Untampered handguns allign Heaven's Fence
As God polishes the bones of Man,
Weeping, tears spilling on the shimmering skulls.
Oh writing, what art thou?
Inability, a curse, an incessant lecture of things I just don't understand. You swallow up the factual, yet still you tag your selves with the word "empirical," as if that would help the wallowing-child within.
Indifference, I've come to resent you.
Honestly, is it truly so normal to think in verse, to constantly be swallowed by dimensions of witches and lonely girls, of harbored men and anchored trauma's? Is not madness the very thing that has us sprinting to our locked shelters to simply place output on the many, many things that, for the duration, swallow the mind until outlet.
Without the truths, Rachel staggered on
Moonlit road, licking at the Rubies
Spilling from her wrist.
Tonight,
The sky would have it's way her way
What is the release, what is the motive? There is nothing but hidden texts, countless tomes strewn in drawers and awkward spaces between mantles and chairs.
What the fuck is the point of all of this, and why won't it stop?
Contemplating the point, the reason, that writing, that stories, have devoured the real, have suffocated the football-toss and drum-set conversations.
Why, why, why is this contemplation arising? Why, why, why is this doubt sufficing for this night rather then the lonely sight?
Think, though. Think, and vision, the awkward you whom, with napkin stolen from diner, scribbles the disgustingly barren world of text.
Why doesn't it stop? What is the point?
Googled though he was, Holland moved to the tower aware, unafraid of the blood-lively roots that spread about him indifferent to the oaks that once lined the sidewalks of his street, the trees that, one-by-one, fell during the invasion of Earth.
They say Mother Nature couldn't spare the life, that ours were the one's to keep, that ours were the ones to save.
As he moved on the glass-strewn road, Holland pondered the difference of the Oaks to People.
No life could be spared, no life should be surrendered.
Everything had fallen apart.
Futile is the mind to tie away the thoughts, unable, impractical in it's method of my direction, to sever the binding of things undeveloped yet waiting, of things dancing in the shadows with tints of neon-colors whisking off of them.
I shouldn't have drank the last four beers. Struggle doesn't wait and taste must be rationed. But how is one to exist without release? How is one to suffice on the stunningly lacking without a vision blurred and descending on the very organ of construction?
How is one to simply live when one cannot see his own life?
Vegetable-paste lay slathered atop the pasta, an ingediant of such historic distaste. Still, we never spoke to Aunt Anya on her terrible topping, instead watching with frowns spreading as she, smiling, pasted our breads and noodles with the olive-skined thickness that was her prize.
Later, I'd realize my own vegetable-paste.
Fading, that is all this really is.
Fading and degrading,
Derailed hesitating.
Axes on my doorsteps shine with the nostalgia of times long ago when Daddy would arrive and sit with a head between his thighs.
The lunchpail brings the truth that mother doesn't care; meatballs, laced with coccaine.
Regardless, Frankie moved beside me and kissed my cheek, her arms lifelessly dangling beside her. I moved my hand to hers, but she did not notice and left, running off from the fenceline to the swings that swung with girls.
Matt had cancer, and I had depression. Even at his bedside, the chemotherapy dripping into his vein, I still thought that I had it worse.
I don't have a clue what I'm getting at.
Actually, I do. Basically, the past-two-week writers block I had really has me down. My novel project has, for a month now, remained untouched. I was on such a high, and then it died.
My short-stories are suffering from editing. New ideas are axed for the already-done, and even when I play with them I find I hate them.
No creativity other than the mania that poisons me every ten seconds.
I offered you my hand in marrage; you offered me cab-fare.
Erasure is the cure.
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