Alternate Oceans

I know why I think about you more these days,

You are the last thing I know of familial love.

The hole numb as ocean in what your mother ripped

It was expansive before her.

Surely the hunger is what kept me to request her to return originally

Knowing a greater esteem I doubt you would exist.

I would like to tell you your parents loved each other,

At one point I would have answered differently, not because things ever changed,

But because I know more of what was, rather than what I thought it to be.

Your mother never loved me.

I was a bandage to damn an alternate ocean.

We became like a continent her and I like tectonic bodies colliding in agreement

Her for the surface; I for the sub-surface,

The roots and the flowers; I thought growing; the numbness blinds the water

From knowing whether if there ever was a reason

For truth or lies or decisions to break ranks

The only rationale I know is the flow of appearances and emotional necessity

I had and have learned to be alone; your father does not comprehend how people meet

Comingle and find friendships from the nothingness; the nothingness is ubiquitous

On the sea of faces to my gaze; each appears stranger.

Transforming is an arduous climb fraught with fall after fall slashing my shins and knees

In unanswered questions; your mother was the greatest careening gasp.

The piton secure of all foundations removed itself as if the earth quaking from the sky.

Hands of flesh able to tear marble from the countertop and cast as pebbles into the sea

The cherry flecks stare back at me awash in circles amongst the veins.

Why we / she / I put the rocks everywhere?

The chasm begot chasm and I ache for you happily and morbidly numb and in love

To see you become like her, like me, as always you.

I am falling again in exasperation wanting to take that town and get the shrapnel out my cheeks.

Legs of stone and nothing is disconnected, nothing is connected, everything is numb.

The limbs of giants pity me; I am begging to be crushed and they will not slay my vampires

Flying across my memories, I tried to write them to forget; to let go and let the will slip.

The heirs of dreams waft in like snow flurries in May, near the end and the cackling witches

Come into the fray of broom-handle janitorial-staffing company offices I pass to come to my office

Every morning; parking-detail-painted cruisers and assholes ruined my appetite for fantasy football 

I don’t even play Magic anymore.

Your mother has made my best memories vomit-inducing comas.

I cannot touch love without touching her

And I would rather lay idle and make time with books, music, and diligent accountancy

In throngs of hours where boredom is never allowed to enter.

Companionship is never allowed to enter.

Only self-sufficiency as paramount trump,

That I could do whatever need to survive alone.

As this will be a cliché of non-repetition; knowing I never turned down many before or after her

I am vagabond with the brick-face stub-legs.

I know my short-comings.

I laugh at the concept of choice and love ever dancing together.

Love has always been a dribble.

Cacti know.

I invite the buzzards, but to date they keep their flight.

The numb wanders a haze of mirage so that the city appears like highways

Stucco, asphalt, glass, blue air, but I know it to be rocky crag.

To the touch is hardness clubbing in a folk song out of tune and predictable.

Cut the man off, his tab is full tonight.

Fingers ache from the spills.

Poor billiards and the whiskey has him frazzled.

Sleep on the bathroom floor and wait for the bar-keep to close.

Never the wiser.

A Rant: the other side of religious persecution

Occasionally I will read or hear a zealot protest the persecution of his religious zeal

Christmas is under attack as rights are huddled over to corners of the commercial playpen

Where only certain displays of the full-haired newborn infant baby Jesus with clothed genitalia can show his Anglican Bethlehem-born locks under a cosmological celestial body

The statues of Arabian advisors, Hebrew shepherds and European angels collect like trophies

To soak in the donkey feces and straw-bedding awaiting the fresh menstrual blood

Of the tightest dilation in the history of pregnancy wound a burgeoning world’s circumference

For a husband to see his wife’s bushy sixteen year vagina for the first time

Schooled up to no electric light, but the illumination of stars kept the sheep at bay

Flush with gold paid for like a peep show, burning away the scent of dung

Bounty after bounty pledged by a jolly red velvet suited flying belly in a sleigh

Sporting levitating ruminant mammals foreign to camels and their double-eyelids

Sand for snow and the globe is an ark spilling bribers changing money in stockings

In temples of pagan-ousting evergreen tree baubles hooked and glistening

As if snowflakes were truly original or by the time the water fell from the sky

It was no longer water by simply shifting molecular configuration

White horses levitating to waft past the reindeer and ascending martyrs

In version three point oh my is it time to launch mortars again from the stars

In the East commanding us to contemplate the man of the mountain coming

Back to us as a child and a elephantine slumlord holding rank over holy tooth shrines

See the tapestry stitched in fear tearing our lands into perdition

There is no us and them, there is only us; there is no God, there is only us

One collective bent on asserting the food our parents were fed is good to eat

Knowing the only way to feed ourselves is to reject our genetic donors and have a family

Transition into accepting terms with mortality, morality, the universe and love on a paradigm

Beyond the plate provided and see learning is boundless as time set out like a platter of thought

Indulging one’s temporal nature in what we are rather than limited by what we tell ourselves we are not, no longer defined by our antonym we can be infinity in the absence of blasphemous

Recognition that we are merely energy converted into higher functioning beings capable of kindness not, mandated to kindness, but we achieve in kindness the pinnacle as an end in itself

True the despair of the inverse, not for the approval of an external entity but to that which we each are an inseparable combination of collected energy comingled onto a platform of space time interacting for but a blip to make an impression and then disperse not into nothingness, but to rest oblivious until this universe collapses and expands out in a bang billions of our understanding of years from the ceasing of universe as we have done before.

So too universes go on co-currently segregated from us by only space time during our preparation, contemplation and reformation countless iterations birth, grow, and die in symmetrical manner around and through what we are.  We are as a flower though seasons.

This is not God, but the scientific boundless always was universe of un-beginning and un-ending of space time beautiful in its lack of thirst or hunger for such immature notions as justice.  We show our youth in such quests for picking the right horse at the track, dancing the correct choreography, or starving our bodies in sacrificial avarice.

Buffoonery to see one sect, any sect as applying pertinent discretion to confuse preference and favor for the simplicity of kindness, for in applying law to what we inherently are severs the bond of our mutuality and interconnection on levels most foul. 

We begin to actually worship our created differences in the name of our similarity.  We are hypocrites of ignorance seeking kindness imprinting it in those we see in a theological industrious brand name rather than a concept; in this we truncate our breaths and shorten our gaze.

I have never been more afraid to admit a characteristic about myself more than my atheism.  I feel the fear of the world of a blasphemer confronting the rational questioning human beating in the believer’s chest crying to get out and the fundamentalism of the world beating the human in the other’s heart down as words and sentiments plummet out of their mouths and minds to condemn me and my like for expressing the repressed bubble unable to surface inside their own.  

I sense fear of Christian people wanting to kill me.  I sense the Supreme Leader of Iran picking over the allowed candidates to participate in democratic elections.  I see the repetitions of the name of God in United States presidential speeches.  I see the fear of being thought a non-Christian and even so a Mormon and Kolob become Christian when convenient.

I see the slow tread of war intermixed with the assertion of clothing.  I see nudists berating other nudists for wearing improper head scarves.  I see time held frozen two-thousand years ago when the idea of faith held up as divinity, never examining what the faith is in, but a story.  Call Thor ridiculous, but the vagina and the blood, the rollaway stone and the white horse solemn.

Kindness is quoted as being taught from scripts; as if this was a corporation patenting exclusivity on salvation, peace, or goodness.  Are these not innate to what we are rather than what plot of Earth our ancestors settled and our fore-breeders fornicated us into existence by betrothal or bastard-hood?

So in we are fixated on this notion of being correct, of finding repercussion for good and evil, right or wrong, that the shaft shall be separated from the wheat and burned.  We hunger in our immaturity for such vengeance so we invent a notion of such to exist never realizing we burned the entire field to spread its credibility. 

So in we have traded fears, we hide our minds from knowing what the other could do to us at any moment with volition behind a mythical settlement swallowing natural loneliness by connecting to an imaginary friend inside our minds meanwhile sacrificing what we could have with the greater world by the bonds we sever to install the parameters of our synthetic assurance.

I do not fear the atheists of the world.  I fear the fundamentalists.  I think most people do.  In this unspoken realization a small part of so many feels the bubble of ration rising.  If only we would all let it rise, accept morality as a personal responsibility, not mandated, but chosen.

Red Eye Boucherie

Rounding the line between insomnia and a pig in a hamster wheel

The monetary crimp of mortgage crystals form on eyelids like watchmen

Stationed to poke irises from indulging in the oblivion of slumber

Rotate, re-rotate; desire continuance like a blanket of uneasiness

Four a.m. sleeping somewhere that does not feel home again

The belly-ulcers of the West bank expressway are gargling for morning

To cross the highway into swampland or to find saints in a city full of sinners

Asleep like turtles in their mobile homes, webbed feet and elastic necks for the noose

Of wanting more at the grocers than what one can imbibe

The ham hocks are choice for Monday sweats with turkey necks

Cooking with a New Orleans’ atheist trinity, using the red onions again

Slice the celery thin like a razor blade to the face wanting something to grow

Pruning the bell peppers crisp into the darkness of the beans, creamed over

While the Earth sinks and the storms haunch out there in the Gulf eyeing over the buffet

In the pot for next week’s seafood gumbo trading partners for the clock strikes

Knowing that midnight is wandering to be relevant to a man that does not sleep

The days cake together into a residue of rather not think about it weekends

Actions, opportunities, prefer the routine of preoccupation as salve for the red-eyes

Crisping like tasso in the pan, salty and torn between bodies

The veins in the tissue cross-cut perpendicular to the sinew brake easier

For the others to digest mechanically as the taxis roll into the airport departure line

Tips go both ways like students hitting sophomore year trying cocaine

Timid to admit to thinking about suicide as if every kid in the class wasn’t

At least once or twice during the semesters stacked as if life out the crucible of hormones

Would be easier when lawyers get involved, automobiles, and stainless steel cooking pots

Registered for and received for the kiddies who still get married in the church

With the white and the priest and the line to drink from the cup

Swallow and smile and see the glare from the choir loft sleep in the photographer’s studio

Pay him for the memories on canvas in the colors like a tattoo on a skin sail-cloth

Spread like a flag for an Antebellum porch for Cajun two-steppers dancing like a nail

Got stuck in each of their feet, smelling the aroma of Monday’s waft from the stove

The Jazz Festival posters hung in symmetry as years never-attended stack like bragging rights

Oh, Oh, Thunder Road take him home like the night is forgiving asking for saviors

And all that can be heard are the engines out there on the highway

Passing to nowhere under open eyelids seeing it all as the street lights glare their yellow x’s

As hoods tilt low and jump up open to keep vision sanitary to the asphalt

Speak quickly the hours are passing into time to head back to the work room

Find the hammer and the keyboard typing away numbers for Americans with bank account

Deposits and faces that make distributions for deductions as if worrying about managing

What one can do to appear like the dance was planned with the holler of the fiddler

To take a turn with a man’s wife chewing on a reed twirling to Louisiana Tuesday night

Accordion style Fais Do Do twirling partners in shrimp boots and heading to the boucherie

To set the hog to slaughter with the town lined up to use every organ and drop of blood

Before the porcine-legged belly knows what hits him; won’t even have time to fall asleep first