Incomplete 11/29

It was the winter that ironic posturing finally swept the huddled masses in our bleak city. I stared over the sea of despondent youth desperately mimicking warehouse culture, awkwardly aping a more bohemian aesthetic while refusing to acknowledge, let alone question, the rampant consumerism they'd inherited. I wonder what it felt like to be too late for a movement that refused to be a movement. Slum.Slum.Slum.

It was all too much. None of it was enough. I couldn't muster the energy to hate it.

Who held the first dance party?

Who held the first dance party here? Someone who had read that this was what was now done. Someone who had read that this was how it was done.

Unattended

What he’d done became an ax blade, blunt
A forceful strike making two from one

The divide was not true though
And many smaller pieces lay scattered

Pieces that cannot be fitted back into a whole
Pieces that assure two cannot return to one

Pieces that must now lay in
Splinters, shards, chunks and dust

Unattended but not forgotten
Unattended but not forgotten

From Torment

We who move

Unaided;

Who rip to shreds

All emotion -

Aside from torment -

We shall overcome.

The Cynic,

The Skeptic,

The Sneerer,

The Critic.

The world shall be ours.

Your happiness is no match

For our disgust,

Our distaste.

We will pull beauty,

Bloodied and screaming,

From the hideous face of truth.

We will force you to stare

Directly into horrible reality that surrounds us.

Your smile will melt,

And you will see truth;

And you too will toil

Side by side

With us

To see this mess as beautiful.

It Is Done

There comes a time when a man must turn from God, turn from society, turn from the one he loves stating without so much as a quiver in his voice that he's got this. It will be alright. He must then move and make things move. He must cast aside the doubts and petty obstacles that once stood between him and his. If it ruins him that will be alright. If it kills him that will be better. If it works that will be best. If all who know him turn from him not comprehending the principled actions which he has undertaken, then he shall continue alone. The peaks of mountains and trenches of the sea are filled with the bones of those like him. Their milk-white remains stand as testament. He will briefly pause and acknowledge this communion. Then his strides will carry him on. Their ghosts will not haunt him. Their spirits will not whisper, “turn back” into his ear. They will nod in approval as he passes. He will be the one who will reach the summit and if not he will drag his dying body off the path so as to not block the way for those who will come after him. He will face his death with courage knowing he has done what must be done and what must be done must be done.

Dust

I will return to dust..

I will not be summarily summoned
Body and Soul carried together
In glorious Ascension.

I will return to dust.

I will not be made to experience sheer bliss
Due to my purity of heart
Nor will I endure weeping and gnashing of teeth
Due to my sundry sins.

I will return to dust.

These sins will not be enumerated
And weighed against the good I have done
To determine where I belong for all eternity

I will return to dust.

My actions in this life
Will not secure my place
As a cow in the next.

I will return to dust.

Certainly not as a cow.

I will return to dust.

If my life flashes before my eyes
In the final moments
It will matter not
For none will know.

I will return to dust.

Diverge

It meant a lot to me that she was able to make it. I know things have been weird between us but we were able to put that aside at least for one night. I stood by the door looking out and saw her walking towards my house, unsure that she had the right place until our eyes met and she tossed me a wave. She looked different than I remembered. A little more weary; her youth slowly sewing a flag of defeat. I guess that she dresses a little bit differently now to. Jeans have been replaced by well-ironed slacks. Skimpy tops by a ruffled chemise. I felt somehow intimidated by her appearance, constantly reminding me of the ways in which she'd grown and in the ways in which I hadn't. I moved to hide the empty beer bottles from sight. I told her to have a seat hoping that my grab bag assortment of furniture would not be too inferior for her. Thankfully it wasn't.

As always she was intoxicating. Effervescent. I was drawn into her. She pulled poetry from me. We talked for hours with the sunlight slowly fading. She suggested we take a walk along the river. I hesitated worrying who might see us. She told me that they were through, so there was no need to worry. I worried anyway.

It was chillier than we had anticipated and we walked closely to feed on one another's warmth. I managed to slip my arm around her and she was not unreceptive. We stood momentarily beneath a flickering street light and were transported back. Back to before all of the ugliness, before all the lies, before we destroyed ourselves and each other. I knew then that I would never see her again. We would be successful in our reenactment that evening but come morning we would return to our separate worlds.

Our bodies moved as we had recalled them moving.

There was nothing to suggest the inevitable.

We slept, woke, and parted.

Golgotha

Peter was his rock as I was to be yours.
His betrayals numbered three,
How have I done?
I pray it takes less than your ten fingers to count them.