Not Enough RAM

Let me not to the marriage of thoughts divine

admit any impediment other than mine. 

Rustling up old recitation, I will falter, not resign. 

I am in here, this multi-track mind,

but a maze is what it’s become over time.

Wit or cleverness I hope to find.

Do you object to the misquotation of bards

Who, to be fair, made up those lines?

I grasp at straws and compost crafts

curiously cleaving into coherent halves 

selfsame thoughts, dodging wicked self-traps

to find rhythm in disjointed words; fickle and fast. 

To ruminate on the meaning of things like “past”

And “present”, and of “present” and “passed”.

to rediscover what’s “lost” to time, 

And re-remember that which should last. 

If anything, I cannot relent

Until memory floods the fields of pretend

(soil posed to cultivate perennials in the end,

so long as I brave this maze to tend).

They say inspiration's a fair-weather friend.

Idiomatically intended; late winter may amend.

Though the yen for recitation has passed,

Tell me… do you have an ear to lend? 

On Dreams

I think, 

"I'd like to bury myself

in piles of down and feather;

to slip beneath the silky tides,

devoid of inclement weather."

Yet as I fall

or float ( or fly ! )

Hand soft as supple leather

reach out to me with knots and ties

to fasten on a tether.

And so it was,

and so it is,

and so it shall always be

that though I search deep down inside,

some thoughts cannot be free.

Synch 

I’m feeling a bit

out of synch these days.

Pen to paper pierces the page.

I feel all the weight of syncope,

silent e, and drift to dream.

Defunct libraries of memory

calling me, killing me. 

Achilles, you always find me here. 

Will I find myself bold, and lose all fear?

Or be born back, ceaselessly.

Hills

an Abecedarian

All 

broken people

carry their pasts

dutifully on their shoulders, heads, backs–

everywhere, really. They 

feel the weight at all times,

going up and down endless

hills and ravines.

If they want to feel good–

just a little bit better– why can’t they

kill the pain?

Leave it behind?

Maybe it’s that if they let go of the past,

nothing will be holding them

on the Earth.

Perhaps the fear of the unknown

quiets the thoughts of freedom,

reigning the broken people back into

silence and subjugation. They’re bound 

to their histories.

Understatements flood their

veins.

Weary from travel with such baggage, 

XOs disappear from signatures, and the

years drain them dry.

Zap.

Yore 

Has it always been this way? 

See now time’s inevitable decay.

Steeped in sepia, haunting these halls

stirring low shadows to rise on walls

of primary colors. This absence of light

turns the cheeriest rainbow to darkest of night

if only a lone bulb could yet shine bright 

a smile in memory still blinding white,

it could all be alright, hope could be in sight

but the shadows…

please, I beg of you—

fight. 

Casual

Lured in with honeycomb lies;

silver stitches for phantom cries.

Crocodile tear-filled eyes

belie a devastating surprise. 

Feel gold, then red, then deepest blue –

a greenish yellow faded hue.

On sickly schemes they sink or swim,

then surf the lukewarm lilac wind

to explore in vain for a peace within;

the afterboom of a fleeting whim. 

What is it you want, for the end?

From a lover? In a friend?

For one perpetually “on the mend”,

how much of this self will you spend?

The Social Distance

It's been a long while

since I opened my phone

to find my heart and soul

supported on the words of others

aloft, as they say, on wings of praise

add: posturing

deaf to good sense and realistic expectation

Hush

Writing becomes so much harder 

When people incessantly talk.

It would, doubtless, be easier

If all we could hear was the clock.

That persistent, ever-ticking

Rhythmic counter of passing time.

Nothing novel, just repeating–

Allowing a poet to rhyme.

New verses will come out swiftly

When given the silence to grow.

Go– cultivate soliloquies,

Or whatever big words you know. 

Nothing

Einstein and Nietzsche walk into a bar–

or do they?

Nothing’s wrong in that scenario.

Absolutely nothing is absolutely wrong.

But if nothing is absolute–

not everything, just nothing–

or both,

or neither?

Since nothing is confusing scientists and nihilists alike,

they decide, if nothing is certain,

they might as well get drunk.

So, Einstein and Nietzsche walk into a bar. 

Offset

Like the cat

I cry out, hopefully in vain,

To those I want to see but not touch.

I rest a weary head on my pillow;

Whether it’s mine or not, I couldn’t possibly tell you

(the head, or the pillow).

Occluded under the blanket of my own self-centered nature

I am free to explore behind my eyes

The world I claim as my own.

In isolation, I soar-

Until the string around my pinky finger pulls me down.

Or is it up?

Out from the ground, like I am a root vegetable

Unresponsive and rather unappreciated

Even at a Thanksgiving dinner. 

The turkey was undercooked,

So now we have to be thankful for food poisoning.

The family that vomits together—

You get the picture. 

Or at least the outer edges of the puzzle. 

Those are always the easiest to put together. 

A guide, of sorts, 

for the people who find sorting out the middle bits 

a monotonous waste of time. 

These are the same people who use redundancies 

in sentences that they check- not once-

but twice. 

I rest my case, if such a case

can be rested in any way at all.

News Cycle

Gentle nudge in the wrong direction

Push will always come to shove

Leave the bush to its quiet burning

Eventually time will pass us all.

Slowly at first,

Then in the blink of an eye

The batting of a mink lash

Lips turning up at the corners

The creasing of a furrowed brow

Signs of imminent doom are not too concerning

But the fire— 

The fire will consume us all.

Sugarcoat

You do not seem to understand

My darling, dear–

My darling, hear

Me now.

I wish there was a way to say,

Through the static,

Through the noise,

Just how–

Just how I hate your guts right now.

The Void

Daylight always finds me in sorry repose,

faded colors in mottle memory.

Ribbons of light cut through the dust of my soul

and there, upon the feathered floor, my shadow sleeps;

I do not.

Emptiness is deceptively beautiful,

so look both ways before you cross the void.

Tension is all that holds you when I’m near.

Never again, my dear.

Never again, my dear.

Play/Pause

Notch. 

Tremble when I resist. 

It is a favor, really, truly—

Else I wallow and decay. 

Point me in the right direction

Your arrow—

Straight and true. 

But

if left in a quiver,

hope flows down river.

I will sit with myself 

and resume. 

Found Poem

In the beginning,

after he created man,

he wept –

for God (had) so loved the world...