Stealing Summer's Breath

The Lover in me

tells me I should

write to feel what

I drink.

The Irish in me 

tells me I should

drink to feel what

I write.

But the poet in me

tells me I should 

bleed to watch myself

feel,

and so I open

wide this skin of mine

to lap up the blood

that curdles and coils

inside.

At least I’m drinking

something, and feeling

the carve of the pen

into my pride.

And at least I’m writing

something, scrawled in

stains of time.

With ten toes I outrun

five letters daring

to enter my

open arms, tearing away

the flesh and bones to

feed on my heavy heart.

Five letters peering over

the edge, five letters

begging to catch my hand.

With ten toes I outrun

death, though as I lift

my feet we are evenly matched.

Strange, how it seems, that

as I plant my feet in sand

I only stand my ground

against its wishes when

I stall the pace

of change.

That is, to outlast death,

I must stay the same.

On ten toes I outrun death,

standing still against the grain.

Love, a still breeze extends its

hand from one breath

to the next, holding

out a bait of trust 

coddled in an open palm.

A frosted, airy wind 

that heaves and hauls 

with every press

of tongue to teeth

the weight of lies

and wrongly led plans,

trickles down the nape

of my neck, plodding

down my spine to bury 

itself within an open pore.

I shiver and quake, 

seized with the chilled

breath of beaten hearts;

I fear and shudder in

prayer, so that I am not

whisked away by the

winds of change that

whisper resignation. 

Enveloped in this storm,

I will await,

and while I lead myself astray

the stillest breeze marks its path.

A bait of trust extended 

upon an open palm,

beckons me to grab hold.

Standing frozen in a cloud

she lures me in; 

I am victim of the storm’s

calmest scream.

When a flame flickers

and fades, we watch

to see it flail

and thrust its arms

in a fitful dance.

We are struck with awe

by the motion of its

feet across the stage,

yet we never question

from where those feet had came.

Why it matters not the

ground upon which a castle’s

built, nor the king and queen

who live inside.

It seems as though we appreciate

only what immediately catches our eye.

Between my cheeks

as deep a red as the 

fruits of fall is

a stain, a blot of ink

rained down upon my lips.

Pearled and white, stretching

its wingspan from dimple

to dimple, the drop from

your pen remains, as if

stapled atop my mouth.

This smile I’ve never smiled before,

this love I never thought I’d find again

appears to me as though

it were a mistake.

Well,

what a pity it is I hadn’t

messed this up sooner.

With the specks

of sand I drift into

the sea whose

arms await my touch;

I erode into a former

self, borne of clay and dust.

By the waves I am shaped

and colored by the

craving of the sun,

and with the flecks of

age cast upon my

brow,

I am sculpted of the sea.

I don’t intend to

wring myself dry;

to let seep the

tears I hide.

But as the hull

I bolster fills and

fears the flow of

day into night

I find my only chance

to spare myself

from the whim of tides

is to open myself

wide; so that

even as I lay vulnerable

to the glare of the sun

and pounds of the waves,

the rust I gather will

only fade.

That is, to save myself

I show my neck and

turn my back to the

skin I’ve shed

splitting myself down

the riveted seals.

when to stop pushing.

Yet you act surprised when you push someone overboard.

Well, what did you expect?

While standing inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral yesterday, I gave God a pat on the back. I welcomed him back for a brief exchange of friendly words regarding the end of days and sent him off his way.

It occurred to me that there is indeed no God, or spirit tangible at least, that can impel any being, single or collective, to create such magnificent things (like the Cathedral). There is no limitless force that transfers its weight between dimensions to pry a second away from the physical plane.

The only God that I, or anyone may ever find, is inside. Not according to the cliche that god is always with us, but counteracting it completely. That is, the only God that we may find is ourselves. Our belief and faith in anything, either immaterial or material, is enough to focus our energy. The sheer power of faith is enough to drive humanity to condense their dreams into unimaginable successes. 

The only God you’ll ever know is your own mind; it is the most powerful being you will ever come in contact with. With it, you can alter and twist reality as you see it, create a landscape of dream in which you play and gambol through flowers and shrubs of your own desire. 

*To make something clear, I am in fact an Agnostic. I do not look down on those who place their faith in other things, nor do I abhor religion (which seems to be the common sentiment). I believe our concept of God is an extension of the Freudian Super-Ego if you will, that is, what drives us to grow and improve. Our struggle for utter perfection, our self preservation mechanism.

I respect those who uphold their faith and stick to their virtues despite the evidence against it. Those who consciously reject empirical data to believe in the supernatural earn my respect, because they make an educated decision against the edified. To me, that in and of itself is the power of the human mind, thus reaffirming my statements before.

…..If you are not to be your own God, you can surely outsmart him. You can even trick yourself into believing he was never there in the first place, or that he was always there just beneath your nose. Either way, your God is your creation, your manifestation of your pursuit of perfection and happiness.

From the sun I fell,

into the arms of

sinners who clutch

the call of circumstance

close to their spines like

scripture to the page.

With no luck or light

to guide their trek,

and with no breath

of contentment to

ease their weighted necks,

they [and I I suppose]

cling to misfortune to 

temper the touch of

death. From what

I may see though

I too have no light to

find my way is the

adjustment and

adaptation to pain and misery

is enough to weather the

skin before the maggots

tear it away.

Beside myself I stand,

shaking hands with that

from which I run;

that is, the footprints of my

past, the body of lies

I’ve spun. 

In her eyes I see

myself, not as though

a mirror kicks back

a smile, or as water

forces back the figure,

but as a mother

sees her son,

a reflection of herself.

I aspire one day for her

to see herself in my eyes,

to know that I her

pride and spine have

supported her well enough

to become what

she could not be.

I hope one day to see

the world as she,

the keeper of my every dream,

the painter of my every path,

to pace as she does, to

sleep as she does, though hours

precious and scarce are rarely found,

to breathe as she does,

heavy and relentless,

to be as she is;

to be from what I came,

to transfer the weight of generations

from one set of shoulders to the next.

In her eyes I see myself,

and I hope one day she may

say the same.

.

I am but the sum of her woes

and all that she has ever come to know.

Though the color of my finish

is beyond my control, I trust

in the hand that lays the

stain upon my bough.

I hope that as I sway between

my days, my leaves dropping

with age, she may be satisfied

with all she has created,

that she comes to love all I

leave behind as I strive to do the same.

Into the bowels

of myself I trek,

often dragging my

fingers along

the picket fences

I’ve come accustomed 

to seeing.

To my dismay I’ve found

it all too common a trip

to the pits of my stomach,

so often a path I wander

that I bore myself in

the spiral downward.

It’s as though I’ve outlived

the sadness, enough

to feel the need to make

each venture more life

threatening than before.

The sultry lips of lust

have pecked apart my 

plastic shell again;

poking potholes in

my morals so I may

trip and stumble as 

I run along their pitch.

I’m often skeptical about

sustained happiness.

That is, this smile I wear

should have time to rest.

But lately I’ve found it to

be so bright and irresistible,

so vaguely interested in

the traditional tedium,

so painfully proud of the

ridges in its teeth.

One would think I should

enjoy this, but I only

find myself fearful of what is

to come.

Then again,

I’ll be wearing my finest tuxedo

to my funeral. 

Through a dream I do live,

and from a dream I came,

I do suffer the fate of winds

throttling my base.

My bark is oak, my roots

a stolid teak, but my innards

may still rot as dreams

often do. And though I

may be blessed the gilded hand,

it too may be melted away

if I am to forget my flaws

so deliberately stitched;

though a dream I do lead,

it’s purity is ne’er guaranteed.