It is getting hard to breathe

Little time is left
The dark is wandering slowly
Proliferating from horizon to soul
Meander to my metatarsals
Dying of consumption
I have little time
To convey and consume and convey and breathe

There is little life lived when luck
Shakes you down to your brittle bones
Fumes and spirit leave in the final seconds
Accusations of your (no longer) sentient body
Your unwavering eyes locked on the still monitor
Stale air is all you breathe

In your cocoon
In your habitat of comfort and palpitations
Hang your head on that thread of hope
The salvation
The respiration
Each and every time you breathe

Oh God, the edges
They narrow as we begin to sleep
Collapsing with an unrelenting infinity
Organs churn in the nocturne
One more chance for life
One more chance for change
My knees pop, my heart stops
And you come rushing through the door
Bursting like a chained-dove freed
Mouth to mouth
For I can’t breathe

Our penchant for love will never falter
Infallible is your lust for more
My mind wanders
In the refracted cloud as I stare into the wide, magnificent sky
Piling upon each other until I can no longer see the sun
It has disappeared past the church
It has rolled passed the undulating hills
These hours; so brief
They last as long as this
They last as long as each breath I breathe

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Fading Light

Light the kerosene in your thin tin cup
Held in the small hands of the youths, corrupt
Guide themselves down the smokey road below
Guilds of grieving sons, chests filled with sorrow
Daughters lament slowly fading mothers
Rows of silk, black dresses sewn by others
Vast spaces leave us an echo apart
Pining to relieve a sinking, aching heart
Goodbye, goodbye they wail down the path
All decomposing in the aftermath

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Constant Craving

You learn in different ways how to let go
Some fast, some forever slow
Craving your flighty lips in the morning snow
Your dreams dancing on an archipelago

Perhaps it is your shaking hands
Becoming thin, becoming bland
I feel myself sinking in the sand
Removing you, strand by strand.

Orange sunsets drag along the shore
I can see this through your open door
Waves crashing with a billowing roar
Against these walls, to the core.

It is an always constant craving
Banter inward, passionate raving,
This life, your smile, dying, aging,
Farewell, so far gone from saving.

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Ramblings in a Crowded Space

Is no one daring anymore? The only time we venture forth is when we are capitalists or libertines post-libation, rather than prescribing to the life of a humanist. I look around within the station in which I sit, and I see not the fear that comes from entering a dark cavern as it plummets into an abyss, but rather the fear that stagnates, churning in the edge of our eye, day after loathsome day. We are terrified to break the bonds that ravage our idle veins; our heart grows weak as it forgets how to pump the rich blood of vitality legs and mind of its master.
The ally of apathy is inaction, Witness atrocities from the rooftops and avert your eyes from the edge, you coward, and how beautiful it is to struggle. You disappear so swiftly, afraid to look into the depths of your own city, and witness the demise. You are not the captain of your soul, you are not the master of your fate.
You may hear the cries tail off, enveloped in the bustle of the cement and strained voices echoing through the alleys, but you failed to be the agent of change for your fellow man. Righteousness is perpetually born and slaughtered in minutes, seconds, uttered slowly from the spout of men’s lips, infectious upon inception, until that righteousness becomes tainted with desire and greed, unrecognizable to its creator, and fades into the heart of the masses, forsaken.
And in the light, sound, fury of it all, we believe ourselves to be sophists, high upon the pedestal, rising high over us all, billowing forth our knowledge and experience, signifying nothing, Gods not only of our rightful domain, but over others too.
I can never speak for others when I say my grasp on my own is weak and feeble, akin to holding onto a raving bird, flying in a widening gyre, pulsing its wings to rise to safety. I must grasp onto my present in order to reign my immediate future, as we have lost our past in a hazing mist of constant loss.
The efficacy of our wanton nature leaves us desperate, speaking and telling of bigger and bigger fish, until we starve, refusing to ask why. Do we fear the question for we fear the penultimate answer? Can we, in our sub-finite understanding, repair our father’s house from the grains of sand in the lot where we used to stand, staring at our feet, tears falling into a plot of dirt, failing to realize we had just spurred flowers to grow?
Maybe we fear to know how the lavender dies, similar to the birds migrating from south to north, only to return changed. However, we want to believe the lavender and the crows are the same from whence we came, coming to and fro in a perfect form, Platonic, ideal, second to God forever in shape and size.


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Depart (Short Story)

Melissa held the broom at the highest point of the handle. When she walked, the gravity carried the head of the broom back and forth, a pendulum swinging in the pit.
Chatter filled the coffee shop, as women sat with women speaking of women, motioning with a violent, boxing-like fervor, as they vividly recollected on women scorning women. Bustling patrons continually entered and exited, leaving this establishment to return back into the pastoral jungle.
A car came to a rapid halt outside the window, tires screeching on the worn pavement. A heavy thud plagued with the sound of compacting metal echoed for hours, resonating through the small town for days. An old man, crossing the street with the intention to order a pastrami sandwich at the deli, was struck, his cane coming to a rest half a block away in a planter-box, the neck looped around the base of a lilac like a victorious horseshoe shot.
The driver opened his door with a slight push, his feet unsteady and hands shaking with a new-found palsy. A handful of pedestrians made their way to the motionless old man, in an unintentional coordinated march; footsteps of a mid-afternoon procession. Birds perched and gazed upon the man, stoic on the branches of nearby decrepit Cuban Laurel, as Winter’s hand stripped and exposed the thinned arms of its beautiful garments.
The pedestrians, now involuntary good Samaritans, approached the old man, their steps no louder than the soft breeze that passed over his cashmere coat.
“Is he breathing?”
“I… I don’t think so,” the driver said. He ran back to his car to remove the key from the ignition.
“Does anyone want to check?”
No one approached close enough to touch the man. Most observed the acute angle of the bumper’s indentation, encroaching into the inner-workings of the machine, and surmised from there the life and heart of the man.
He did not bleed, which was an amazing feat for an elderly man. He landed face up, his legs sprawled in two right angles, one angling in to the other, and his arms flailed high, as if the Baptist minister just commanded him to scream “Hallelujah!” and the old man followed suit.
Christians, Muslims, Atheists alike prayed silently for the man, looking upon him and asking Allah, God, Jehovah, to bring this man to his rightful domain, as the unforgiving world treated him ill. They prayed for the man as if he, in a Faustian triumph of rebellion, had forsaken God in his last breaths.
Melissa walked out from behind the counter. She was already crying, staring at the pedestrians huddled over the old man.

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I want to speak(no words)

I want to speak(no words)
To give to you–
to give to you from toe to white train
Calamitous afternoons of refracting water disturbed
By swans flapping their wings and flashes of somber light.
And you blink.

Does this translate,
As it strikes your drum and travels to those deep crevices of
Your love-struck mind, proliferating out to the edges of your
Unstable world?
Dying goes the whining cello and percussion in the stagnant night,
Calling to us as we lay a lackluster disaster on the redwood floor,
Calling to our aching guts to dance along to its rhythms.

(I am a foolish young man, hoping.
That is the worst that it will be.)

Oh, the love you give is the love you get
Get, got, you have notes strung up
Slowly melting in the sunlight on the windowsill.

The blood rushes from our head down to the front door
Down to the bloody docks
Down to the bloody ocean floor
Where it lays and lays there forever.
Do you not feel the cheeks give way,
For the chronic romanticization of our placid mouths
Enables our self-placation?

I am mad I tell you absolutely mad
And I hope you are too.
The injustice of living outlasts the justices of peace.

Remember the hospice, in your last few hours?
Coughing and coughing I can see your chest rolling
Like the valleys and hillsides of your olden countryside.
Shuffling across a redwood floor (redwood trees that
Used to stand, now they lay, dormant, until we burn this world down),
You held onto my arm and now
You hold my hand, so feeble, so frail, do you need more of
(this and that) the door opens slowly and the man steps through the portal
To provide you with God and then he leaves and you fall asleep.

I stare at your wind-battered face,
Your face, molded, crafted by the sun and breezing sands of your youth
Coming from the West and striking you with its open hand.
Aged, you are, like a fine wine.
You cry tears and I am drunk, bending at the waist
Gripping my knees with my arthritic hands,
Ailing as the viscous hours refuse to pass.

And you sleep.

You are incapable of being blessed by an absence of feeling
Or an absence of your waiting (from here, thereon out).
Crawl from bedroom to bathroom to bended knee
Christ Almighty forsaken thee
We (meaning I and the hired help mandated to grab you by the
crook of your elbow) hoist you back to your cradle

and you sleep.

I speak of you with fondness and tears
Falling, falling like the November rain that caught your lungs
and never let go.
I speak of you with fondness and tears
Asking if you had lived a fair life
and had a fair end.

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Fires in the hillsides.
Raging wind guides it further away from the coast
Towards your house.

Fan the flames with porous wings,
Gripped loosely with ever-weakening arms
In my young, confused hands.

Longer are the days that wane in the sunlight.
Reminisce in the ashen breeze
Passing through my lungs like milled lavender.

Aquatic skies undulate from east to west
Pushing clouds like acres of cotton that
Our hands cannot pick between our thumb and forefinger.

I can no longer discern between March and September
They are both eclipsed by an omnipresent mist, weighing.
We languish in the uncertainty.

If the texture of your dress comes melting
Down to the tips of your shoes in the lonesome hours, could we possibly
Be together
In the whirlwind,
Embers and all?

The rolling train silences the owls.
Its light perplexes nocturnal creatures crawling through the brush.
I see it all.

Dying light comes falling slowly through the cracks of the house
Dust rolls through, a temporal visitor.
You are long gone. You are long gone.

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Hours die
Stagnant on the placid water
Shouting to God:
“Our legs grow tired!
My mother passed, and my father shall too!
We can never find enough money in our thinning pockets!”

He gives us the sun,
Shining on the lake.

Walking up the mountain
Shivering in the dark,
We call again:
“My skin folds upon itself, and I am old!
My hair falls into the basin of my sink!
I can no longer see her face in the twilight!”

He opens a lilac blossom in Summer’s light.

Falling asleep in each other’s embrace
Casting silhouettes on the armoire,
We silently cry:
“But this will end-
We will lose one another-
This life is all we have-“

He murders the lilac drifting in the breeze.
The lilac tumbles to the ground,
Consumed by the earth
Forever lost and forgotten.

Dig up the ground
Display a cross for us to recollect
Fall to our knees and clench our fists
Always asking why.

Time passes
(How long, we can never tell)
Lilacs grow from the soil
The same soil blessed with the still carcass of the elder lilac.

Touch the blossom and its vanilla contours
Examine how it is just the same lilac
As the one felled before.

Time moves forever towards tomorrow.
We will start in that direction
Drifting in the wind
Consumed by the earth,
But we are loved.

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Waiting for your arrival,
The wanting stars suck in the darkness and expel their soul.

Our corporeal bodies burn in their glow,
Yet I sit and wait for light to bend in the wind.
I wait for them like I wait for you,
A perpetual waiting for you to disengage
From the voices.
Viciously they spit their words of spited reason,
Beckoning you from another shore
Like the devil with a fractured horn.

It took me walking on a cracking road
Breaking in the morning and splitting in the middle
To see the sun we always had.

I see you, divine, wading in the mist,
Your hands curving around your pensive hips.
Bones protruding, speaking,
Muted with great candor.
“Your love, I adore.
Your love I do adore.”

A lovely woman, a waiting man.
A lovely woman, an ailing man.
Let me down gently.
I feel my heart colliding with my heart
Beating in rhythmic tandem with the slow-pulsing hands.
My beating heart, an ailed man.

Avidly patient, I crashed my stalled car in the moonlight.
I depart, soon, from the material world.
Your wailing comes in a different state, in another town.
Your voice carries, but with an altered sound.

My beating heart, a breaking man.

My constricting veins and empty arteries fissure at the weakened places.
Fragmentation has never looked so effortless.
Quickly, it becomes cold.
A door left open? A crack in the seal?
My beating heart, a broken man.

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Question Mark

Your bend-
A curve in your spine;
Unending question mark.

Oh, your heart,
It beats not for me.
Will flutter and leave
Like a bird with tempered wings.

Sweep wilted roses from your doorstep,
They drowned in the river,
Preserved in the stream.

Shake you from my shoulder,
Mosquitoes in my liver
Dying from the toxin.

You live in me.

Useless agonizing over
Patronizing words and
Lonesome whimpers resonating right through the canals.

One day
I won’t be needed by another
by any.
That day will be sooner rather than later.

Different time
Different place.
Drowning on a barstool,
Placid finally. The days, they pass.

Driving home
In the darkness of night
Riding a chariot no remorse,
Bucking and wailing into the dark.

I will be here.

In thirty years,
I will be here.
Without a father, without a mother
Without you living
as my lover.

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