An Assassin reflects.

Life, thin strands of possibilities spun endlessly, easily cut, impossibly
tangled in the skein of the universe that surrounds me, I questioned little
since I had known no joy and the darkness and light were simply places in
which to hide. I never asked the right things so moral meant little until love
tore like a splinter into my flesh and the wound became infected as nothing
would remedy that sweet sickness.
Love, a word that has no meaning and yet still remains like blood stains
lingering like the last breathes of the dying man still clawing his way out
of certain death, hoping in vain, in need of that one last chance that none
of this all happened to him, that the whispers were just the winds in his ears,
not the sobs of the fallen, jilted girls that he left behind as if by departing
he could escape what his heart would not abandon.
Laughter, a foreign idea in a non-spoken tongue that speaks in dulcet tones
like the rasp of steel on stone yet echoes long after the silence was broken
in the alleys on my mind, I look behind, I look behind. Now the walls close
in and all this emotion wears thin, my time grows short as all my mistakes
and errors in judgement drown me in their cruel reminders that I should
have denied my very nature and defied all that I have believed in. That
a stolen moment had more meaning than all these small insignificant
deaths I have committed since the last time we kiss there in the
plaza square.

Writing in the Margins in the Annals of Life

I find it funny when people think that my humor is weird, since people are people no matter who they think they are trying to be...
wait, that sounds like depeche mode.
I find it kind of funny when those around me think that my humor is weird, since those people are not that dissimilar to faceless mobs that fill the spaces between the actual people I do know and the ones i feel looking on in the judgement that I know they must be giving me in the imagined haughtiness that I assign to those people.

Can you really not see that the irony here is that my own judgement and point of view colors my world conception with stereotypical templates for how all these human beings behave as they crawl around in their troughs of selfishness and greed? Am I the only one out there to notice that I am not part of this river of humanity and idiocracy?

Can it be possible that I am the fool here and it is only by my own need to stand apart that separates me from the teeming masses of morons that flow around me and as I seek to write out some sense that breaks away from the sense that I am me, an individual and not just some preconceived plot device in the book of life?

Did I really just write all that, did I just ask for light in the darkness and insist that we divide it from the night?
Did I not just say seven days and not six? Did I realize that talking to myself is not as funny as it sounds when I read this back to myself and then realize that it's lonely being the only one around that ever reads and rereads the footnotes that I have written
here in the margins surrounding my own sense of living?

Are the words that I write true or false or is the falseness of them really just and expression of some truth that I have not found yet?
Is there going to be someone out there eventually who will take notice that I stopped to ask why and not getting answer ask who was I to be the one to realize that I am- in fact, alone as the scribblings I have made here in the margins of this book?

I will now fade and forget until some other fool and wanderer finds this rag of literature out there amongst the stardust and motes of forgotten stars and picking it up assume that I created anything but the facsimile of living.

Letters from Space

Ours is a troubled world filled with torment and hope, often controlled by our fears
and desires and greed.  But in all this chaos and loss there remains the idea that we 
can be more than just the limits that we call the laws of science that once again we 
can step forth from this rock, the planetary vessel and stretch forth our arms and minds
out across the abyssal void between what we know and what we think we know to that
which is beyond our comprehension, a place where our fears and our need for limits 
end and the freedom comes like freefall as we are set adrift into the nothingness that 
is in fact everything in this place we call the universe.

Ours is a problematic race still huddling in our collective caves around our controllable
fires, telling our stories to contain what we want to know and understand, that we can 
call god and define as reality without letting go of all our doubts that there is not anything
tangible or classifiable about the greater being that we have limited to mortal bounds
and even those of us who deny that he or she or it exists still hide in our collectively 
scattered unbeliefs that God is dead or never lived even as parts of us don't understand
life or living in the first place yet we will force others to believe in unbelief as if atheism
is any less a religion as the most archaic of mythologies and as we offer up our proofs
to the invisible authorities that watch over us, we choose to forget that it is only our
anxiety at being locked into a living shell that defines what we think we really are and
can never appreciate that what we call life may just be the first step into a whole other 
realm of being.

Ours is tragically humorous fate, as we struggle with issues that are so immediate and
short term that even their unsolvability is solvable if we can look beyond the scope of our
100 years as humans upon the rocks of our world never comprehending that we are more 
than just the stardust from which we are made and less than the potential that being
stardust pretends us to become. Death is less an ending then the next step in evolution
and even as I write this I fervently hope that I will continue to believe that I will become
more than I am after I pass through this veil of evolution, this transfiguration of spirit into
that of another form of being as i leave behind all that I have known and think I have 
known to find the greater truths that remains beyond the grasp of what I am in my desire 
to reach back across the stars to my bones at home on this our tiny world of earth.

Winter is Coming

It's cold in this my tiny room
winter is coming and will be here
very soon.
My pen scratches out these minor
warnings on this virtual page
rhymes and portents give words
to omens from the eons of the
nameless age, I rage, I rage
against the frozen moment in which
I find that I am powerless against the
arrival of my most bitter foe
nothing good can come from this
war- nothing but streams of crumpled
paper and bottomless wells of empty
woe.
Winter is coming and the rage the fuels
my innermost desire sputters against
it's arrival like the flame driven against
the gales of buffeting madness with
ashes and the vestiges of fire.
I weaken and  I chill as if I will fade
away out into the darkness of the night
will I give in as I cease to win falling away
from the dusk under the rising starlight.

It was like this and It was like that...

It was like this moment when our fingers touched and then sparks flew
between us and then my imagination filled the spaces left empty by the
memories of what had just happened were supposed to happen but even
if providence had been kind and even if you hadn't left you hand there for
my fingers to cross your palm, my nails tickling the skin as you shivered
and even if I had not thrilled at the momentary excitement that we surely
both felt then I would not be telling you this before you said goodbye
forever saying hello as if we are frozen with this stream of emotion and
I would not be writing my own recollection of what probably happened
although I could just be as wrong as I have been about just about
everything else save for that minute in which our fingertips connected.

I was like that time you started to say I love and I finished the thought
with a kiss that caught us both with surprise and our lips only separated
in secret smiles as our breath mixed over our faces and your eye lashes
brushed mine and the proximity I felt radiated in waves of desire as if
somewhere hidden in all of this was a inward turning like the attraction
of moths to the human fire and I was going to say that I love but you
jumped in and our tongues touched and tastes like smooth sweet spicy
sour tart tremors of my senses rippled in the embrace as the waxy balm
of our connection held with long seconds before you I pulled away yet
remained close as if we could not chance a distraction or deflection of
our feelings would rip from us the reason that we were so close that
I could feel the impression of silky smoothness left by the push against
your now blushing then flushing cheeks leave me thus, waiting and meek.

Regrets

Praying God for your soul to keep
praying for anything, to do anything
but all my words that I hoped would mean
something fall from my lips like these
tears that spill from her eyes, all of the
sadness, all the joy, all the badness
I forget, I will not be there with her in sleep.

I know that you have a little time left
I want you to have some peace in your rest
I don't want to be here alone, bereft
I tried my very best, like it was all
like some pitiless contest.

I should be crying,
but I just can't let the despair grow
I should be thankful
but the fear and worry won't let go.

All this things that I should have told you
all the times I should have stopped just to hold
you, all the apologies and all of these regrets
I can't help but feel that it would have been
better for you that we had never met.

Give me, just another moment with you
in the sun, give those memories back
to me. Just give me one more second
to enjoy that last kiss, all of the times
I thought I would never have to miss,

I should be crying,
but I can't get the anger to slow
I should be coping
but the anger is beginning to show.

All the words that I should have said
all the promises I made but never did
all the trust that you had me in me
all the things you needed me to do
all of these things that we once held true
now that death has come for it due
I have nothing left, if I don't even have you.

Original credit to form:

Kate Bush: This Woman's Work

(song almost always makes me cry)

 

A Writer looks at 40 and a few years.

It was bound to happen eventually, frankly I almost missed
the reference until I thought that Buffett would sing about
the changes in latitudes and I would remember the sea.
What did it mean to me? What did it mean to me?
It's like I have cast my lot once again like a line
thrown out over the waves to drop down into the
deeps where all the secrets I had hope to hide
float among the remains of the mysteries that I
want to keep. In my sleep. In my sleep.
Mother mother Ocean, I had heard you call
in the dulcet rhymes of the ancient mariner's
yarn about fate and the fool hardiness of it all.
The words of the whale song ring through the
lines that I would want to write down with my
shaking pen in hand. Will have to give into this
demand, will have to live with this demand.
Father father sky, I still can hear you out in the
great wide open, in the eagle's cry. I should keep
dreaming that I can fly, should give it one more try.
Watched the authors who told your stories switch from
pages to the LCD screens, forgetting the ink, broke a few
pencils, leaving their mark upon my psyche with a
electronic digits, nothing in between. Most of them
green, most of them green.
Yes, I am a writer, a wordsmith scoundrel, my stories
well in hand, hoping for a voice to be heard out
across this land, The years have made me what I never
thought to become, when the language would fail me,
the plans I made grow stale, unrelentingly unrealized
all that I had hope to gain, but still I see doubt in the
mirror of my plots as if I can see into my own sad eyes.
Nothing left but to despise, I am, in fact, a master of lies.