9.25.2009

tapping in–my codices

sweet release, the inner turmoil
scribe what i see with my soul
my outward sight my inner gaze
what i choose to create or re-create
from regurgitated, regulated memories,
lift the burden
from the right side of my brain
resulting not in an opening of pandoras' box
but rolling more like sisyphus' rock.

a contextual textual stream
void of organic calligraphicality
spilling onto the parchment--oh! my codices;
like verbal vomit
soaking the blank page through
chunky dark and rough in spots
in others running clear as morning dew.

some find it divine
wanting to dive right in
immersing themselves in the messages no matter the mess,
others wouldn't touch it with the longest pole
they are intrigued by watching others read and react
such voyeuristic flies on a subway wall.

it's an outlet of verbal and conjugated meanderings
tapping into an underlying theme
sharing a little but not too much
essential elements of friendly information,
a little can go a long way in exposing vital tender areas
and nothing can take that back
that bird will have flown.

bring nonfictional happenings and real life tribulations
expose them in their subliminal corners
but inject some lighter fare
airing dirty laundry gets old
even if the wind is blowing in a different direction.

i'd rather be the conductor on a ride through my imagination
it's not that i have anything new to say
but even the same story told by two different people
can be two different tales
on the same day.

alphabet

friday afternoon
freely floating like a purple balloon
clouds above full of alphabet soup.

drag your feet
take a look
underneath the wisdom
draped in the fabric of royalty
stand crooked as you take a picture
reality fades with the clock
time passes away into the past.

block the sun
block everyone
if you're done you're done
the traffic noise might hide your ears.

block the sky
block my eyes
if you cry you cry
a touch of insanity might dry your tears.

monday morning
chained to the wall like a wild baboon
clouds above full of alphabet soup.

block the sun
block everyone
if you're done you're done
the traffic noise might hide your ears.

block the sky
block my eyes
if you cry you cry
a touch of insanity might dry your tears.

bubble fringe

living on the fringe
on that edge
the razor's edge
not on the shiny side
but on the dull.

ripping without cutting through
pinching without slicing true
puncturing the skin without piercing into...

glancing off the surface tension
biting pinching
without drawing
blood.

like a boy in a bubble
running round in place
never moves an inch but
he always runs out of space...

pushing the plastic envelope
thinking outside his rounded box
invisible fingers hold him back
his feet locked to the floor
coldly he stares at the walls
and the walls stare back
no words exchanged
nothing more than cruel intentions.

living on the fringe
on that edge
the razor's edge
not on the shiny side
but on the dull.

that man in his bubble
still running round in place
never moving an inch but
always running out of space...