scraps

from a notebook of possibilities, not absolutes.
- - - - - -
nov. 3rd

they were given flight by the will of the winds
not by graceful wings
or the world's modern machines

they received flight as I receive sights often unseen
bypassed by the bridges
only there for the journey

they were uprooted and lifted beyond reason
beyond what the comfort laden mind would allow

they did not ask for this, nor was it every denied

they clergy men have been preaching
but their robes are still black
and hands, ever, so, stark

my old friends rest fast asleep
though the overhead light is just burning on

if ever we knew certainty it was merely an oversight
of the blood, the love, the sinners, and floods
we have yet to belie

we were sitting by the river with our tin cans
down to the court house
with all our thirsty complaints
just waiting for the rain
we were waiting for that rain

money will make a man go mad in given time
and adult paradigms will suffocate the former child

it is a luxury to be an honest man
a tragedy to not
it is a futile decree to love a man's beauty
yet deny the asymmetric thought

- - - - - -

nov. 16th

It all looks good from here. Comfort is the killer and I've found clarity but without the crippling consolation of comfort or certainty. At the cafe on the corner, here, there are young hard working kids who sit among each other, full of flesh and vitality, yet only acknowledge their glowing machines of function. It is a sight to be seen- a real modern tragedy. The backward swing of technology whiplash, supposedly meant to propel us forward, but violently throwing us back before we reach that future position. What have we been seeking on these portable machines of wisdom?
knowledge?
companions?
free thoughts?
kinky photos?
like minds?
the right opportunities?
porn?
love?

How much do we find and how much of the relative is obscured by the limitless numbers of options it is placed between.

There we all sit, ready to bear life and were just looking in all the wrong windows. naive as we ever could be.

- - - - - -

nov. 17th

patience knows not
the inflection of a man, who knows not of him

we were taught how to love,
though our teachers knew not of it
we were given books as if they were answers
as if they equated to articulate experience

the scholars waive their parchment degrees
the lovers are screaming ever so softly

a man sits alone, in the afternoon
to drink his morning tea

we got real good at pretending
but there's nothing like the real thing
- - - - - -



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