9 September 2007
Rigamarole in Soho
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Shapes silhouetted against a starry sky on a black Friday night
Caught between up and down, air filled with musk and fright.
But strung up to stars in a cosmic safety net
Hand of God firmly held, no need to fret.
The rosewood neck, inlaid stones from an oft climbed monolith
Fingers down and up the strings, smooth in an oft played riff.
Like a fluttery friend whose charm runs the scales
Runs you off your line, bumping along the rails.
Precariously sliding toward an edge of abysmal shame
Oblivious to it all, secure in freeze frame.
Bouncing from its squared edges and tight lines
Like a creaky ol' stagecoach coming undone before it's time.
The unspoken more potent than wheels spinning in his head
Could Haves and Would Haves, better off unsaid.
Still he shouts to the world, "Stop the madness, it's just LOVE!"
The words float off into silence like a lonesome dove.
Landing shoulder splat on a benched couple in a woodsy park
"Goddamn, Martha, that came from over yonder, outta the dark!"
A bird, a plane? Hell no, just another damn stain
Aint no big thaing, let's get to the train, 'cause it's a looking like rain!
Honey, if you had half a brain, you'd know that train won't remain. Getting wet is just part of the ride.
You a right, Luvaman, lil' dribble drabble no reason to hide.
A melt, a thaw, an ice age cometh to an end here tonight
So betta fill up yo plate with every last little bite o' delight!
And stand your place in the never ending night
Staying true to the phase "we gotta fight the good fight".
Erecting the statue to the eternal hero within
Full of grace, full of sin.
Entirely human to your pitiful, powerful, malignant, indignant soul
Feeling like a troll but ready to roll, cream in the bowl served down in Soho, keep my side clear of rigmarole!
Friday, May 28, 2010
Liquid Simplicity
April 2007
LIQUID SIMPLICITY
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
Liquidity is a near constant for me,
Seathing flow of grain and peace and sweat and love.
fluid down the face, spilling from the strings, moving target, truth.
I've sought it in the tepid streams of my rapid pulse,
felt in the darkness, calming perfection.
In the palms of another, cupped in anticipation,
Strength and certainty of the engine leaving the station,
The invitation to go as strong as the weight of staying
The desire to do nothing versus the burn to keep playing.
Fretting over all that courses through my tangled finger tips
Sure of the ache in my belly and the tequila that put it there.
And the hand that wields the glass, bottle, neck and string.
Trusting the hand and the ache, and the flow, open and free.
In the gut, like the harmonics perfect pitch from belly deep
Indicative of the peace I seek.
And find inside, not out,
That's what it's all about.
And found in the hollow recesses of hardwood and the softest heart assessed
Where flesh and floor meet, oft that's where it all settles,
To the grounded and ground, planted firm, upright and simple.
-----
The simple man pulls the threads to finds the unraveling begin,
String through fingers, unsure of what he might win.
The sin is in his thoughts, actions seem for naught,
Filled to the brim with all he's bought, against the very premiss he'd been taught.
Shadows, my friend, that's where you find truth and touch,
Pliable, ready, emptied of so very much.
Yet full of something yet unrealized; steely in sight,
Third eye not blind, all-knowing, certain of what is attainable sans spite.
But the seer sees only the scene, actors and stage,
What lays behind the curtain, or on the next page.
Orange the rage that settles the audience as curtain draws,
Clear the first note on the violin as dies down the applause.
And in steps the simple man, simple heart, simple smile, but not so simple part,
"God damn, that was quite a fart!"
Smell radiates, seeps and spills, evacuate cries the crowd!
Then up steps the woman in a shroud and demands, "Be Still!"
"Your money paid, our toils laid, take your damn seats!"
Somewhere a soul screams out in the street,
Penatrating the brick and mortar into the scene it finds
A crowd looking under the rows for nickels, quarters, dimes.
LIQUID SIMPLICITY
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
Liquidity is a near constant for me,
Seathing flow of grain and peace and sweat and love.
fluid down the face, spilling from the strings, moving target, truth.
I've sought it in the tepid streams of my rapid pulse,
felt in the darkness, calming perfection.
In the palms of another, cupped in anticipation,
Strength and certainty of the engine leaving the station,
The invitation to go as strong as the weight of staying
The desire to do nothing versus the burn to keep playing.
Fretting over all that courses through my tangled finger tips
Sure of the ache in my belly and the tequila that put it there.
And the hand that wields the glass, bottle, neck and string.
Trusting the hand and the ache, and the flow, open and free.
In the gut, like the harmonics perfect pitch from belly deep
Indicative of the peace I seek.
And find inside, not out,
That's what it's all about.
And found in the hollow recesses of hardwood and the softest heart assessed
Where flesh and floor meet, oft that's where it all settles,
To the grounded and ground, planted firm, upright and simple.
-----
The simple man pulls the threads to finds the unraveling begin,
String through fingers, unsure of what he might win.
The sin is in his thoughts, actions seem for naught,
Filled to the brim with all he's bought, against the very premiss he'd been taught.
Shadows, my friend, that's where you find truth and touch,
Pliable, ready, emptied of so very much.
Yet full of something yet unrealized; steely in sight,
Third eye not blind, all-knowing, certain of what is attainable sans spite.
But the seer sees only the scene, actors and stage,
What lays behind the curtain, or on the next page.
Orange the rage that settles the audience as curtain draws,
Clear the first note on the violin as dies down the applause.
And in steps the simple man, simple heart, simple smile, but not so simple part,
"God damn, that was quite a fart!"
Smell radiates, seeps and spills, evacuate cries the crowd!
Then up steps the woman in a shroud and demands, "Be Still!"
"Your money paid, our toils laid, take your damn seats!"
Somewhere a soul screams out in the street,
Penatrating the brick and mortar into the scene it finds
A crowd looking under the rows for nickels, quarters, dimes.
Waking to ABAB
January 2007
Waking to ABAB
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Sunrise in the valley, red-chested robins bounce here and there,
The echoes of light and the unrelenting will of time.
Unconcerned with it all, me sitting by the window in my chair.
Plucking shadowing blessings from strands of sunshine.
Gentle, soothing hum from the box, faintest stream of steam rising 'bove forest-green mug.
The tug of memory wafting in silence around my head.
Milkbone sugerplums dance in my little pug's head, snoring, fast asleep on his rug.
Dreams for all dreamers true, in waking and sleep deeply wed.
A paw's twitch, anxious and taught, naught for the adventures he spies,
Whilst maiden fair and true, stirs yonder in ye ol' sleigh bed.
To the day brings charm and rue, delivered from starry, starry skies,
"Oh lovely siren, share your mysteries and pleasures with me, woeful creature", me thinks I said.
And thus day begin in whim, with mystery in her breathe we taste,
Filled with butterflies and hope am I, for seed and dreams and joys unbound,
Drawn from slate endless and clena, our yesterdays gently erased
The day's purpose now clear, for what was lost in the dark, cold night has come 'round.
Waking to ABAB
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
Sunrise in the valley, red-chested robins bounce here and there,
The echoes of light and the unrelenting will of time.
Unconcerned with it all, me sitting by the window in my chair.
Plucking shadowing blessings from strands of sunshine.
Gentle, soothing hum from the box, faintest stream of steam rising 'bove forest-green mug.
The tug of memory wafting in silence around my head.
Milkbone sugerplums dance in my little pug's head, snoring, fast asleep on his rug.
Dreams for all dreamers true, in waking and sleep deeply wed.
A paw's twitch, anxious and taught, naught for the adventures he spies,
Whilst maiden fair and true, stirs yonder in ye ol' sleigh bed.
To the day brings charm and rue, delivered from starry, starry skies,
"Oh lovely siren, share your mysteries and pleasures with me, woeful creature", me thinks I said.
And thus day begin in whim, with mystery in her breathe we taste,
Filled with butterflies and hope am I, for seed and dreams and joys unbound,
Drawn from slate endless and clena, our yesterdays gently erased
The day's purpose now clear, for what was lost in the dark, cold night has come 'round.
Boa Constrict Her
14 January, 2007
Boa Constrict Her
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
"For Sale" she says, "Ignore the cracks, they're just surface."
He thought he noticed her snicker as she reassured him.
Sinister bitch. Who does she think I am?
She'd noticed his fly was down as he'd approached her in the car park. Might be a Sucker, she'd thought. Delicious.
The dollars haven't come easy in the cold season.
Many of the regulars had said, "Fuck it", and gone to Florida by now.
She could wear less, wear more. Hell, she could swallow. It just didn't matter this time of year.
The last guy hadn't taken fifteen minutes to shell out the cash and be on his way. Just then, the other shoe dropped.
A customer. But not just any customer.
He was completely shaved, wore black eye-liner beneath dark sunglasses, and was drapped in a long, down overcoat and faux feather boa. Lime green.
I think you know what I want as he peered over the tops of the dark glasses
"Hey pal, I was talking to the lady first!" the Sucker protested.
"No, I was here first. Before you, before her, before this," looking all around him. "Before that," pointing straight down.
"Bastard", she whispered.
Coming is one thing, but coming back. It's been a helluva long time, to say the least.
"Look, I don't give a shit what kinda drama you two got goin' on. I gotta get this deal done TODAY." He sneered at the queer and grabbed her arm as he finished his sentence.
The audience leaned in. They love confrontation, fireworks, assertive lead characters, and blood. Especially blood.
He stared for a long while at the Sucker and then gave the slightest of smirks. "No problem", he dismissed. “I can wait.”
They sat back, aghast. At first with relief, then with frustration, then with elation as he walked away with the confidence of a leopard.
"So...", she said, gathering her composure again, "where were we?"
Lights dim, the thick curtain comes down and the audience begins to buzz and growl.
"That's bullshit", someone yells from the balcony.
"That's ART," a woman fires back.
From somewhere backstage a shot rings out.
Followed by a shriek and a limp body falling between gap in the curtain.
A crimson pool began to form beneath the Sucker's head.
Audience members in mid stride, mid sentence, mid life, SILENCED! All eyes drawn to the front of the stage.
The feather boa floated out between the curtains from an unseen hand and dropped across the deadman's chest.
From the"balcony, a first voice rips the silence. "No, baby...THAT'S fuckin art!"
Someone in the front row threw a dozen roses on stage, and a thunderous applause filled the hall; Opening Night was over.
Boa Constrict Her
By Scott Murphy & Jeff Ludlum
"For Sale" she says, "Ignore the cracks, they're just surface."
He thought he noticed her snicker as she reassured him.
Sinister bitch. Who does she think I am?
She'd noticed his fly was down as he'd approached her in the car park. Might be a Sucker, she'd thought. Delicious.
The dollars haven't come easy in the cold season.
Many of the regulars had said, "Fuck it", and gone to Florida by now.
She could wear less, wear more. Hell, she could swallow. It just didn't matter this time of year.
The last guy hadn't taken fifteen minutes to shell out the cash and be on his way. Just then, the other shoe dropped.
A customer. But not just any customer.
He was completely shaved, wore black eye-liner beneath dark sunglasses, and was drapped in a long, down overcoat and faux feather boa. Lime green.
I think you know what I want as he peered over the tops of the dark glasses
"Hey pal, I was talking to the lady first!" the Sucker protested.
"No, I was here first. Before you, before her, before this," looking all around him. "Before that," pointing straight down.
"Bastard", she whispered.
Coming is one thing, but coming back. It's been a helluva long time, to say the least.
"Look, I don't give a shit what kinda drama you two got goin' on. I gotta get this deal done TODAY." He sneered at the queer and grabbed her arm as he finished his sentence.
The audience leaned in. They love confrontation, fireworks, assertive lead characters, and blood. Especially blood.
He stared for a long while at the Sucker and then gave the slightest of smirks. "No problem", he dismissed. “I can wait.”
They sat back, aghast. At first with relief, then with frustration, then with elation as he walked away with the confidence of a leopard.
"So...", she said, gathering her composure again, "where were we?"
Lights dim, the thick curtain comes down and the audience begins to buzz and growl.
"That's bullshit", someone yells from the balcony.
"That's ART," a woman fires back.
From somewhere backstage a shot rings out.
Followed by a shriek and a limp body falling between gap in the curtain.
A crimson pool began to form beneath the Sucker's head.
Audience members in mid stride, mid sentence, mid life, SILENCED! All eyes drawn to the front of the stage.
The feather boa floated out between the curtains from an unseen hand and dropped across the deadman's chest.
From the"balcony, a first voice rips the silence. "No, baby...THAT'S fuckin art!"
Someone in the front row threw a dozen roses on stage, and a thunderous applause filled the hall; Opening Night was over.
Free Stylin' with Cousin Mel
30 July 2006
Freestylin’ With Cousin Mel
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
Stripes blessed by zebras and homeless cats
Sun beating down from above, gotta get me my hat.
And glasses, squinting is too much strain,
Happy to be out and about cruising d'town after all that damn rain.
The puddles muddle my brain like Cheese Whiz,
Haven't felt this free since getting myself outta that theatre after Les Miz.
Pitter patter back out to the streets, yellow signs
I make my way down the lane, knowing we all hiding crimes, some aweful, some Benign.
Some chill, some fly, some meant for you, some meant for me,
Thinking 'bout it all, I just know I wanna see, wanna be, wanna take it time to time to the extreme.
Then, like a breeze, she sneaks up on me from behind and whispers in my ear,
"Why don't you hush your lovamouth and get me another beer?" (and don't sneer).
Or career, your path makes no sense to me - no rhyme, no reason,
We been sitting here talking, thinking, eating and drinking all season,
Time to cut the niceties, all the spice and tea we been dining on, get to the point,
Jab me with your style, with your quick wit with you I'll anoint
We be rocking this joint all the way to manana, sitting in the sauna, no need for Marijuana, we got the beat.
Neat heat bosom babe, get this mother fucker moving in the big ol back seat.
Step aside Meat, 'cause I'm bringing the heat all the way from the boiler to this lonely ol' street.
Till deep sleep slips to slimy gutter and momma's got no more treat.
On the 'morrow we won't be feeling no sorrow, didn't borrow not a one,
Not a ton, be no fun to wallow in this for long else she'll be singing till oblivion.
Headin' on down the road, from west to east, time for a feast, get me some peanut butter and jelly and a loaf,
A pinch of salt for spice, nice peppa for to melt the ice, pickled herring, a little daring, and just an ounce of proof
Ain't no spoof that if you don't have the truth, or at least a little vermouth to cut the taste, gonna be a waste and pretty soon you won't have no roof.
Be homeless again, wasted cats, and feeling a bit aloof.
For you know it you'll be eatin' saltines and sipping cheap suds, clueless,
Blues-less songs sung in dark halls and cries from her loose lips
Take a few more sips, not enough tips in the jar to make it very far, but what the hell, don't mind the smell, so show don't tell, and it'll all be swell (for Cousin Mel).
Freestylin’ With Cousin Mel
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
Stripes blessed by zebras and homeless cats
Sun beating down from above, gotta get me my hat.
And glasses, squinting is too much strain,
Happy to be out and about cruising d'town after all that damn rain.
The puddles muddle my brain like Cheese Whiz,
Haven't felt this free since getting myself outta that theatre after Les Miz.
Pitter patter back out to the streets, yellow signs
I make my way down the lane, knowing we all hiding crimes, some aweful, some Benign.
Some chill, some fly, some meant for you, some meant for me,
Thinking 'bout it all, I just know I wanna see, wanna be, wanna take it time to time to the extreme.
Then, like a breeze, she sneaks up on me from behind and whispers in my ear,
"Why don't you hush your lovamouth and get me another beer?" (and don't sneer).
Or career, your path makes no sense to me - no rhyme, no reason,
We been sitting here talking, thinking, eating and drinking all season,
Time to cut the niceties, all the spice and tea we been dining on, get to the point,
Jab me with your style, with your quick wit with you I'll anoint
We be rocking this joint all the way to manana, sitting in the sauna, no need for Marijuana, we got the beat.
Neat heat bosom babe, get this mother fucker moving in the big ol back seat.
Step aside Meat, 'cause I'm bringing the heat all the way from the boiler to this lonely ol' street.
Till deep sleep slips to slimy gutter and momma's got no more treat.
On the 'morrow we won't be feeling no sorrow, didn't borrow not a one,
Not a ton, be no fun to wallow in this for long else she'll be singing till oblivion.
Headin' on down the road, from west to east, time for a feast, get me some peanut butter and jelly and a loaf,
A pinch of salt for spice, nice peppa for to melt the ice, pickled herring, a little daring, and just an ounce of proof
Ain't no spoof that if you don't have the truth, or at least a little vermouth to cut the taste, gonna be a waste and pretty soon you won't have no roof.
Be homeless again, wasted cats, and feeling a bit aloof.
For you know it you'll be eatin' saltines and sipping cheap suds, clueless,
Blues-less songs sung in dark halls and cries from her loose lips
Take a few more sips, not enough tips in the jar to make it very far, but what the hell, don't mind the smell, so show don't tell, and it'll all be swell (for Cousin Mel).
Musings
July 2006
Musings Alternately There, and NOT!
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
My mood shifted from bright to a quickly graying blah,
Slipping into a murky brown puddle, thick as soup.
"Whoops" is what came to mind, thinking she musta been seeing red as the evening waned,
And the orange slip of the sun pulled up over her head
Curbside prophet sitting under the greenery on the corner winked at me as I made the final turn: "It'll be ok."
"Trust you instincts- pure and white." And he turned his back to me.
As he shifted, coulda swarn he had one blue eye, one green...pretty mean.
It stirred my past, whipped me into blended marble swirl of the deepest blues
I scratched my noggin, short cropped, red goin' salty, smirked to myself, splash of fiery yellow spilled over the roof as I walked in the door.
Welcomed by the sound of crimson nails, sharp and hard, scratching the hardwood floor.
When'd the dog paint his toes red?
In the hope of a raging hump with the small grey poodle just next door.
Cheeks pink and rosey with a little thought a lovin', he was, is...good for him, them.
"It's in the air, tonight," in love, in warm rosé places beneath the bright moon.
Funny how that balance comes so natural, 'tween the beige sands and bluegreen, white-capped, perfect surf when me 'n the sea see it the same.
When blood flows like river to ocean blue, the heart of all that is me and her both
Creating that synchronicity of pure crystal clear, void the rainbow, yellows to purples all.
Scooping a prism of color in hands that hold the planets like small green-glass marbles
Stirring it all up just right, like a rich-red gazpacho, made from scratch.
Dripping hot from cool, pink lips to stain his pale chin
Perfectly light and delicious, spot on in the sweltering heat of late July.
I could hardly wish for more, my soul, my yellow belly full and round
Not a worry in the world, in my hazel gaze, everything just perfecto, what I crave, not a thing.
What benevolent grey god dispatches so many shades from his deep set eyes?
The same that created the mint chocolate chip, lime green and yummy, balled up high in my bowl.
You can know a child's joy by the stains on his otherwise white t-shirt. His history revealed.
Dark brown, scabs on both knees, above the buckled shoes, below her salmon Sunday school dress,
Secrets she'd not reveal to even her black robed priest in prayer or shout
Lessons learned from scripture and scrapping, tumbled from her skyblue skateboard two weeks earlier,
Pain she'll pass on with a rising of another yellow day.
Musings Alternately There, and NOT!
By Jeff Ludlum & Scott Murphy
My mood shifted from bright to a quickly graying blah,
Slipping into a murky brown puddle, thick as soup.
"Whoops" is what came to mind, thinking she musta been seeing red as the evening waned,
And the orange slip of the sun pulled up over her head
Curbside prophet sitting under the greenery on the corner winked at me as I made the final turn: "It'll be ok."
"Trust you instincts- pure and white." And he turned his back to me.
As he shifted, coulda swarn he had one blue eye, one green...pretty mean.
It stirred my past, whipped me into blended marble swirl of the deepest blues
I scratched my noggin, short cropped, red goin' salty, smirked to myself, splash of fiery yellow spilled over the roof as I walked in the door.
Welcomed by the sound of crimson nails, sharp and hard, scratching the hardwood floor.
When'd the dog paint his toes red?
In the hope of a raging hump with the small grey poodle just next door.
Cheeks pink and rosey with a little thought a lovin', he was, is...good for him, them.
"It's in the air, tonight," in love, in warm rosé places beneath the bright moon.
Funny how that balance comes so natural, 'tween the beige sands and bluegreen, white-capped, perfect surf when me 'n the sea see it the same.
When blood flows like river to ocean blue, the heart of all that is me and her both
Creating that synchronicity of pure crystal clear, void the rainbow, yellows to purples all.
Scooping a prism of color in hands that hold the planets like small green-glass marbles
Stirring it all up just right, like a rich-red gazpacho, made from scratch.
Dripping hot from cool, pink lips to stain his pale chin
Perfectly light and delicious, spot on in the sweltering heat of late July.
I could hardly wish for more, my soul, my yellow belly full and round
Not a worry in the world, in my hazel gaze, everything just perfecto, what I crave, not a thing.
What benevolent grey god dispatches so many shades from his deep set eyes?
The same that created the mint chocolate chip, lime green and yummy, balled up high in my bowl.
You can know a child's joy by the stains on his otherwise white t-shirt. His history revealed.
Dark brown, scabs on both knees, above the buckled shoes, below her salmon Sunday school dress,
Secrets she'd not reveal to even her black robed priest in prayer or shout
Lessons learned from scripture and scrapping, tumbled from her skyblue skateboard two weeks earlier,
Pain she'll pass on with a rising of another yellow day.
The Riddle
15 July 2006
The Riddle
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
My hands reach out with clipped fingers, clutching wildly, grabbing nothing but self consciousness
The certainty I had only a moment ago slipped through my clumsy hands like a brooktrout not ready to be caught.
The primal hunter no more, no longer the with spear or wielding steel
Again and again I become prey, shivering and alone, lost in the woods I thought I knew well.
From wood to wind, soil to dust, shouts to shallow breath,
The granite become sandstone, its content uncertain.
But for me the digging goes on, the hope of unearthing the magic potion entombed for so long.
At my best I claw back the dirt, deeper to the cool dark moistness, knowing that this time “X" marks the spot.
Discovering nothing of the earth, but of the spot deeper in my own red belly
Hollow and aching, the warm and fuzzies of yesterday leaving me only a dim riddle to ponder.
Toppled towers, empires, and a prophet's desire to make me history's fool
"Puzzle me this", he chided with a smirk, sage become specter, my face slowly becomes sanguine with disbelief.
A crowd gathers to see this spectacle
Inside looking out, my skin begins to itch.
I scratch, cutting myself deep, hoping to bleed all that is wise and knowing
And the chuckles and hoots begin.
Self-dismemberment, a public stoning with not a rock
Trait of trust, rock to dust, my confidence falls away and the din grows.
"Death!"
Cowering, shuddering, bloody and bruised, she glimpses up at me, her pained eyes asking "Why?"
This was not fate, this was self-inflicted- an unconscious, numbed, deaf and dumbed decision to carry this slab of stone on my back so long
It was suppose to get lighter with time, this fucking ache was fabled to only last a while.
If only I could read between the lines, solve this riddle or sneak out undercover of a starless sky
The ancient text says that we all face these same mountains that rise up before me, that we only need pause and center to move them.
Not with plow or plunder, not with might or muster
But pen to paper, lyric to tune, love to life can we best fumble along through the darkness, smiling.
The patter of my bare feet as I pick up the pace again, and internal rhythm.
Patience as my tempo evens out, my soles' calluses protect me from pebble and thorn, and I'm no longer torn.
I breathe
Finding certainty and purpose again, with me all along.
The Riddle
By Scott Murphy and Jeff Ludlum
My hands reach out with clipped fingers, clutching wildly, grabbing nothing but self consciousness
The certainty I had only a moment ago slipped through my clumsy hands like a brooktrout not ready to be caught.
The primal hunter no more, no longer the with spear or wielding steel
Again and again I become prey, shivering and alone, lost in the woods I thought I knew well.
From wood to wind, soil to dust, shouts to shallow breath,
The granite become sandstone, its content uncertain.
But for me the digging goes on, the hope of unearthing the magic potion entombed for so long.
At my best I claw back the dirt, deeper to the cool dark moistness, knowing that this time “X" marks the spot.
Discovering nothing of the earth, but of the spot deeper in my own red belly
Hollow and aching, the warm and fuzzies of yesterday leaving me only a dim riddle to ponder.
Toppled towers, empires, and a prophet's desire to make me history's fool
"Puzzle me this", he chided with a smirk, sage become specter, my face slowly becomes sanguine with disbelief.
A crowd gathers to see this spectacle
Inside looking out, my skin begins to itch.
I scratch, cutting myself deep, hoping to bleed all that is wise and knowing
And the chuckles and hoots begin.
Self-dismemberment, a public stoning with not a rock
Trait of trust, rock to dust, my confidence falls away and the din grows.
"Death!"
Cowering, shuddering, bloody and bruised, she glimpses up at me, her pained eyes asking "Why?"
This was not fate, this was self-inflicted- an unconscious, numbed, deaf and dumbed decision to carry this slab of stone on my back so long
It was suppose to get lighter with time, this fucking ache was fabled to only last a while.
If only I could read between the lines, solve this riddle or sneak out undercover of a starless sky
The ancient text says that we all face these same mountains that rise up before me, that we only need pause and center to move them.
Not with plow or plunder, not with might or muster
But pen to paper, lyric to tune, love to life can we best fumble along through the darkness, smiling.
The patter of my bare feet as I pick up the pace again, and internal rhythm.
Patience as my tempo evens out, my soles' calluses protect me from pebble and thorn, and I'm no longer torn.
I breathe
Finding certainty and purpose again, with me all along.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
