The birds flap and sing
The flowers blossom in Spring
Your eyes give rise to my Sun
For you are my only one
I see dancing next to me
But instead you chose to leave.
And when death does take us soon
I’d still kiss and you hold you on the Moon
Tag: writing
Rivers Flow In You
I pull my drapes closed in the evening.
At night I ponder at what is out there in this wilderness.
I dreamt of a pack of wolves right outside, they lunged at me when I dared to peak.
My friend told me not to fear them, but to run with them.
I look at my tarot card I pulled for the day: a reverse knight of cups.
It told me that I am sulky, moody and jealous.
The readings are always right.
But acknowledging the fact doesn’t change much.
I sit with my grief, the year has been difficult.
‘It will get better,’ they say.
Well when? Because I’ve been waiting and giving, giving, giving and still nothing.
I pray, meditate, workout, ask—no beg, for change.
My heart churn’s when I look at you, so happy, successful and doubt you ever think of me.
But now I am glad you are succeeding, proud that you’ve gained more success than you ever would have in Texas.
You didn’t even remember me in high school,
Now I doubt I even cross your mind now.
All the precious moments that meant so much to me, what did they ever mean to you?
How Much Longer Now Until the Final Fall of Rome
My friend Scott has this place up North,
Real nice property.
Three cabins in the woods with a creek moving endlessly with time.
We’d venture up as soon as able, to escape society, be with nature, visit with people at the local bar that thought like us, shoot guns, arrows and drink beer.
We’d often wonder why no one else dared to make the journey out.
All those lonely people in the cities working themselves to the bone, petrified and unable to feel.
We’d talk about women, the dog days, politics, the government, when the end will come and how we managed our psychotic selves.
I’d look up at the stars barefoot at night wondering when the aliens would take me or when God would come and destroy the world for our atrocities.
The others cannot see, they don’t read, write, think, just cope with their miserable lives and tell themselves, “it’s going to be alright.”
Or, “the less I know the better.”
I’ve been out of work for over a half year, can’t pay taxes, bills, loans, rent.
They’ve criminalized being poor,
But I was always criminal.
Concerning My Soul & Its Relation To The Physical
External rejections
Of internal reflections
Private insurrections.
Employee aggravations
Let downs of my nation.
Indigenous iration.
Emotional reactants
Miscommunications
With no live captions
And yet despite our differences
Dissonant instances,
Misconstrued inferences.
I still love you the same.
Even between happiness & pain,
Spasms from the left & right of my brain.
It’s just sometimes I feel full of doubt
Or an animal that should never be let out.
Living this moment too many times to count.
More apparition than man,
A hermit bogged down in sand
Or a fish washed up onto land.
Bear with me, still getting used to this shell
What is Heaven, once hell
A tall tree or bright star that fell.
Betwixt the self loathing
Longing to be lonely—
She’s the only one to show me
That this chest still beats,
And even beasts can weep
Over shadows on the walls of sleep.
You Don’t Live Until You’re Ready to Die
I sit on the bench by the creek we once enjoyed.
As the flies, ants & mosquitos eat at my dying flesh.
They drink my tainted alcohol ridden blood.
I look over at the cabins we once shared.
I envision your Great Dane Darla enjoying herself as she frolics about.
You shot your handgun for the first time and
Would shoot the ground as the target was maybe 6ft from you.
I groaned in disdain.
Like a storm trooper trying to shoot the enemy.
A reference you wouldn’t understand.
You couldn’t hit it if you walked up point blank.
I dreamt of you here last night.
Your coworkers took me on a plane to see you
Far off in some land, maybe Europe.
You were beautifully decorated in makeup,
Hardly recognizable.
We both cried at the pain of loss.
There was no rekindling anything,
Just sitting in the defeat of something that would never be.
I wonder why I still think of you.
From Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Self Reliance
This next excerpt is from one of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s most famous essays. Eloquently put, with such imaginative and broad diction, by far one of my favorite authors. I could read and reread his essays throughout my life and still find conceptual insights to dwell into like a warm blanket in the winter. The essay also delves into conformity and the need for individuality.
“The objection to conforming to usages that have become dead to you is, that it scatters your force. It loses your time and blurs the impression of your character. If you maintain a dead church, contribute to a dead Bible-society, vote with a great party either for the government or against it, spread your table like base housekeepers,-under all these screens I have difficulty to detect the precise man you are. And, of course, so much force is withdrawn from your proper life. But do your work, and I shall know you. Do your work, and you shall reinforce yourself. A man must consider what a blindman’s-bluff is this game of conformity. If I know your sect, I anticipate your argument.”
There is ample conformity occurring this day day of age. The America’s are rampant with political divisions, racial divides, gender warfare, cultural genocide, class factionalism-not even the state’s nor the federal government properly working in unison. It is up to us citizens to become individual, to criticize your party for not adhering to your wishes; be no party but of yourself and your individual wishes and needs. We are scattered as individuals, adhering to the broadest statements of all sorts of generalities. We possess the most advanced technology in our hands, on our desks; yet we are fickle to our mobile applications, gaining nothing but a new high score, learning nothing but of gossip and media.
“I hear a preacher announce for his text and topic the expediency of one of the institutions of his church. Do I know beforehand that not possibly can he say a new and spontaneous word? Do I not know that, with all this ostentation of examining the grounds of the institution, he will do no such thing? Do I not know that he is pledged to himself not to look but at one side,-the permitted side, not as a man, but as a parish minister? He is a retained attorney, and these airs of the bench are the emptiest affection. Well, most men have bound their eyes with one or another handkerchief, and attached themselves to some one of these communities of opinion.
When man is placed to service under an institution, he does not draw from the self or the individual, but rather the institution itself. They behave based upon protocol, therefore they are in fact not themselves at all, but cloned creatures of the entity they serve. Priests and ministers are held to one book, one ideology, they cannot say or do anything that is new or has not been heard of.
This conformity makes them not false in a few particulars, authors of a few lies, but false in all particulars. Their every truth is not quite true. Their two is not the real two, their four not the real four; so that every word they say chagrins us, and we know not where to begin to set them right. Meantime nature is not slow to equip us in the prison-uniform of the party to which we adhere. We come to wear one cut of face and figure, and acquire by degrees the gentlest asinine expression. There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean “the foolish face of praise,” the forces smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved, but moved by a low usurping willfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face with the most disagreeable sensation.”
On Cancel Culture
There is not a problem with cancel culture, in fact, it is exposing the fundamental errors of our entertainment based society. The artists and renowned leaders who are being “cancelled” were operating in error from the second they signed a contract. By aligning and obliging oneself to an institution, all freedom of expression and individuality has been forfeited. The moment you can no longer say anything you want is when you’ve cancelled yourself. Private entities consisting of unempathetic board members, power mad executives, and the performance artist CEO are guided by financial incentives, and if such motivations are infringed upon you will be null and voided. It is not the whining voices in the crowd but the social media platforms and corporations that hear one demographic and silence and exile another.