April 26, 2011

  • i strike back
    at the words
    at this life
    at loosing it

    at taking up more time

    at the keyboard
    at the artist table

    with friends
    family
    the forgotten
    and the reclaimed

    i strike back
    because i still can

    still have a voice
    still have time
    still have something left to give

    before everything is taken from me
    and the only thing left

    is the idea
    is the heart
    is the head

    is the memory

    of me
    you
    and what we’ve become

    only books
    only stories
    only this
    that was

    that could have been
    as all else fails
    gets pushed aside

    and rests easy on the notion
    that nothing is formidable

    not exchange rates
    not currency
    not love in the afterglow

    of nuclear proliferation’s
    failed nightmares
    that turn into daydreams

    cold beer left in the afternoon sun

    or heartache at the tender age of twelve
    or the explanation that everyone recieves
    when nothing else is expectable

    it’s not you
    it’s me

    it’s not us
    it’s them

    it’s not where we are
    but who we are

    as i choke down past memories

    to solutions
    to problems
    to ideas

    that never meet in the middle
    only push out on all sides

    and take on more water
    more flood damage
    more living in places

    no one should ever go

    and yet this is where i am
    current location
    blues low land

    no insurance provided
    no litigation
    no collateral damage
    no movement under the color of night

    just sadness
    just loss

    and the understanding
    that everything is eventual
    everything is
    as it was

    even in the eye of the storm
    even when things are calm
    and the only thought process that comes to the surface

    that re-imagines itself

    is the failure of rebirth
    or the knowledge that there is nothing worth loosing
    that could ever put a price

    on love
    on love’s memory
    or the exceptable rhetoric

    that makes haste

    out of our lives
    out of our dignity
    out of our time

    until all that’s left

    are crosses
    loneliness
    and the perpetual silence
    that echoes blame
    down a dark hallway

    under shadow’s weight
    and loss’s bleeding heart.

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