It is so easy to declaim, as if
from the pulpit of some
supposedly righteous manner of
(what is ultimately self-
serving) moral justification,
in an effort to solicit pity and
vindication from the ones who are
in a position to frame your deeds outside
the context of your heavily vetted account
of tribulation and perseverance.
funny that same cardboard comprising the soapbox upon which we profess the inevitability of our actions serves as the lattice-work partition of the subjunctive confessional
And actually, that may be
the only comprehensible solution
or method of self-
preservation available to you
amid the ever-present reminder
of your potential indiscretions.
often in place of entertaining even the vague notion of our complicity in the jewel heist of the palacious manor of the super-ego, we lobby the representatives of the various (and deeply divided) districts of the conscious
And how remarkably natural
it feels to bask in the comfort and
solidarity of even one person
joining in your crusade against
the holographic spectre of a past
that is frankly elusive and irrelevant!
Thanks to Aaron Goekler of http://translamateur.wordpress.com/
The man who can’t bear to remember (or forget) thinks proximally. It is the blistering glare of the sun that keeps his world clear of everything but his present, that chains the shadows to the corners and illumines a path that holds his daylight duration to a straight line of optionless pragmatism. Routine, and the memories are at bay, structure and the whole of his existence can be measured and wrought and whittled down to the necessary obligations of rent and food and allowed luxury.
But the night. The night is its own mystery.
The shadows, laden with voices and images, cease lurking and become a sea.
Big thanks to Evan Andree for the music. You can download this song and more at:
Copy and paste in your browser as the add links function in WP seems to be disabled at this time. Look out for his new EP coming out Nov. 20th!
Hold me, he thinks, because no one else (we) will, all else (we) busy raising fists and shouting–and he’s done. He’s tired, given up knowing, given up, knowing that each rush of anger, each wave of hate takes away. Takes away the wonder and the dreaming and the giving and most of all, the love. What reason for redemption, he mutters to himself, watching the burning inside them (us), their (our) shouts a din against his deafened ears. What reason to seek redemption when all they (we) want is to be right, to be considered right when in the end no one (not even we) wins. He’s held his life to that flame before, smelled the sweet char of his humanity’s sacrifice for cause after cause after cause, felt the fiery embrace of a union against a union against a union and so on because that’s all it ever was. Sides, and he recognizes that the earth is round, that sides taken and lines drawn are nothing more than words (tools, symbols, else) for the occupation of conflict, for an easy route out of the world they (we) had grown to fear. Blame placed, fear adopted, not their (our) problem when it’s so clearly due to someone else’s way of living, another’s untenability. They (we) all defending against straw monsters, toting their (our) effigies in indignant parades.
Hold me, says the signal off the mountain yet to be ascended. Hold me says the signal, undecoded.