…and that is the truth.

This came up in today’s reminders on the FaceSpace. Looks like a day for blog posting.

This is a song directly after a break-up (two months or so) to the point where I was moving on, I think. There’re some themes that have traveled to other songs and poems, but I like this. I don’t recall writing it.

As an added bonus, there’re some Dark Tower references here.

Enjoy!

glad to be a part of something bigger
when all I can think of is myself
I would like to stop thinking of her
but I’m accustomed to this hell
flames lapping up about my feet
as she pours on gasoline
how I tied myself so tight to this tree
no wonder I cannot be free

oh how the fire it keeps on burning
oh unto a crispy black
all these things I should be learning
if I could only have her back

all the while I’ve been plotting
how I can triumph from this test
all these hecklers are a’watching
as I dance the dance of death
throw upon those useless branches
as smoky ‘membrances rise higher
there go my bridges with my chances
as my vision’s growing tired.

oh how the fire it keeps on burning
oh unto a crispy black
all these things I should be learning
if I could only have her back

calling out across the courtyard
calling out across the square
as my breath escapes me so hard
calling up into the air
someday soon I shall be born again
like a phoenix from the ash
I plead for all the help that you can send
so I can let go of my past

Rebel without a God

AD2

 

Shuffling, shambling

down the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.

 

The glitz and the glamour

and the people passing by

as quickly as my days

upon this earth.

 

I’ve been down these streets, before

beckoning, begging me

to come back.

A taste, a try…

a titillation?

 

And somehow

I get lost along the way,

the world

has tugged at my heartstrings

stringing me along

making me think

that I want more.

 

Stars in the sidewalk

losing their shine

as the sun sets,

hides behind the clouds

from me

the things He wants me to see.

 

Pitted and cracked–

watch your step!

–you’re skating on thin ice.

Deeper and deeper

into the maze of the city

walls mugging up around me,

beating me up,

closing me in.

I run

even if not sure

why it is that I do so,

nothing of the sort

that the big black empty

can hold.

Driving down dark alleyways

losing my way

time, direction…

stumbling, falling,

crying, puling

in a corner.

 

God knows

where I’m meant to be.

Sweetness Follows

This is one nostalgic jaunt

I can no longer

make connection to–

the roads have changed

and there are

more pressing matters

upon which to attend.

 

THEN

 

At four and three, respectively,

keeping our eyes peeled

the Tipton/Grazierville exit

Bland’s Park (how much fun could it be?)

the amusement park rides by

now given in to

corporate branding,

much like my past.

 

Stories related in circles

as if on an endless track

gander past geese,

biting the hand that feeds them.

Cafeteria and library

are side hustles of your grandmama,

as is getting your peeper caught

in the zipper of your footie pajamas

and the Incredible Hulk

standing in for Jesus on the cross.

 

Heroic, indeed.

 

LATER

 

Following these low roads

keeping tabs running, open

to the nagging voices:

past the TYRONE of a booming black man,

the Armaghhhh…of Joseph’s dying words,

 

long, lonely drive with jaws wired shut,

the shhhhhh of the lisp and roads beneath you,

riding partners of Mitties and Pearl.

 

I never was a cat person.

 

LATER STILL.
THE NOW.

 

Even if his ears bother him,

the inclination, the pressing need

listening, little man

smitten by what I’ve written

of ancient shipping systems

a train in the distance

carting new dreams to these way stations

smile curved up like a horseshoe

at the crossroads. Still

making deals with the devil

nailed above the door.

 

Good luck with that.

 

INTERIM.

OVER, UNDER, AND THROUGH.

 

Yet, it always spins back to you.

 

I pine for what we

once had, if only

because I know it was

nothing.

I long to understand

what these songs meant to you,

us, the tracks missing

love letter liner notes

teased in disappearing ink.

 

Sun-dappled memories,

a magnetic menagerie

of Ouijiac proportions

ghosting in the gaslit paths

never getting close enough to touch

intestines, spools

pooled about my feet,

lay bare by the pencil eraser.

Spirits from beyond

these lyrics that won’t die.

 

Dear you,

remember me forever.

The Man Who Knows

shuttled through tunnels

like so much spoiled meat

snuffling and a-snarling

the beast upon two feet

 

Minotaurian presence

half-man the body shared

double the size of normal men

if anyone dare care

 

he had no strings to tie him down

or keep him on the path

this city was a festering sore

’twas dim and dark and draft

 

it was another of their tests

this smarmy grim cabal

no twine, no map, no lights down here

felt along tepid tiled walls

Spirit Walk

Talismanic totem

your name stands tall

riding on the shoulders broad

of the great chiefs

who have come before you

gone before your time

robbed of the land

within the circle of

the Great Mother

who has called you home.

 

Tilting at Propellers

20170508_134135

traveling back and forth

between the people that i love

not knowing where i belong any longer

no signs from above or

below

and it would mean the world to me

as to where I’m meant to be

I’d like to know

 

the sun goes down

and the clouds roll in

it’s getting dark now

could this be the end?

rain begins to fall

it comes down in sheets

when ever will the sun shine again

and show its face to me?

these wings lift me higher and higher

farther and farther off the ground

I can’t seem to say a word

from me there is no sound

Mother Moon and Father Sun Take a Smoke Break (NaPoWriMo17 11/30)

Mother Moon wanes, hides

in the moments just before dawn.

Hanging on to the last

perched

at the horizon

bushes and fog obscure

her once stately features.

The night clings to her

sings to her

birds heralding her retreat

pigeons, pecking at

cigarette butts,

the destitute

grasping

for one last drag.

 

Father Sun

bookends the beginning

of the day, subsidized housing

in the vaults of heaven

shoring up the infirm

and impecunious.

Characters of stories

both husband and wife

shine upon

shadows, wistfully

waft from the throne

a corona of smoke.

And they do not speak during their morning constitution

but signaling

as she beats her rugs

that he has long stamped upon

and shorn his stately visage

carrying younger than her years

yet he shall always remain in her.