I stand against the oppressor with rigid temerity,

When I shine the light and record for posterity

When I denounce the defenders of bureaucracy

When they send the troops to pull me into custody,

underground.

When, when, when.

When the time comes

I will move.

When the seconds whither away

and the wolf is at the door,

I will pull his fangs

and watch him whimper on the floor.

Because

I am a movement.

And I am moved.

But I will not BE moved.

I move of my own accord,

underground.

There are plenty of cavities

in a monster's mind,

a retreat

from the heat

a cool dark corner to find.

A place to stash his flesh

and words away,

save them for a rainy day.

Recesses precious and guarded

as a life line

so he may have them close

another time.

But for now they're bound

underground.

My affections.

My connections

My desires.

What inspires.

Underground.

That which I yield to. Or that that which yields to me.

Underground.

The flesh that mine counts devine.

The secrets I could never openly define.

The pain my brain does find sublime.

The filthy longing in my heart.

The exigency for which my lips will part.

Underground.

All the cerebral tunnel rats scurry

We are all in a Goddamn hurry.

We find a tribe with

which to vibe.

Far away from the light of day,

with each other

Far away and here to stay.

Underground.

Brighter Blue

I was lost forever

the second you gave me everything.

And lost I shall remain.

You've given me a thousand smiles

and no two have been the same.

You are the exodus of my choosing

and the hearth that calls me home.

You are the forest the world won't find me in.

You are the marrow in my bones.

I'm trading

all my yesterdays

for tomorrows

filled with you

I'm washing away those angry colors

and bringing home

a brighter blue.

Take the little pieces of me

and I'll take the little pieces of you

and we will join them neatly

in our little piece of the world.

You with your coffee

and me, trying to find peace

early in the morning

in an almost quiet kitchen

(Can you hear the second hand on the clock giving away our time?)

before you bring that aural spell

that you cast on me.

Before my eyes hear the noise

that is you

and your brighter shade of blue.

Serviceable

He has always been too loud to hide,

and too quiet

when it was important for him

to make the most noise.

When he has nothing to say,

He blooms.

When he needs to shout

there is a mute button out there

wired to him

and controlled by clowns.

Sometimes, he can't even hear himself,

But he is still entirely to loud to hide.

Some positions are hard to abandon.

Especially when every clown in the car

has a hammer

and an opposing destination.

Old clowns out,

new clowns in

and he didn't even have time to remove

himself.

He's died a little

every day, and

every day, he'll

die a little more

choking on a voice

deceptively labeled as

antiquated.

That's what they call it,

antiquated, or ancient,

to hang a state of decrepitude around his neck, to destroy what is pleasantly and obviously vintage and proven,

to make way for that which is alarming,

untried and untrue.

He is too loud to hide in a

frame that large.

His presence produces an echo.

It bounces off the city walls.

like a shockwave,

a preview that blooms

and captures not one imagination

in a place no one knows the difference

between antiquated

and vintage.

Serviceable.

Someone, anyone, pull that

Goddamn hand brake and

Let me off,

back in Bowdoinham, Maine

in 1979

Parallax

I said I miss you.

It's a significant weight.

To miss you

moves me.

I feel you move me.

There's heat in that empty void

and I have to put you there.

I have to carve your name, your face

your voice,

on the inside

and out.

I see you in two perspectives,

yet I am standing in one place.

I have to etch you in flesh that scars.

I have to taste the salt of perspiration

and the iron of blood

that runs in rivulets

from the scars that bear your name.

I have to pull the scabs to remind me

that you are not mine

and can never be

more than a muse.

More than a friend.

And I think I know why some embrace

the darkness.

And I hear the old demons urging me

to abandon my moral compass.

I burn.

And I would rather not burn,

but I will burn before I get this one

wrong.