Ripples in Flow

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sprinting back up to the pack 30/30

catching up big time today

I have been editing these poems all week and some began before april but thats not too important. Everything is also available on my tumblr, and thats the only place you can find my recording.

1

Privilege, or tragic envy

if god created me in his own image,

I can only imagine it was between hits of a cigarette

on a cold and rainy morning- nestled in lines

of uninspired poetry, and he was just not feeling it that day.

from muse-less genesis comes an awkward off-vanilla boy

and his shoulder angel just called in sick today

my only company now a decrepit red jumpsuit

who couldn’t even be bothered to wear his little horns

His face wrinkles like cackles from yesterdays

and he says- boy, your the sad schmuck in the ER who needs stitches,

at 4:30 am and every gunshot victim steals precedence from your wounds

mourn those moments that matter and seep into the floor

do you feel arguments on staircases, giants upon mountains

who’s voices berthed into your door, leaving marks on the ceiling

a deep black stain that crept into your sleeping body

do you remember lifting the stones of the great wall

so you could feel something rough against your bare skin?

Not even stone mountains could shield you from fissures

Do you remember sitting in a room exactly your own body in length

and maybe another half in width, tension boiled into your lungs

smoke pouring from the walls as you choked affirmations to your parents

of course everything is okay, who would complain about having two bedrooms?

you’ve always had it made here vanilla boy

nobody has wrestled your happiness from you

You borrowed your face into any crevice that would have you

and rationed each breath, taking barely enough to live

your paper roots never left a mark as they buried you

you, the wallflower that nobody even bothers to trample on

your leaves suckle sundrops in the peace of shadows

and it rains the perfect amount each morning

here you are on rusted park benches looking for scars

some twisted narrative with a hero, and a villain

you come here every morning to look for colors, and bruises

to find the climax of your tale, the page turning twist in the plot

the world holds its breath for you as you walk by

waiting for something to happen, something to shoot the breeze with

But you are just rolling disappointment like muted thunder

too much vanilla without the gift of colors and textures

your life is nearly a straight line, without melody or wear

nobody would read the novel written about you

each chapter like the last, piled to the top with cliche

and heartache and expectations beyond your tall arms

we all know whats waiting for you down the road

there is no fog, the sun will follow you most days

and you will always be fine to strangers eyes

your privilege prevents you from knowing anything

the walls of your home are too thick for life to get in

not even earthquakes move you, not even waves

waves bigger than your house, that carry the world

and burst through your window with it, everything

not even the nuclear radiation can open your eyes

nobody cares for the vanilla when people have no homes

just pay your money and pass go like every other trip around

know that so many people wish to be in your shoes

never be anything less than thankful

2

A man set himself on fire in saigon,

seven brothers burned for buddha

Seven souls were silenced forever

I have never burned for anything

fire is but a means to an end

another silent protagonist

I can’t say they had courage

hatred bears the title mother

it pours soul into the remains

these ashes live more than I ever could

god’s breath dare not move them 

what does it take to be heard?

this crimson flicker pulls air from vessels

the vessels of word, and feeling

they impart life to our words,

words that die before anyone hears them

What does it mean to say soul?

that which remains as time destroys

a hole inside the wrinkles of our minds

an accelerant for emotional sparks

unspoken but always heard

I want to place myself at his side

drip with flames in unison

yet, I can only be an observer

another shrouded blank face

Fading into the background

I have never known burning

their words died before they

even reach the camera lens

all I could see was the cop

Watching a recurring spectacle

he was searching his pockets

an unlit cigarette sealed his lips

I hate knowing that flames

never reached his soul- I hate

knowing the words die before

they even reach his ears,

I tell the cop “Marlboro’s will kill you

Tension exposes his rotting teeth

“so will westernization”

we reach into our holes

the place we put our matches

I try to steal the knowledge of dying

see the crimson crawling on my skin

feel its torn tongue embrace

know kindred, and understanding

breath solace and melt into concrete

The monk makes nothing of burning

fading into unseen waters

a smothered voice still vibrates

the noise is enough to stir a soul

even when understanding lags behind it

I hate knowing we share simple truths

our bridge wraps around the river

We can walk along side on another

bathed in silent raindrops

each tear a child of our mother

The cop finds his lost limb

and inhales rolled ashes

one more corpse for the pile

another candle vigil

another star for the tapestry

Time pushes crowds into houses

they kneel and pray for them

we exchange sincerity

tomorrow’s ashes become trees

as I leave I eat their fruits

Each bite ignites, rebirth

3 on tumbler

4

Somewhere between history and tomorrow a bus rides through rain

board at yesterday

find your place inside

give life to dead things

let words roll from lips

gravity

weight we can’t carry

find me there

from nowhere to everywhere

in quiet

just noise

a mumbling engine

whispering tire treads

things we tell ourselves

places we remember

locations and time

my mind is that place

a cage tomorrow

a prison today

a lock yesterday

all things form lines

connecting with tires

just see them

find me there

on this bus

going everywhere

without moving

roll wheels of stone

down a hill

see it

the turning

the lines

trace them on foggy windows

look but don’t see

speak but say nothing

listen in deafness

dig deeper

movement is living

speaking is dying

words descend into the floor

god can’t lift them

hands can’t hold them

eyes can’t see them

The road is foggy

moving away

inertia

forward

follow the lines

feel the hum

the heat of the engine

trace the horizon

as it rolls

feel the hills

the sky

it moves past you

see it

wait for the stop

the end of roads

the beginning of everything

get off and wait

boil patience in rainwater

season with soil

drink

taste earth

fill a void

look deeper

sweep aside the ripples

wait for the stillness

wait for time to stop

gaze deeply

see your own eyes

pierce, soul

don’t seize to look

avert no eyes

find me

see what I see

this face with lines

lines across a horizon

understand what it means to die

remember your only visiting

wake up

brush sleep from eyelids

clear bed sheets from skin

peel slumber from your mind

remember this breath

the air that parts

the dying of your words

do not mourn them

stillborn was all they new

hate them

fear them

know their shame

it is ours

open a door

turn handles

press skin to wood

know the cold it bears

wait there

one moment

feel time slip

then look through the keyhole

stare into dream

crack reality ajar

look closer

let dreams be waking

find solace in sleeping

we all know where this bus route ends

know you can do nothing but ride.

5

I can only be what I was meant to be now

a machine is pieces and flow,

I can be one or the other

pragmatism left me at an orphanage

life is the image of you walking away

we could sit for hours at the table

spoke whole of time, soul, reason

but never said a word

We only meet in passing these days

barely enough time to exchange faces

I hate how your lines are always straight

someone took the hinges off my door

and you never came to fix it

you would say it was never broken

and draw maps on its ringed mask

distill ripples of blood into its grain

I yearned for straight lines

a place to hang my limbs

I want to be off again

my veins were not meant for this

vessels of earth forced to bear sky

we would always lay on the floor

eyes fixed upon kindred walls

they would sing a chorus for us

I want to go back to endless hillsides

the sky was always blue back then

we were kings of our castle

masters of our own domain

both tyrant and saint, victim and judge

until your voice shattered

bore destruction on your only kin

tore my towers from their skies

I could hear you mumbling

letting truth ooze from your skin

the sound of my own fists on soil

could only hide parts of your whispers

you always knew, I hated your perfect smile

Your broken-record lullaby nestled in my ears

He can only be what he was meant to be now

He just has to lie to himself, a little longer