Blank Pages

New pages woo me
Blank. Open. Free.
New pages with old
Music folding on folds
Of my ears living
Vicariously being
Someone I can only
Wish to be.

Vapourized daydreams
Living as it would seem
On the cusp of reality
Oh how this page woos me.

New notevooks nearing
Insanity lusting leaving
My pen contorted
Ink splayed on pages thwarted
Poems splayed eagle
Heart growing feeble
Hand in frantic hand
Insanity
Oh, how these pages woo me.

10/9/14

The thought of you
    Leaving hits me from
    Time to time
An unspectacular disaster
    Walking out of the
    Ether of what used
    To be my life forever.
A thunderous absence; hole
    In my heart.
Echoes in my mind to
    This day your
Questioning footsteps wander
    In and out of the void
    Where I held my love
    For you
Replaced by shame & guilt
    & love & hatred hatred hatred
Of myself.

          Your silence stole
          My voice from me.

The Torn Word

Trying to move on,
    Trying to
            Forget
                          My
    Mistakes and
            The hurt
I've caused.
           I'm trying
    To live a sober
       Life; a
                           Better
Life.  But
     I feel
           Haunted
                Hunted
By my mistakes.

Learned from but
      Not forgiven
         
          Lived
But not loved.

I want to
    Apologize to the
            World for
My actions; but
       I know it
  Will fall on tired
          Ears.
Falling like letters in
      A broken typewriter
                 Smashed
                              In rage.

But all I can feel is remorse.
      Guilt about my life.
My failures hunting me
           Like hungry dogs.

                          Each day
In this is new,
                 Uncomfortable.

I squirm in my
       Own skin
                     As if
To shed it or
         Shed me.

The words are just
Now flowing.  After
           Being trapped
For
So
Long.

               I feel as if I'm
         Ripping them out of
    My chest like the heart
  I ripped out
Long ago.

Across the Pond

Who is that girl at
    The edge of the
      Pond?
         Sending smoke
                      Signals
Into the water,
    Messages from ethereal bliss
Is she here for the
      Same reason
             I am?
          I wonder her
             Name
Sitting crosslegged
      Across the pond.
She holds her cigarette
    Sacredly; her holy
         God Nicotine
                 Praying for
Forgiveness.
            From what, pray tell?
      My ethereal fascination.
Her hair billows
In the buzzing breeze.
    Her eyes
    Too
    Far
To see.
    Emerald comes to mind.
                      As she walks
Straight; legs bare;
    Phone in hand;
        Her hair the sun's
    Plaything.
             Passerbys don't
    Glance.  But I
                         See her.
  That girl across
         The pond.
                         Who
                          Could
                         She
                          Be?
And there she goes.
        Out of my life forever.
                          Her
Converse conversing
      With the stones,
An ethereal cacophony
Of ambiguity.
            Leaving her mark
      On the path to
           Wherever she may go.
                            Whomever
         She may be.
    Leaving the edge
           Of my life
                          Forever.

Waterstill Ponscum Dreaming of Grass

Waterstill under
    Gurgling breeze;
          Turtles
Splayed in the sun
    Fucking under its
                       Rays.  White
Doves dance
           Overhead.
Pondscum dreams of
      One day growing
          Grass.  Grass
    Dreams of growing
           Trees;
                              I dream
           Of you.
You: darkest of
       Alabaster angels
Lover of Nothing,
      Savior of hearts.
Angel of poisoned passion, my love
          Breezes across
                Pond scum
                         Whom
        One day
                Dreams of
                                 Grass.

Divine Cocophony

A wondrous collectious
    Cacophony of love.
  The feeling once the beat
        Begins to kick,
Lulls me into a wondrous
    Collection of bobbing
Bop
        Bops
    Of my head.

Stop,
    Listen to this
  Beating heart, whose
      Beats beat through
    The speakers.
O, the song sings soulful through
        My ears,
          Brain,
                Heart.

Silence is the soul and yet
      Music is heaven.
          Or hell,
Depending on the song.
  And that is beautiful,
    The fact,
        That
Music can take me through
      Paradise
    Or hell.
Here the trees are green,
    The grass is golden,
  And the sky precious
          Azure.

Leading me through these
    Divine songs,
  The nine levels of bliss,
        Misery,
      And purgatory.

And here It is,
  This divine cacophony
                Of love.

Rainy Rambles

Stoplights turn,
The blue buzz of go throught the
Midnight rainy air.
The exhaust clings to the road
And the music pounds on,
Singing my route through the haze
Beating my way down road
Afer road,
After road.
Cold reaching my bones
Wetness from the sky,
Tears of the gods.
Lifegiving, breathtaking love
Of the skies themselves.
This water wandering through
Dreams of yesteryear,
The last time it rianed, oh so
Long ago.

As for now, friends keep
My company, my love and
Affection.  Keeping
Me in line, and in love through
This tough time living life.

And the rain the rain the rain,
Leaving me cold, wet and so
Very happy.

11/14/13 (continuation of 11/5/13)

And yet, life is so much more
    More than the high and
      Elation of drugs.
Life is magic and strange and wonderful
    And weird and awesome
          (In the traditional sense,
        Of course.)
This wonder that floats
    Across my eyes, the ghosts
      Of lives gone by,
The words of old junkie sages
    Echo in my the box atop my shoulders.
      "Their problem
Is just as deep,
      Just as bad as yours.
You don't get a hero medal
    For what you've done."
The profoundity of this man,
        Still hits me to this day.
  The Russianliterature-loving-dope-peddling
Sage.

Because life is so much more.
  Than being someone I was.
    I could do so much better.
I am, in fact, doing better.
        Learning to love myself,
    And accept myself,
For who I am.
          Who I am at this moment.

11/5/13

This room is illuminated
    By despair
My fingers blind across
    The page
This pencil being an invader
Invading my old home;
    My old being.
Stress and depression bleeding from every
    Pore; I don't know why.
That's not true, not entirely.
    Life, life
    Is my stressor.
        Real life is my enemy.
So I run
    Run with pills and
      Booze and songs
    And words.
Floating across my eyes
    As if in a dream;
      A spectral fantasm of
        A long loved and
    Forgotten time.

Sketch 1

Light stumbles through

The glass and film—

Wanderlust of the Gods—

Spinning blades weave

The static air through

The static of the TV.

Fantasmic fantasies

Of you, and I,

Rolling around—

Feeling 'round for

That one spot,

That one spot between

Consciousness,

Reality, and name—

Ecstasy (pure

Simple).

Routine—once

Thought drab,

Overdone, cliché,

Now holds my attention

Weaving in and out

Of sight—within

The mind—Within

My soul.

Glass plastic and

Wood await the

Telling of my story.

They wish for parts

That I possess

Lamenting the fact

They can't speak

Feel

Hear.

If my walls could speak,

O, the things they'd

Say—the stories they'd

Weave—Scream through

The glass panels and

Plaster.

I am—at the same time—

Glad and regretful the

Walls in this room can-

Not talk. I wish

To hear the words they'd

Use. The arc of story

Told by the wanderlust

Of the Gods.