Posts Tagged ‘selfhood’

The obstacle I
don’t see.
Don’t hear.
It don’t do anything.
The obstacle I
The obstacle I
joyfully, proudly.
It don’t care
It don’t feel.
Not the obstacle I.
It exists to pad
changing forces
of sweeping earthquakes
called decision.
The obstacle I
makes sure you
don’t drown in
the boat you built
to keep afloat
in yourself.
But it don’t float
by itself.
Figure that out.

A truth that is stranger than any lie
a stranger to any truth is the Obstacle I.

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Cold winter with a warm beverage
long drives in ice weather
long sighs, long days,
long sips through cool whip
the edges of which
stick to your fingers
obscuring the nail.
A quick lick
off with addictions
on with predictions
some stuck on the tips
of your hair.
You play the piano
as you point
around the room
and in the depth of
your stare
are 3 bouncing
balls of light
that burn as they heal.
Night time makes windows
into mirrors, and in them
I see you, through you,
and in you
I see me.

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Mosh Pit

Man is an impressionist movement
with clear signs
of their creator
on the tracks of there skin
every scar, stretch, and stroke
from hate and love
of self, of others;
from them.

Some for a reason
others by accident,
an untrained creator
a late night
falling asleep with
a cigarette in your mouth.
At a distance they look
right, but they’re blurry
when you are close enough
to touch. And the artist’s
eye is busy asking:
does that make it
less real
or more?

In a mass of other clearly
marked people
every man disappears,
in a sea of similar
strokes, giant fingers
gropping and shaking
the whole.
Some call it barbaric
or even pagan
but from such distances I wouldn’t
see any of them,
if I didn’t see all of them.

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I am the child of indecision
and a soap dispenser
hidden in the least likely place.
Cracked where it is nailed
to the wall in a dive bar
left to wash the faces
of all night drivers,
heavy lifters,
and starry lovers.

If I leave I am purposeless,
if I stay, I am used.
I get that from my mother.
From my father I get
contemplative barricades
the propensity to pace,
and the inability to let
some germ infested hand
touch my leprous one.
In the back of my throat
is the stinging taste
of soap from bad decisions
medicine to promote
remission, rather than clean
that cancerous mass
in the back of my throat.

The message on the stall
door is wrote:
“For a good time call”
and in the haze of a drunken mind
I might just call.
I might just let my
indecision fall
so as to allow myself
to go and to be used –
for something else.
I wash my hands
in a stained porcelain sink
leaving my DNA
to mix and slide
down a drain
clinging to the edge
of large soap bubbles
ready to pop.

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I have never felt a baby kick
I know only my mother tongue
I have never lost a loved one to tuberculosis
nor a nation to exile
nor my life to myself.

I have lost faith to philosophy
only to arrive at a new faith.
My generation has never been tyrannized
or oppressed – despite my contemporaries’ belief.
I don’t understand how a tree or stream
Is more eternal or beautiful than a woman’s body
though I know very well that a woman’s eye
loves a flower because she can see herself in it.

I lie to get honesty. I am silent because I wish
to echo. I think speech is a symbol, humans are images,
and humanity is a metaphor. I think people are foolish to fear
what they do not know – but I fear death.


I like the smell and feel of dirt,
old newspapers and books, basements and babies.
I read Plato like the Bible
and the Bible like a dialogue.
I talk to myself in mirrors.
Sometimes I lie. Usually I just make sounds
I don’t let anybody else hear.

I love women but don’t understand them.
Though I think if I did, I wouldn’t love them.
Why such graceful ghosts would ever attach themselves
to this nitty gritty world is beyond philosophy.
Why these pure patrons would bestow on envious nature
such honors when waterfalls and whistling winds
cross within them more perfectly is beyond this world.


I have written. Now I am empty.
Having removed myself and others.
Again to the trough of reality
with my sister and brothers –
A waterfall of shifting mirrors.
Fullness calls, emptiness cries.
I claw the nitty gritty to be near her –
I wield fables and lies.
She doesn’t mind my voodoo
she likes to smell and feel
babies and basements too –
She wields satin and steel.
I write, she cuts paper to the floor
creators and creations never more.

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