My Knotted Kite String, A Haiku
You are my kite’s string,
Knotted, wound, borne by the winds.
Burning release; gone.
If Dared to Plunge
I lived in their tepid chaos, though all the while I felt as if I were freezing and boiling all at once, perhaps both feelings at the same moment in time. All around me were those who moved at cruise control, unaware of my paranoia. My mind was a cop chase, and no one on the highway seemed to waive any acknowledgement to the obvious mania.
I imagined them, rush hour to home, listening to talk radio, foot on the break pedal, tie lacking it’s morning fervor. Greasy collars and running hosiery—these were the citizens of reality.
I was a stranger in their world, out of their mind and, in their words, out of my own. But I never once found such a world enticing.
Pray Tell, Heretic
I am sincere, and I am dust. I am capable of the greatest manifestations, and I shan’t follow the path of righteousness. Scaling mountains and building bridges isn’t my call. Leave those exploits to the wretched, who dwell in their pride and who scrounge the earth for reasons. I am the air and I am the Was. I am a state of mind impenetrable to your forces. And this is when they sigh and whisper, “No,” as if I had the comprehension to decipher the negative ions that erupted in the atmosphere.
Fantasmagorical
A thousand florets could ream themselves across the sky into oblivion until they crash-landed in a field of dirt, and it wouldn’t matter to the atoms combined between us. That’s where we are, the third stone from the sun, the single chord out of key in the staff. We have our noses and our brains, our synapses out-numbering anything the universe has to offer. I’ve walked this far already, and have no intention to turn back, so say what you need to now, even if the words get caught in your throat.
The Matter of the Fact
Everything is either three-thousand miles away or so close, that the hairs on your arms become electrified. But then there are those beautiful things, the things we mortals will never know; they orbit a circumference just out of reach. It’s a vicious cycle of disparity.
Fear and Whispers
She had been calling for a while. I went out, and felt something beneath my feet. I lay on the ground, goosebumps rising, and she tried desperately to make me flee. I gazed at the clouds and how they moved so quickly, and went to a nowhere. I began to speak, small voice and all. And she heard. We spoke, then I confessed that fear had taken me, and the goosebumps were incomprehensible. “I shall return tomorrow, be sure of this.” She will remain after we all turn to dust.
Love, and Other Manipulations (An Excerpt)
And you continue to believe this is kindly, mutualism, Love. No. It is human will. In all it’s bitter glorification. The optimist romantics ask, ”How can one make love without being in Love?“ People fall in love with little things, until they accumulate and then they love them more as the hours wax. Lust is the love for little things, as well. But they have no intention other than fulfilling pleasure. For these things must be fulfilled, or emptiness overwhelms. (But from what I have witnessed in blurred images, Lust is so much more satisfying when Love has made the manifestation in the present. Not forgotten, but evidently there, in both subjects.)
For We Are Found
Caught and escaped. Forever lost, and eternally intwined in the hearts of those who venture into foreign lands. They bring with them a sense of ignorance that can only conjure eminent enlightenment. Five in a thousand, few and far. A feeling of grace is found, never to be forsaken again.
Forty Martyrs.
It is as if they’ve fallen from the ground up. Children, who aspire to be more. They station themselves in caves with no exits, an existence without a sky. Lost forever to the world begot, the world behold, and never taking the time to live. The toll is rising. What are we to do? Leave them in the dust. It is the highest humankind can ever dream to experience.
