2004-07-28 07:43:17 ET|
Integrity Fades Remarkably Easily Into the Abyss
Iím always amazed at the smallness of my own hands
And the comfort Iím told that they provide.
Also, the destruction that comfort rains down on my home;
Tearing it beam for beam,
Hanging excuses in the closets and lighting fires in the basement.
Acetate images of future expectations curl and burn within these rooms.
All around me, frame by frame; hundreds of moving images flicker and move Ė
projected on the annihilated walls.
Unable to turn away, Iím obligated to watch;
Forced to wait for the reel to come to an end.
So many facets of the soul
All like shards of glass.
They cut and the body bleeds.
Feels like its drowning
In its own blood.
There has to be a much better way than this.
Multifaceted smush of everything perfect
Feels suffocating to this body.
Too much crammed into such a small space.
Too many ideas, too many feelings
Too many ideas
Too many fucking personalities
To ever satiate this soul
Too many past lives that left
This soul rankled and used.
This soul has walked the Nile
And flown with swans.
It has ran with the bulls
And defied every rule established by man.
This soul has been male, female, animal and cloud.
This soul has seen the world
And the comets that reflect in this bodyís eyes
Are only a small part of the cosmos that are contained
In this bodyís solar plexis.
This soul has hung on the gallows with the
Witches of Massachusetts
It has mined coal from the bellies of the earth
It has hunted with cavemen and
Walked with royalty.
It has ruled countries and
Slept in gutters.
It has birthed and died and rebirthed.
It has cast spells upon the earth
And danced at Woodstock.
It has felt the earth before DDT
It lived a thousand lifetimes in the
Blink of an eye all from the top of
A spotted mushroom.
The blood that this body
Sheds is millennia old.
It does not change.
The essence and aura remain the same
It is only the body that changes.
Only the name that is construed century after century
To a different pronunciation and sound.
And yet this soul answers to what it is not.
It speaks words it does not believe because the body
In which it is confined holds it prisoner.
So much better would it be to be let to itís own devices.
Rebel yells ripping from the belly of this body
Are heard by no one on the outside
And the soul weeps primal tears
Within the silence of its grave.
Why I Hate The Sorry Art of Speaking
If truth be told in the words of a poem
Then the obligatory sidelong glances
And dating graces arenít working so well
And the tired clichťd lines that wring from you lips and squeeze from your pen
Burn a whole in my brain that screams
Liar, liar pants on fire
Show me your heart, but donít give me words.
Audry Hepburn was sick of words and so am I.
Contradictory by their very nature
They mean so little
And so much at the same time.
You see love, a barbed chain spun in circles of silver.
I see it a freedom.
You see love a prison replete with steel bars.
I see a revolution.
I want to be pure for you.
I want to be whole and childlike
And completely honest.
Residing in your arms
Whole and content and complete
There should be no hypocritical blemished place
Upon which you might fret or worry.
I want to keep myself only for you
And have you delve into the treasures I have horded.
In time, many years or months from now
I want to be all for you.