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A Light More Volatile

a light more volitile

[Title line from Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass (1855), my deepest gratitude and indebtedness, Mr. W.)
Finally found a place where I can lay my head
Everything now sounds like a rhapsody and instead
Of a waiting for someday, I realized or remembered
That it is not real, never was, never will be rendered
Solid; never touchable, but this is.  I am
You are, so please let us be.  Here.  Now and
Forget the fake, let the delusions fall by
The wayside, seen for what they are and with vigor, we’ll cry
Out, past, beyond the previously impedimentary
With nothing but what is and will be- never wary
Because nothing true is worthy of being feared
Not even the darkness, for it only exists because its opposite cleared
The way, establishing a light more volatile
It sis the intensity and depth of both sides that make this whole deal worthwhile


Scarcely has the wish for words been present while
The coming of them lacked.  Rather, the opposite has been
The case on too many occasions.  I took for granted
What I perceived as floods.  In truth, now I am seeing
They were irregular tides, the ebbs and flows of which
I am not the directing force behind.  I am a conduit, a
Spiller of ink.  My longing for a return of what, at times,
Seemed an endless fuel does not result in a replenishment
Of said substance.  I even mocked the abundance as something that
My mere whim or wish had the power to conjure at
Will.  Whenever I saw it as convenient, I could capriciously tap
Into what I mistook for an endless ocean, which is actually a transitory vat
Finite and fleeting, beyond my demands of its presence, despite my attempts to combat
Its absence. Therefore, I will not, I cannot take this for granted, for each may be the last
And I do not believe I will be able to distinguish it from the rest
Ungrateful for unearned gifts, I have been guilty of what I most detest

Unlimited (Snowflakes)


Maybe it’s just that I’m wearing the right shades, but the snowflakes are in slow motion this morning
Some, to be sure, are coming to a stop and reversing direction without warning
Like they don’t want to touch down, too in love with floating to follow the laws of nature
Too many people I see don’t seem to know that it is even an option. Thoughts confined by nomenclature
Just because you are told by those with low ceilings that the limitations they’ve chosen are also yours
And everything that they have identified are definitively closed doors
Does not mean you are obligated to adhere to any of those half-living restrictions
They have decided to obey the road signs, yield, stop, while I’d rather keep an eye on other inscriptions
Rarely written in words. More often read in the bowels of a blazing bonfire
And the message mutates as I add more gasoline. Never met one that I would call a liar
Nothing but truth. Fire does not know how to do or be anything else
Unlike people, who, run from both out of fear that they will watch as the comforting fallacy melts
Then what? The masks they have spent so much time constructing and maintaining
Have become them and vice versa. That is not living. Cowardly, choosing the restraining
Bondage of fakeness might be sufficient for some, but for me does not even come close
To the absolute freedom that the opposite is guaranteed to yield, but it cannot reside in a reluctant host
That is why I am a willing supplicant, kneeling in my own blood at the altar of possibility
With a grin, seeing clearly through the veil, well acquainted with something more than a mystery

Sleep? (Conditional Forgiveness)


A voice from upstairs asked me the other day,
“Don’t you sleep?”  I grabbed him by the throat and said, “You’re just a relay,
Maybe a neuron or synapse, a lobe at most.
You have got some nerve.  Have some respect for your host.
You’re just part of a processor, and a malfunctional one at that.”
I ended up forgiving, letting that one slide.  No need to attack.
At least not over a cheeky question.  Plus I really can’t
Blame him; I admit my REM sleep has been scant.
Also, I have been known to occasionally annihilate
Associates of his.  The grief must be getting to him.  I cannot imagine the state
He must be in.  That and possibly down the road,
We might end up in a situation that calls for a little quid-pro-quo.
A potentially mutual scratching of backs.  Tis why I granted
Amnesty, but I made no promises.  Aint slept since.  Feeling enchanted;
He is very quiet today, enjoying a spell cast perchance,
Somewhere in the background, but I am on guard against an advance,
I wouldn’t put it past him to whip a mob into a frenzy,
Intent on leading a charge with the goal to send me
Somewhere, hoping that someone might intervene
On his behalf, seeking protection, but that would require a team,
A squad that I do not think exists, not yet at least;
But I will let him have his little schemes, I know I can always unleash
A wrathful ally of mine, more vicious than his darkest reckoning.
He knows.  I grin, and welcome this increase in questioning