Wisdom

(Please note: This prose-poem was inspired from the lyrics of bands such as Don Martin 3, Pg. 99, Neil Perry, Allegory of the Cave, Portrait, Horror City, I Would Set Myself on Fire, Storm the Bastille, and many more. So you may find some similarities. Try and find all of the references)

My heart convulses in the fluttering of this nocturnal nightmare asking all agents of proverbial chaos to stall, while the constellations of a stargazing wonderer contemplate the nature of a backyard fistfight. Now is liberation is now. We live and lie in this dead sinking story that is not immune to the inherent purity of the sun in my eyes. So we’ll crowd together in a cellar door and make a fleeting attempt to build a fire, (fire as a metaphor) and we’ll grow humble before the all mighty power of the paper cut. The sea will silence us all and we’ll exclude by violence because it’s all we know and tonight never had a reason to pompously believe that it would be any different. Because this is just between you and me and the sky and because we’re not the intended, and this is what keeps us staring at the top floor, living sin in grey, addicted to the progress of elimination. She stares to fall. The universe has expanded so hideously but never took the time to answer the questioning nature of September or the color of dysfunction. My lips explode into a smile.

Optimism

We answer the call to panic with the anxiety of a child’s eyes,
And we call to the avenue of giants with such humbling cries.
Witness the willing, filling your lungs and hoping. Hoping
to give anyone an outside shot at the abstract impossibility of a miracle.

Ghazal

The sirens surround the psychosis of the sidewalks,

beckoning the reckoning of so many unsung faces.

I’ve lost the philosophy of a day in the wings of a moth,

swarming to the moonlight of the trees, always to leave no traces.

The anonymous unanimity of a smile stretches and splinters

To ask the desolate, disparate, downfall of man what this place is.

Put down the camera and pick up a rock, for we’ve watched in awe as

The talents of eloquent agitators go on unwanted and wasted.

Words stumble and clumsily crash in this threnody of a fantasy.

We’re all caught in the fall of a star, willing to be shocked in its reflection on their faces.

If It Happens

(Note: Inspired by The Drowned Children by Louise Glück)

The disproportioned design of consequence

so fickle and disinterested,

we could be forever lost in the eternal ice,

Tugging and pulling on frayed cloth

with shallow, empty prints of Christmas.

And we are lost in our comfort. But,

I swear, I have not seen the sun for weeks.

Blind and deaf to what was intended,

Our blood will freeze by night, whenever that could be.

We scream at the moon that used to be,

when our Fathers begin to cry

we’ll become the worst of you and I.

It is the only civilized solution to hide

our fear.

Amongst the ashes of Atlantis,

We can only ask the dance of death

What brought us here

in the shadows of the potential,

We will never see the sun.

Our voices waning, dancing on a paper trail,

we are out of step with time.

And we’ll swim in four letter words,

in the caricature of a memory.

“I should have become a watchmaker.”

So what this is going to consist of is my writing from my creative writing class for this semester and whatever else happens to fall out of my head. We have to keep a portfolio of all of our writing and this seems to be the best way to keep things together. I'm also the music director for WCVF Fredonia, NY and my podcast site can be heard at http://nightofthelivingfred.mypodcast.com/