Detoxification

In a frenzied state,

The barrel of a gun,

His eyes entranced

This not perchance,

The removal of waste

The shifting haste of unexpected new space

Another case of downward spiral,

His indecision, what to do with it—

As if an agitated mule, a distasteful spit,

A defensive kick,

Quit this shit

Preserve the lesser self

He tells himself,

The selfishness of steaming stealth

Most obvious to everyone

Gun pointing

Out into the world

Unfurling curl

Rising from the temples of his head like smoke

Cooking mind

Craters already formed

Seeming deeper

Darker keepers

Of too painful

Truthful secrets

Stored away,

Trigger left

Unclicked

Vultures fleeing the remains of body left unpicked

White sands rolling over

Filling up

The holes in his logic,

A trick the mind has not pulled off,

Soft, smooth undulating calm,

Desert balm,

Buck puts down the gun,

An appearance of grace

Erases grimace

A smile forms upon his face,

Peace,

Inside and out,

The quiet mind,

Sifting through white rolling sands of time,

Texture fine,

A glistened shine,

He has come to appreciate

Like hope and fate

Only looking,

Letting go.

My True Love

You’re a vision running through

The clear blue yonder, flying over mountains high

Swimming searching swimming in search of, yearning

For the touch of tiny earthen hands, fearful of the sway

The way it settles, is here to stay, the water makes you wonder,

Wander away,

The swaying stays

You swallow days

And stay away,

The ceiling says it’s here to stay,

The bay becomes

The howling bay of wolf

In wear-full way,

The way you arch unnerves the bay,

Along the bending birches, wind,

A walkway forms, you walk your walk,

You dive right in

And dream it

Do it

Live it

Are it

For me, my freeing flow,

In that I know

Love shows me life

Life shows me love

Dormant slumber on basin floor

Feelings store

And sore to great heights above

On white winged tips of paired up doves,

You and I
One coursing force,

Me and you,

Still we are two.

A Resting Change

Like a mad scientist trying to manufacture

He rises,

Will resurrecting

Need dissecting the cycle of life cutting into this down time

The surge still present,

The urge to do

A question of

Self dog dare

Double down

Truth in new

Fuel,

For the locomotive turn

Output

The burn

Barn on fire

His problem with tiresome ire provocational, mire

His whole life this desire to do

Purporting it as part of anew,

The mind in line with a doctored lie

And like flu season though a dozen times more appearing each year

This need to do gives into his fear

By shear virtue of strength in conditioned brain

He cannot abstain from rising,

A setback surely awaits

Repetition in kind cannot be fate,

Not this folly,

Unfolding

Upholding its active civic duty

And then folding up again only to later unfold is not beauty

Rather bad habit,

Is not happenstance,

Something part of though more than his circumstance,

The body under spell

Of mind in a trance

The need for a rest

The dance of waves,

His age saves him,

Mature, concerted flow

Slows,

Panacea,

Slipping into a thoughtless haze,

A daze he allows of himself,

A new phase,

The moon shining bright

A lunar eclipse

Dark patterns,

The ego fade into night.

Anxiousness

Catch yourself,

He says, these thoughts come too fast—

Firing flashes of fury

Dots hazily scurrying

About—peripheral

Mindless fall from grace,

Brain waves never win this race

Cannot outpace

Their other selves,

Trying to outwork like Santa’s little elves after Christmas,

Forgotten, the point is that they’re gone, replaceable,

Logic hardly ever traceable

Affect always erasable

With recognition,

A sliver of remembrance

Breaks his trance,

Breath fills the lungs, not by chance,

At last, the body is free to dance.

Be

From the lips of purity pursed

Words, the same as life,
Stinging, strong, uncertain, hopeful,
Unpredictable,
True—
The body vessel
Trembles as if a trestle
Co-constructed  by ideas,
Wooden beams and nails,
Society, institutional lessers
Limiting scope of growth
Strength to weight
Of return to birth
Naked Earth
Where nothingness rests, empty,
Devoid of projections—
Piecemeal sanctimonious, this weathered keeper false,
Kept out of rain and sleet the mind trying to secure
The chance of un-embrace
Laced up, his belief,
Inside entanglement
The spider waits to pounce
The heart beating to trounce
His tongue tasting the season’s last fall of winter
Knowing it is now or never
Letting go
Touching snow
Free to flow
The weight of the world on a man’s shoulders,
The ego slinking away
Lifting up his heart
The break of a ray through northern cloud
His judgment clear
Her beauty dear to him
This life near to him
Heaviness disperses
Expectation and response
No longer holds him down like curses

The mind makes room for acceptance

Whatever that should mean,
Love, life, in every scene
Are the vows he takes
The meaningfulness of words to him as vast as the Great Lakes
As small as food for backyard garden snakes,
It amounting to a whole lot of nothing
Allowing room for everything
The very fiber of true being,
Her words, life,
My love.

Open Ocean

Sadness comes in
Threatening,
A monsoon
Tidal wave,
A boat
The waterfall ahead,
Accepting rapids
Neck of impasse
Jagged rocks
Unsure footing
The residue of resurrecting waves
Saves the face from turning,
Unbuttoning his life preserve
Throwing in the blowup boat
An open throat
This feeling cannot cut,
A smile forms
This refusal to shut off
The emotion
Of out alone on the unsure ocean
Aids in its formation, an easy coast in mind
The turn of tide
To nothing
Drawn to everything in
Her nature,
Open to this feeling
Flooding in,
The boat lands down below
He knows not what it means
But lets it go
The paddles of his boat still row,
Mindful oars
Bring him to shore.

Anew

A golden leaf, that has dried and now dips inward,
Dangles loosely from a sparse tree
On the cusp of hibernation, and
Is shown in the waning moments
Of dusk to quiver, as if about to fall.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
Winds from the South kick up,
As the sun rises in the East.
Our golden leaf falls, lands perfectly,
And glides as if helped along by tiny
Little hands unseen.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
Down the calming trickle
Of slow-moving stream,
To where a man fishing for leisure
Has just hooked his first
Catch of the day.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
The fisherman’s line
Now entangled in muck,
As he rips through ground
In a fury of lustful wantonness,
Very much unnerved.
It had never dawned on him,
This perpetual motion.
The canoe leaflet shores
And comes to rest on fisherman’s boot.
It reads like life, perennial.
His heart opens, his breathing calms, and his motions ease,
In knowing she is the dawn of something new, of something perpetual.

From This Point On

I treat myself kind,
Fears about her float away,
My love here to stay.

Who am I?

Who am I?

Sometimes a blade of grass

Cut down by metal,

Blowing freely in the wind,

The weather dictating movement

The mind in line with natural forces

The Earth a bloodstream that courses

Through my shortened self,

The mind it thinks that way some days

And tries to fight emotion off with a stick,

So quick to deny

To try and justify with why

To lie

To die in some ways

A poison, these thoughts,

All emotion

In all land and in all of the oceans

The piece of blade cut down

Kicks up

The wind

The ground

Is just enough

To blow,

As if a horn of truth

A silent muse

No longer refusing

No longer self abusing

No longer using the shortcomings of
Others as if a stick to beat myself down with,

Justification, why?

Acting out of anger

A cry for help—

To accept my truth,

My blade of grass cut down kicks up

The sun breaks through

A reflexive hue

To change

To see if I can undo

The hurt

The pain,

Either way

I vow to refrain

From the fire

Outside of desire

The evil deed

The deadened seed

That which sprouts the deadened weed

And leads me in err—

Outside the devil’s lair

I see my other half,

Still planted in the ground

I do not pound my chest

Instead my heart just rests

The pesticide inside me has not fully died

But I know that in the end I will have tried

To abide by the maxims I ascribe unto,

The sun breaks through

A reflexive hue

To change

To see if I can undo.