Sentience, like mass should not be created
Or destroyed
Its mere existence should guarantee its extension
Transferring through different media
But never quite gone
Never completely gone
Without pain
Or regret
Or indecision.

Fingernails full
Of cells
Entropic
Scratched from my back
To be washed down the drain
Of my shower:  I lack
A proper campaign,
Misanthropic
Death-knells,
A cull,
Or a gain.

The point was hammered: my protocol is off, hurtful.
I know it.
The point was hammered so I broke:
Not one more blow.

My hair is red
Not scarlet, not auburn,
Not orange.
My hair is red.
The same shade as my passion-
A deep, dripping mahogany resolution
Of lacquered manners,
Independent thought,
And sensuality.

I would discard this body
If I could
In a single tentative heartleap
I would discard this uncouth body
I would discard this faltering facade
I would discard this sensual illusion
Azure eyes and inherited vulnerabilities
I would discard this body
If I could
Exist extra-corporeally.

The problem is
I always begin
Anxiously
Casually
Conspiratorially
The problem is
There are too many problems
And I complain about them
Too often
The problem is
My own anxiety
My own conspiracy
Paranoia
The problem is
My mouth.

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When I die
You can open my little beat-up Compaq
The backspace key finally replaced
The power cable tenuously soldered
When I die
You can open my dear oft-used laptop,
My incarnate life-blood,
Or it’s certain successor
When I die
You can trundle through its clandestine
Reminiscences
And maybe I’ll still breathe

Calm assurance
In my own certainty
I accept your questions
Ponder my defense
But still
Rest with
Calm assurance
Infallibility
I could be wrong
But I am not
I could be wrong
But do not care
I could be wrong
And I recognize
Your independent will
While still subtly
Suffusing
Calm assurance
Manifest certainty
I could be wrong
But I am not.

In the space between

Intermittent beats-
Elongated
By stifled breaths-

Faith
Exists.
Even now,
As I scoff at its mis-direction,
A swift, tacit
Prayer
Stems from my lips.
A vain hope for
Reconciliation
Of the mutually
Exclusive.

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Walking past houses
Row by tranquil row
Networked indecision
Keeping me alone
Roads are empty
My voice carries
Over the whispering leaves
And the sky worries
Harsh gray anxiety
I reveal my alto secrets
Lighter every step
Walking past houses
Alone with my regrets.

Past Houses Play Now | Play in Popup | Download