The Break in the Storm.

Ivy has crowned gated castles, in the years I’ve been away. Without any rhyme or reason of worth, Aside from career crowding my plate. For in doloric verity, Legality not poetry has been my aspired practice, at least as of late. This absence shall surely abate with occasional balladry and rune. But not in frequency to be seen in the days approaching soon. For in mere literary flourishes, was never where my heart fully laid; But in pastures more graphic across a five-paneled page. A project long simmering has now come to the front burner. As I build a world lush, airy, and hopefully a page turner. It’s all hush for the moment as I plot and scheme. Stitching together a crew with bonds still unseen. Once scripts are drafted, the artists procured, and the project off-ground, unveilings shall arrive abound. And then perhaps, new horizons will be found. © C.J. Lightbourn 2018

destiny so confounded sloth in astounding glory garbed in garbled stories                               tales woven by others                               tangled as cloth about                               limbs cloven or misshapen stumbling about groves beholden by antiquity or bewildered astonishment                               heart belies admonishment                               truth burnishes bright                               smoldering bitter sacrament offers to goddesses of silvery ambrosia in trade for grandeur                               and dreamy ataraxia © C.J. Lightbourn 2017

My descent is perilous. Pained effervescence reigning in lingering omens under skies– So umber. Offering little incentive. Riddled electric plumes; Subsumed eccentric in patterns rarely striking. Raging lanterns less than woolpack wisps whispering whys into the widening gyre. Whisked by currents in directions sired by polarities inconsistent. System incoherent and drinking from brimming glasses of Malbec & chaos. Higher proof than– Some measly iota of reality nagging for force. It’s a puzzle. A nefarious one, of course. Its source? Nascent and tipsy. Brewed in minds fingering at the fringe. Fumbling at sighs on the wind. Stout and lumbering in sin. Lips so crooked as brooks; Babbling about virtues of straight lines unseen between– Now and the Ever Could. Anything and All That Should. The drop and the Storm. A tapestry glorious formed from naught and nether. Warp and weft; Betwixt soul and desire; A tenuous tether. © C.J. Lightbourn 2016

Twilight marred by-- Mulberry and atmospheric beats. A cup of tea and a private dance party. Stars on a screen and stares at the ceiling. The space between feelings and a half-hearted yawn. Laziness fawns over waning hours cowering from the sun and simplicity. from deadlines and hypocrisy. from desolation in the outlines of the shadow in the corner formed from laundry undone. Midnight is the sum of anxiety and exhaustion; When all you want to do is inhale the bright scent of tomorrow even though you're steeped in the stink of today's steps encrusted in your socks. All thoughts flock to you. come home to roost. let fly and let loose. Migration as migrane from brain's back to settle in all sense. Naught matters though now as the lens of reality blurs capricious. For night owls however ferocious can only fight for so long before even they are called by circadia and evensong. © C.J. Lightbourn 2016

Relationships are weird science. Now I don’t mean like that movie,Weird Science, where you plug a bunch of stuff into a computer, an amazing hot woman pops into your life, and she makes all your dreams come true. I mean like actual science. When we are with that special someone, our hearts– I mean our neural receptors ‘grow accustomed to their sensory input patterns,’ As Data from the Enterprise might say. Endorphins tell us they matter. Repeated exchanges of fluids and flattery make us eager for them to stay. Even if it’s only a second longer. And that’s okay since time shifts in hue and dilates in their presence, until all eternity is coalesced into a kiss and a three-word sentence. At least that’s the desired result anyway. But to find that romantic Eureka? That takes such trial and error. Sometimes the journey is darkened trails and terror. Or errant tears and fury. Or simply rolled eyes and ‘maybe’s’ that are usually just ‘probably not’s’. Let’s take my plot, for example. I began like most basically do. With anyone harboring ample attraction. Sometimes sharing commonalities that run so deep or just mutual curiosity about one another’s anatomy. After four years of high school, I had my first four simple rules: Not ditzy. No hard drugs. Capable of authentic expressions of affection and makes time for more than just the occasional hug. College tends to bring it’s own unique discoveries: Like, I don’t want someone who fears male genitalia, or considers the bathroom plunger as sexual paraphernalia. I want someone who understands when only cuddling would be fine, and certaintly doesn’t think a threesome involves her canine. Yeah. My time abroad reminded me of the basics: Trusting and lusting for more than merely the next thrill. Even-tempered and not filled with violence or erratic rage. Values substance over style and can read more than a page before growing bored and lackadaisical. And of course, faithful. She should live in the secular and not the mystical. She’d want to travel but also build stability. Doesn’t assume my affections can be won through the purely physical. Now that said, she should also enjoy getting wild and crazy without sobbing fits of shame in the shower feeling unsavory. Her goals and plans reach beyond retail or groceries. We’d share the same general passions but explored in divergent fashions. Her value of equality should be most apparent and absolutely, ABSOLUTELY NO RACIST PARENTS. By the time I reached Manhattan in ‘014, I had seen a plethora of paramours and potentials. Enough that I knew what were essentials in my list of criteria. Somehwere in the range of GODDAMN ALL OF IT. So with my laptop trusty, I plugged what I needed into OKC and within a day or three, my now girlfriend asked me out for coffee. After all such thorough frustration and errors, it’s no surprise that the resulting counter is so talented, beauitful, and clever. She gives me focus and wonder. Such compassion and laughter that now all my dreams are coming true. Huh, what a coincidence! I guess sometimes it IS just like Weird Science. Who knew? © C.J. Lightbourn 2016

I am overboard. Adrift and alone. Every effort-- to atone with the past, to fight the tide of inadequacy, to keep afloat in spite of complexity, diffuses empty into naught but flails. Dreamt fervor for the future sinks faster than my heavy heart. Screams come murmured and mistranslated. My thoughts as strangulated as my throat; By destiny delegated by Poseidon and sirens singing of practicality. Songs of slain wishes swim in my ears, Accompanied only by fearful echos from the ocean of reality. My native horizons rise red, as all oxygen has fled from my wails. Lungs awash with plans and tales I no longer know. The corpse of my ego-- Bloated with remorse and regret. Caught in the currents of expectation. Bound to set destinations beyond any familiar shore or sea. To be someday beached with an asphyxiated identity. © C.J. Lightbourn 2016

My Dearest, Sixteen days it's been; Since I savored your silken skin. Since my essence suffused your senses. Since I screamed out to you from my windowsill. Some evenings I stand in my driveway; Desolate and inhaling the sky.                                    the silence.                                    the air. So frozen and still. Posed in contemplation of our pairing. Yearns and aches tumbling about       aimless in a heaving chest,                      struggling to keep out the rimy chill. Yet, I am halcyon and content with the stars. An apart we are but it is so calculated: Enumerated in our eventual collision.                     Rife with considerations of thereuntil. A predetermined collusion; To disperse the diaphanous frets collecting about our cardiac chambers— Spun betwixt the walls,                  strumming a cacophony against our will. That droning din of false dangers now drowned out by your pacific melody. A rhapsody revealing the shining certainty; That I am yours wherever you are                                be it Peru, Patagonia, or Brazil. © C.J. Lightbourn 2016

Your influence is a confluence of corruption and charm. The touch of your words and cobalt pen; Unavoidably amending the harm of my negligence. You are magic, murmurs, and mania. So by consequence, I am liable in your presence, to be irresponsible and irreverent of the dawn. Rambling without regard or phobia. Every other sentence smoldering and spawning asides irrelevant but heartfelt. Every other gaze awe inspired and struck between strings of stars and random tracks. A skipped beat only a finger stroke away. A way to allay the pain, in a heart which lacks, with just one more refrain. Just one more replay of gyroscopic hails from the chorus. Shush now. Let us forget what they told us, as hands and hips embrace abandon, in hours bewitched and emboldened; By the next sip.      the next song.      the next secret spoken in silence: Of cardiac violence. Of caresses somewhat missed. Of a weight on a precipice. Threatening all avalanche. To be buried beneath memories, manuscripts, and sin? A demise, half-welcomed. Yet still unsure of how to begin. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

The world is cliché; Overdone and full of foreshadows long forgotten. Rife with plots plodding and conclusions unfinished. Populated by characters barely developed and speaking in dialogue with any clarity diminished. Mankind races along a scripted history; Unevenly paced. Laced with scant traces of inspiration. But mostly? Faced with morbid repetition. Death and Love our ever recurring themes. Romanticized in every single scene. (Embedded even in the italicized asides and stage directions.) For immortality and self-content are unattainable afflictions. Utterly unrelatable to the audience. The future is of no consequence when the curtain call is so far off. Indeed the front row critics scoff and claim that this is the penultimate chapter with only doom to follow after. But in fact we have yet to reach intermission. Players and prophets locked in a war of attrition, Causing such confusion between setting the stage and striking the set. Every soul met: A protagonist with no motivation. An antagonist seeking salvation. An anti-hero born of a divine crucible. Lifelines blocked out and intertwined in such laughably tragic complexity, leaving even the luminous gods scratching their heads in the balcony. Eventually Dionysus will turn to Loki whispering, “Hey, wasn’t this supposed to be musical comedy?” © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

You Lost the Starlight in Your Eyes by Hammock

I am 33. An odd age to be. Divisible only by primes. Whether I am in mine? Debatable. Regardless I am able and willing. Refilling the gaps left behind by a twenty-something scramble. A life reassembled with muster and risk. Checking constantly my list of career chores responsibly. Growing grayer every day. I am an adult now am I not? Is this not the point in the plot when I meet the girl and my life unfurls in montage? Not that I'm in a rush to get to 44; Pulling out the garage and gate. My wife calling saying she may be late to some suburban function. Perhaps a barbeque luncheon? Granted I have the girl. But the rest? No matter that's a different junction. The Now: Hussle and foundation. Muscle and dedication. It's a puzzle. A ramble as I linger between the first act and the middle. Celebrating; Being sired on the cusp betwixt Ganymede and a carp. While I have conquered less than expected, I am more than I hoped for. More than coped with my fiascos and flops; Unceasing and steady. I feel ready for another 12 months of New Game+. Equipped to do what one must to face the year of thirty-three. However odd it may be. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

She was my blacktop heroine. Loyal and feisty for a first grader with a heart gargantuan. From a recess bully, she saved a best friend. Yet a year later? Disappeared and distant. (Mostly the latter.) Lost to more mature matters. Time shredding memory to tatters. Til’ I was twelve and out she called. A passing greeting in the hall. A double take was all I needed. Plus a tackle with a hug repeated. Times with her; Precious and infrequent. For she was no longer absent. She was there. Just so beautiful and there. With holes in her jeans and blonde in her hair. I was growing to care; In an awkward way. Of course I'd never really say, until we were once again in separate schools. A fool I was; Dialing her number from the phonebook. Requesting some childish connection. Not looking before professing affection. She gave a yes to something impractical and sweet. But as time went on I never followed up. I was swallowed up by studies and life. She was just a yes with no call or attempt to meet. A year blundered past before I dated another with her name. Also blond and pale and cute but… Not the same. No flame. No spirit. My heart clearly wasn’t in it. So I quit. Years would pass by in adulthood. She'd pop back in my life for a time. Always pushed away by words ill conceived when I'd try to recapture the 'Yes' that once came too early. Because I was still a fool. Time claws forward and memories fall to tatters. Our lives became swept up in the mad maelstrom of more mature matters. Separate, bumbling, and happy. And yet... Occasionally, I am reminiscent and sappy. Occasionally, I miss my friend. My blacktop heroine. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

She beckoned behind (beneath) the bookcase. She bid: "Be with me but only a moment for do we not have til’ the end of time?” She begged; For an experimental embrace. From my lips just a taste. I obliged artlessly, abound in naiveté before we each were pulled away. That minute stands silent and secret amongst those stacks. A premature session; Steeped in innocence and not repeated for so very long. Not that’s wrong of course. Oh she was right of course. Since she was four and I but five. And we— We still had til’ the end of time. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

Promise. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

Subtext is dead. So says our greetings; By her usually led. Followed by my smile; Unfleeting and pure. With even a connection unsure she cures all self-crafted concerns. Our business? Exchange in entendres; A currency adorable and doubly, With an obverse opining our yearns. Obviously. Sentences smoldering sarcastically. Bright burning and binding tight to statements of tender fidelity. Stated so matter-of-factually with endearing verity. With trepidacious temerity, we map the future. Nurturing some answer               some gesture to serve as resistance.                                    to tear out and cry                       against this damnable distance.                                    to build a haven; Shared and secure. God, her voice is a lure; Angling down— Into blinding depths I delve. From whence my heart dare not resurface. For my senses repurpose themselves. Adjusting to pressures of passion and an absence of oxygen. Our phrases entwine in the dark. Huddling devoted as our hearts. Treasured time and this wilding world have long since now faded from the stark into irrelevance and surreality. This moment with her is all I need. For it as our love         as our words endures; Unfleeting and pure. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

Saudade (Portuguese) – a profound nostalgic longing for a person or a place. My world is melancholy. My spaces are suffused by your essence. Your traces whisper in ardent refusal of your absence. My sheets hint slyly at your fragrance; Fragile and wispy. Like your face... An imprint upon my memory; An insistence supernatural. As certain as gravity. And yet actually? Wistful and waning in periphery. Will you ever return to me? Answers linger in stale air and silence. A ‘perhaps’ and a ‘someday’ scattered amongst the palpable Never. An intractable alliance to form a ‘However…’ Not so clever though. I’ve been waiting forever so my heart no longer hopes for a way to cope with this empty room. Consumed by footsteps echoed from when you tiptoed away in hours faded, only to slip back soft and nestle on my shoulder. Why must you waver in dreamy distance forever? Is your existence merely a crippling regret from which I must be severed? A grasp which must be cleaved to reach some semblance of relief? You are so far-flung and away. Dancing on the shores of disbelief. I am blinded by this ache so heavy, for the horizon has hidden you hopelessly. Please…              please… Just return to me. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015

I wade through a world of blinding white and icy spite. A spark in the dark; Offering a chance to be chosen for a cost so little. Tempting since I am so frozen and cynical in the middle. Ego tired and sorts of brittle. From little finger to ankle-- Rankled by goodbyes sorely bidden. By aches of old flames frostbitten. Stumbling about with a soul lost in swiped clamor. in digitized glamours. Wincing through over-idealized autobiographies with abstract grammar. Winding up for another hello; Destined to be naught more than a farewell premature. That's for sure. A greeting ejaculated and spilled                across a screen. A drop of myself unfulfilled.                       and unseen. Playing a game of numb ers                        as hands rub faster. Hoping to heat a heart against the rimy bluster of time and cold shoulders. Occasional flickers of awkward conversation of half-hearted attraction leave only unnerved shivers or lingering frustration. Applications are not some wise genie or wizard wielding magic and wonders. Else I'd be cold-blooded like some lizard. Since Tinder offers scant warmth in a blizzard. © C.J. Lightbourn 2015