18.2.015 17th and Western (a mess of a work in progress)

Beneath the cracking concrete flats,
The Earth is (still) there.
In the low hum of winter:
Grass, upspringing (still) from ruptured capillaries, spidery little things
Tracing pathways and outlining
Something dead, and lifeless
Chalk-white, really
Bone-like, even
A monochromatic overpaving
Of wild and unruly life.
Wellspring whence we all came.
And to which we are wont to return
Denying, (still) denying
That we, too, are our-selves the natural world
(Still) unending and changing;
All overpavings illusory, milk-white
And just as useless
Harmful, even
Detrimental, it is said
To a system which has no use for the lactose therein.
Useless.
Yet
(still)
:
That promise.
We like to be lied to, we have a need
For concrete promises breaking, and yet
Don't understand;
Why.
Pave over the grass.
I (still) do not understand.

In the low hum of winter:
The Earth is still there

Beneath the salted concrete flats.

Bone-white, really.





Under the summer sun:
Radiant heat (useless)
Might burn through my feet
Soles a conductor, (longing to walk upon the bare earth)
Heat rising quickly through the bones in my leg, white-hot pain in my sacrum
(I fear I might vomit)
The heat rising from the spidered concrete flat
Burning the air from my lungs,
Cracking my throat
(Chalk-white, a promise)
Blistering the skin from my hands, my head
Capillaries rupturing in my nose
(Cool blood dribbling down)

29.3.015 RE: Michael Oaktree

And I sit here, asking myself--

What must it be like, to come from money?

Who might I be

if not for my struggles, my grief?

What might I have become if becoming wasn't do-or-die,

if everything I had was handed to me

or just as easily within my reach?

Where lies the line bifurcating pride

(for my work, my deeds, my livelihood hard-won)

and a cynical judgment 

of those who had no say in the matter

regarding the spoon with which they were fetally fed,

born-and-bred?

Why must I feel resentment?

I cannot fault a soul. 

I do not want what they have. 

They are humans, as I am. 

So why the disconnect?

07.4.015 Auxiliary; Insularity

Every deletion,

each small, cold-controlled

backwards push:

a minute death, 

a sinking further inwards.

I have done it again;

I could wear these partings

as accomplishments--

a frozen star, each

an adornment upon

a void of cold Hell, each

event a singularity, a lifeless jewel.

The ache hasn't come unburied yet. 

Always there-- slumbering or awake, self-aware--

I know it is about to start. 

I know where it will leave me--

I have known where I was going all along. 

31.3.015

It is Now that I pontificate upon the totality of Forever--

its clutches settling slowly into the corded nape of my neck, seeping
into the synapses therein,
to rest there like listeria:
a slow paralysis.

Drugged and dosed:
some wayward child facing
a child-hood feverdream
(serial surgeries, scalpels removing
and giving new order;
sterile barbs and firepokers,
[so cold and unkind, themselves]
prodding without relent:
carefully reshaping, though they do not care)
with the perennial ticking
of the ole ticker's bloodflow:
reminding without relent.

The weight of passing days, undifferentiated,
sinks
ever-further
in;
with a digitalis-sweetness,
lacing the nape of the neck

(toxins):

a glaze of pyritic myelin
(sticky acid in wax's stead)
permitting the dissemination of the electricity therein,
the ions' communications tissue-dissipated
(a shame).

What once may have been
a message of storms, a din
of forked lightning
racing to the brain:
it comes unbundled as heat
in the nape of the neck;
from heat, to dread at the base of the skull;
and from dread to dead-silence,
no-feeling,
stillness.

It is Now that I ponder the reality of Forever--
with the absence of bygone moments
boring into the nape of my neck,
and a lulling hum-- the buzz of thoughts
without escape-- to fill the space

above the base of my skull.