#warriorpoet

I’ve seen this same sun rise, Thousands of times, The same horizon, The same story, The similarity, the sundering -

Come empty

And

After I’ve seen that same sun set, Thousands of times, I settle in beds, eventually broken, Into dreams, eventually torn, Onto long walks, going nowhere -

In longing for that same sun

To

Rise

Again,

No matter how dark the skies arrive to greet.

Dreams were -

something sweet but just outta reach, or a song, one line, the “one,” that “one,” leading the memories and later bleeding.

Dreams are -

remnant of a broken mirror, spilled milk, or words long gone, akin to the “clickety-clack,” coming and going of a train, supposed to stop.

Dreams will ‘ever be -

only to pass you by and offerings of  the slightest dust, hints to where you should have been come ‘morrow; and locked, the doors to places, moments, “once were.”

So gently spoke, the shore next woken upon.

I hope mosquitoes Enjoy tequila; I’ve had A bit to swim in.

My heart yearned for -       The sands of the Gobi between my toes,       The waves, Superior, to bludgeon my back,            And       The lady in white, shared morning tea       After the blossom of Guangzhou neon.

In their stead,       My daughter’s cry pierces the night,       Hundreds of papers remain to be graded,            And       Still the world’s right, albeit,       Lacking one wanderer or two.

Tomorrow’s today and Today’s a game, whilst she continues the Skirmish, playing fields, the only veteran, Bent on a tear I’d never offer. I try to lick wounds, But find an even greater solace In ignorance;

So a day’s –

Having no god, though I’d still pray and I’d pray And I’d pray for the man on the other End of her newer gaze, The end at her end still aimed at me, A demise born genie’s wish; But I couldn’t, wouldn’t and sweltered.

Another day’s –

Napkins labeled revenge and a Tablecloth tattered perdition; She’d win, as we both knew she would When I’d only await the ruffled sheets of One, come morning, and by that, by then, By only and lack of, “tether,” would I Know – I’d emerge.

Yesterday, once more or never before –

As the skies still have a possibility for clear And yesterday’s tribulation would be just that – For apathy, for drink, for what I’d always known, For tomorrow. And I’d emerge, she’d erupt, I’d laugh and finally deserve the rest sought so long.

I find comfort under neon lights, These synthetic stars That sometimes scare - familiar faces In the places tickled “prior;” Perches where crickets chirp, Rocks rub, and a wind gently Taps time atop tongue. But I’m so very far from, “then,” As I’d rather bathe and bask In this intrinsic drink of an Electricity overhead, “now.”

“Tonight,” Flashes, disappears, and reappears; Much like the faces Of those, both near, far And a couple, now dead, Like fireflies beside meandering creeks; Every present, if only for seconds, Nearly dust, one moment later (Just beyond the ash).

So gathered were the rest, the alive, Packed and cramped, like canned sardines With an “X” atop eye, processed – Into bars, brothels, dens And later homes that remain dodged, Dented and at best, temporary.

It’s in this vision granted anthropology, that I contemplate and quell, “belonging” – I am, “them,” and they are “Me,” and I hate this consciousness, But surprisingly, still, and to love others.

I love them when they’re near And after seconds, soon fear away, When they push and make attempts At, “too close,” my solution – An epiphany’s conundrum, I chase, maybe catch, “it,” If only for a moment, this silence, But I’ll never be satisfied.

When the neon continues a creep Of sorts, as an, “I told you so,” Glows and grows throughout the night. This ether in avoidance of sun As I wander from street to street, And from drink to drink, A retreat parallel your quiet kind of alive, All in becoming a part of something, An escape, or imagined exit, all the same.

And when we reach that point Under a neon so far from the crickets, I’ll ask for your hand, simply, your, Hand, whilst stomaching heartthrobs Before this newest morning, A sleep of sorts sought, soon occurring, As the grace of neon’s switched, “Good-bye,” And god’s soon snuffed from the sky.