The Perfect Ending

The perfect ending to a three ton mistake
Hangs in the balance with the noose that she made
In my honor
While the luck she stacked beneath my feet
Was collapsing right beside her in the coldest
Persecution winter could have fathomed
She was waiting for my heart to break
And hoping it would shatter
The gracious thing had no intention of serving
Its own purpose
Perhaps clairvoyance could have predicted
The evil that she harnessed
In my favor
With a Bell-Jar wrecking ball tucked in her back pocket

She removed the ropes from
around my throat
The moment that my heart stopped
Beating.
The perfect ending to a three ton mistake
Resulted in the derelict mess that she made
An intruder whose poison has caused
Enough pain
To move a moment of ravaged restraint
Until its effect begins to take place
And she runs to hide just as quickly as she
Came.
Shame cast out to greet her disgrace
And her only regret was exposing
Her face.
Yet I still look to help her
back up to her feet
the perfect repose for the ultimate
deceit.

A (Petulant) Metamorphosis

Question: Are YOU finally finished?
Answer: Why yes, I am. They know my restful longing as it fills my heart with the landscape of profanity and shell shaped promiscuity. The learned fight the impulse to partake in such a shallow exchange of lustful deliverance but I am fully equipped with double standards and I will bite right through my open-winged temptation as it hinges on the edge of shapeless desire. I wish to contain those feelings alike as they intrude onto my mindless want– but I reach to feel the human experience of hapless longevity that carried me through adolescence. Derelict, I fringe on the wings of gaudy, tasteless vulgarity and sip from the sins I have repressed in the back of my mouth for such a long time. It is not long before I slip into a formidable façade like the daunting transition from adolescence to maturity. The warm innocence of childhood play mates and hour long temper-tantrums begins to make way for the next phase in an aging cycle. Here, the uninvited misfortune of puberty loiters on the outskirts of human existence like a lonely teenager unmoved by the transcendence of God’s perfect creation.

Succumbed

God fearing, I took a breath with tarnished lungs and stepped off the edge of an electric light. Esta nada. Nothing worth notice bellowed from the distance and I sang a song about El Senior in quiet remittance. The terrace felt empty despite the barrage of paintings that covered the inside walls of the sanctuary. I yielded myself to the vastness of the room, like those portraits of armed soldiers littered across varying shades of gray brick and mortar. It drew me into a scathing void of solemn purification and I was suddenly flooded with emotion. A low hanging tree drooped in earnest from the edge of the terrace on the exposed side of the building, and its massive leaves cast shadows on the walls. I took notice of its antiquity. I could not ask for a single tangible thing, no tenía un propósito porque nada podía ser de este mundo para mí.

I was not afraid to fall in that moment, when I stood to be so exposed. I could only close my eyes to shove out the sobering cleanness of dazzling metallic tables and freshly painted shutters. A street light shone on the address plaque on the outside of the door, its brass numbers reflecting golden slivers of light on the hurried faces of passers-by.

From this world I felt a distinct need to flourish, unfettered by demands for adherence to dogma or even guilt. Here I felt safe; aquí yo estaba seguro, pero libre no.
Those corroding adjectives shivered off my tongue like fractal expressions of an eternal being. Serious, sober. intense.

I saw the words of my unborn children written in the atmosphere and held a breath in the dark spotted flesh of my lungs. I knew of their suffering, of the unscrupulous ideologies born from their rogue encounters with the world. I knew of their humble experiences, poured out on humankind from a wholesome place that could only derive in-utero—and death. I recognized the pain I had imposed upon them, handed down from those who came before me, and I shuttered with self-disgust. The breeze carried a cool relief, a cathartic awakening that stemmed from the dawn of my personal sunrise.

The room faded into the background, and I left all things palpable behind me to rest. A gray, short-haired woman passed quietly from outside the terrace, barely noticeable, emaciated even…like a starved drifter passing through my personal voyage. From the very edge of the room I could see a piece of paper torn from its passage and sweeping through the wind in the doorway outside the terrace where the leaves cast shadows on the wall. I moved to rescue it clumsily between the palm of my hand and shoulder-blade. It was a handwritten note that read:

Should you be often shocked by honesty and rarely by deceit, you have failed to truly live.

I twisted my thoughts around the paper torn from its passage. The ripe morning breeze fell silent and the leaves no longer cast shadows on the walls. I began to sing my song of remittance and was instantly reminded of that first moment of raw anticipation. As I stood blithely on the edge of electric light, I knew I could do no more than simply exist. Nada más y nada menos; gracias, Señor, y ayudame a ser. I had once been unwilling to accept the “unbearable lightness of being” as it necessitated that I become the final authority with total freedom over my own spiritual impulses. Now I recognized the anxious burn rising up in the back of my throat as part of the sheer bewilderment of it all—and that which would eventually loll me peacefully back to sleep.
,

Lions on the Forefront of Desire

My hands are stamped,
my ears invaded;
though I waged a battle
against this fixation –
the other side is beautifully
stacked…
Against me.

Her favor is no crime, I know,
but I lost control this time
(to her)
And she is ravenous in her
endeavour
to keep me for herself.

We met under cover,
held up by the rain –
and conceived of our meeting
for several days.
I was fully condemned
to the taste
of her lips
from the very first moment
that we ever spent
…alone.

There I could be
so near the one thing
that for once
and for all
left me
completely
speechless.

I breathed in
the humid –
radiant beauty,
penetrated by
a thunderous cloud –
while
her warm, wistful smile
was ripped straight from
the hour
that I stole
from inside of her.

She left the allure,
of her translucent
stare,
to undo my nerves
in the bed
there beside her;
and I could only
seek to converge,
as I found myself
entranced by her,
lest remain aloof –
to entice her body
to move,
yet even an inch away
is too far.

She bestowed me,
her warmth,
with a feverish smile –
incited my fear,
like a dramatic
child –
I choked on the thought,
of the inconceivable loss
I would have to endure,
the moment I had to
let go of her.

How can I describe
the venomous eyes,
that ventured to
meet
the shameless demise –
of the benefactor
of my useless
pride?

How can I refute
the perfect selflessness,
that longingly resides –
in the simplicity
of her touch?
Presumptuous, yes,
yet she easily caressed
the unnerving restlessness
that might otherwise
carry me away.

I was instantly undone,
the moment I saw her –
remiss of myself,
with out a moment to
allude my cascading
heart.
My mind fell slow,
with my purpose renewed,
like a constant transfusion
of reigning thoughts.

I must be a shameless
child of God;
she must be the one
to have built this façade.
And how quickly it was built!
If I could blindly tattoo myself,
to be the one that she
prefers most –
I would replicate
the feeling she loves,
and resurrect a cathedral
for us –
to pledge my tenacious love.

I have already found the
perfect resolve,
to simply avoid
the universe –
as it exists solely
with in her walls.
To consort with the world
means her hands will not be –
somehow in close
proximity
to the surface of my skin.
And  I
can say with impious
recklessness,
that the smell of her hair
is worth my
grave indifference,
to the rest of
human existence.

She tells me that she is
inevitably sure –
that I will fall in love
with her,
and I struggle every night
to confine,
the staggering sense of
necessity,
that is most certainly
reflected
in
my
eyes.

Yes  I pay for my pride –
with the currency of time,
that which I waste in trying
to hide…
myself away.
Such a price will indeed
yield the unwavering,
resolution to constrain
myself;
and yet,
she fully controls
my humble resolve.

The moment I catch
a glance of her,
I know that she will
quickly infer
the purpose of my
childish demure
as it BEGINS and ENDS
completely
with her,
like a lion
on the
forefront of the desire
we dare not
ever speak of –
she discretely conspires
to sweetly devour
my heart as it is
entombed in my chest
vying to steal –
the last beat
from it –
with a thin jagged edge
wiped clean
through the flesh,
she smears my fate
across her face,
taking care to consume
every last
little piece
of my love.

The Many Shades of Family

The faces of my days are painted with the
varying shades
of acrylic paint
I have learned to under-estimate
but they’re real
I went to a party where the empty shelves
were either
begging  for attention
or manifesting themselves
into something much more beautiful,
prolific in design;
I began to imagine
a transformation of a different kind.
The perfect face of virtue weeping at the sound
of certain promiscuity
looming in the crowd

.

Mediocrity Rules, Man

There are so many distractions every day, so many reasons to feel defiant, to allow for interruptions… and to be interrupted. How is it possible for so many people to have so many expectations?

It starts to feel like I have alleviated some of the pressures of the outside world, but then I take notice of the line forming outside of my front door (which isn’t really my front door at all). These people are translating my existence for me, extending their expectations just beyond my reach, outlining rules and guidelines, asking for favors in return, requesting my undivided attention.

The gravitational pull of my universe is just another brute with a plan to sucker me out of the precious hours in my day, like outsourcing my time and energy serves a clear purpose in my life and judgment is best reserved for those who would sooner consume all of my dreams than support my affinity for mediocrity.

Well, I am not fully justified in my feelings considering I bear the weight of each choice I make and believe me when I say I carry that weight around with me every day. The consistency of persistent people and the burden of hope deferred make it easy to do so and I am only now beginning to realize the toll it has taken on me.

I am just so… tired.

So what do normal people do when they are suffering from unrelenting exhaustion (besides psychotropic drugs)?

That’s right; they file their taxes.

Perhaps I couldn’t stand another blow to my financial ego, but at this point I have acquired quite a taste for profiting from the unprofitable.

How is this possible?

Two years ago I became suddenly familiar with the concept of itemized deductions and now there is nothing better than the sight of my adjusted gross income (in all of its intangible glory) refined to a meager percentage of that which was (my taxable income.)

Enter disgruntled business owner who never received tax credits promised by the U.S. government last fiscal year.

Yes, the freedom that comes with listing my annual expenses for the sake of claiming a reduced income is at times all too good to be true but as we all know,  great power is often followed by misuse of power, resulting in even greater consequences. These itemized deductions are nothing short of a liability for any regular, legal-American citizen who is avoiding an increased taxable income contribution (for the sake of the trillion-dollar recession.)

Not paying taxes rules, man. And so does mediocrity. It’s a blessing that I ever even learned to count, let alone to itemize my own deductions.

Along with the freedom of practicing my right to recruit and exploit my own annual expenses, my American citizenship has also earned me the right to claim a particular amount– not to exceed my adjusted income. But this comes at the risk of the IRS rifling through the precarious list I have provided and consulting with my people (a.k.a. turbo tax) in order to afford me a more warranted list of expenses. Something less tangible would be ideal but these guys insist on seeing a paper trail and anything less qualifying may easily lend itself to the scrutiny of the IRS, therefor eternally bearing  the mark of my financial peril.  And for all of those people who are familiar with the procedure of a comprehensive tax audit, perhaps the risk isn’t worth the gain of a possible return– but for the rest of us, we might as well keep on deducting one charitable expense after another–lest we find ourselves affording a more desirable occupation (and acquiring a more profitable income overall).

We could all use a few extra exceptions during THESE which make up the days of the great modern recession. Don’t worry, generation-x, it’s not  long until the baby boomers who preceded us find themselves in a state of geriatric dysplasia and we too can profit from their misfortune, as they have long since profited from ours.

Exit disgruntled business owner who never received the tax credits promised by the U.S. government last fiscal year.

Consider my tax returns as good as filed! And yet I am still so terribly exhausted…

Mediocrity Rules, Man

There are so many distractions every day, so many reasons to feel defiant, to allow for interruptions… and to be interrupted. How is it possible for so many people to have so many expectations?

It starts to feel like I have alleviated some of the pressures of the outside world, but then I take notice of the line forming outside of my front door (which isn’t really my front door at all). These people are translating my existence for me, extending their expectations just beyond my reach, outlining rules and guidelines, asking for favors in return, requesting my undivided attention.

The gravitational pull of my universe is just another brute with a plan to sucker me out of the precious hours in my day, like outsourcing my time and energy serves a clear purpose in my life and judgment is best reserved for those who would sooner consume all of my dreams than support my affinity for mediocrity.

Well, I am not fully justified in my feelings considering I bear the weight of each choice I make and believe me when I say I carry that weight around with me every day. The consistency of persistent people and the burden of hope deferred make it easy to do so and I am only now beginning to realize the toll it has taken on me.

I am just so… tired.

So what do normal people do when they are suffering from unrelenting exhaustion (besides psychotropic drugs)?

That’s right; they file their taxes.

Perhaps I couldn’t stand another blow to my financial ego, but at this point I have acquired quite a taste for profiting from the unprofitable.

How is this possible?

Two years ago I became suddenly familiar with the concept of itemized deductions and now there is nothing better than the sight of my adjusted gross income (in all of its intangible glory) refined to a meager percentage of that which was (my taxable income.)

Enter disgruntled business owner who never received tax credits promised by the U.S. government last fiscal year.

Yes, the freedom that comes with listing my annual expenses for the sake of claiming a reduced income is at times all too good to be true but as we all know,  great power is often followed by misuse of power, resulting in even greater consequences. These itemized deductions are nothing short of a liability for any regular, legal-American citizen who is avoiding an increased taxable income contribution (for the sake of the trillion-dollar recession.)

Not paying taxes rules, man. And so does mediocrity. It’s a blessing that I ever even learned to count, let alone to itemize my own deductions.

Along with the freedom of practicing my right to recruit and exploit my own annual expenses, my American citizenship has also earned me the right to claim a particular amount– not to exceed my adjusted income. But this comes at the risk of the IRS rifling through the precarious list I have provided and consulting with my people (a.k.a. turbo tax) in order to afford me a more warranted list of expenses. Something less tangible would be ideal but these guys insist on seeing a paper trail and anything less qualifying may easily lend itself to the scrutiny of the IRS, therefor eternally bearing  the mark of my financial peril.  And for all of those people who are familiar with the procedure of a comprehensive tax audit, perhaps the risk isn’t worth the gain of a possible return– but for the rest of us, we might as well keep on deducting one charitable expense after another–lest we find ourselves affording a more desirable occupation (and acquiring a more profitable income overall).

We could all use a few extra exceptions during THESE which make up the days of the great modern recession. Don’t worry, generation-x, it’s not  long until the baby boomers who preceded us find themselves in a state of geriatric dysplasia and we too can profit from their misfortune, as they have long since profited from ours.

Exit disgruntled business owner who never received the tax credits promised by the U.S. government last fiscal year.

Consider my tax returns as good as filed! And yet I am still so terribly exhausted…

The Mediocre Truth

The truth is, well, a pest as far as the circumstances of my life are concerned. It is not that I am purposely misconstruing the facts in order to reinvent the reality of who I am. It is merely a problem of appropriateness. Which facts are appropriate to include, publically, and which I should remove from the world’s view?

It isn’t like I am sharing information with a network of people because I have only just begun writing. But ‘who’ reads ‘what’ still remains to be unseen and I am feeling around in the dark for a good sense of my online voice.

Perhaps it would be different if I were operating in a normal, familiar environment. But I am not, quite truthfully, and as such I can’t quite wrap my head around the act of translating my reality in an appropriate, yet honest manner.

It is no secret that I worry too much.

At this point I am beginning to realize that if I am to write publically, to any extent, I need to be expansive in my search for the truth.

Perhaps I am fond of expressing myself with language because I have the option to use words anyway I want. However, it has become my creative flaw at this point because I find that I can use a thousand words without saying anything at all. I don’t want to create useless fluff.

My writing is not the only thing in my life to undergo a total transformation. In fact, I have become so tired of repeating the same problems that I have completely reinvented the world around me. It certainly seems ironic but if I cannot reinvent my words to complement my life, I suppose I ought to try to reinvent my life to complement my words. Anyone who knows what it means to be human also knows that we are only as sick as the secrets we keep. The conundrum for me is finding a way to make sure that my truth is (honestly) appropriate.