Autumn

Fall


I am formless, overwhelming
Futility embodied in drifting
On the wings of Zeus' gasp
Into Hades' unforgiving grasp.
I am preconceived as whispers
Father Time footsore with blisters
In every creak and groan and snap
In each dim-lit feinting pass
Overgrown and under-worked
And often seldom tread.
I shift in fluttered dread
As I feel the earth's derision.
I am convenient hope's abscission.
I will pass in ash nigh Advent
In reds and golds and browns,
For three months absorbed into the ground
Yet someday, life will find it's morn.
Among the pruned and plucked and torn
Upon the dark midwinter's pass
I will frost amidst the dying glass,
And on a warm day as the bleak fades
On a Friday, as the black grays
Someday, there among the thorns
Someday, on a Sunday, I will be reborn.

Than What I've Been Handed

The Insurrectionist


Are we really all so justified
In our blindly trusting ties
Bound as victim to the tide
The shore's self-defeating slide
Into erosion, corrosive pride
Where fractured filaments lied
In premasticated fabrications
Spit back out, wide-eyed dilations
Thoughtless forms of meditation
All led us back to here.
Baptized both by fire and fear
Muddling through the very clear
Dimmesdale-packaged preaching
Plastic-wrapped magazines impeaching
Virtue with perjury's beseeching
Mercy for its slandered speech.
Another doubter into the breach
Where discontented masses reach
For connection to themselves.
Self-help books on battered shelves
Epics of men, dwarves and elves
Distract us from believing.
Time capsules are deceiving
As any truth worth perceiving
Is found in clawing up from crashing down
We're all alone in a room of clowns
And we're the closing joke.
As the laughter drowns our final choke
Perspective swirls in vapid smoke,
Burns away all time's reclusions
Fills our lungs with our delusions
Marks our souls with dark contusions
Lost inside our own illusion.

The Blog is Back!

I Am John Wilkes Booth

Someplace.  Spotlights.  Stage lights.

Today is the day I assassinate everything

That I have ever believed in.

Poor caliber selection my only saving grace

With residue on every point of contact

And q-tip flavored second thoughts

In chemical solution

While my hand is quietly turning blue.

Today I am an incorruptible figure

In a stupid hat, constructed mostly of legend

Sewn together with myth

And liberal usage of wishful thinking.

Tomorrow I am Novacaine mixed with vodka

And a single cherry

In a glass of sherry

Downed by whispered fools

And I tie my tongue in knots

To relieve the loosening in my stomach

Yes tomorrow I kill the only face I ever loved

In preparation for facing the mirror.

Today I shot the face of freedom.