Poetry 33 - Granted Abilities

I did well
pretending to be a better version of me;
an MP3, sold with more exclusivity.

I am a cup of water,
posing as the sea.
To desert hikers -
there is no difference.

A picture book to the illiterate,
cryptic meaning -
empathy and eyes, the only tools to read it.
Sorry, Hellen Keller.

Granted abilities:
Eyes.
Empathy.
Gates to the same city,
separate cemeteries.

I did well jumping the fences I could not see.
It's like spotting symbolism the author didn't mean.

"All Men Are Created Equal" - A Small Reflection

Unfortunately, humans are animals, and “some animals are more equal than other animals.” While it’s nice to think we’re all the same and no one is better than the other, we are often either beneficiaries or victims of our circumstances. While this does not eliminate the ability to improve one’s state or establish oneself as equal in relation to whatever they wish (other people, specific people, gender, person of different faith), it does step upon that goal.

All humans are created equal when our genetic lottery is dismantled. It is not self-evident that we are all equal because of this, but it is self-evident that we all should be. Jefferson’s statement is a step forward with backward phrasing: “men,” as opposed to “people.” Jefferson is a beneficiary of his era, and his words a victim of it.

Poetry 32 - The Beach

Drag your wheels on sand,
the foundation of a world,
with windows shelled, pearled.

Beneath where you stand,
a city united under a cigarette butt flag.

The mayor, lavishly dressed,
ready to delve in.

I was your concrete boots,
when you went swimming last summer.

Poetry 31 - Photojournalistic Suitcase

You are the only baggage I need,
the only mementos I want to keep.

My suitcase,
carrying my heart on a flight
through white puffs of water
on the way to someplace better.

My suitcase,
waterproof, fireproof,
failsafe.

I’ll keep my secrets in your hair,
and they’ll ride its waves unnoticed,
and I’ll put my heart beside yours.
Strategically placed, made to –
harmlessly collide.

Then again, you’re better than a suitcase.

Lend me your memory,
I recall your eyes are HD,
with specs that make the best jealous.

You are a guru of focus,
total clarity
with unwritten captions.

Had you been a photojournalist,
you wouldn’t have needed to type a word.

Poetry 30 - Psychiatric Stigma

I.

Life in light beams projected on blank boards and empty screens. Instant replays of disappointments, fumbled opportunities and bad hits.

On blank boards and empty screens, the blood shows such a contrast on paper-white tile. It’s like dried and dripped polka dots of red wine on the dress of a depressed giant.

The blood shows such a contrast on paper-white tile. The outline of a better life, in chalk by black numbers on yellow plastic.

The outline of a better life, on display in old wall engravings. Asbestos incentives, get in the attic. Take a deep fiberglass breath, and fetch my skeletons.

II.

On display in old wall engravings, Stories of better times, yet the writers never lived them.

Stories of better times, I’ll get you a canvas, paint me a paradise. Make it worth a damn.

Freeze.

I’ll get you a canvas, just let me be your brush. The happiness is in the strokes. Happiness is ice.

Freeze.

Just let me be your brush, the sword or the dagger or the spear, stop the world right here.

The sword or the dagger or the spear, let the ink bleed through. Nothing will happen, but the pain will meet paper.

III.

Let the ink bleed through, “psychiatric stigma follows you,” onto the next page, “everywhere,” when you’re twenty-nine, “for the rest of your life,” onto your resume.

“Psychiatric stigma follows you,” At least we can mark your baggage. Dress up, grab a scarf. It’s a cold night, and you can’t stay cooped up inside.

At least we can mark your baggage, there is an awful lot. Get your keys, your little poem book, lucky charms, iPod full of happy songs.

There is an awful lot, you’re not coming back for a while. You’ll still be in the atmosphere, but never back down to Earth.

You’re not coming back for a while, you’re a dot in the sky, you’re wings with no body. Your words are of a flyspeck dialect.

IV.

You’re a dot in the sky, growing, as you aim to splatter back. You were so low, we just needed to get you a little high.

Growing, as you aim to splatter back. you will become a shirt with a stain. And that stain will keep you out, forever, like a tool of repulsion. You are the end of a magnet, being pressed to the wrong pole.

You will become a shirt with a stain, it will not yield to bleach nor soap nor scrubbing. You are bound to it. It is Jesus, and you are the cross.

It will not yield to bleach nor soap nor scrubbing, no, it does not make a difference. You will wear that clothing sewn to your body.

No, you are not allowed to be anything. The planets won’t align, you can’t expect the universe to be that kind.

You are not allowed to be anything. You are not allowed to have a future if you have a past.

Reflections #2 - To Those Two Teachers

Thank you.

        You two people have been insanely influential in my life. You have taken me into your home. You have communicated with me, not just talked. You have both inspired me to take a career path that is, to say the least, stressful and noble. I don't see either of you very often anymore, for one reason or another. Usually, I'll make the plan to and be too worn out by the end of the day to see you two, but know every single time I don't drop by that I should have. I think of both of you a lot. You've been kind to me and you've communicated with me and I miss seeing you two everyday. I hope I'll see both of you soon.You both are always in that grey area between family and friend. I hope I can see you again and communicate with you as if I'd only been gone a second to use the restroom, or something along those lines.

-Chris

Poetry 29 - Love and Sleep

A breeze, a breeze, then humid heat.
The fan circulates our sweaty air,
and we dismiss the blanket in bed.
We do this every-so-often;
lay down, cover, uncover, repeat.

The darkness never dims her bright complexion
as she lays, enveloped in her peaceful sleep.

This is a new level of calm,
once unbeknownst to me.

A calm,
where matches and razors and empty stomachs
don’t plague the center of the storm which it is.

A calm,
where she finds involuntary serenity.

A calm,
where I can bear witness to not happiness nor pain,
rather true neutrality in an unbalanced soul.

This calm,
smells like the green on trees after rain,
and looks like the sky, mid-July,
controlled explosions, artificial rainbows and smoke.

Her skin is the feel of polished marble in mansions,
dedicated to the millionaires of tactile art.

I think I hear a faint singing in her chest;
it plays on a kind repeat, what a lovely beat.