Fractures in a mind complete,
the rivers flow from pores and holes
tears fall salty on the feet,
dirty from days of marching.
As time exists in four dimensions,
Finish lines and useless rhymes,
count for not, it’s our decisions
That leave us feeling queazy,
The hearts and minds of men confounding
The sirens scream, the fires talking,
The rivers dry, the glass refracting.
Fractures in a mind complete.
For when the moments stretch on for days.
For the long kiss and short breaths.
For penny pinching and generic brands.
For honey bees and Beautiful Queens.
Lost in my own shame and indignation,
drenched in summer rain and whiskey,
one too many beers with a heart full of angst and
confusion.
What is a man to do when he feels like atlas weighed
down by fear and good intent.
I handle it well on some days,
on other nights i find myself cracking,
snapping closed like a steel trap.
I start to sink into the sod,
and begin throwing off my burdens,
this is only convenient to call my load such,
in truth I mean the things that I hold dear,
the pieces of my life that define me as a man.
I’ve done it before
and without removing old suchers
I cannot always promise that it was the best decision.
But I won’t make the mistake again not this week.
Not with her, not with this life.
I just hope deeds done in fear will not come back
to burn the world on my back.
I wish I could find motivation for sleep, but I’m much more interested
in consciousness.
I miss the vulgar complications that is Bukowski, and the unique expression
of Hemmingway.
Rand and her violent strength of will and individualism.
She has taught me the most, that can be applied to a philosophy that is formidable.
Although Bukowski did open my eyes to a style that Hemmingway could not.
Ernest became a paragon for me in his own ways, much less offensive, way.
Milton changed everything with the love story of sin.
Orwell screamed with his fists bleeding against the tyrants that opposed his free will,
resounding in me clearly
These things helped shaped me in a way,
But I thing the most powerful literary force that drove me to write
for myself, is Bradbury.
Stories of the individual, with grander meaning for society,
and a philosophy vivid in it’s own ways.
I hope to add to this Symposium one way or another, and in the afterlife
many of these authors refuse exists, I hope to find myself among the virtuous pagans
and the great poets.
Open eyes have never been so bleak,
I’m unaffected by the hour only the weight
my eyelids seem to have gained in the the last cigarette.
I’m growing tired of that vice. it’s lost it’s delicacy, it‘s nuance.
I think I’ll pick up another soon,
Something to the tune of patience or maybe just more coffee.
I guess if I want to be a husband and a father I had better
make good decisions.
legal or not, consider my line drawn.
A blue line, a silver ring, a vein that runs straight to the heart.
My morals while unshakable have been over hauled,
in the middle of the night, with coffee in my cup and a
tray of corpses, they died for no reason only helped satisfy
my boredom, what began as a way to hold her memory closer,
slowly took hold of me, but here in my worn and adrift state
I realize now that my childish attempt at being near her isn’t enough,
I let the gunslinger take over, he doesn’t care much for tobacco but
he knows how to attack problems.
I let him out of the cage and in the times where waiting is the
only option I step in, coming fully aware in the arms of my lover,
that woman whom I so tried to recall.
I found myself with her tonight sleepily fixing my dinner, holding her little
girl to give me a kiss before she puts her to bed.
Their eyes are are closed just now along with half the state.
I wish I could find motivation for sleep, but I’m much more interested
in consciousness.
I miss the vulgar complications that is Bukowski, and the unique expression
of Hemmingway.
I am divided then exploded,
thrown about the room,
cut to ribbons and sewn back together.
My psyche is resilient yes, But I feel that this
is unremarkable the real beauty is
the placid calm masking the surface of this change.
I am all steel,
flawless steel,
I deal justice swiftly from the cannon at my right,
and protect the changing pieces in my mind.
Philosophy,
in bricks, constantly rearranging but as
strong as the next.
black and white,
never grey, this is called judgmental or short sighted
in modern society, but since the fall of rome there
is no power stronger then the Masses.
The mindless aimless masses, calling for blood
refusing it to fall on their own hands.
My reality is decided, all things have their place before me
… Until…
What do I do when I add innocence, and beauty
to cynicism and hate.
My reality has yet to understand, or need to account
for purity.
have never known anything that has no flaws in character or
spirit, something un-muddied by the boots of ignorance.
I cannot decipher violet.
That little girl has already changed my world.
Some people drag around their baggage
as a sentence, or albatross thrust upon them,
I prefer to shape my insecurities and misfortune
into a suit of armor.
I’ve been at this some time, there is no flaw.
some say that it isn’t healthy just a refusal to
admit fault.
I say they are all wrong and let their words break
on my pauldrons like water.
In time I will be free from even their feeble attempt at
assault, when I complete my sword and sharpen my intellect.
The naysayers and wasters will claim I am unstable and heartless,
but when I am the last man standing they will not question.
I am the Gunslinger,
made of stronger steel then the guns
on my hips. I am invulnerable, protected with honor, immune
from the egos that breed on discontent.
I will not burn myself to make their pyres brighter or
more worth while,
I am strong enough for more then myself but only if that
strength is valued.
Everyone can see this, it’s known when I walk into the room
I don’t hide my will from illuminating what it will.
But this one,
this girl,
this angel,
calls me her Bumble bee, I am as confused by this as I am
quieted.
She doesn’t need my strength,
she doesn’t wish to live off my resilience.
She wants to love and be loved my her bumble bee.
This is the purest life i’ve ever seen.
The Gunman sits at the window,
his glasses are lenses of light, belying nothing,
mirrors of the clean neutral light.
His rifle is next to the window, he won’t
begin for another few hours.
The twilight will confuse the direction of
light and sound, and the street fair populated
by drunks and sinners will feel the hammers strike
by the hand of judgement.
“You think you know what it means to be a man.
I honor your conviction, your christian god,
not to say I agree, would be proud.”
The Gunslinger strolls across the dorm room,
his gate is punctuated with the steady weight of his
namesake.
“I understand why you want to….
Purge, this world of it’s waste and sin.
Even now you can’t look at me,
your vision is distorted by your holy books.
Your isolation has led you to believe all men
partake in the same degradation of felons and
Sodom, but you have become Abraham, on the
razors edge of committing crimes against man that
your God wold not approve.”
The gunman without taking his eyes off the window
as the sun descended, reached for his rifle.
The Gunslinger freed his compatriot.
“I will not let their hate bleed into me any longer,
I will let the blood run and judgment be dealt.
The men chamber rounds in unison,
Both take aim,
only one round is fired only one body falls to the floor.
His glasses are clear now. Framing
Only blood shot eyes through transparency, empty and still.
nerdyrantings-deactivated201206 asked: I enjoy reading your poetry :)
Thanks so much, it means a lot that you dropped in to mention it.
My eyes loose focus and
I have to begin again.
Counting dimes in the half light,
a representation of futility.
Similar to the lines I fill now.
True inspiration only takes me
in the middle of the night.
Honest emotion boils out of me
while alone and insecure.
Hush now Lover, you don’t have to
ask, you know how I see it.
You know how you easily you
tear me apart from my nerves and
self esteem.
So come here and tell me what you
want, come here and take from
me what you can.
Outside of all basic judgment and
concepts of paradise earned and lost.
The sobriety of this moment is chilling.
The absence of your gaiety strikes
me all the more.
I count my fingers and twitch idly
while you stir your tea.
To my knowledge there is nothing to stir,
but I understand the need for motion.
We’ve had enough bad days to make this
a tired event,
But the story is long, and hard to forget.
I’m standing at the sink, you at the table.
I swallow my doubts with my coffee,
it’s cold and the whiskey in it bites.
I cross the room and my hand falls to
my gun, to find it missing.
I set it on the table when I walked in.
Unpacking baggage of the day,
The soul returning lieutenant
of the Light Brigade.
The house was quiet,
I sought you out and only barley saw the
shadow you wrapped yourself in
make his way out the back door.
Lucky the gun was by the door.
As I began,
Outside of judgment and
concepts of right and wrong.
I would have shot the bastard
watched his eyes die.
Then I would have thrown you
into the gutter full of his blood and
let you find your own way.
But the gun was on the table,
not in the holster, and
my love for you takes the air out of
my bellows.
My rage burns quick and
the cinders only smolder as they
burn my soul with shame.
I am hurt and shamed, confused and
dissolved into oblivion.
Only now, as I drink my swill,
am I in a solid state again.
There was screaming and yelling,
crying and moaning, but those moments are only echoes felt in a scratchy throat, and
my still elevated blood pressure.
I walk to your side, and set my cup down on
the table at your right.
You deserve a kiss even now after all we’ve seen together.
You’ll have it.
Once on your head, another on your mouth.
I leave the room and fetch my gun.
Stepping into the back yard I find my peace.
