Dullness

 

To occupy the delusion 

that one is not the main character in their own life

 a desiccating boredom

That dry-rots the whole experience

 

How empty these spaces feel

Begging for fulfillment

As hungry birds gluttonously vying

For another revolting morsel

 

How plain it all tastes

When stripped of color and meaning

As if the tide has been out for so long

one wonders if the ocean is evaporating

 

the ship for larger schemes has set sail

lost beyond the illusion of the horizon

as a memory of otherness that cannot be placed  

words unspoken

Meaningless phrases

Falling in thick drops

Formulaic in composition.

Polished to a place where

All human error has been absolved through work

where each day slips like the footing in a muddy hill

framed in labor but short on accomplishment

There is a stamina

A callous of psyche

So bored from the suffering

That seems so far away, and is still so pressing

In every possible context

Everything inside-out and wrong

Awkwardly impossible to contextualize

And I feel rooting for some other, greater storm

That lies just beyond the horizon

Some greater chaos that feels so distinctly like roulette

Betting on gladiators of genre to raze the other

With gimmicky luchador personas

beyond the spectacle that nobody would take seriously

in other theaters

And there is a persistence, like a faint bell

Like the loss of hearing creeping upon you in a way beyond control

In the way that the scars make the damage real

When all other, fonder, memories have faded into the rose-color tint of nostalgia

As words that sit upon a shelf, easier to speak about

Than to actually read

and it frames the language in a fuzzy feeling
as if acting out the lines rather than actually feeling them
like a pantomime of shared fear that is commiseratory
to place your audience's mind at ease 
by never bringing up the conversation -

       

the hunger of birds

The words come out all mixed up and flawed

As if I am some bird

Singing its song over and over again

Stuck in a place, form-fitted

as a wobbly log of cranberry sauce

flumping out awkwardly onto a plate to go uneaten

we have become pinned in place, entrenched

unable to move forward or retreat

as a stone being dissolved in waves

everything’s fine

the sheets are clean, everyone’s being nice

yet, in my soul there is a burning hellscape that wants to cleanse them in fire

like a bird tearing into carrion

smeared in the feted blood of opportunity

its time to be about it

and it hangs in my soul like a torn banner

like a power that I cannot escape

that extinguishes my heart if I cannot perfect it

as if we are amalgamations

against the grain of time

made immortal by some greater truth

in a kind of honesty

there is a primal rawness to the tendrils of reality

circling overhead as streaked predatory feathers against the sky

the impetuous of research and reconnaissance

Awakening the gears of some great machine

As one must rise to meet their fate, every single day.     

harbinger

On soft wings

Nostalgic, like in old photos

It lives in the spaces where

Your teacher shops for groceries

Like humanity

In the fractures of the concrete

Who are we really,

On soft wings

At sundown 

The condors take to the sky.

Take the sky.

As if it was always yours

Bound to a legacy

In a strength of patience

Awaken to the willingness

And somehow there but, not

Awaiting the future with boredom

As the days come and pass

But time remains eternal

An endlessness of sunrises

Expanding into extinction

What will have mattered, is poetry

In the beauty of ephemera

Where the rain fell And the rivers ran

the soul danced as many and one

as a jungle of something greater

like the whispers that call you home

Nesting

From the vantage point of crampt little spaces

Chittering like starlings in a nest

An old cypress, swaying in the wind like some cheap apartment building

What sounds like a thousand little conversations bubbling up—

Through flimsy walls

From the rooms next door  

A gurgling, squeaky sound to pour upon the interactions of the laundromat

and off down the street

There is a confusion

In the recesses of myself

Hinged on the complexity and the needlessness

Of telepathically empty spaces that do nothing to feed the soul

As the possession of peculiar hunger lives familiar

Like a series of prefabricated homes

where I am expected to “Ooh” and “ahh” Over every piece of minutia

as if it is…

(what?)

an emptiness, that proliferates

made urgent with time.

As if it is buying into a bland story line.

To ease the ache of mediocrity

Unable to shake the grasp of what the world should be

In an upheaval of unanswerable questions

About the nature of what it is to belong.

Pearl

Charity cases

Absolving of the drama

Like two dimensional theaters,
a videogame of narrative without dialogue

That is played by merely walking though

As if getting and losing money are fundamental components of the game

Like rowing a tiny boat in turbulent seas

Waiting for the next hungry pair of hands
to turn us up like so many evaporated river stones

The desert calls to me
like an electrically charged air

In the falling snow,

She whispers the hatred

Of the trivial,

in subversions of excess.

As we refrain from tearing into their marrow.
patient for the next belligerent

For the next snowstorm,

For the next little stoat to scamper off with something stupid

the next broken human to limp into our lives and be in the fucking way.

the next shitty love poem to erode the discernment of quality

and yet, our wings are greater

oft upon greater endeavors

and still, it resolves as a kind of boredom

infecting the will to continue

like a rain of micro-anxieties as the snow begins to stick

the far-off suffering of others

comes to inhabit our souls as one of our own

occupying a place that is comfortable but unwanted

as if some shellfish

bearing minerals to past transgressions,

in some iteration of comfort

beyond the reality of ‘here’ and ‘now.’   

sonder

There is a sadness that lingers here

Like a subtle, anxious ghost

nuanced in the way that’s hard to place

going to work every day

 to ultimately end up in the same state at the end of every week.

As if committing to a series of renditions

As though every day is some dress rehearsal

That prepares for an act in some absurdist play.

The cold waits, like a persistent intruder

Pouring in through any orifice,

numbing in a way that has denied sensation

devoid of sentiment

as if to ruminate on that which we don’t have

unable to feel something that seems like it should have been

as if a phantom limb of undeveloped potential
erodes the soul with every missed opportunity 

it comes like a restlessness

the loudness of an empty place

that stays hands in an empathic weight

in a paralysis of observation

that captivates and debilitates in a singular gesture
effortlessly trespassing meaningless borders
to give a semblance of identity 
as if loneliness is a creeping fog 

that ebbs out the landscape of our desires.