The 100th Luftballon

Rather than a tether, forever tied to the cold, hard concrete,

(as is usually the case)

you are a string.

A string, mind you, attached to a balloon.

(perhaps a red one)

Yeah, you’re a string that’s attached to a balloon.

And, you see, this balloon, is adrift,

(not floating at random, but maybe it is)

it lifts us higher and higher into the stratosphere.

This may not be clever, no,

(I’m fairly certain that it isn’t)

but unlike those luftballons, there’s just one--

and only one.

Dear Bill

The season of my discontent is neither winter nor summer, spring nor fall.

It embeds itself into my calendar and refuses to leave.

It twists and turns in and out of every month, week, day, and hour.

Its growth is vine-like, it constricts and strangles any chance of contentedness.

She Only Blurs Lines

You blur my realm of understanding.

My clear thoughts are no longer certain,

and no longer is my confusion clear.

I am a camera out of focus.

A necessity, but slightly less useful.

An inconclusive passion experiment.

My intellectual faculties are burnt out,

white-washed in a sea of

ridiculously unintelligible bliss.

I am a deaf translator,

once glorious, and still that way—

just wholly impotent.

A dog without a leash

is only useful to himself.

The Delusion of Insignificance

My mind is adrift in a sea of nothingness.

This is no Waterworld, no Dryland exists.

. . . the thought of which is preposterous.

You see, I am ruled by logic and persuaded by feeling.

Two beings trapped in an endless maze,

in which we are the mice

and there’s no cheese at the end.

(how did mice develop a taste for cheese?)

(how did we develop a hope for heaven?)

A labyrinth of white-washed blandness

separates us from a false eternity.

This time together is pointless, and yet full of points—

of departure, from this world to the next.

(which exists only in brain-form.)

For what evidence is there of after-this?

A time controlled by logic and reason,

yet dominated by fantastical thoughts of existence.

Passion in a Shot Glass

A sorely misunderstood joke

can't possibly lead to destiny.

Or rather, maybe it's fitting

to lead a life of comedy.

Vulnerable Simplicity

An artful projection

of an infinite truth

is not nearly as accurate

as a rendezvous with the corporeal.

Sunburned

A quiet simplification,

is no match for this oblivious fact.

Time away leads to a mind’s reflection

and generally a false image appears.

The question arises, then—

What to do with an obvious projection?

Let it breed in the dark recess,

and feed off its incessant beauty

or return to that place of origin,

compare the two, and hope for the best.

Not even a plastic butter knife . . .

I was told to carve myself a niche in this life,

but was not supplied with a knife.

Perhaps a dog without teeth,

or a bird without wings.

I am not meant for this world.

A different plane of existence, is. 

One for a different type of being. 

No atmosphere dwells here, sky.

No physical body, star, planet.

No vacuum of space, blue marbles.

No free afternoon, nap.

My Mind is this plane, and that is all.

A single celled universe, adrift in nothingness.

Millions of light-years across,

covered in an instant’s instance.

Time and space are bodily functions,

they do not exist where I will go.

No heaven would suffice,

the reasons are too practical.

The beginning of an end cooked up

in the minds of unimaginable fools.

Eaten for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Consumed whole as truth, and now spewed forth

in an unrelenting torrent of abomination.

How can an end be as familiar

as a street of gold?

Roads convey movement,

in a place where only thought exists

and movement is a delusion

conjured by false philosophical mystics—

Such as myself.

A Different Similarity

Not quite a cliff, precipice,
or even a ledge.
The corner of a meadow, maybe—
Facing inwards.
A wide open space ahead
full of bright flowers and tall grass.
There’ll be patches of mud to be sure,
and maybe a few wasp nests, too.
The journey is not made alone, though—
I have you at my side
and your hand in mine.

For Whom the Alarm Clock Tolls

How do you mourn the dead?
With pity? Remorse? Regret?
Is this for you or them?

No, Not That

Two days late
and my fate
hangs in the balance.

A thought so natural.
Is it merely cultural
or as widespread as eternity?

Time is transient,
nowhere near apparent.
Yet we insist

upon its importance
despite its chance
of being a complete lie.