Category: existential

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Junk Drawer

Junk Drawer

Digging through the junk drawer

finding shit I knew was lost

A bic lighter

random keys

to locks that have lost their relevance.

The noise on the peripheral persists

so I dig through another container

a t-shirt I do not recall

a sock with a skull

a 3D printed polygonal cat

But there are no spoons

Each container full but empty

and the clatter at the periphery persists

a dull roar from outside

reminding me that reality still exists

Earplug container, only one side

mints of a dubious flavor

keep digging

the hell of it all is I need to go out there

Where are the fucking spoons?

I find sufficient noise in the rectangle

no wires, just cacophony

the silverware will have to wait for later

reality awaits

two shoes

two socks

underwear and pants

torso covered by something hanging

at least I have a knife.

slip on the shades.

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Looking Back Blind

Nostalgia is a prison
built from the stones that anchor
the trenches dug as the row gets plowed
by the dragging across the ages and miles

Memory is not a shelter
it is a trap for the unprepared
a hole in the row, as cavities grow
and the rictus is mistaken for smiles

a shell of a comfortable mirror
pointed back but not pointed to self
never looking ahead to the alternate paths
just falling into the concentric patterns of death

Shatter the walls of reverie
tradition and how the things were
a trap set by the lazy unconscious
and the death rattle of growing’s last breath

Memory is for reference
Now is for life
the future is chaos blooming
Stop digging and start nurturing existence

Lose the anchors
lower the stones
breath and walk free into now
create today without false resistance

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Last Payment

Nobody knows what this will cost me
Honesty’s too real
The baring of the layers of
Callous armor peels

Away from the scarred and broken
mending lines and pain
A confession long unspoken
of plans too long refrained

To tell the truth to myself
would shatter me away
when I look at what is left inside
there’s nothing left to say

Hatred left a wasteland
rage a scorched path
violence was the answer
but the question’s never asked

born into all the world could teach
before the mind could grow
who is it now, what can become
something I can never know

So I pay myself a visit
Across the ashes and the flame
should I peel away another scar
I’ll never be the same

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Where we go

Carried into love
Carried into life
Buried by hands that loved her as wife

Lost to flow
Lost to pain
A mother returned to the energy plane

Left behind
Left in sorrow
Fear in facing the thousand tomorrows

Holding hands
Hold agony
Absent but watching over her progeny

The body is always weaker than soul
The spirit continues no matter the toll
Mind carries spirit from one to the next
And still the waves of grief will roll

Where we go is where we wait
Where we wait the light purifies
Why pain is endured corporeal
When the end is what life defies

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The Process

Creating can cause a stress response. Bringing new into the world. eustress and distress feel the same when chemicals are fucked up. Flight or Fight.

Stare at the blank page. Stare at the empty DAW. Stare at the keys. The strings. The silent powered-off amplifier. The empty canvass.

The chemicals just bounce around in a neural stew. No answers. Just agonizing white noise refusing to resolve into a sensory gift.

Defy the static. Turn on the amp. Drag a sound into the DAW. Strum the strings. Press the keys. Make zero sense. Write nonsense words strung together arhythmically.

Motion defies entropy.

Motion defies entropy.

Move.