Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

I am a child.
Barely able to reach the countertops.
The chariot has ventured across the sky,
and a blanket of darkness has rested upon the land.
I fancy silhouettes for beings,
the proverbial prisoner in the cave,
sleep no escape,
for my dreams are surreal horrors.

My mother kneels over my bed,
lowering herself to me.
I lie under the sheets,
my mouth stitched shut,
silent dread
of the nightmares I fear will come.
She asks me if I want to learn a prayer.
I say yes.
And she tells me to repeat.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
And God bless...

and she looks at me and asks,
"Who do you want to bless?"
And explains to me
that I'm wishing well for others,
And guides me through it--
as a good mother does,
teaching me to pray for family and friends,
and others in the world,
who are in need.

And we say amen.
I sit watching the shadows,
move across a bookshelf.
One I could not even yet reach,
that still sits in my room today,
crafted by my father's hands,
gifted to me,
holding now what has become dear to me.

The Mountain

"I came down from the mountain too fast," she said,
"forgot to use my telescope."
A mountain from a pop-up book,
stood giant and browned,
and she quickly scaled down it.
So I sat on a couch,
with her and another.
And the competition I under no circumstances desired,
for I disdained its dishonor,
played out in my dreams anyway.
Though I was given second chance,
it tasted of indecision.
And as I leaned upon her,
I awoke,
and the dream became a broken reed,
for in the waking hours-
it pierced my shoulder.

Walk On Boy

If the Temple is in the heart,
then the Pitt is the stomach.
And the incineration that removes it,
the inferno in the lungs.
A refrain plays through the willows-
a string of lines floatin' higher,
to cut the glow of a Georgian Crescent,
melodies and moons to soothe.
Walk on boy, walk on down the road.
And the sound of hammer strikin' steel,
rings out onto the lake
waves intertwine
with those of some creature movin' about
in the chaotic waters.

Anybody ask, it's the willows I shoot shit with.
As long as I've been comin' to 'em,
they're always there to weep with me.
And as high as I stand,
they always standin' taller.
Walk on boy, walk on down the road.
I just sit a spell in a spell
listenin' to my Paw talk about the world
and the men that turn against one another
Ain't nobody in this whole wide world,
gonna' help you carry your load.
The world is full of pretenders and liars,
slanderers and flakes, and a whole bunch,
of nobodies puffed up with hot air.
I exhale 'em like this smoke.
And take another drag of life.
You can't find a person,
whose bond is their word anymore.
Walk on boy.

I wish there was somethin' I could do,
to bring you back.
And if you're lookin' for a fighter,
I ain't gonna' fight another man.
But if you suddenly found honesty,
I got no way of knowin'
Cause your mind changes so often,
and your words are twisted and knotted,
and I can't unwind it anymore to find truth.
Feelin' pretty beat.
And I can't imagine God,
usin' somebody to teach someone else a lesson.
Ain't no good in wreckin' someone's life,
to help another.
Ain't no appreciation to be had,
if the first is left in shambles.
So I pack up, wander on down,
driftin' till death do me part.
But my feet are so damn tired Lord,
and I'm sick of this wandering.
I want a home.
Walk on boy, walk on down the road.

Whiskey Dreams

absorption too slow
I pick up the room
and empty it into myself
and the excess dribbles onto stubble
attempt to wipe it ends with--
a smear of salt and poison,
a raging sea of firewater
threatens to drown me
help me Lord, for I cannot quell it
and at last I sink

scent of cherry blossoms
exotic but familiar
like a lost homeland,
the sea is calmed at last
a soft touch and tone,
a nickname from my childhood,
whispered, both sweet and drawn out,
like honey.

the albatross' cry awakens me
A workshop awaits,
disheveled and hollowed out
now I wander in the land of nod
and a nightmare sets in.
The risen sun is here,
but I missed Lady Dawn.
I phase out
A West African asks us to write on our names.
Not sure why I'm here.

My name is short. It comes from a Poet's surname. It is said quickly, haphazardly, often with a smile. But what is in a name? The essence is not. Once my name was spoken softly, drawn out as a ribbon in the air, and I could see it wrap around me, pulling me to its speaker. But now it is silent. If it is spoke at all it is quick and violent like the sword, spoken through gnashing teeth and furrowed brows. It is spit out onto the ground and stamped upon. My name means black (from blsec). It is like a gangrene of rotting flesh in need of amputation. It is the midnight hour when there is no dawn nor sleep to be had. My name is Blake

ignore a room of people
for six hours
is quite the feat
sketched a woman I found instead
sitting on her own legs
looking aside
one arm resting on leg
the other, the ground
but her torso is missing

a core gone amiss
without heart nor stomach
and I imagine if it was there
that I might smell cherry blossoms again.
my own on fire, knotted and aching
but the outside cool as a cucumber
a smile or laugh every so often,
does the job
so nobody bothers me.
I'm jealous of the woman
for without my core,
maybe I'd forget
these whiskey dreams

Checkmate

Tire of game.
The hand-carved piece,
by start runs at double speed.
I am not a toy Lord.
Is my heart the bishop?
My darting diagonally,
only to return to the start.
Does not the bishop reside by the queen?
But now another piece resides there,
and I am no longer welcome to my home.
So I sit in limbo,
centerboard is no man's land,
a purgatory of dread and fear.
I suppose I'll paint the roses red.
And wait.

Why am I used this way?
Should I assist a pawn in recruitment?
A new member joins the ranks.
And though they rejoice,
am I not hollowed out the more?
Should my past haunt me forever?
Is there no redemption?
No forgiveness?
No reconciliation?
What is one without the others?

I complain as if I deserve something.
So I'll harness the yoke to myself,
for it is lighter,
than what was before.
And keep trudging.
Though we both know,
there is another burden,
which I will always bear,
till you see it fit to fix.

A pawn or a rook, seem easier.
That I could man up on.
But this use you get out of bishop,
it pains me so.
So if you insist,
I'll continue,
though I cannot alone.
I have need to return home,
should you allow me.

Frustration

I find my conscience
exasperated by pretty words
pushing forth preconceived notions
vehemently like a truckload of shit.
Rhetoric but a poor persuasion
of an assumption we do not share,
from an ethic founded in feelings.
I think the lot absurd.
So my theology turns toward the sea.

The assumption capsizes upon itself.
Weak stilts standing in a sea of logic,
crushing forth upon its foundations.
And a poor drunken sailor,
with whiskey and spit in his beard,
cries into the gale,
"We will live in the tension!"
as the pier collapses upon his body.

Mouthfuls of salt and foam and poor reasoning,
fill in the lungs of a drowning man,
gargling about eloquently like a fool,
as if articulation builds for mighty foundations.
If the pier reach to the vault itself,
and run the length of the surf and around Oceanus,
but cannot stand at the first break of waves--
well.

The darkness swallows the man,
as he swallows the waters,
But his mind regurgitates memory--
of the day the pier was built.
The painter's harlequin costume and demeanor,
the engineer's instruments and blueprints.
Alas, we confused their roles!
But the painter's engineering was quite pretty.
And the engineer's painting was methodical.
So now we drown.

The Deep - Auld Lang Syne

There's a shadow upon the deep
and a face gazing up at night
a beast without photon
primordial wrath wrapped up tight
a muzzle forced around its temper
like a bit in the mule's mouth
fight squelched to wisp and whimper.
A tempestuous sea, laid to rest,
the mythic tumult, put into a bowl-
one from which I drink mockingly at meal time,
no power left but a harnessed vitality.
but saving such sacred sangre,
we drink from chalice.

Depths imprisoned in the beyond
withheld until the wayward wicked
dig their own pitted graves.
The fate of the Sinner's Shovel
is to face the Deep.
Every person meets their works' end.
The man digging the pit,
finds it is his own grave.
But the man who listens and hears,
taking what is given with thanksgiving,
sees his works are folly.

A time will come when all scream
"Let loose the vault!"
and rain down floods of justice.
By the same water
some obtain life,
others death--
for it rains on the just and unjust alike.
But not all are affected the same.
And the terror of the seas,
hide tanned, toothless, without blood nor life,
nor reality,
is without power to regulate them.

#Switch.it_up_kid (music, memory);

Beer and memories taste like
a mouthful of blood and knuckles--
both sweet an rancid like
decomposing leftovers--
the rush to finish the dead like
a hasty but heart-felt eulogy--
sounding as a broken bell like
a town which once thrived--
only citizens wander as phantoms like
a poorly written history book--
devoid of chronologic or conclusion like
my mind's grasp of the past.

Edit.doc(1.1.11), gut;

But first...
I've got all this nonsense ringing in my ears.
If not in reality, at least in my mind,
and that's enough to trouble up the waters.
Auld Lang Syne.
To be remembered or forgotten?
I don't know.