Lindsay’s Scribblings

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.

 

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I have always known myself
Completely
Known my actions and words
To be my own
Understood their consequences
Even if attempting to deny them
But this
Is confounded circular logic
A cycle of wrong opinions
Misleading fallacies
I’ve always known myself
And this
Cannot be
What I
Believe.

This solitude
Is from the endless competition
And the joyless repetitions
I acknowledge to exist
This solitude
Is realized in a daily critique
Of the sarcastic and threatening
Ambition of each opponent
This solitude
Derives from hearing in each voice
The acridity which dulls my own
A caustic warning underlying every smile
This solitude
Is empty and complete
Its control only faltering
When I am alone