The Emergence of Sleep

Oh, what a pain a migraine is. What a crippling effect it has. The world felt as though caught in the sun and electric shock. No position could my head have laid. No amount of darkness could have quenched my eyes. There was the aching of my body, which was a sweet nectar in my head compared to the pain of the migraine that brought me to this comatose state.

Of course, others have had worse. Don’t imagine I was in need of emergency help, but don’t imagine I am complaining either. This pain, the worse I have felt in a very long time (since I can remember actually) was, for me, the end of the world. No, it was worse than that. It was having the pain of death without the sweet orgasmic release of death itself. It was the knowledge that I was going to live, but the desire not to. It was the welcoming (beckoning even) of blissful unconsciousness.

And then I woke up. I had only been asleep for thirty minutes. And I felt no pain, no migraine.

Just a droplet of sleep was my cure.

What an amazing thing! What an emergence! What a surfacing from mine suffering. To go to sleep and wake up again.

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The Sound of Song

I am the sound of my guitar, like a woman weeping at the park for her lost love. Yea, I am sad, lost, but deep down I am relieved to be alone. Yes, the love I lost was sweet and filled my spirits, but in the end, it was gone. For me and my music, there was no love to be found as, perhaps, this woman at the park found him. My love was one inside.

 

Ah, how misleading all of this is. Perhaps, I will choose a better metaphor.

My music is…

 

Yes, I have it!

 

I am the captain of a ship and her name is Song. Aye, she rocks me to sleep upon the sentient waves of life, the happening days of life, the unpredictable yet applicable winds of time. Oh, how my Song captures the waves of life and the winds of time, yet exists outside of both. Exists outside of life and time because I created her. She is my song. And in that, she is life and time, for I am but the froth of the waves blown in the wind.

 

What can poetry capture, but the metaphors of a metaphor? Is everything so translucent?

 

Ah, I sit back in a hammock under the creaking decks of my ship and I play. Here, alone at sea, I can sing. Only when the last shore has been faded away and become horizon can I sing. I am alone, but I am found. Is this amazing grace?

 

It sounds like pity, and yes, sometimes it feels like so, but mostly it is the timelessness of silence that draws me in and holds me in the swaying motion of the hammock and waves. Aye, it feels lonely, but best to feel alone than to be somebody I’m not. Oh, how it feels like laziness, and so it may be, but I am working for the Song and the Song works for me.

 

Is it worth putting into words and sending into the sea like a message in a bottle?

Image

He puts his boots on slowly, methodically. Not procrastinating the day, but savoring the stillness of home. He looks up into the window and beyond into the bushes and beyond still to the road. Beyond even the road was his reflection.

He took a moment to study himself.

Why, if he hated the mirror, did he do this so often?

He looked at his necklace, his beanie, his yellow button up shirt.

“You lather yourself in image,” he said.

He swigged his coffee, letting his torpor drown under the tide of caffeine. It is the medicine of the work day, caffeine.

The method toward motivating his mediocre madness.

The keeping together all that is done apart overnight.

It is the sweeping away cobwebs to find spiders on his hands.

Poking the bull he is trying to ride with a red-hot iron.

It is- wait… Am I writing about image or caffeine? I forgot.

Writing While Pooping

“I am a meditator and psychonaut the world is windy and kinda frightening the world is windy and kinda frightening.”

Those words are what my phone predicted to say next. I don’t ever remember saying that so that my phone should save it as a prediction, but there it is. Ah, how this keyboard thinks for me. Ah, how confused one should be if they hadn’t a clue about phone keyboards.

“The keyboard predicted those words? A madman! We have a madman in our clutches!”

Yes, yes, simmer down.

Whoop. Am I talking to myself again? Perhaps. I do this. I’m a writer… aren’t we writers told to talk to ourselves?

Who tells us?

Why then is it an odd thing to do? What are you that you are not me? You that should be of yourself but are instead of me? I, who is of you, that I should be me and myself indefinitely. Me? You ask. I say. But when I say, you are answering yourself. Ask again and you are talking to yourself.

Ask me now, these words that are me, and you should realize that it is not I who am talking to myself, but you, dear reader. This is your voice, not mine. Am I writing these words, or are you reading them then? Which comes first?

Let us sink in silent revelry for not having the answers. A day where I do not even have the questions. Oh, but to be without questions is to be without interest. I don’t care. I forgave my apathy, so therefore I condone it. I misunderstood my waking up this morning. I fell asleep as soon as I ceased dreaming. I fell asleep as soon as I swung my legs over the end of the bed.

And all day I have been asleep, wandering from here, thinking, and then wandering back. All the time moving sticks and objects, calling this organizing. Getting muddy and calling it work. Going insane over the fact that I’m sane today. Getting angry at my urge to be angry. Telling myself hateful things for having thought hateful thoughts toward somebody who was probably hating themselves for hating somebody else.

Do we not love any more?

What is love but the absence of uncertainty?

What is success but the absence of clumsiness?

I don’t know, why don’t you ask the cold what the absence of heat is.

Why don’t you ask the stars where in the world your mind is.

Ask the moon for a glimpse at the sun.

And your thoughts for the rhythm of words.

Ask ask ask, for then you can love.

Love love love, for then you can live.

Live , but be careful, you may be still asleep.

The Night I Left Home With Nothing and Everything

09-08-2014

Full moon of September.

Rise as I remember

What is shrinking behind me

What is getting heavier

Under the weight of distance.

Something like the moon

Making an ocean of room

In this heart that has swoon.

I could be bathed in her eyes

But I’m under this pale disk

And the dark risk

It implies.

Home is an image in my head

The back of the car is a bed.

Our hearts stretch

Holding onto each other

As if I drifted away from

Her life boat.

The only dream I’ve ever had

Was leaving.

Now I’m writing poetry

Like a sappy broken heart.

I’m not torn apart,

I don’t suffer from loneliness

Anymore.

Maybe it is my destiny

To feel complete when alone

And alone when I’m surrounded.

I was told to leave,

Not by her

Not from a mouth and voice

Of any sorts

But from the cosmos

Resting beneath the beat

Of the eternal rhythm

That is played by the moon.