The Hermit Chronicles: Aimless

“The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet 
and greet unknown fate.– O. Henry
chymecindy
In the early dawn, the dark and the bright birth
My silver cage flew open, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the cool of the morning, the placenta of night
My foundling feet find rhythm, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the heat of noon, the umbilical light a rage
My downy wings grow furious, and I wandered,
Aimless
 
In the dying day, the flower of life now closing
My infant dreams lay in grasses, and I wandered,
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Breath of Coals

“Heroes are made in the hour of defeat. Success is, therefore, well described as a series of glorious defeats.”  Mahatma Gandhi

Breath of coals consumes
the compliantly relented peace of many
Leaping from dreams and
defiling with hungered presence
“Come my enemy, give life to me by your hate” 

 
A leprous char to remain in
the abandon of slanderous consumption
The takers of hope are meant to be,
giving life to survivor’s dreams 
– “Come my enemy, give life to me by your violence”


Cherished visions have no meaning
unless colored with blackened attacks
Their worth determined by the
crackling heckles of many jealous lovers
– “Come my enemy, give life to me by your acridity”
 
Victory will never give birth
till hate eagerly prevents its hasty advance
Only pain and adversity will show
the incensed revelation of a hero

– “Come my enemy, I know success by your presence”

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My Tree

Inspired by the death of a friend, the birth of a granddaughter, an ache in my aged bones, and the prayers of my youth.


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Mixed emotions gather in mushroomed gray lined clouds, a fever pitch of worried concern and loss of beloved companions. Friends carried away like leaves in the gusts, piling against some unseen barrier far away from my tree. Familial doves alight from my branches in pursuit of a roost built by man. Could this tree ever hold them? Life is a tornado of ever changing events, blink and their gone, but I need to close my eyes, the dust of change causes pain. Age pursues me with a ravenous appetite, lying like a pride of lions before the pool of forever hope. Will I drink, or will I be consumed, to be a part of something else, my bones becoming their bones, my blood bringing health to their blood? Sweet Peace, where have you hidden yourself? Are you in the garden, hiding behind a tree? Come to me and share your priceless trinkets. Blinking back tears, pressing against the incoming tide, I swallow inevitable foamed certainties. I pulled an old jar from the ground beneath my tree. In it I hid inscribed hope with these words: God dances over me with joy and He will give me rest. I close my eyes in a sleep that only comes to those who labored hard in the fields, harvesting crops of contentment from the begrudging earth.

Frankenstein

“I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.”
Mary Shelley,
Frankenstein

Loneliness, dissatisfaction, and depression are all signs that my heartbeat sits in the background, flat-lined and breathless until I use it. Then I see it’s deformity. During my socialization, the malnutrition of nature and nurture led to a distorted development, an immature birth, an aborted process of creation. I patch up these defects with anything I can grab until I, a zombie Frankenstein, could attempt to imitate the living. It’s very obvious that something’s not right in this ambling beast. My expressions of adoration are awkward and stumbling, and especially given to extremes of violence and overcompensation. I’m quite adept at camouflaging their deadness with faked kindness and sweet articulations. In the world of the living dead appearances are deceiving. 
I use many things to stimulate my undead “love”. Money, words, drugs, and appearances can all be used to bring in the deformed masses that they may “love” me. I’m well aware they love my gifts, leading this Frankenstein to once again, lay on a mad doctor’s operating table to perform more abortions as I attempt to fix what can only be transformed by a power much greater. I felt real love once, when I sought a God that could deliver me from this horrid process. After I feeling it, it disappeared in my religious ideals and ceremonies which produced nothing of the vibrant love that I longed to possess. I know my last hope is in a divine intervention, and as I lay down on a stainless steel table of deliverance,  I wait for Elysian lightning to strike a real heartbeat in this Frankenstein of love. 

Build on the Carcass – The death of one is the birth of another

 “With my ninth mind I resurrect my first
and dance slow to the music of my soul made new.” 
“Only after disaster can we be resurrected.” – Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club  

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I crawl on the floor, a wet blanket of affection, cold in the after thought, wrapped tightly around my face. Looking up through the swirl of dark and gray smoke, I catch the glimpse of fiery tongues consuming my reputation. No loss, this consumption of smokey history, what was built before can be built again, with improvements not considered before. The demise of one dream is the birth of another and dwelling on sentimentality isn’t an option. Crawl now my shattered bones of the present, know that shortly you’ll be born again on the carcass of this ashed life.

Undefined – Is being nothing defined, anything at all?

“Always be yourself, express yourself, have faith in yourself, do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it.” – Bruce Lee

I read a script that’s not mine. I borrowed it from one of the many plays performed in front of me, in books, movies, and on the grand stage of the home of my youth. With a foreshortened future all hope was sterilized, leaving me with no inclination that tomorrow is a viable possibility. Desperate,  I grabbed dreams that weren’t my own. I didn’t possess the capability to birth those; but the dreams born by other souls, bestowed by fate to imagine another day. I took hold of the dream of a family. Years later, memories evade me with nothing but a handful of thoughts from all those moments. Next, a dream of religion. Another tragedy of errors. It seemed that I believed too much, a cultist obsession is the adopted child left after true faith leaves. What about belonging? To anything? I laughed as group after group, clique after clique, pushed me away. Finally I came to the end of my chasing. Self destruction, that calling accepted me, pulled me close and loved me with the hate I was accustomed to. That’s where I find myself, scraping back the detritus of conformity, aborted dreams, and superficial survival, playing in the puddle of tears, long ago cried, never again to grace my face with those salty trails. Forcing my mind to comprehend dreams, so difficult a process, full of discouragement with disappointing trivial drama, I breathe. Pushing forward, whatever direction that may be, is tough, going backwards offers a comforting alternative. I live in the present, scripting my dreams daily, then burning them at the alter of change every evening. Is being nothing that can be defined, anything at all?

Also published in Broowaha Magazine

Undefined – Is being nothing defined, anything at all?

“Always be yourself, express yourself, have faith in yourself, do not go out and look for a successful personality and duplicate it.” – Bruce Lee

I read a script that’s not mine. I borrowed it from one of the many plays performed in front of me, in books, movies, and on the grand stage of the home of my youth. With a foreshortened future all hope was sterilized, leaving me with no inclination that tomorrow is a viable possibility. Desperate,  I grabbed dreams that weren’t my own. I didn’t possess the capability to birth those; but the dreams born by other souls, bestowed by fate to imagine another day. I took hold of the dream of a family. Years later, memories evade me with nothing but a handful of thoughts from all those moments. Next, a dream of religion. Another tragedy of errors. It seemed that I believed too much, a cultist obsession is the adopted child left after true faith leaves. What about belonging? To anything? I laughed as group after group, clique after clique, pushed me away. Finally I came to the end of my chasing. Self destruction, that calling accepted me, pulled me close and loved me with the hate I was accustomed to. That’s where I find myself, scraping back the detritus of conformity, aborted dreams, and superficial survival, playing in the puddle of tears, long ago cried, never again to grace my face with those salty trails. Forcing my mind to comprehend dreams, so difficult a process, full of discouragement with disappointing trivial drama, I breathe. Pushing forward, whatever direction that may be, is tough, going backwards offers a comforting alternative. I live in the present, scripting my dreams daily, then burning them at the alter of change every evening. Is being nothing that can be defined, anything at all?

Also published in Broowaha Magazine