The Ah-Ha Moment.

Where do they all come from, these things that swirl around my ever blurring vision of myself like this vortex of tell tale signs in a horror novel. Coming together and pulsing and getting me all wrapped up in bandages and string; crepe paper draped over saturated crimson pinata bloated with candy. And the sweets are my doubt. And the bat releasing the inside is my search. And the kid that keeps swinging is unknown to me. The waking dream lets me wander into the foreground while the camera continues to focus on the background. I become all fuzzy and silly and there's this creeping sense of disbelief. A snapping back to context: I really am here where I was and now I'm not. A quick realignment: I'm me. The cardinal swings lazily in the wind without a care, dying and living all together now. Coming apart later when I leave. I look down and the pebbles I disrupt reach their present points where they map out prisms and geometries. They come together just this one time and I leave it alone. Because I wonder, "Is the smoke still all over the place?" Are we not solid but swarming the air like atomic bees? My thoughts like a bubble in a comic book above my head.

I'm Like a Mirror: I'm Nothing 'til You Look At Me.

So here it is: I don't know where I'm going and I wish for you sweep a flashlight out into the darkness to pierce the fog of where I'm headed.
Do you understand how close to you I am? Do you know how close I am? Do you know that I'm asphyxiating before your eyes? My face plump and ripe. Maroon with eyes like pinballs bouncing through whatever it is you've become. You look like this sighting of the Mother Mary on the underside of a bridge; a stain that we all hope is something with the attributes of mystery and salvation. You look like a brindled little expression of my aspirations two decades ago, where I spanned an ocean and looked up at the stars with a twinkle of bonfire in my eyes way off in the distance of my inner self. Like this set of plates slowly jettisoned into the pained sky with skeet in tow. Just before the pewter is shattered and the binged redneck with bleeding tattoos shutters with delight. You are a creation of my own. You are what I think people think I am. You are completely made up and yet I live my life by you. Wrens and larks keep flying in and out of the fissures in the sky and I don't see where they go or why they keep coming back. That darkness beyond this world is what we all put together; what we all work towards to self create our selves so we stop thinking our lives are going no where. The more I think of myself in this way, the more I become that way. The way, this ever winding path: like father, like son, like a rather excessive pun.

This Certainly Missed Connection.

Who
you
thought
I was,
I am
not.
Who
you
think
I am
I will
not be:








Oh so good it is to be like that one wisp of air
drawn across your lips so fleeting it isn't fair.
Just this one moment to be striding in your eyes,
at this age it has to be easy to sympathize.
Like a thin sheet of ice on river bend,
my exterior can be torn thin, set to rend.
I have a tenderness inside of me like small animal,
looking bleary eyed with hopes to run but crawl.
crawl, sprawl, it's all that my sensitivity can muster,
after all, this is a blizzard it survives, a bluster.
Coldness at every turn keeps it to its knees,
at times it lies down, but springs and careens.
When instead of my lips longing to be the gust of wind,
they are actually making connection with your grin.
That longing little creature keeping me alive,
makes plans for the future to strive.

A lost little thing written for you two winters ago. When I was first introduced to your smile.