Sinkhole

 Sometimes it creeps up and seeps into consciousness.

Like remembering a childhood friend.

But it doesn't fade like my favorite pair of black jeans,

nor does it bring the same joyful nostalgia.

It lingers like the sting when burning your finger,

watching the bubble form.

So, you sit on the unbroken sinkhole,

soaking little pools of rainwater

just waiting for the floor to crack.

The rain keeps falling and you keep absorbing.

And the hairline fractures begin.

You drop,

And in an instant like a cruel joke,

It starts to creep up and seep into consciousness again.

Strong

Recorded audio on March 19,2015

Strong human beings
have resilience.
I want to be that human.

The Answer [incomplete]

This is another drafted piece I had saved from sept 15 2013. It's clearly unfinished and I feel it an injustice to finish it now as I do not have the same sentiment as I did 4 years ago. It feels wrong. Not sure who those two women were, but I'll leave that up to your imagination.:

I walked 9 to 11 days through sand dunes and sand storms
to find the answer to save the world.
I came across two women (at different times)
who tried to guide.
Without rest, the skin on my feet started to peel like pages from a book.
And with soft fleshy soles, I made the best use of my knees
to pull my carcass closer to this answer.

The first woman I encountered

Cobalt Blue

It's been a while since I have been on this blog. I have come back to read some of my own stuff . However, I was inspired by literary colleague to revisit it and upon logging in I realized I had a drafted poem here saved, unpublished from March 18, 2013. Sort of like a "never previously released track" from an artist. I also created a new profile under this blog to reflect a different version of myself posting and be able to differentiate from who I was.

The night sky is as deep and profound a shade of cobalt blue
as my evening dress.
I waltzed around the circus floor among creatures and thieves
while the magician's sprung from their secret hiding places,
a pattern of unscented flowers for the wicked maidens.

The dolls and the ringleaders sipped poison from their chalice's.
One by one their faces melted and they all  revealed the same thing underneath;
Rotted skin and acidic sweat.

My escort let the hand well-slip
until his face, and the thing underneath, crumbled off.
I scurried him to secluded safety under the judging sky
and begged for aid and begged for answers.
The pieces of his false human face crumbled onto my dress.
The blue was no longer luscious and beautiful, but contaminated and noxious.

And as I begged the sky to save him,
I felt blue paint, wet against my cheek.
The sky was melting.
There was darkness underneath;
sky that was as black as the depths of evil and conscious-less time.

As it rained blue paint on me,
he powdered into an ashy mountain of cloth and bone.
I tried to shape the flakes back together again
until the wind swept away every trace of anything.

The concept of "complicated grief"

According Rob Stein of the Washington Post, “One of the hallmarks of complicated grief is a persistent sense of longing for the lost one and a tendency to conjure up reveries of that person.”

Non-Profit Love [draft]

Celebrating my 100th post! Let me shoot out something from the heart....

Non-Profit Love

They don’t ask for much, when they ask for love.

It’s just one obvious thing, really.

Their romance is a cocktail of flirtation, passion, desire, and eternal willingness to make it survive.

Survival is key.

A person in non-profit love will do and give everything in their power (and even those not in their power) to believe the love promised, is received.

They wait by the mailbox for their promised package to arrive;

They are willing to drive to the post office if the carrier didn’t find them home;

They are even willing to fly to the place of origin and avoid the sender spending on postage.

A person requesting a non-profit love doesn’t ask for much

And is willing to do the work of both people as long as they’re promised what they so desperately want.

This person stares at unreasableness and impossibility dead in the eyes, but still manages to rescue hope and possibility;

They see a crashing plane and still desire to buy a ticket.

These are the most selfless (masochist) people just behind traveling nuns and members of the Peace Corps.

I’ll give my blood, my marrow, or my entire heart, if it’s asked of me.

They are like soldiers in a way,

But instead of a country,

Their loyalty is to a human being that you will never see;

Their devotion is to a human being that will give no profit of love.

These are the bravest and most selfless people alive

Because they willingly go into a burning building they know they won’t escape from.

They don’t ask for much, when they ask for love.

It’s just one obvious thing, really.

But sadly, they never receive it.

Destitute of Vision (draft)

"Hey, do you see that?"
"What, where?"
"Over there!"
"WHERE?!"
"There!"
"......I dont see it."
"Oh my god."

This is the type of moment that historically happens maybe once or so in your life.
You usually remember big moments like these
for the rest of your life.
They mark you like the bulgy scars of a massive cut to the epidermis.
This is a time when you look and you look and you just don't see.
You're unseeing; you're sightless; you're visionless.

They tell you the devil is among the crowd, and you don't see him.
You expect red, flames, hooves and a whole lot of evil painted on his ruby face.
But you see a random group,
not much different from what every random group looks like.

And then something happens--
maybe brought on from exhaustion by staring so long.
Confusion melts off of your expression like a wax face staring a hot sun.
And suddenly-- you realize that the devil looks just like you and me;
And you see him.
Maybe you will yourself so much to see it that you eventually do;
just like when they say that if you're depressed and smile hard enough
you start to believe that you're happy.
So you see him, and he's hideous.
It makes you wish you never saw him and would have done anything to pretended
to tell your friend you saw it, even though you didn't.
And the devil is neither red nor on fire.
He is wearing regular clothes,
like the ones on your back and mine.
How could one of our own be responsible for so many terrible things?
It almost seems inhuman.

(written 9/19/12 from 9:00pm-9:52pm)

Is it Time? (draft)

There is a battle between my comfortable present
and the mysteriously spontaneous future.
It's the never ending struggle between hesitation and feeling ready.
Because we are always ready, we just need to will towards it.
But is it time?
One decision, accompanied by a bit of courage and luck,
can bring about a new world; a new me; a new mess of things.
That last sigh before the plunge is the most suffocating and scares me.
But what if that last breath is really the last one, ever?
Face that reality, despite the fear that precedes it! I say.
Stop! I also say.
Who do I listen to?
Where do I begin?
Where does the energy come from to will my foot forward against gravity?
Is it Time?

Not So Far from Leaving the Same Ol' Lament, Thanks Tracy

[One of the more depressing pieces I've written in years... beware of the dark morbid factor.] 10:35pm

Sometimes I think and feel that maybe I was made for a small town.
Sometimes among the laughter I feel a bit alien;
a bit of a crooked piece from some other puzzle.
I can imagine the tears, the heartsickness
if I were to pick up and... go.
But regardless, I know, that in the end, its always going to be OK.

And maybe I want to run away because of you;
maybe I know that I can't detach your memory unless
I detach from everything and start anew.
I want a blank slate I can recreate memories with different people,
different places,
different reasons why I laughed,
different reasons why I cried,
and different reasons to remember.

 Tracy seems to know the theme song that my heart and brain are dancing to.
She knows too much-- so much,
its embarrassing.
Stop saying the words I can't say;
Stop feeling the feelings I ignore.

Some people feel that alcohol helps them forget,
but I'm so stern and reserved that it actually helps me feel something
and express what sobriety never could-- and lies about.
 And it all starts pouring out like some overfilled pot
that desperately attempts to minimize the damage of a leaky roof.
Then all the words like polyamorous float on the water
as the knots in my throat get tighter and tighter,
and I lose the feel of breath in my throat.
"And is that what we go through this for?" Tracy said.
Just make it stop.

10:51pm

Let my worries desintigrate in the airless-black that is, space.