The Anarchist

The anarchist painted red and black

Across the walls of my mind.

She was ravenous, disgruntled,

Disheveled

And Lost.

A black t-shirt fitted to her waist and hips

With words in white scrawled across

Her heaving chest: "Let us Rise"

Her point was evident to me,

Tonight or any night, and she

Once again began hacking around

About our government, all the lost

Places we could be determining our

Own lives, as the black barre slid from her

Chestnut hair to the floor.

The Indignity.

I met her on a cold Sunday afternoon

Sitting in a coffee shop, wishing they would

Change the music as I watched an artist

Recreate the galaxy in a corner.

I had just laid down my book,

Its red cover glaring up at me

As though scrutinizing my existence-

Or apathy. Sometimes red books make

You think the world is ending-

An idea or possible fact that few are willing

To acknowledge.

She walked up, pointing accusingly at my book

As words tumbled from her mouth about

Lost government, and her mother's corner cabinet.

It was apparently filled with red-covered books,

Hundreds of pages consumed by her malleable mind.

She was looking for answers, she was demanding

To know why they had been written.

I blinked at her blankly, unsure of how to

React to her stream of personal experience.

TBC.

Because We Know No Other

We try our hands at

Different frequencies-

Paling pitches and

Stirring stagnant air,

If only to add significance

To its existence.

We take night walks in

Different spaces-

Pacing perpetually and

Sustaining strides on pavement,

If only to breath cold air

Life into lungs.

We watch the sky from

Different angles-

Proportioning preferences and

Succinct Seductions in blue,

If only to view incessant

Starlit existences.

Endurance coincides with creation.

Fantasies on a winter's evening

In a town far too warm to

Be marked as December;

No footsteps in snow, or

Breath clouds in wind that

Whips across faces, through layers,

Into jackets and bones-

A prophesy foretold the reservation,

Written in your name.

It was spoken, called,

Repeated and then shouted-

No Escape.

Sometimes turning back,

Turning forward, disappearing-

Or letting it all run down the

Back of our minds, sliding from

Consciousness and body,

Transgressions drip away and

Leave us cleansed.

Something Sparkly

We are always missing

Some of the beauty we

Expected, or Did not expect

To find beneath the shadow of

Eyes, barrier of body and

Separation of mind; I once

Imagined that I drowned and

My body rested in the

Bottom. of. a. lake.

And the water became enchanted-

People flocked to the coastline,

Peered into the depths and found

Another world, third Utopian wonder uncovered

And discovered in individual solace,

Slowly revealed in flowing ripples.

I jest, if only in mild alternates to

reality. We all have, unable to speak truth for fear

That we might face it.

Sometimes silence rings better

Without the disruption of noise.

The rhythm taps out like solid sound-posts,

Or rain on a tin roof in the country.

We unintentionally draw

Maps in our minds of where

We'd like to go.

Writing how I can't forget you,

and your words will ring in my mind

whether it was last night or last week or last year;

You hold steady across fluid consciousness,

Inescapable- I pretend to erase you

And re-write time.