Semblance Self (Line Driver)

All the lilting clouds are lined with white iron bars,
as if the sky is meant to cage me, oh let it contain me.
For if I my hand may breach the stratosphere,
and return without a handful of heaven or the stars,
I can only blame myself, my reach, my lacking.

My primordial bonds, my genetic smear;
they've granted me nothing but faulted wires, sanguine shines,
loose and ill-fitting manners, fantasies:
all of which is me, oh let them define me.
Let them have their way with me, place static between my ears,
and bathe my brain in television snow.

I've given up hope of truth and the meant-to-be.
My blood means little, the juice one may squeeze
from my skin's every inch until I'm cracked, dry,
wheezing and left to return to the dirt.
But because of the love from those that have born me,
and because of the love from those that have found me,
I'm forced to remain, forced to retain, forced to tolerate.

Secular entities such as I, among the brush and mire,
without a gloved hand to drown, or to save,
haven't a clue where to be or where to retreat to.
I'm convinced of the watchers, so let them observe me,
and know that I am nothing, nothing more than what I am,
what I always was, have been, and I refuse to change
in order to call to another, despite all of my pain;
despite how desperate I am to be wanted.

I'll seek my respite, despite all the folly
and the showers of shit that bury me beneath.
I'll find some semblance of power and place,
of stature and suited arrogance;
I'll find some semblance of self to project,
to reflect toward another's gaze, to protect,
and to hide my entirety until they want me for me.
I'll be lucid and transpired through the ages,
never sure, never wavering... Never truly there.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Thinking about taking my poetry elsewhere.

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The skies behave as if leaving off
at a conversation that I can't recall,
and pelting us with impotent gusts
that leave us wet at the sleeves

The home is not a home, so much
as it is a place of daily rebirthing;
emerging from dark walls that try
to envelope you in your bedsheets,
only to shine like the newest bloom
in a proud garden, on the edge of town,
where nothing is ever out of hand,
nor out of anyone's character.

The path to our cars is full of
terrifying visions that claw at
our underbellies as we clamor,
and wait for a solution made real.

The stall we occupy is
less a place of work and more
a place of hope, of progress;
albeit so heavy a soul's a burden.

The home is different darker,
under heavy cloud or dead of night.
We wary of people in it who
were uninvited but so insistent.
Then we sigh in wary reason
that surely we had locked the door,
and left a bolt upon the latch that
could never be just wrenched away.

The bed is sensibly inevitable,
because the couch is less inviting;
the floor a word of warning made
with flattened wood and plastic tiles.

The sky is sort of muddled beyond
the lateness of the hour and day.
Few care or pretend to pay attention;
we're all just hungry for our sleep.

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Heart's a Wasteland

Seven years of fallout, bending at my bridges
and cycling through paramount and indetermined shackles.
From plastic chains that sprung from ground, biting at my toes,
to monster clamps of rusted iron that spray my blood and marrow.
My center valves are burdened and my forward motions slow,
leaving time for scavengers to gnaw at all my trimmings.
With beaks and maws upon me, I reach ahead to others,
their vaguest silhouette a handle on which I hope to grasp.
But beneath my palm and finger tips there's industrial decor,
and girls that smell of smoking stacks with skin of pallid gold.
Their breath is like a noxious gas that licks my flesh from bone;
their faces lined with railroad tracks that shine in iridescence.
But as they are the presence whom is given as my choice,
I dig my grip into their hips and hoist myself to level.
And I dare not look into their eyes for fear of finding light,
illuminating all their flaws and all of my departures.
Some of them will cast me off towards dirt-encrusted caskets,
others may be lonesome there and will seek to tend my wounds.
Regardless of intentions heard, they'd find me bored and wary,
and lucid in my spoken tongues and all the noise I've bred.
Be it top or bottom placed or the forceful from behind,
I'll keep my eyes transfixed upon the paint, the dye, the metal.
And known to me that while the bombs were raining down to Earth,
my worth is measured by my face and the green beneath my nails.
So as the radiation turns me from this seething, writhing mass,
and the many flaying links will sink into my hull,
I'll know I've dreamt of better things and sought to bring them down
from orbit in their spacial ring to embrace me and my frown.
Be them not accepted by a body 'midst collapse,
perhaps they'll use their satellites to simply pick me up.

Author's Notes/Comments: 


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Stillness of Home

When I can't tear tiny wrappers
I wonder at the size of my hands;
it doesn't boggle the mind, but
they're enough to do the fucking job.

And then I sit there a moment and
stare at the Bishop, laying on the desk,
dirty and drunken in the garden,
with a hole in the top of his head.

I take note of the daylight fading
and do what I can to locate a lamp
that can only obey the switch that it has,
trailing from its coiled plastic chord.

My knees brush against the desk and
cry out at the chill of all the fake wood.
I recoil for a moment, then tend to drift
towards the moment of discomfort again.

Most days I reflect on the things that I've seen;
from the sexiest girls to the most unexpected,
and all of the oddities the world tends to have.
In due time, I sit and seek a focus for my mind.

I rarely discover anything nor do I create
something that truly makes a single day complete.
Eventually I'm sure I can or will, but
I find I'm at a loss.

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Rambling Ivy

There came to me a morning, the sound of pitched alarms
that served to stir me from my rest and into way of harm.
I woke to aches and whining joints as I rolled from side to side,
eventually to tumble forth and into day's new light.
I fell from sheltered mattress, to cold and wooden floors;
felt the dryness in my teeth, my mouth aligned with spores.
I heaved into my open hands but loosen they would not,
and I felt their growth and spread among my orthodontal lot.
Their birth from seed along my gums forced me open wide,
and from their nest, an ivy sprang from me into life.
It held no barbs nor discontent and simple coiled down
and with some love it took each limb and began to wrap around.
In moments there my sight had turned from clear to brilliant green,
and the ivy started rambling about all the things it's seen.
It shook with words and a cheerful voice about its birth and flight
that ended with consumption as I breathed it in the night.
From there on it had learned of me and the ways my flesh did work,
and chose to stay and occupy instead of seeking dirt.
I stood up then and felt my movement smooth and unimpaired;
with every motion, sway and turn I felt the link we shared.
This strange and chatty plant had come and settled in me deep;
his stranger sort of company is one I'd choose to keep.
And while he rambles on and on with jaws beneath his stems,
I will be our walking feet to guide us towards the end.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

More than anything I just wanted to use this title for something.

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The Train of Thought Dispatch

In every waking state, my head is filled by trains
that run a locomotive's rig across my gathered consciousness.
I speak not on their conduction nor of their wasted coal,
but show my fair and measured kindness by dealing with their whistles.
They often crash and seamlessly assemble into piles
that slowly, surely turn ascending towards their station's sky.
When one finds its destination coming at high speeds,
it find the brakes or tries at least, and prays for slow conclusion.
Some have lived upon round wheels of rust for years and ages;
smoking stacks and appendages made of dwelling iron -
while some have found the barrel gun as a perfect place to settle
just before the new day's sun will use them as its bullet.
And I guess I'm just the dispatcher to this train yard of the mind,
willing just to settle for arrivals and departures.
I'm loose and 'lax with schedules, moreso than what's best,
but in the end I find delight in the sights and sounds and motion.
I'll wear my cap and place a hand upon the luncheon bell,
calling out mentalities to carry on the dusty speakers.
For when we've kept a goodish deadline on our shipping wells,
we'll know to buy a beer and laugh and congratulate ourselves.

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If It Rains I Want to Be the Last to Know

and I want you to be the one that tells me.
I want your word on your sincerity,
and I want your eyes looking into mine.
I'd like it if you took my hands
and held them somewhere near our chests -
and say it slow and sure and firm,
baring nothing after left for question.
Tell me all the weight of drops
that pour upon the plastic awnings.
Paint the landscape in my head
with only words you've chosen.
Make such sounds that stir the dead
with the depths to which they travel,
and grant no option past another
that forces me all at your side.
And if there's stars or charcoal skies
I want just you to fetch me too.
Gladly take your hand in mine
and help me to enjoy myself.
Aid me and my fragile vice;
force me to antagonize
the every bit of former me
and his lack of sweet momentum.

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Smog Breath

I'm an applicant named Smog Breath;
I haven't chance to stand.
Despite all that, still I arrive
and I intend to take a sample of your time.
Name implies me smoggy - eyes so blue and foggy
and I bet upon the shaken hand you felt of my revival.
The hue of your retrieval,
of all my documents, fair and valid
speaks a volume of your tastes
and of my final outcome.
I'll skulk along the lobby, 'til the guardsmen start to mob me
and send me on my highest tail along the garden alley.
Then I'll turn to litter,
a cast out in the gutter
for a vagrant to be enchanted with
as some trinket or another.
My gasps are nigh-pollutants
that tend to feed on O-zone,
all the while I still contend
with the pressures of the unemployed.
My breath is always smoggy, but it's not that it's beyond me,
I simply tend to love the way the smog can be imploring:
a billowing of grayest cloud that forms a shape for speaking
and suggesting many wild things that keep you effervescing.
I am Smog Breath, soon enjoyed
by the company of another;
with a hand of green and gold,
I'll simply lose my sense of shame.
And this will be the last recording, at that time
of anything I care to recall,
for I'll be distant,
and probably really, really quiet.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This one was strange but really fun to write.

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Making Reflections Dance

Wulfman Adventures

It is no longer a battle
No longer a war within
All that rattles me
Is the love for my son
The fact that I have came this far
All of my fight
I have finally won the war
Though there are battles
I know I am king again
Not ruler of my world
I leave that for God
I muck things up
'cause the power goes to my head
I am changing the man in the mirror
Finally after ten years when I started this
I have came to where I dreamt of being
Free, sober and clean again
Not a pure soul but a cleansed soul
Thank you God

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