Eye understand the purging processsSsss,
the simplicity of catharsis -
heated caterwauls wailing in alleys
with porch lights shot through by moths of powdered blame, regret
and guilt. Continuously, I read the poems of others:
"Poor me! Poor, poor pathetic me,
my heart is going to wither away!
Because of YOU! Because of YOU!
I hate you now,
you spineless whore.
Why did you leave me shattered
upon the harsh surface of broken dreams?"
"Slam! Slam! Slam! I have a big gun, you'd better run!"
Japanese Whispers - "Lost in a forest - all alone."
"All together now, let's sing Kambojah."
Oh, I feel the pain, feel the nightmares
unfolding in the minds of others,
a clairvoyant, empathetic twister I am;
I don't wear a tin-foil helmet.
and the dreams, the beautiful dreams of light
The words fill me,
vowels and consonants bridge murkiness
with an astounding clarity.
simple moments touch me deeply.
Of smothered hope
bats and belfrys
rainbows arcing -- introspection flowing across the nostalgia of
porch-swings, dripping peaches, the scent of a newborn baby, the existentialism
of bee-headed bishops, forbidden touches, slippery, secretive pantings.
After having written 500,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,002 poems,
I became tired of writing for/about myself in a certain way.
I lost my way,
desiring the vain-glory of spotlights,
far too entrenched in devices,
and the: I-am-so-cool-I-am-too-cool-to-be-warm-crowd.
Curdlings of avant-garde souring my morning coffee,
the hollow musings of lost souls reaching out of sugar-cubes,
reaching for something more
than their silly, inane routines of simply surviving. Simply surviving.
I read poems
as gifts for my soul.
But for me, it isn't quite as easy to reciprocate,
for I am a rhombohedral, hexagonal ____________.
It was only after being able to reach deep inside myself,
pulling out a purity of intention,
to finally, finally write poems for another - as gifts
with no expectations or strings attached,
that I was able to give back,
to fully express how deeply the words have touched me all along....