Hospital Visits

It felt like a small village
held idle
like a hand would
the needle over vinyl.

I can hear the static
dripping into my ears -
drums.

The silence of sound.
Patients turning over,
rustling linen,
coughing the air of sleep;
disease, pleads,
medicated dream.

Dripping down
into my inner ear
beating like rain
on bat-winged
umbrellas. I watch.

A pattering of God’s tears
overhead, my umbrella
a dying neighbor’s denial of Him.

Who am I
to heed you from your decadent,
opium-covered seizure?

Inside your room I drape
my thoughts over
the back of the worn leather chair
and sit only an arm’s distance of air
away, unlike your tethered wings
clamped down to dampen sweaty
beats of chested gasps.

I keep a steady tapping of feet,
much like the static from the record player,
watching over your dressings reddening,
your unrest between songs.

Hospitals seem to be
the only places in the world
where death and birth resemble
a scientific anomaly.

I don’t want to grasp the rest. I
feel distant and collected
like a train station in the early morning,
empty from epidemic,
or like the patches of blood
subject to clotting,
where feathers used to be,
replaced by pillows and frail bone
indenting sheets.

Conversations About Death

Words are water,
tumbling from the mouth
of a shallow pitcher,
hoarse, sly like the match
God dropped in Hell,
coarse, dry like dryer lint
under the branches
keeping my eyes under
level seizures of thought
shaking into the mouth of
another.

Flame in throat
hoping to choke down
the glass.

Waking the Dead

With a few drowsy steps I shuffled my feet with stiffened legs and with an uncaring yank out plopped my carry-on bag. I wasn’t in the mood to wake up. My life felt black and white like the color had been beaten out of it from nightmares and unfinished dreams. They say you’re supposed to have at least eight hours of sleep when you take sleeping pills. I only had six due to my lack of experience with overseas flight. And to make matters worse I had took two instead of half to hopefully avoid the jet lag, or maybe make a friend carry me all the way to the hotel (at least if I pretended to never wake and just snore). Because I flew alone the latter was not an option. Instead I kicked and dragged my bag off the plane like a five year old in a stubborn fit. I remember it whacking everyone in the knees and I not batting a lash (if my eyes were even open). Whatever got me to the coffee faster. Whatever transported me out of the cramped aisles found  in the back of the plane, you know the place cleverly located next to the latrine and wing’s engine, smelling like urine, sex, and some French bitch’s body odor.

Anyway, after shuffling through the giant Dutch airport I found the nearest place serving coffee. It was a quaint shop that looked as if it was sagging with age from tourists and visitors, myself likewise, so tired each stiff-legged zombie put an unstable set of elbows down to lean on the counter and cram their eyes with the palm of their hands, almost as if they were about to cry. I remember the line being longer than desired because I, too, wanted to put in my two cents of an elbow lean. Hell, maybe even cry. An image of angels could do no justice to what tears would do to that dust. I promised the vendor silently that I wouldn’t make it collapse if he would just hurry. By the time I got to him the elder man behind me, maybe in his late 60’s, realized I had bitched so long that I actually forgot to decide on what I wanted. And with this I got a small shove and grunt. Not wanting to awaken an attack of the zombies trailing behind me I, like the saddened sinners before me, put my elbows down and leaned into my eyes as if pushing on them was going to instantaneously give me an answer.

De-vine Filthy Layers

“The boundaries which divide life from death
are at best shadowy and vague.
Who shall say where one ends,
and the other begins?” – Edgar Alan Poe

I feel like there was once always a time where I could revert back into the person I was when young. I can remember the tasteful years of small imagination becoming the rocking-horsed cowboy stopping in a desert of death to help a young Indian girl, like me but with darker hair. Darker eyes. Darker skin that looks as if he’s spent his entire life, all 12 years, rolling around deep red clay. Maybe in the shadows of sin. Rocky and grated my horse almost swaggers with the terrain kicking dust into small rip curls. With an outreached look I grab her hand of course leather and wicked marble, bone. I can feel the the darkness settle over us and the moon transforms into tiny white lights deep in her eyes. It looks as if the long lost mother deep in her soul is trying to burrow deeper harrowing her heart to never be known. Touched. Felt. What brings the depth of us children under God? I feel like there was once always a time where I could revert back into the age of years before I was born. Back before the earth ripened deathly hollows. Back before the wind would mold my character instead of sickening me. Back before the mountains groaned when the tiny ants climbed up, biting into the skin of trees. Their disposable air rusting mystic spirits. Sprites. Ritualistic rites that kept the world at bay, safe, healed, sealed away from my referenced set of a heaving television. Squabbling boxes blasting into tiny skulls, rattling ear drums like the wind would those thin plastic bags for your “fresh” produce. And I feel the weight sliding down, stringing out the plastic walls like molasses, or maybe little children, not wanting to let go of being whole. Melting to the ground in that sad puppy dog look. Your holy self is screaming without a mouth. Just watching the separation of spirit from body almost as if wasting but you know it will not go away. The fresh taste of the world in it’s entirety. In this dream, I remember the rind of such fruit being held properly. Heroically bestowed. I feel like there was once always a time where I could revert back into the source. Divine self. Trading love for health and health for dualistic realms. Inside the rocking-horse mind, I found myself digging as deep as her retinas would allow. Cautious blinking wondering. Realizing that that depth I see has never been seen. By her. Or anyone before me. I wonder if she sees the same thing. She inside of me and me inside of her. Wholesaling the “whole“-y self. I lose myself in the sideways eight. Universally isolated to be found by some other being’s frivolous lust for never dying alone. The inevitable truth that sets us freer than free. I feel like there was once always a time where revert back into the person I am now.

Watching the Sun Set

Finding peace of mind

My body has filled with light and every pore pours out laser-like streams. Pins to the surrounding oxygen. Molecules bursting into atomic matter, floating in slow motion like some hot rod dream. The sun is sleek and becoming a fair Mona Lisa wasting away every last ounce of energy in hopes to reach somebody else for pleasure in later years. And you wonder why there’s a question of whether she smiles or not. That smile is the millions of brilliant rays burning out. Like the ozone layer, a wick dwindles through the spacious wax until the bomb ignites and the resilient matter of molecular science under fire becomes a picture painted over green walls downside up.

Eyelash Wishes

 

eyelashes droppin’ in a spiral dance,
the mother iris lets them go
like a mother of birds watching her newborn
children plummet,
some catchin’ wind and grantin’ wishes,
the others there to prove
gravity exists, and owning an umbrella
doesn’t make you an English nanny
when asking for acceptance.

Gravel in my Knee Caps

If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. – John 1:8-9

 

Release what it us you want from the world and the world will want the same back. Decipher yourself from the lies your ego brings to you and sacrifice it in offering for what you know God wants nothing of. Give everything before your ego takes it all from you.

5 minutes Before Work

“Somebody, please”

Today I sat down in front of the library rolling around words in my head, spitting our verses like a child might drool at age two. I would never eat apple sauce in bed. And the rambling turned to turrets of tonguing my cheap cheek. I pretended to give the girl next to me a blowjob. Not quite sure what I expected but she was not in good vibration so I immediately turned around and walked away still trying to collect the lyrical verse of cursing prosody, one blowjob at a time. One tongue in cheek licking at the scar on the inside and wrestling the scene on the out, and if life is like a tree God would probably say let it grow tall.  I much rather swing from the branches and explode off like helicopter leaves. For now the only gift I’ll bring you is me not thinking about what it is you’ll need, and instead, what it is you’ll want to see giving me belief  that I’m going to succeed in picking trees like four leaf clovers. Hoping to land in your sheets.

Flying Paper Airplanes

“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him. For everything in the world — the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does — comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever.” – John 2:15-17

                    When I read this I found this hard to understand. The word “world” is not properly described but I do comprehend what this message is trying to imply. My guilty conscious has become the spoken part of me for the moment and it rears its drooped head in anguish to explain to me what this meant without vengeance.
                      Last night I began to focus my meditative state on the things around me and how they transcended me, made me feel, and invigorated me to walk, talk, play like a machine. Like it was some natural occurrence and not the overstep of man trying to better himself through his own creation. At the same time I do think that most God-complexes tend to look at life this way. They are only as good as their creations and do not realize that more lies within themselves, within what they give to God, the life of service. When we are in service to objects and the arrangement of our own personal well-being instead of putting it in the hands of Christ, our human form deteriorates and falls victim to these diseases, tremors of fear, false revelations of egotistical anarchy. You see… inside of Christ this disease do not exist because the state of mind required to find God will not allow something so egotistical to guard its doors.

This state of mind, as I’ve found, is also the link in finding eternal bliss in freedom of suffering, anger, resentment, vengeance, dissatisfaction, jealousy. When I enter this state of meditation with Christ his hands clasp mine much like he would of an injured animal that must be patient in understanding that the process of healing sometimes takes the face of a demon, the spirit of darkness. Much like a shadow a flame from hell might cast if we let it live long enough to burn our flesh instead of igniting our own fire of Christ. We must understand that the evil things in life do not reside in Christ and he does not provide Mother Earth with such a thing. Our devil has risen from our own misfortunes and we fuel the ghosts of the past, and future, instead of keeping ourselves well hidden in the hands of Christ. And when the time comes, when we realize this material world is nothing but a healing process that we can choose to better ourselves with or fall to fatigue with denial and resentment for the lack of immediate answers, at this time when the correct path is chosen, Christ will open his healing hands and from them a dove will rise into the hangar of God.

Waking Up in Winter

          I rise from the bed of sweat so fast the beads rolls off my skin, shaking clean bad dreams bleeding from me. In the midst of summer I’ve found myself curious with the heat trying to remember what the cold felt like, and who, what, how I related to the frost between my toes. My mind lays back into memory, although I try to keep myself away from the past unless it’s relevant to today’s administration.

         I recall chilly mornings where the air hung to cold clouds of fog, breathing in to cool off my heated heart. Loving heart. A heart driving across town just to get back in bed. Hopelessly drowned in young love that seems to hover alongside the fog, rolling off my breath, wishing this car would get me there faster. Infecting every person I spoke with, eyes lighting up with desperation, a sparing taste of what real kisses should feel like, look like, at least pretend to be even if not possible quite yet. A restless fashion of watching doors open, windows cracked as we wrap ourselves in sheets like a puppy would, round and round, over and over, until we find that we can’t get out. Laughter to keep us warm.

           And from here we sigh, peer outside as the wind blows frost in, keeping us calm, together, in an unexpected love for what lies before us in that day. That morning before we get out of bed for fruit and cereal, a cup of warm coffee in one of those odd shaped mugs your mom should have thrown away a hundred years ago. “Character” is what you’d call it. And I’d be thinking of the early morning sun keeping me glued to the counter watching you drink your dark coffee sparingly at first, and then glowingly as if invigorated with tasteful love. Winter seems to have captured me in between scenes where I never wanted to wear socks even when the floor could have frozen my toes solid. Even when I knew that dog’s wet nose was there to lick them every time, feet scampering, clacking, ticking the ground as he ran in circles around the kitchen once he got into the garbage for something he wasn’t going to eat anyway.

         And with this seeping thought in memory I smile and let the feeling of winter trail off for later days of hotter weather. I want the memory dispersed when the waves of heat are relentless because it will calm my mind, allow me to cool off bad thoughts or restless trials of centering myself. May winter bring me closer to you, or maybe before time slips too far away, like the sun rising those mornings, negating the frosted windshields and cold glass on the front door as we peer out while the dog romps around in cold grass to pee. I have become a lonely soul waiting to relocate those who should be held close to me, even when space kills timing or the timing is spaced away aways. I recollect things easily whenever I hear a Snow Patrol song or listen to A Perfect Circle before I go to sleep.

        I always felt winter came in drafts, waves, and a storm of bundling my heart to keep my life warm.