Potential

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Prospects stir within me

peeking through the murk

of disarming doubts

and missed opportunities

to eye tomorrow speculatively

They venture forward

brushing aside

clinging fragments of fear

trailing shreds of futures

from restless dreams

shedding past selves

and stowing their baggage

in the corner

My possibilities

jockey for position

as they thrum restlessly

at the starting line of my soul

waiting to gallop off

and be chosen

as the one

who could change everything

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Speak

To my friends, for always listening & freeing me a little more each day

I don’t often speak about being mentally abused, but this is about more than just me. For all those who have suffered in skin or in spirit, no matter what shape your scars take: you are a survivor, I am touched every day by all that you are, and you are never, ever alone.

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consonants cause traffic jams

in the rush

for release

from

their white ridged confines

elbowing aside luckless scowling vowels

& artificially flavored filters

while whispering syllables

hatch an escape plan

over by bitter and sweet

i feel them tumbling around my tongue

an emotional recipe for uncertainty

mixed with the heady brew

of pain/trust/fear

uncaged

trailing meteor tail memories

the words spill out into the

suddenly frozen air

and i find myself

free

Crowd

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a blanket of hurry

muffles the impatient horde

coloring the sidewalk

with a reverse rainbow of humanity

intimate strangers

breathing the same air

searching for spectacles

lost in a million million thoughts

a panoply of psyches

people at their worst,

unkind, self-involved, abrupt

ignoring

groping hands reach for benediction

averted eyes pretend not to see

those tarnished by the brush of “not enough”

but also the quiet moments of kindness

that have redeemed us since

before we could walk, grunting politely

at others in nearby caves

millenia later, we still strive for refuge

seeking sanctuary among the teeming masses

the blissful solace of losing yourself

in a sea of people

the wonder of crossing eyes,

skimming through briefly bare surfaces

more than connection

joined vulnerabilities

with someone you may never see again,

and can be utterly free with

*Image courtesy of this amazing new artist and blogger I just discovered: http://myscribbledsecretnotebooks.com/tag/painting-of-kerouac/

Unveil

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the inaugural unfurling

of cloud-wrung fancy

breathes fresh air into

stale crevices

pockets new askew

add unexpected edges

where before were only curves

dogeared shames + satisfactions

formerly core buried beneath

a socially acceptable surface

now updug + exposed

is it for you

the primal glint of gold

or the lush musk of sex

the clipped courtesy of separation

the romantic savagery of wildfire

the stealthy intimacy of influence

the puissant demand for more

if i were to plunge

into a cave of wild abandon

populated only by your dreams

what would i find?

Lines

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i’m getting tired of

halves mights + maybes

punch drunk promises

noncommittal sympathy smiles

i need to excise + emerge

out

from under our

label loving lacquered jungle

protest against our sanctified addiction

to coloring inside the lines

with cautious crayons

but the verdant verde grass

beckoning across the picket fence

isn’t any better

seeing as i can’t slake my disgust

with our slick lust of lip service

+ empty gestures

it’s too easy to find excuses

for why not

instead of emerging from our

brilliant little boxes

to just be

Lotus

How to be an artist

To be a writer is to guess at things hidden. To prod and poke and tease until our truths come out. Our truths are not the truth. They are our beliefs, sometimes our lies, our little dramas in the unabsorbed spectacle of the universe. Writers’ block is really just a barrier we put up to keep from painting an accurate self-portrait of ourselves and our race. From descending into the unresolved, creeping overgrowth of the intimately self-aware.

It is the canary that sounds when mines are probed too deeplyas our lungs desperately exhale and choke on the fumes of the demons we all carry. To be a great writer is to ignore the call of the canary and plunge further into the abyss. To Fall with open eyes into our ghosts and Hydes and chained memories. To view the panoply of humanity in all its overripe savagery without the delusion of social constructs.

Those who are Fallen go where the rest of us are afraid to go. Most of us are unwilling to see the glorious ills, blinding injustices, eleventh-hour births of hope, and faithful destructions that pepper everyday life. Pleading ignorance, we prefer to activate our spam blockers, guarding against any such serpents in our well-manicured Gardens of Eden.

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Why are Da Vinci, Michelangelo, James Dean and their peers revered above all others? Their work transcends boundaries of color and race and religion and language. It is because of the Fall.

The rest of us are grasping at the chaos of our core, trying to tame it into symbols & pictures & summer blockbusters. To capture it within cages so that it can be assessed and analyzed. We live in a world of titles, a world where we’re constantly asked to label ourselves. What a perverse mockery of identity.

Why do we need to build bars around something before we can understand it? Why are we so afraid to Fall? To claim those terrifying caves and unending jungles inside our skins? Instead, we hunt and erase any such unacceptable blemishes until we can pass for functioning members of society.

It is time to love ourselves and heal our society, damages and all. To all those in the Nomad Generation and beyond, I think I may finally get it. In order to Rise, we first have to Fall.

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