Born on an Overcast Day

Freedom…Just another word for nothing left to lose.

-J.Joplin

born on a cloudy day 5.jpg

 

As the season’s merge…

I cannot help but think of how it is with us.

The inherited panic and fear.

The constant need to disappear.

Just when a trail has been laid…

Just as time has been weighed…

Our over shadowed life becomes displayed.

And, with that knowledge,

we continue to bear the fruit.

An oath to a world of soiled roots.

It is an overcast day.

Guess, sometimes it has to be that way.

Civilized words for a shut book.

Theology has yet to devise a means in which to get you…

off the hook.

No matter how much I scour my mind…

with the salts of the earth…

The winds of change have not stopped.

They take comfort in the calm before the storm.

Yet, they are never completely gone.

And, so the story goes,

some hostages are held by fear and dread.

Others by a custom-made bed. 

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Vanishing in 89

Vanishing back in ’89

Casualties of ’89

A conductor’s timepiece…

doing time

A clockwork of technicolor breakdowns

And, races to the finish smeared with red tape

Cheers of holding on, discoveries that came much too late..

Vanishing in ’89

Family values of a primitive kind

No matter how white the snow may currently be

it has no choice to soil itself down

It is in the deficient nature of the beast

Running down in ’89

With no importance of the finish line

Can a new reality be forged

Can we allow tainted walls closer to

the heart…

Can yesterday beckon a seasoned start

Vanishing and gone… back in ’89

Closer, closer, closer to fine

No matter how secluded those that were dear

No matter how sequestered they appear

Beastly bones are nothing more than a…

Handed down meaningless antique

Vanishing in ’89

I wonder back to the screeching night

and

where to draw the darkest of fine lines

Be chivalrously autonomic

Being intimately private to true bone

Being in internal love, one but not alone

Pine and Oak

I look and lock down these stairs to the catacombs.

I understand as a stumble, there will never be freedom.

The intertwined pine and oak…lamented before me alludes to a place ‘never to be.’

Hatred and swinging leather belts.

Love mixed with skin pelts.

I write shortly of incidents others have felt.

Thus, I donate my life to disrepair.

To tiled and titled adults without a care.

Tell me now,

how polyester made life light?

Why the campfire of want…became hell?

Tracing the Formica

Boscawen NH

The Formica traced a trail of ruddy tears…to an unnamed room.

Deep inside the tomb…

my oblique glasses held visions of dull switch blades.

Daggers dancing through the corners of my soul like,

bloody sugar canes sent to alleviate my decay.

Sliding between the ceramic maze…

a hell to be razed.

Alas, the vow,

little do your tiny demons know,

it was written long ago,

upon a wall made of cork…

‘straight jackets cannot subdue the heart.’

Mum

Hurt has turned ghosts to gold

Newborns into antiquated entities

I come and go from the waters, time and time again

Yet, I cannot walk on

Questions to my state of mind

Part and particle of the disease…not the cure