Merry Christmas, Madeline...
You’ve mercy-killed my every lie.
And mercy me, I find that I believed them more than you did.
Take me back to the last time snow fell; I fell,
no tell of the hell I feigned…
completely my construction, contorted but coaxing no call for my conscience to croon condemnations to a craving, eager crowd.
They say guilty.
Realizing my devising on this airplane Christmas day, I weigh every word we decided to say (in frustration, in anger, in remorse, in confusion). It would appear the universe does not revolve around me, though I am still doubtful.
I am, after all, invincible
ignoring addiction
ignoring depression
ignoring fault
ignoring death
denying the days when
I am my own worst enemy. When I cannot claim immortality.
And as the ever increasing turbulence shakes my hand, I trade my pen for prayers that the plane lands soon.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Friday, January 4, 2008
train of thought 1/2/08
I am standing on the edge of a cliff.
Blue wind rushes into my eardrums fast enough to flood
my train of thought
and drown most rational passengers still left inside.
I suppose the few scattered survivors are the ones responsible for this oddly objective
voiceover, but even those poor, huddled, hypothetical masses
can’t find the sense to tell me to
Back away from the ledge.
There’s enough empty blue sky between
my precipice and the sun-drenched valley below
To remind me that heights settle in my stomach
with all the ease of a Drano martini.
And yet I don’t move.
There’s enough cluttered mileage between
my feet and the mountain-heavy horizon
to remind me how far I’ve come from everything I know.
Did I really run from the cold reality of home,
my snow-covered car still spewing death to an overcast heaven?
Did I really just climb so desperately toward that same ceiling of air?
Could I not realize that this coat of blue paint over gray would look down
with the same disapproving eyes? Have I come to this cliff for a reason, reason itself, or the chance to forsake the lot of it on the desert floor?
i need a reason
and I think that if I can just back away,
the wind will slow
the train will dry
and the survivors might yet repair the damage.
Or at least throw down a new coat of paint.
Blue wind rushes into my eardrums fast enough to flood
my train of thought
and drown most rational passengers still left inside.
I suppose the few scattered survivors are the ones responsible for this oddly objective
voiceover, but even those poor, huddled, hypothetical masses
can’t find the sense to tell me to
Back away from the ledge.
There’s enough empty blue sky between
my precipice and the sun-drenched valley below
To remind me that heights settle in my stomach
with all the ease of a Drano martini.
And yet I don’t move.
There’s enough cluttered mileage between
my feet and the mountain-heavy horizon
to remind me how far I’ve come from everything I know.
Did I really run from the cold reality of home,
my snow-covered car still spewing death to an overcast heaven?
Did I really just climb so desperately toward that same ceiling of air?
Could I not realize that this coat of blue paint over gray would look down
with the same disapproving eyes? Have I come to this cliff for a reason, reason itself, or the chance to forsake the lot of it on the desert floor?
i need a reason
and I think that if I can just back away,
the wind will slow
the train will dry
and the survivors might yet repair the damage.
Or at least throw down a new coat of paint.
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