Staring
into the essence
of what sunlight
often hides
Within
plain sight
the truth takes flight
— in nature’s great disguise
(The New Room: February, 2025)
I'm friends with a monster,
Inside my head.
But I hate the way he is always
Crawling under the bed when
I want him beside me, holding my hand,
Want him to protect me from all the thoughts racing
Along the shore; a never-ending creed.
I'm so tired of them, the thoughts-
They're scarier than death.
Now I want a gun pointed to my groin,
Another to my head.
Why does he sometimes leave me alone
Confused about everything, scared of
The way people talk, the way they react.
That's when I need him the most
To put a bullet through me; point blank range.
Point Blank
Standing staring at a blank wall
No joy
No sorrow
No anger
Nothing, only
A pile of lost
Dreams and expectations
Shot point blank
Dead and decaying
Looking but finding
Only cold comfort
In the cold wind.
There is really no such thing as being intellectual. There is only knowing what one is talking about or not.
Aim for the temple
No beating around the bush
Be direct coward
Depending on the tides
We've searched worlds with fixed eyes in positions
Serious with concern and a sense of times
Scoured for meaning, the frontier of being
What’s intended to be?
We've missed by the narrowest of margins,
thirsted for new grounds higher and expanding
neither one nor the other
but within the remote
pushing past the middle, exposed
We've confronted face to face with patience
and appreciated star-gazing, on this plane
The entire fullness of the nothingness.
Point blank.
Unnerving news, it lit the fuse,
And at "point-blank" range, I was shot
But then we found ourselves amused-
That you were dead and I was not!
*This is a silly piece, just written at the time, I suppose, for the sake of irony