We are a nocturnal race.
Sun is a mystery to us, simply because it is gone
when we enter the world.
We conduct internal genocide.
Each would gladly slaughter another
just to take their place.
We are slaves to society.
We work in the shadows of our sweatshop
unknown to the outside world.
We get minimal recognition,
as all our work goes into an
instance of use.
Yet we endure the pain
because it is all we know.
It is all we wish to be.
It is what we love.
And those instances, each one,
holds nothing compared to what was
put into the work.
Yes, we suffer for a lifetime.
But each "Yes", each "Good Job",
each standing ovation,
That makes us who we are.
A proud race.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Family
The glittering shine
of a flame-wrapped cross
moves me in ways unknown to others.
Bestowed upon me on the day
that the Holy Spirit took up roost
in my soul,
it has not left me since.
Through plains and cities and mountains and oceans
this cross has pulled me through.
But when the Spirit takes its home away
what shall become of the cross?
Should it lay forever with me?
Or should it meet a new neck
and share a new soul
and see new places?
Will I feel whole if it is removed?
Perhaps that will be my legacy, in some far off future,
"Who will get grandfather's cross?"
of a flame-wrapped cross
moves me in ways unknown to others.
Bestowed upon me on the day
that the Holy Spirit took up roost
in my soul,
it has not left me since.
Through plains and cities and mountains and oceans
this cross has pulled me through.
But when the Spirit takes its home away
what shall become of the cross?
Should it lay forever with me?
Or should it meet a new neck
and share a new soul
and see new places?
Will I feel whole if it is removed?
Perhaps that will be my legacy, in some far off future,
"Who will get grandfather's cross?"
Blade
Each one bending in an oh-so-slight breeze,
the pure essence of "no control,"
more numerous than any water drop in a lake
for a lake can be drained.
These blades will never die.
They creep over everything
and leave nothing untouched.
Yet even in mass numbers,
numbers that envelop and destroy
any environment they want to control,
each one is unique.
None stand the same height
or emit the same tone.
Each moves in a way
no others can mimic.
But each blade is acknowledged
by no one.
Each blade will be remembered
by no one.
For as soon as the unlucky ones fade away,
a fresher, younger, stronger blade shoots up,
and the carcass is forgotten.
the pure essence of "no control,"
more numerous than any water drop in a lake
for a lake can be drained.
These blades will never die.
They creep over everything
and leave nothing untouched.
Yet even in mass numbers,
numbers that envelop and destroy
any environment they want to control,
each one is unique.
None stand the same height
or emit the same tone.
Each moves in a way
no others can mimic.
But each blade is acknowledged
by no one.
Each blade will be remembered
by no one.
For as soon as the unlucky ones fade away,
a fresher, younger, stronger blade shoots up,
and the carcass is forgotten.
Dust in the Rain
Each drop of water and grain of dust
contains a memory, if not many.
But combining the two means wonders
to a camper.
Dusty rain brings back the wettest camps
and memorable outings.
Wet sands reminds of forgotten trails
and dirty tents.
That scent revels soggy meals
and worthless wash lines.
But I wouldn't trade a single memory
no camp, trail, or meal.
I wouldn't take a sunny, green day
over those perfect, dusty storms.
contains a memory, if not many.
But combining the two means wonders
to a camper.
Dusty rain brings back the wettest camps
and memorable outings.
Wet sands reminds of forgotten trails
and dirty tents.
That scent revels soggy meals
and worthless wash lines.
But I wouldn't trade a single memory
no camp, trail, or meal.
I wouldn't take a sunny, green day
over those perfect, dusty storms.
On Writing
With humility I place that scalpel
onto the tight skin of an unfeeling subject
and drag so that first line of black blood
appears.
I enter a world unknown
and learn the story of the subject.
A swollen stomach for greed,
A crushed heart from pain,
A personal history just waiting to be discovered.
Yet I know that I can't stay long.
Every subject must be closed,
not matter how much we want to explore.
So with the same scalpel, my only tool,
I sew up the subject and send him away.
He will still be there tomorrow,
and the following day
and every day after.
He sits in a green-walled ward,
subjects recovering to his right,
subjects waiting to his left.
And where am I?
I am here, telling their stories.
I am there, still searching each subject.
I am with them, and they are with me.
Always.
onto the tight skin of an unfeeling subject
and drag so that first line of black blood
appears.
I enter a world unknown
and learn the story of the subject.
A swollen stomach for greed,
A crushed heart from pain,
A personal history just waiting to be discovered.
Yet I know that I can't stay long.
Every subject must be closed,
not matter how much we want to explore.
So with the same scalpel, my only tool,
I sew up the subject and send him away.
He will still be there tomorrow,
and the following day
and every day after.
He sits in a green-walled ward,
subjects recovering to his right,
subjects waiting to his left.
And where am I?
I am here, telling their stories.
I am there, still searching each subject.
I am with them, and they are with me.
Always.
Gray
I have been called neutral
I have been called dull
I have been called bland
but you are wrong.
Is a wisp of smoke,
traversing untold miles
through frozen caves
and windswept plains
dull?
Is the muffled silence
of some far off tornado
destroying everything in its way
neutral?
Is a stone rubbed smooth
by ever-attacking waves
off a New England shore
bland?
No.
I am power,
I am mystery.
And when my master
pulls you through his veil,
I will swoop in
and take you away.
I have been called dull
I have been called bland
but you are wrong.
Is a wisp of smoke,
traversing untold miles
through frozen caves
and windswept plains
dull?
Is the muffled silence
of some far off tornado
destroying everything in its way
neutral?
Is a stone rubbed smooth
by ever-attacking waves
off a New England shore
bland?
No.
I am power,
I am mystery.
And when my master
pulls you through his veil,
I will swoop in
and take you away.
Theatre
A black empty box encompassed by maroon walls, blocked in by that invisible, yet ever present fourth wall. THIS is my every day. The shoe skids and Masonite creaks make up what can only be described as a second home. Each individual seat, from 101A to 310U makes up my day. The stage, filled with scars from past shows, sends memories back in floods, attacking me with ghostly laughter and forgotten blocking. The floor, so scuffed and beaten, still stands strong, for it knows what it supports.
The blinding, comforting glare of countless lights shines down upon you, and you know YOUR sun has rise, and it's brighter than all others. Then hanging curtains envelop your home, and float down with a serene grace. The cage shifts and cracks under the gusts of air from vents, air that always is too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. But we don't care
This is our home. We rule, we live, we laugh, we cry in a space that only we can fill. Ever familiar, a peace falls upon us, for this is our home, our arena, our temple.
Our stage.
The blinding, comforting glare of countless lights shines down upon you, and you know YOUR sun has rise, and it's brighter than all others. Then hanging curtains envelop your home, and float down with a serene grace. The cage shifts and cracks under the gusts of air from vents, air that always is too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. But we don't care
This is our home. We rule, we live, we laugh, we cry in a space that only we can fill. Ever familiar, a peace falls upon us, for this is our home, our arena, our temple.
Our stage.
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