Kinetic Envy

An energy so deeply seeded, 

so vigorous and cogent,

its origins remain unknown.

Forgive me Father for I have sinned.

Ceasing to demand restitution, 

I admit to willfully committing the greenest of your seven sins.

Hiding in the cavernous shadows, eliciting information largely off limits to mine eyes.

I took pleasure in your misgivings. 

Partnered by sharp, caustic anxieties, I recollect...

Every contrary thought.

Every loathsome word.

Never once pondering the weight of threats.

Never once recanting the relentless baggage of ultimatum.

The calcified water palpitates rhythmically from the 7 year old shower head.

I stand, guilty as charged.

Culpable of the caliginous offenses brought against me.

Nonetheless aware that these ill-willed deeds did not entirely come from a place so misty.

Misdeeds?

Unquestionably.

Rationalized on the grounds of a chapter so thick,

One burdened by ruthless definitions,

One compounded by hysterically profound alternative motives.

Pleadingly, I ask you to remember this one verity.

That to each yin is its respective yang.

Seemingly disjunct forces, interconnected and interdependent in the natural world, giving rise to one another in turn.

Slow, soft, insubstantial, feminine is yin.

Hard, fast, aggressive, masculine is yang. 

Gradually trading places, revealing the obscured and obscuring the revealed.

Kinetic envy.

So rampant, it bleeds.

For all this and then some, 

I owe apology.

The Coffee Break

Sitting cross legged, combing the crowds.

Against Sade's "King of Sorrow," a sea of moving bodies, jutting forward in insanity.

Sounds emanating from assorted lips all but silenced by my insulated ear buds. 

Tracing the elaborate floor pattern, my eyes trail to the end of what sits before me. 

A sea of stories. 

An unwritten novel of experiences.

Eyes battered, swollen and puffy.

A woman made victim by the years of her very animation. 

I wonder what led to the hollowness that emanates from the depths of her soul. 

Neighbouring this stranger, a handsome and aged duo. 

She, engulfed in a full-length splash of suede.

He, dressed with a look of intellectualism. 

Engaged in discussion, yet fantastically disengaged from one another. 

Years of weathered marriage made clear by the evidence of an outmoded band.

The white picket fence of their lives in need of clamant repair.

Across, a grey haired veteran. 

Talking rhythmically, yet only to himself. 

Shall I strap to him a label of insanity, or simply reserve judgement? 

Seconds later, clarity.

A gentleman simply discussing the deteriorating state of his stocks and bonds. 

Conversing with technology, a talking device nestled in his ear, invisible at this limited angle.

 

Interrupted, his server removes the used cup.

Green apron, polarized by rosacea-prone cheeks and awkward braces.

A teenager who hides beneath a rock of questions.

A set of which bet dollars upon the demise of her ugly duckling stage.

From my peripheral vision, a young man. 

Red hat, swagger.

A sense of virile and pronounced masculinity imprinted upon his face. 

Scarred by hardships, an exterior mapping and directing strangers where not to travel.

Soundtrack change.

Otis yearningly wading through the soul's notes.

Sitting still, privileged yet complacent, I witness the warm bonds, the empty solitude.

The human condition. 

Fascinating.

With a half empty cup of coffee, a book spine cracked and blistered, I wait for the mysteries of my own world to reveal themselves.

Tapping my left foot to James Brown's wails, I track, I pace...

Time.

Never fully understanding the weight of another's baggage, even after lengthy periods of observation.

I swell with emotion to the sounds of a heightening horn section. 

From the brutish words of Chapter three, I raise my bewildered eyes. 

Slow and steady.

Taken aback by the acrolith that stands before me.

A caramel hand, resting on the unstable chair.

The broad weight of his sculptured torso, free-standing in contrapposto, mimicking the famed Kritios Boy circa 480 B.C.

My mystery.

Fascinating.

Eyes of marked intention.

An invite, from me to you, to fill in the vacant seat at this two person table.

Kismet

The corridor.

Stretched out over countless measures of length.

Tireless bodies.

Frantically launching towards me, sweeping beyond him.

Amid the traffic of motion, at a distance, I notice his pause.

In a singular act, an ocular rendezvous.

In this, the meeting ground of kismet, 

Reactionary smiles beam extroverted sunshine.

Falling culprit to gravitational force, we move closer.

Finally, 

Confabulation.

Formal exchanges, loaded glances.

Psychological magnetism, corporeal contact. 

Arms tingling, you opt to rest your books on the protruding ledge.

Your approximations, spellbindingly enchanting.

Profound and complex, you launch into countless theories on the axes of marginalized oppression.

Cognizance divided in two,

I absorb your allocution, conjure up an intellectual response,

Synchronously pondering your bona fide allurement.

Internally screaming with excitement, 

Evading the proverbial timepiece.

Predetermined, fixed in the natural order of the macrocosm,

Our moment. 

Minutes later, or seconds sooner,

Stands the possibility of erasure.

Expunction of our brush with fate, 

Eradication of our chance tete-a-tete.

A tryst set in motion, 

A meeting of the minds.

I lean in closer, 

Eyes aflamed, ears ebullient,

Ignoring the sibilated reminder gnawing away at our time.

The Inheritance

I grow weary of the world you face.

A heart so forgiving, a soul entirely naive.

The mentality of innocence finds itself competing with a world so consumed by a named business.

One that torridly tears away childhood.

Primping our youth for adulthood in one quick sweep of events.

The intake of ceasefires, genocides, and natural disasters burns a pernicious hole so permanent.

I want you to put your trust in me.

I aim to coddle your screams, absorb a well of your tears.

Your endless questions set my existence in a state of unease.

My eyes, trimmed by wrinkles.

Marks declaring passed time.

Scars of horrors re-lived.

Your small windows remain untouched.

Skin unblemished by the swelling lacerations of life.

Encountering nothing of trepidation.

Still implacably puerile.

Custodially standing over you, I witness your eyes crack open.

Sang-froid, you stretch.

The poise of our future, featured in one meager and unenlightened body.

I want so much to crouch, to whisper to you our secrets.

To instruct you in the latitudinarian and magnanimous code that I choose to live by.

To wish upon you the foresight, the profundity, to classify baneful acts.

To light a fire, one burrowed deep within, capable of contesting those who defame your worldview.

Fighting the urge, I resist.

I will not take hostage or dragoon your innocence.

To do so would bludgeon a mind so pure.

An act so heinous, so entirely reserved for the evil minded of this world.

Instead, I crouch.

I stroke your tangled hair.

I meet your eyes.

I make the promise to protect you.

I reach for such an undersized hand, placing it within the guardianship of my own.

Lowering my head, I vow to hand over to you a world that I will be proud to relinquish.

One that you will inherit, 

One you inevitably revolutionize.

 

 

The Buried Critic

I heave apology.

I camouflage the prodigiousness of my personalized abstract.

In agonized affliction, I am keeled over, disfigured by your indignant covetousness.

Entertaining your critical projections, I sense the judgemental undertones.

The fraudulence in your compassion.

The spite in your congratulatory flattery.

Continually proscribing your singular vision, 

Ineptly detecting the uphill battle I face,

You crave my haves, you desire my wants.

Succinctly pouncing upon my esteemed goal, obliterating the positive eventuality I had hoped for.

A single tear free falls.

You reach out, 

You hold it firmly in your malevolent grasp.

Ignorant of the well oiled detriment buried deep in the root of my soul.

Neglectful of your role in this drama.

This is not a novelty coaxing you, a bauble awaiting theft.

These are my emotions.

My vision for life.

They are not to be high jacked, 

Used in order to make a mockery of me.

How dare you superimpose your inadequacies on my reality.

Yes, your disappointments are tragic, but they are yours to confront.

My allegory will not reset their parameters. 

The characters will remain in tact, the script with its original penmanship will breathe the same life into your narrative.

Irreverent of the outcome you fancy.

Grant to me the unadulterated honesty of your disposition. 

So that when I hear your words, I recognize the person I thought I knew.

I know that you are hurting.

Appreciate that I am as well.

When you finally trip into your future, its reality is alarming.

The plausibility of happiness, unnerving.

I see me, shrinking modestly so as to avoid the surefire power I hold within.

I recognize him, a finely sculpted vision of my forthcoming subsistence.

I contemplate you.

You with all your judgement.

Your facetiousness masquerading as concern.

Dangerously, the diagnostic conclusions flow freely.

From your mind to mouth.

From our conversation to my subconscious.

Penetrating, extending in time and over space, I willfully become my own buried critic. 

 

Psychological Battlefield

Circumstances stir the least of us to forcibly re-evaluate any given predicament. 

Most times, it is within the parameters of our nature to systematically develop a rationale for all of what seemingly is.

The process of examining, of turning scenarios on their head...

Marks a tendency to give purpose.

Questions so often arise challenging actions and re-actions in order to create necessary pressure.

And so...I begin.

With the turn of a rejuvenated tide and a freshly conspired rationale, I formulate a search constructed with the sole purpose of unearthing answers in truths that are yet meant to be available in open book format.

I boil over the plausibilities...

Undoubtedly, and masterfully may I add, constructing scenarios meant to provide solid footing for the reasons you do what it is you do.

Yet, not one of my carefully crafted projections seems to entirely put an end to the psychological warfare.

On separate schemes of the battlefield, I hold firm to my motivations...as I am undoubtedly sure do you.

We both arrive at this place, in this time, spurred by diverse indicators, moved to act by alternative rationalizations.

In the vacant space between us, where the truth of our attraction opts to occupy itself, realize we are never entirely honest about the depth of its personality.

And so I realize that to audibly voice my intentions, at least at this juncture, is problematical. 

Reluctantly so, I trace...back...my steps.

Fully recognizing that I am not entirely comfortable facing the rushing tide of my subconscious.

With no plan to retreat entirely, I contend with a denied reality of sorts.

One that highly demonstrates the need to face my internalized demons.

 

What puzzles the skeptic in me is exploring the wildly sporadic cosmos.

If time could shift...could slow...

If I could have but one question answered, insofar as it related to you, I would ask....why.

There have been a multitude of instances in which I have consciously chosen to resolve our page. To tag to it a final "the end"...

Fascinatingly enough, the universe has an interesting method of interrupting my process. 

In a proposition of sorts,  to contend or at least suppose, that the universe has forcibly communicated to me that the time to proceed to the next chapter has not yet arrived is not entirely a stretch.

To all these things and more, my inquiring mind seeks answers.

To rationalize the grand scheme of things is a phase that I can not entirely eject myself from.

In my current state of being, I exist on a higher plane...

Seeking a rejoinder while in a process of unmasking firm truths.

Understanding that all matters will be revealed to me in due course is a matter in which I must possess patience.

...Patience being all things difficult.

Belabouring the flaws of this universe is hardly necessary, especially when I myself can not adhere to it a logic.

From this battlefield, I take one morale-prone lesson.

We can and do have the capability to inquire, to rationalize the very plausibilities of circumstances as they will invariably confront us.

From our inherent being, we typically comprehend certain intercourse to confirm volumes of unspoken truths.

What we can not do is place a timeline on its materialization.

Everything happens in its due course, or so they often say.

Unless we seek this out, we can only fall prey,

...fall victim to the very real and absolutely escapable plausibility of disappointment.

For the psychological warfare that so often consumes us, so too has the power to wear down our reliance in the Cosmo's ultimate reward.