Saturday, February 18, 2012

Dream 307

One of them is staring down at Jesus. One of them is staring down at a brand new soul who is the latest victim of a four letter word. One of them is lost and in a rush to reach the fountain on this summer day. There is three of him. Three of him are split among this day and one of her. They are at an office, papers fly around and bury their lives. Cubicles stretch endlessly. Not a thought is had as to why they are here. This story is broken, there are multiple outcomes and locations where they are forced to be by the word of their fathers. One of the three of him has made a terrible mistake. The other believes he is giving the victims soul another chance and that they are alive. They walk around a closed public school, stretching around every corner of the brick and glass it is made up of. The other does not care, searching for peace and unknowing of every dilemma in this is passing her by in a glass hallway somewhere. He smiles, she passes looking down and avoiding the attention. A smile is a weapon, and they are all different here. One of him is playing with her hair, dying it so many elegant colors and taking her everywhere in town so carelessly and beautiful. One of him is alone staring down at the setting sun after taking the life of a poet with an open letter, completely unaware of what he is looking at. The other sits still on a wooden bench in a stone church full of murals, stained glass icons, and the bloody agenda of a faded Christianity.

Things fade as each passing building, park, church and school change so much with every memory they hold. Nothing in this town is the same. Distinctly a memory comes across his head of running to his fathers house on a distant past and demanding a bathing suit. He has found a fountain glistening in a summer sun where she is waiting for him and they are one. Nothing would be a better idea than to swim and feel the lightness and content flow of the water as he puts his arms around something pretty. Yet mistakes prevail. Once again he is split, once again he takes the wrong path and finds nothing but the wrong person, the wrong fountain, the wrong father. Still everything stands and stares so blankly as it surrounds him. Every once in a while he cannot help but to see the blankness of a mountain or a broken water slide as he looks forward. What is looking forward to him? What does he see when he has the ability to see everything but the fear of seeing nothing? He is three. Three, like a math equation or a riddle his grandfather challenged him with at a Christmas dinner. Distorted is he in the heat of each moment.

Eventually, all at once every part of him comes together and he firmly grasps an end.

Friday, February 17, 2012

It is so hard to simply speak to you, Tiffany Rohrback.

Never did I think I would ever feel this helpless after all the advice and power I've gained from experience, but I haven't learned a thing from my mistakes. Every second is another one to waste on sadness and over-romanticized hopelessness which at some point in the day I filter into a sappy poem or song. Someone named Gabrielle is watching me and my every move in my mind, even though the real Gabrielle doesn't give a fucking shit. I am still disgusted with myself as she would be with me, and as she would be with this. This is the only way I can express any of this, and all I can do is hope that maybe you will read it and maybe it will change something....anything....

Why do you want to marry him? Why do you want to marry? Sure you're getting older, but you have so much more to look forward to. If you marry him you'll be settling down. You're going to college. Don't you want to keep having these great memories? Don't you want to go places and have fun with your life? Wouldn't you like to still act naive and young while you can and jump off a cliff into a beautiful river with a group of great friends somewhere? Marriage is something I don't believe. You won't stay happy. Things will corrupt. Marriage almost always results in not working out, and you're so young. There is so much of your life ahead of you. You're not even in your twenties, you're beautiful, you don't need a marriage and a life of values to be secure. I can't pretend I know anything about this. I wish I knew you. I shouldn't talk. I just want you to be making a mistake. I want there to be some slight evidence of change, some slight chance that I have a chance.

Why did it have to be you, Tiffany Rohrback? You beautiful adult, you woman. You've had your youth, you've grown up, or you think you have. Whenever I see you I can't help but to feel like a creepy, ugly, dumbass who is far too young and out of place to hold even a small role in your life. There is you, so gorgeous and nice. I have always admired the black clothes you wear when you sing. Particularly the black flower you wear in your hair that contrasts so great with your bright, shining, blond hair. You've probably done so little wrong in your life. You seem like such a good person. Why do I get this feeling to the pit of my stomach whenever I see you, this feeling that gnaws at me and causes me to waste my life chasing after you and leave everything else behind? What should I do when I try as hard as I fucking can to let this idea of us go? I live for this idea, this idea that one day we can be in a room somewhere playing music together and I can hear your beautiful voice amplified through a microphone as my friends and I play our instruments. The idea that somewhere, someday, we can be alone. That I can be something more to you than the mud in your eyes. That we can kiss and camp alone in a forest somewhere. I'd wake in your arms and for each memory we could have I could have a song to remember it by. The idea that one day we can dance, and we can forget about everything bad that ever happened, ever.

...All of this and I can't get a word out but "good" when I look at you face to face as you ask me how I am.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

a broken piece of poetry

Everything is connected and so hard to understand. Everyone feels a certain way at a certain point, and change is simply the only constant. Of course it's an overanalyzation...but how can anything be determined? Anything at all. This is all some painted picture that stretches endlessly and absorbs itself in the material. Despite this, despite everything, people continue. Sense can be tried forever. Thought can stretch miles ahead. Some don't care. Some waste everything. Nothing is the same. Nothing stays the same. It seems so easy to understand, but not to accept.

Comfort is medicine. Medicine is value. Value is anything we want. Including several four letter words used to feel and pretend. Some of which tie into a concept of beauty. A concept of space, time, and life. How can everything apply to everything at once? It can't, and no one is not innocent in this. One day our heads will explode in the pondering, profane, endlessness of what we fight and keep close. So often we take for granted these pieces of matter and salt. So often we form a society only to burn it down and forget. I have forgotten. God is something. Love is something. Everything is something because everything that exists is perceivable. Somewhere someone is gazing into the sky after a thousandth of a fond memory, perplexed at the stable sight of a figment of this apparent universe.

We will not always chase these apparitions of questions, we will not always consider it a philosophy, but we will always be and we will always ask what this is for. Still standing tall are the lovers, the killers, the innocent and the rich facing each other against hallways that fade and shrink in the distance of their exstension. Still a kiss is shared somewhere at the edge of a certain death battered in turbulance and fire. No longer can we support days spent decaying the color of the lead paint on the walls. You look like a ghost so quiet and forever content in the idea that everything is what it is.

Something stands against this. A thought is an opinionated freedom of the mind that we all release like oxygen into the calm air. The ability to see straight through and beyond lays blind in us and everything. Humanity, a subtle piece of toilet humor. A hexagon taking it's pride as a room flooded in years. Look at me like you the contrast of you beckons in the power of visualization.

A simple image. For now we can name it "something". Something moves. Something breathes, shifting it's skin like ocean waves. Something breaks. Something fucks. Something sees a "love". Something sees a "god". Something screams and throws up its arms in desperation, expecting this reality to expand and reveal itself to be a lifetime of childhood Christmas cookies. Yum! "I need you, you need me. Let's never let each other go." says the child. At an eerie pier something drowns to destroy itself. In a glass hallway something just seeks acceptance. In a crescent sea, a black rose grows and breeds a virus of a something.

This is only the comedy called you.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Dream 300

A bus drives to the outside the city. This is a long drive, and there is nothing to think about. Trees go by as the bus accelerates. This feels like a childhood memory of a preschool field trip, yet, I am old and this is now. The innocence next to me is a person. A person so rich in naivete and happiness, maybe even confidence. I know your name now. I see your life. This family, fickle and full of traditional thought, will now meet me face to face. Look at them. They've taken everything from you. Your creativity, your freedom, your independence, your beauty have all been stripped to their advantage. This is the American dream for us. Like slaves we are controlled. A large stone staircase blurs and serves as a waterslide to your lonely estate. You and I are never alone.

God is a nest here. More of what is you smaller bred and colorful walk around and roam. This first time I walk up to meet the child, she uses every ounce of her strength to hurt me. Punches strike my legs, but I do not feel. Both of my parents are here but I never see them at the same time. A hypocrite named "mom" comes to meet me. She seems nice, not even so bad. However, she is transparent. She paints a picture of herself in the name of values. Forgetting she is alive she is somewhere telling a weak soul what to do. She forgets that somewhere someone needs her to raise her children to be heroes. Somewhere, someone is calling out against the pain their dad laced in their head with each scream he released. They want to be alive, they want to exceed the image of their parents. Childhood is everything, loss is common, mistakes is mom.

My father and I try to settle in here. An occupation of thought persists. I barely get to see you at all, yet you are the reason I am here. I stand still and speechless above the stone staircase. There is a natural hatred that lingers among the little girl. She kills me with a power saw. My body is split and shattered by the metal. This is not death, nor is it the end. I am right where I was, yet I now have the ability to see the future. I carefully revise my actions to ensure I prevent my own death.
Never have I felt so conflicted. Should I be happy, sad, angry, or just empty? What does it take to feel? What does it mean to feel? Should I stay here and shut the fuck up, run away, or simply end my life? I could spend the rest of my life trying to be back in your arms. Maybe I will, one day. But nothing will ever bring back the past. I question purpose for this exactly. It is beautiful, really. I can't even understand how something so beautiful can hurt so much at the same time.

There is a void of empty space, and I have no idea what to do.
The hidden beauty next to me must have so many hidden secrets. Always it lingers in the back of my mind what happens behind curtains. What happens beyond my control? Where I have no place? I always wonder. I'm always bothering. It is only natural to admire such individualistic beauty. Oh no, this is not for me, I know. Pain is a filter through which we all come to face in some way or another. Simplistic, yet hovering. It hovers over our heads every single second, and we could spend our lives pondering it. When the end truly comes, when the world ends and our lives end, will the sun shine regardless? Does it really affect anything? Perhaps it's nilhistic,but I can't help to have every single human thought rush to my head when you bask in some sadness that I have no place in. That should not affect me, yet does.

Time and time again you've appeared. Things have appeared. There is somewhere I should be, but I find it hard to care. Can it be that control has finally been taken over the mind? It can never be determined. Everything is so scrambled this year, this day. Whether it has any significance or not mortifies me. This all is so much. This all is blood flowing through us and ensuring every single moment goes to plan.

Yet I am still afraid.