Good Evening

It's dark and you're walking outside. It's a clear day but it's dark. You're not even sure if it's night time but you don't mind either way. You keep walking, trying not to notice the feeling of discomfort that is steadily growing inside you. The darkness begins to get to you and your pace quickens. You're pretty sure nothing is behind you, except maybe the darkness, but your pace gets quicker and now you're running. Maybe you heard something but you're pretty sure it's nothing, but just to be safe you keep running. You're now at full speed and breathing heavily. You're not sure how much longer you can take but you don't feel tired at all. You're in a different place now, still dark but more open; in a field, perhaps. The space puts your mind at ease and you think you see the sun so you give up on running, for now. You notice the ground you're on. It's not ground at all, it's a shaking, dark sea. In you go, down you go and you can't breath but you're not drowning. Deeper you go, as though pulled down by an anchor. The sun you thought you saw is now a trembling, shimmering ripple on the surface and now it's not even visible. You're moving through this slow navy gradient, into black. You're not sure how long you've been at it but you eventually hit rock bottom. You don't even wonder if you've died. You're sure of it. But the question plagues your mind: when? You walk through the depths so slowly that it probably takes you years just to approach the tiny strand of bottom that is distinguishable from the rest. It's an iridescent rock. At your touch it shifts. You place your entire palm on it and it winces. You see yourself now, touching the rock and behind you a long, spindly rod floats, pointed straight at your heart. You wouldn't see it, except for a single strand of light, pulled tight, that is reflected off it. In it goes, right through your back, through your skin, through your bones, through your heart and out through your chest. And the light has passed you, too; no pain. The needle proceeds to anchor against the wincing rock. The beam of light turns red and you see your body losing all its color as the red, now green, now blue, now yellow beam gives the rock every hue of you. You stand, now monochrome and look up as the sea rushes to meet you and you shoot up through its surface. You feel the warmth of the sun hard and hot on your skin. You open your eyes and focus on your ceiling. The sun is beaming through the window, diluted slightly by the white curtains. You bring up your hand, cold but full color. Good morning.

If Not Like That

a painted circle of white on a red wall
one single drop makes its way down
and another escapes upwards defying laws
the wall is now two camps, ready for war

the wall falls and it's now the ground
and it's now massive, a red sea on two sides
and held in two colossal chains, two bridges
is the white kingdom, the wheel of towers

she stands on the tallest tower on the inner end
poised and resolute she deeply takes in thin air
she then shuts her eyes strongly and at once
widely opens them and jumps off the edge

she's shooting down as a piercing, slicing wind
the red outside the circle is tumultuous
the red inside the circle is a still, bright mirror
she can see herself, closer, drawing in

as her fingerprints find their identical double
the surface of the mirror makes way instead
to a perfectly white void, a drop on the ground
on the wall to whom gravity is now drawn

a drip from his brush opened the sea
a drop of that negative space wet and drying
dry and cracking and now a black fissure
in curious curves, a repeating echo pattern

and the towers crumble overtaken by the cracks
crashing into the churning, thirsty red waters
and his majesty sits patiently awaiting the end
sitting across from the red and white wall

and finally the white is now merely transparent
and beneath it is the lightning strike of tearing black
dead veins filling in with red, rushing in
he shuts his eyes tight and braces, leaning back

then it appears completely, the traces of black now full
the lines all linked into pulsating paths of life
the form of a hand, then of a single finger and its trails
and the white drip swells and bursts in revelation

the brush hits the ground and paint floods from it
exhausting all of the white within, withering
and the white runs wild rebuilding the fallen
as she flies towards him, both wide-eyed

Painting the White Dog Black

A good stroke is in order
this midnight is incomplete
not enough and we'll be caught
too much and we'll be denounced


the dark track, the ghost exhales
an imprint of the spirit upon me
sacred ground and a thirst for sleep
the last ingredient is in the eyes

tragedy strikes with every step
the open mouth gasps in time
the wagging tail belies intent
the loose tongue hangs aloof

again a move, a false one now
who knows his plan at ease?
who sees him for what he is?
a hound like him, mercurial

pomp, steady pace, a groove
with no music, a clear rhythm
a clever spy need not hide
every move made is a mask

but what innocent purpose
what fascinating whimsy
that which has set this course
that which brings him here

the dawning sun signals us
we wait to strike, haste a mistake
the agent parades in unhindered
white dog caught at last

a sudden chilled wind
an imminent rainfall looms
and with each drop on white fur
black paws, black pavement, white puddle

and then, our folly unraveled
their duplicitous trail unveiled
the rain elsewhere discolors
a black dog dripping white discovered

and in his grasp, a surreptitious victory
and in his mouth, the stolen good
and in his step, a happy spring
and from the scene, an easy exit

[I wasn't going to post this coz I just wasn't satisfied with what I'd written and I don't like to post stuff I don't like but when I read into it I saw something I hadn't seen before and hated it a little less so here you go.]

moods

You're a cat and you see it all
in leisure you take in each step
every adventure is a smart move
and you can see more than silhouettes
when all is dark, eyeshine gleams

You're a fish and your life is a dream
nothing but a dream as you swim
in between the oars of heaven's ships
and you feel happy with others
and you swim and sink and breathe water

You're an insect and you know community
you know your place and you like it
you have every friend you need
and you die inconsequentially at a hand
that carries a vast history

You're a man and you know grief
the sorrow that separates you from them
is that you know that what separates you
causes you sorrow
and you miss because you remember
and you remember well what you feel

You're a star and you'll never die
you'll only change, you'll grow
and weaken in the cosmic rhythms
that you know before you exist
that you'll share all you have
and be together and alone

Transience

Like clockwork, every piece moved the other

In time, the rhythms of logic emerge from repetition

This flowing transience that is hidden in change

Often peers through and renders the optimist helpless

In time, the rhythms of logic emerge from repetition

Once detected, disarmed but for a smile, a specter

Often peers through and renders the optimist helpless

For in all this, it is the infallibility of choice that remains

Once detected, disarmed but for a smile, a specter

Swings back and  forth a steady pendulum

For in all this, it is the infallibility of choice that remains

And clearing all doubt of predisposition

Swings back and  forth a steady pendulum

This flowing transience that is hidden in change

And clearing all doubt of predisposition

Like clockwork, every piece moved the other

I've Come For You

this sliver of sky peering through ash clouds

this radiant hallway connecting the kingdoms

it's a beaming liaison, an opened portal

quickly closing before a rushing wind

breaking the blizzard in a proud golden flare

a razor sharp shadow cast on the seabed

and that gray somber wave in a wild crashing sweep

is roused to deep blue, thick in this halo

the arms leave the giant and float through the dark

rushing to meet the green and blue baby

its frozen soft sheets brace for embrace

and their ghost leaves a trail of bright echoes

pushing through the air, screaming past the breeze

this ray, this heavy drop of heaven come fast

piercing the winter, shattering crystal stars

the road is paved for the chariot of flames

The Two

What is this bomb ticking in my hands?

Why is a heart beating, bleeding in my hands?

It’s counting beats down to an explosion

Emptying itself, filling my room, flooding my room

The heart’s gushing, the blood splashes against me

Horror and then more as I realize

It’s my heart

Finally the flow dwindles and the final beat comes

And the explosion awakens me

In bed, in darkness, grasping at my chest, gasping

Calming down, as I feel the beats within my core

Lying down, letting the breaths sync up to the song

Don’t be afraid

And now I close my eyes

My brain expands, the wrinkles separate and stretch

And become walls and a maze. The mouse sets off

Systematic, I proceed until I hit a wall

Why was my heart a bomb?

I turn right and proceed

Why wouldn’t I let go?

I hit a wall again, a dead end

No, I can feel an answer on the other side

A sonorous rumble

The wall is warm and soft

Will it hurt to go through it?

I look down and my hand is now a blade

Teeth clenched, brow knit, I thrust my hand through the wall

Like a breaking dam, I’m awash in red, choking

And then the blood subsides

The gray walls are now half red

I walk through once the shock, too, subsides

I feel lighter as I walk into the hidden room

And then heavier as I realize my heart is missing

Another dream?

But there it is, on the floor in the middle of the room

I hesitate for a moment and then pick it up

It’s empty. It’s not beating. It already went off.

One of me is holding a dead heart, and the other stares

More questions fill the room in a blinding noise

I approach myself and before I even formulate the question

I answer “I have no answers

But that’s not your heart”

In my bloody hands there is a book

The blood on my hands, on the book’s cover fades into it

I open it and the letters form a chain

The chain crawls out from the book and wraps itself around my hands

My arms, my neck, my chest and then my whole body

The book has vanished and the words ignite

My skin in flames, words searing every inch of me

Eventually the pain dies down, the flames still there

But cool and white instead of ink black

I see myself, enveloped in white fire

My legs are still blood-soaked

I see my face covered in glowing letters

My hands are still shaking from the bomb

Intact but dripping from the heart

“I’ve done a poor job”

“We all make mistakes”

“I’m going to stay”

“I know. It’s the only choice”

“what do you make of the heart?”

“I would say it’s what you want

But as it empties you realize

The ends are going to come regardless

So you hold it and wait

And see it die without knowing

That in dying, you regain it”

The Hallways Stretch Forever

two mirrors and within them one will
one curve and two angles, singularly
fears and foci: future abstracted
the ends meet, grasp, tighten and wait

an overflow, forming pools
two mirrors face to face: infinitely
and inside is a fractured spark
deeper in, the drums of peace

in an instant the spark arches
glowing, the soul smooths the pools out
two mirrors: the ring of time bounces
at once, eternity is deconstructed

the drums now beating
rhythm, in a to and fro metronome
is the spark transcending thought
two mirrors find harmony in unison

the spark now a beam at speed
its bounce a beat outside of time
two mirrors opening to an end
and the end expanding ever closer

faster, the drums now scream
two mirrors in a riot flood
a killing pulse, once, twice deceived
the whirring beam is banished

two mirrors clearly, desperately dark
breaking past the instant's wall
the line is taut, gravity strung anew
and the moment is complete in the touch

A Study: Is Not

Nothing is quite as brain-emptying as a blank page, an empty space begging to be filled all the while siphoning every inkling of a thought that may be escaping your mind. The black hole, it is thought, produces a great amount of light but so strong is its power of attraction that none of it escapes. The white void, the plain canvas, holds in its vast lands the rich earth needed for the fruit of knowledge. The black ink, the painted pixel, is the sowing of every image as it is placed rightly, neatly on. This meeting of the poles, this encounter of opposites, the linking of the line that makes a loop and every instant of this traversal: what stripe, what checker, what shadow that light in breaking makes again. Every color divided, united is both and neither in contradictory equality and every oxymoron takes place on this black and white. The very void that void created in its absence found itself.

party music

blue star dance quick
lose love sing stop

pause now think drop
feel shake spin slick

take shape twin fates
light smoke loud sound

go fast trade sides
dip jump step turn

bounce leap flip flop
green beam freeze frame

flash quake boom shock
wave pound crash rock

slow now low ground
look swift sense shift

rise twist bend break
sweat drink smile stay