The red sky alights, the menacing plan of the blazing sun visualized, the new moon is on its way but it may be too late. Communication is down, the fragile fifth chakra struggling, life in inner thoughts and non verbalized motives, a coexisting of complexity. All while the earth burns. The fire in the sky feels like the fire in the room, filling the house with smoke. Thoughts about the unimaginable, the un-entertain-able, buried back from whence they came, but creeping back up, how am I gonna tell this story later. Call it a funk, an overcompensation for being locked in a house for half the year, then summer hit. Are sadness and summer synonyms, or does it just feel so out of place every year when the weather is like this. But this is different, this is power grids over taxed, this is dehydration, this is two shower minimum, this is no plans between two and six, this is death, so maybe death did something. Maybe August is properly named, just in a different way. Write in shorthand to capture full thoughts but never really embody them, I’m playing catch up with thought patterns. The glow of doom is steadily rising. My past once reflected in a red hue. Where’s the next journey, because every ordinary day seems to be creating distance. Have I ever ruled my life quite like this. Insulated in notebooks and computer screens in night mode permanently. This is what no one warned me about. Is this what friends abandoned me for, so in my personal hour of reckoning I would stand alone, or was that my glorified demise all along, there’s not much reassurance either way. I’m running out of ink, pages, and words, two of those things can be easily solved. Rested and restored never felt so volatile. They say the heat wave is dying down, but I’m only beginning in my inferno, plus they’re typically lying, hopeful optimism, something my morning is lacking. Fragility is understated. My mind unraveled on the page, but it’s all in the name of art, not self expression. What would it take for me to be honest, maybe when the truth isn’t so hard to grasp. Blue sounds about right, but they say I need even more of it, charge head-on towards the source. Immersion therapy has done wonders for my isolation in the past. What to do with this information, that’s always the question after an answer, but I’m asking it a little preemptively. It’s really only going downhill from here, but at least I’m going for it full gusto. A dull orange still lingers, the sky is the color of healing, the aura and the essence. In the middle of the week we broke stride.
/G/R/E/Y/
I am grey, a color and a shade, giving flashes of light but also of darkness as you dive deeper into my abyss. I am neutral, the in between, the balance, having no strong pull towards sun or shadow. I am gray, having two names, the light and dark side of the moon, a distant observer of earth. I match the light source around me, looking somber in the presence of vibrant colors but giving a hint of hope in utter blackness. I have many faces, some set in stone. I am a sign of a storm, a warning signal of smoke, the color of rocks and boulders, mountain ranges chiseled by the winds of time. I am brain matter, cerebral and self control. Iron and steel, the armor and the weapon. I beckon the thought of wisdom, contemplation and old age, the essence of my soul since birth. I am grey, a color and a shade.
By Sea or By Land. By Luck or By Plan
A fraud or fluent
Gifted or just guilty
Creator or condemned
I should pray prayers more often
Save regret for when I’m in my coffin
But that doesn’t lighten this load
*A witty line about life being some type of road*
I’m just trying to be fucking funny
Looking for connection but it keeps running
It’s the perspective of a poet or just a poor problem
Write reality into existence
Obstacles become obsolete
Repetitive positivity
I’ll be good in another beat
Retain, retract, respond and resonate
I’m striving to make it in a different state
Staring up at sliding glass doors
It’s busy in my new neighborhood
Things will work out, what I wish will come about
I want to believe it in the morning
With my head and heart
There’s gotta be so many better stories than my own
but I’m hung up – heading home
I Guess This Is Supposed To Be A Title Of Some Kind
~ AB
S-L-T
The Writer Can’t Write Right Now
Palm tree travels and train trips
Zigzag roads and elevation
2 to 3 weeks of existence
Fitting on my back & in my right hand
Back pocket poetry
Or something like that
In it for the long run
Or so I say something like that
Fleeting paths crossed constantly
My eyes find the floor far too often
I could write a Missed Connection post almost every day
When will I learn to take a chance
Because failure can be pretty sometimes
Or something like that
An Hour At Night
The Clouds come. Fog floats above the valleys and hangs low over the mountains. I’m awake again. Mind full of thoughts but realizing it’s not the time nor the place to think them. It’s a mystery to know when is. Lately I’ve been doing the most write worthy things and haven’t wrote one worthy thing. Now Three AM and I can’t stop the downpour. I thought it never rained in Southern California. I guess life has its seasons. Raindrops create a contemplative backdrop. Street streams set the stage for my restless refractions. Disrupting my sleep cycle, but sparking dreams.
Stumble (& Other Losing Balance Verbs)
My heartbeat reverberates through the mattress
Every day is a gift & I’ve got a basket of blessings collecting dust on my nightstand
Helping hand, reach down from heaven
Awoke in the night with no sane strategy
Empty ambitions
Calculated conscience
Completely incomplete – Drifting
So many feint steps
Phantom footprints
Hitting a heart cord hardcore
Struggle to find a place, a passion, a purpose
Do I want peace or an art piece
Are these poems just poor prayers
Currently caught in the current
Bury burdens in the back of my mind
Acting like I’m living life
Standing on the fault line
The fault is all mine
I’m trying to start over
When – Why – Now
Quivering questions creep on up
Gotta focus on something bigger than me
Wearing sweaters in cafe corners
Hitting every extra long red light to get there
What’s my potential
Got no credentials
Shouldn’t even be here
How many years
It takes time though
I’ve got time though
Better end on a high note
For The Life Of Me
Pass by rundown restaurants and resorts
Power lines cutting through an organic oasis
A single snow cap shows far up the side of the sky
Destructively dry
Calm climbs but taking gambles
Harmful hands cut by boulders
Writing phone notes that couldn’t fit in a phonebook
More meters for the millennial
Exiting and exploring when my broken being permits
My addictive aerial anesthetic
Fascinated by the failure for accurate articulation
Formations with the exquisite artistry of nature’s hands
No narration could encapsulate the endless miles of miracles
Salvation for an entity achieving existence
Vegetation in green plumes push through the desert dirt
Corrupted cactus or twisted tree
Surviving savagely
Says something about me
Chasing sunsets westwardly
– A.B // 2018
All Dressed Up & Hopefully Going Somewhere
Tripping through the travels
My pathways sprawl like branches of a river
Waterfalls and whitewater
Three tier transformation
Cell level laundering
Farmer’s market fresh
I’ve been on both sides of the furnace
Smell of smoke and coffee beans
Cruising coast-wardly
This is as far as I’ll be, away from the sea
The story arch is looking like a rocket’s flight plan
Long, grueling and aggressive
Ask not the astronaut
Turbulence a common occurrence
Being realistic of futuristic fate
Chasing education with hesitation
But don’t bury broken blueprints
Hands full of dirt and I’m writing
Has art destroyed me
– Fifteenth –
Compiling conscious contemplations. Shed sweaters like withered cocoons. The sunlight might make it through soon. Drastic dramatic disillusions. Leave the station without any movement. Translucently taken back by troubled timelines. The plot-lines perplex the principal producer. Wake-up wondering. Pass-out puzzled & pondering.
Andrew/Borger/Writes 