There Was Always a Choice

Oh, how things change, and have yet to change still...

I've been working, pressing bricks made of muddled friendships
mixed with stones and sticks from 'friends' who've thrown them.

It's true, I think of you daily; back bent in servitude --
except that I'm the master, and the servant both in two.

This dichotomy won't bother me as long as you're around.

You're the carrot dangling 'front of my nose.
You orchestrate where this horse-race goes;
you're what I'd wall up with bricks that I've baked.

You're the burned in shape inside my gaze. When I try to look you run away.
Settle back into place, into faux-fairytale bliss, and there you go --
pass by again. Blur into life riding the white horse of pride,
helmeted head held so high. It is quite a sight.
We are both audience and I.

True, most watch the race to see checkered first place or the crashes that pause, mar the way.
Others will gamble on what's governed by random,
and others will gamble still.

Do you ever look through old photos?
You won't find me in those - just wait.

Our Aversion

Spread thin, but still thick with intent;
remembered names so soon to forget.
Blank pages beg for ink and type;
the hands, the clock, tick-tock then chime.
Champing bit; too strong for leather
restraints that tether - "You've been much better."
Built of building blocks, so easily sway;
in midst of tempest which gouge out graves.
STAND FIRM OR BE SWEPT AWAY.
Like sand grains and time frames;
under silver sky, submerged, we pray:
STAND FIRM OR BE SWEPT AWAY.

for the Muse

Heart beats beat me free -- it made a soldier of me.
Traitor! Traitor!
Where did your armor fall?
Failure! failure. Was this enough?
...to break the broken, lost, misspoken;
the scrapbooks' open. Photos are stuck in,
patchwork privvy.
Turvy-tipsy.
"It's all art splatter!"
'I couldn't be happier."
This song was much sadder.

- and this made a Man of Me.

Marbles

Let's say we're marbles --
mirror-spheres spread
ad random 'cross black free-form abyss.
This is the tabletop
where life erupts
and then folds back from the fray.

And the table does rock,
as shapes trace through space
formed by silk twixt the dots which roll on.
These threads weaved by days
and memories made,
glow up and are etched into place.

But these bonds can break,
when pressure applied
distorts shape and contorts the rays.
- Where marbles collide
and rebound back
in an inevitable pinball charade.

Facade aside, shifting,
this spiderweb construct,
connects the world taut at its base.
The blackness was made
to facilitate change
and the magnetic attraction between;
but links will still shatter,
when forced to bend farther
than the line was defined to endure.
And when marbles cease
to weave through the bleak
darkness, they cut out on their own;

revolve and roll on
a free-form ballet
to attract or repel as they may.

Contorted but stable,
starred sky paints our lives,
until each marble rolls off the table.

...and they all do.

(Untitled III)

He told me he knew someone who tried to make him feel bad; like the past wasn't past and instead should be dragged, back through his head until he couldn't forget, the sound of Her voice and his pulse pumping dread, so sick to his stomach -- wasn't it: She will never let go. There's messages daily so the whole world will know, and that's what he sees, that She's a disease, now he's falling ill, and She's falling for me, tells the world She's sooo happy, he found me at night, took a knife to my heart and, stared burn-circles into my eyes; I didn't think twice, I opened my veins and spilled out all my truth: "If this has happened to you then you'll feel like I do." This happened to him now he feels life anew, a feeling so few, have felt this until, She forgets all about you, and maybe She will. But maybe she won't, and aren't you so lucky, that the catalyst sits atop a mountain of bodies. He told me a story, but I knew how it ended, because there is no ending, when its Her you've befriended.

(Untitled II)

Now,
Don't call me worried; I'm just a bit flustered.
I've used all the patience I've mustered.
A feeling best described watching people walk by.
Then there's a reaction; add this subtraction -
a feeling of warmth when you're near.
This inkling I've had has invaded my head:
who are you to betray - double-cross - enslave with your gaze?
We all know beauties age. You won't get away.
Cyclical self-preservation meld down to a girl.
It isn't you. It's probably this world.
This place. Where tradition's at stake.

Here's to my hope that we'll meet one day in the rain and orchestrate -
I still have hope in the hopeless, a rope for the rope-less,
the off-chance you'll notice: I would be true.
Off-meter you've made me; now erratically awake - I wonder
was I wrong all along?
or is wrong relative?
when white lights flash
flaws emerge in the negatives
I'd guard against being proved wrong
but my fingers'. been on. the shutter. all. a long.

(Untitled)

The was an artist once, who did what he does, best placed in the race, behind best laid plans, alone on the street, alone in his craft, but he still keeps his peace, there's still life in these rags, torn and tattered by weather, hang lifeless and fray, he still keeps creating, whatever come what may, scorn does comply, with the weight of the world, by the blades of the weak, and the sneers of the small, of heart there's no equal, in rear view he's liquid, understood but rejected, mis-respected in the cold, oh! the aching bones, but there's hope in the fold, break ice but salve wound, if only you knew...
but you do, don't you?