The Words for Longing

The words for longing. Are few and far between. Leaking from a splintered heart. Tumbling from a shattered soul. Bits of verbiage. Metaphors of loss. Fashioned from wet clay. And the ticking. Of watches in thread bare pockets. And meals eaten alone.

The words for longing. Litter journal pages. Quaint descriptions of bleak romance. Penned on off-white sheets. Small disappointments. White hot embers. Growing cold in spider-webbed corners. And other recesses. Moist with decay. And wasted years.

The words for longing. Are like no other words. Images of love and lust. Beckon from beyond the grave. Hopes never abandoned. Dreams never forsaken. Staring across a no man's land. Of sweet imagination. And bitter memory. And arms forever empty.

All Voices. . .

All voices are lost eventually. All faces are forgotten. All names are erased from time's ledger. It will be as if they never were. History isn't a sieve, it's a brick wall.

More Random Thoughts.

When you tar everyone with the same brush the brush gets dirty fast.

If personalities were physical ailments, yours would be a paper cut; annoying, momentarily painful, but largely inconsequential.

When taking my new razor out of the packaging I cut myself on the plastic.

"Hell is other people." I'm almost positive Jean Paul Sartre wrote this line while driving. Maybe he was stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on the Boulevard of Crime.

When you live in a cage you soon come to believe that bars are a normal feature of the landscape.

The stream of consciousness is frequently polluted with cerebral waste material.

The blessing is in the perception of reality, not in the reality itself.

When the only thing that can be done is what needs to be done, choice is an illusion and heroism a mute point.

He who chooses his own honor over the wellbeing of others mistakes ego for honor.

Self-sacrifice is the only real sacrifice. Everything else is robbery or murder.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will develop ulcers.

The greatest curse bestowed on any individual is the ability to see everyone's point of view.

One step is often one step too many. When balanced on a cliff edge tread lightly.

Rush's Love Life

According to Wikipedia, Rush Limbaugh has been married three times. Explain this anomaly, please:

1] Alcohol and roofies.
2] God hates women big time.
3] We are living in the bizarro universe.
4] The number of blind/deaf women has increased several hundred percent since the end of World War II.
5] Ann Coulter, Michelle Malkin, and Phyllis Schaftly.
6] A loaded 38 and three rounds of ammunition.
7] Fat, bald, self-deluded, and shrill are the new signs of male virility.
8] Bad breath, bad manners, and impotence are more appealing in person than they are on the radio.

Two Short Poems

ODD RHYME SCHEME

No flight, only a secure nest.

No sight, only steadfast belief.

No joy, only the absence of grief.

No employ, only eternal rest.

*          *          *

CLOSED SYSTEM

In a box. In a room. In the grasp. No way out.

Nothing gained. Nothing lost. Nothing beyond. Twist and shout.

Out of time. Out of joint. Out of options. Death and doubt.

In a fix. In a fight. In the dark. No way out.

The Speed of Darkness

The speed of darkness. Turns the head in a flash. Flutters the eye lashes. Like a humming bird's wings. Leaves me alone. Far from light.
The space of silence. Shatters the ear. Beats a broken drum. Like a cripple tapping his crutch. Against a hollow heart. Empty with remorse.
The touch of time. Freezes the brain. Stiffened the limb. Like hemp threads wound around a promise. A glue made of marrow. And motion.

The speed of darkness. Voids the tongue. Quashes words. Like a scarf over the face. Abandons me to dream. A formless shadow.
The scent of despair. Stops muscle.  Leaves longing in tact. Like a limb lost but not forgotten. A feathered memory. Plumage stripped.
The fingers of fate. Push and prod. Squeeze metaphor from throats. Like paste from a metal tube. Ribs crack. And breath is difficult.

The speed of darkness. Shocks and awes. Numbs the senses. Like a cat claw across my skin. Draws blood to the surface. Oxidizes life.
The dance of desire. Tires the feet. Defeats wallflower common sense. Like a parent's prerogative. Overrules logic. Out thinks thought.
The hand of God. Hammers deity. Pounds sacristy. Like a nail driven into the savor's flesh. Blinds the cruel dawn. In hideous waves.

The speed of darkness. Turns the head in a flash. Flutters the eye lashes. Like a humming bird's wings. Leaves me alone. Far from light.
The space of silence. Shatters the ear. Beats a broken drum. Like a cripple tapping his crutch. Against a hollow heart. Empty with remorse.
The touch of time. Freezes the brain. Stiffened the limb. Like hemp threads wound around a promise. A glue made of marrow. And motion. . .

Non-Revelation

The years take their toll in wisdom. Once lost paradise is gone forever. People dominate the globe and people, with very few exceptions, aren't worth the clay that comprises them. The world is ugly because people are ugly. True evil is a problem with aesthetics, no more.

The planet from above is beautiful, but its beauty is illusionary. Take a closer look at Spaceship Earth. The world is crawling with vice. Sharp-toothed. Dagger-clawed. Drooling savages glutted on martyrs' blood. Filled with raw death. Fatted on kindly souls judiciously lynched.

The savior, his body cold and hanging from a tree, has saved no one. The prophet, dressed in perspiration and rags, cracks dirty jokes on a street corner. And the crowd, the crowd complies sponge-like. Absorbing everything and understanding nothing. Inanimate objects animated by chance, not design.

I take no comfort in the apocalypse. If I smile grimly it is more from a sense of relief than from joy at our demise. We are creatures who rose to the top of the food chain. And then, seeing no one capable of contesting our perfection, we proceeded to dine upon each other.

It took fifty years for this non-revelation to find the cynical soil of this fertile mind. Poisoned manna from a starless heaven. And I'm as culpable as any. Withdrawn within myself like a prelate on retreat. Contemplating my image in a fun-house mirror. Smirching at my foolishness and despair.

Cruel and capricious. Petty and pointless. The journey from cradle to grave is, as Shakespeare wrote, a tale told by any idiot. Meaning is a needle in a stack of ambiguous hay. Find it for yourself if you can. But don't prick my finger with your preaching. I've bled enough.