an excavation in three parts

1.

I’ve got a hot glue gun on,
and melting as we speak
let’s make it brief

The excavation of habit
is like ridding myself of comfort
I am consistently made to feel
incomplete and lacking
I am tempted to say that it would be better
to have always been alone than to
have had anyone at all

Regret is a selfish thing
it only takes what it knows you need
the closure that you believed you held
the happiness that you swore was eternal
but it’ll give all reasoning a place to be secret
to hide away as you gnaw at raw memory

There is a place where I go to read up on my past
see, memories are relivable
but they should only have one life
yes, memories become ghosts
when you don’t let them go

I’d rather be terrified forever
than live with this ache
when I began it was an honest attempt
to write without letting you surface
but you’re on the surface and deep within
there is no in between
you’re on the ocean, you’re in the snow
you’re up in the woods, wherever I go

2.

I want to get the silhouette of a dogwood tattooed on my forearms
want to live in an old house by the sea

I want to accept relentless pull to tragedy
it’s not easy being happy

I want to call out your name
until it becomes stale on my tongue
And I don’t like the taste anymore
will I ever hate it the way I wish I would

Anger is a conscious decision
I try to make it over and over again
Righteous anger is a distraction
I wish I chose to partake in

AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO SPEAKS
loud and intuitively,
you haven’t changed
but I am not the same,
that had to be the reason that had to be enough

3.

When I met you, I did not know
that you would excavate my heart like the furthest indent of a field filled high with fossils
you took a part my being
with your own two hands, you broke me up into pieces

When I met you, I could not tell
that your soul was like eggshells and I could break you up
so easily, the quicker you came to know me
I didn’t know that feelings like this were tangible

Your voice reminds me of an orchestra
your hands are like the month of September
and I don’t like when you are far away
you’re never close enough

Are leftover memories enough to sustain me?
I’m almost convinced that I am unsustainable no matter the circumstance
that whether I am whole or in half
this kind of thing will never leave but
how could I let it last

eyeseeyou

joy is not distraction

joy is not immersing yourself in distraction
it is being devoted to what is happening right at that moment
letting your insides be swallowed up by your surroundings
keeping your eyes fixed on the goodness that doesn’t always prevail in circumstance

community is not overrated
friendship is vital
I believe in solitude
in breathing alone, not having to be concerned
over the impact of your exhale
I am alone always in some way
but relationship lets you learn yourself
and most of all leads you to thinking outside of your head
your existence isn’t the only thing moving
take a look at catastrophe- you’ll see the very essence of life turning
out of your control, you don’t have control

letting go
is like losing
but being with out burden is a tremendous thing
like cutting ties with all heaviness
breaking off ropes and vines that itch

lies turn into deceit
honesty is more valuable than any freedom you believe you will gain with fabrication
honesty is liberation, and consequence may follow but at least you can sustain truth

every part of me is in spirals
I feel that moment when I ran on the beach, I had a friend with me
darkness blacker than coal
waves larger than the world
when I let go, you did too
I want to live every evening like that, carrying all my frustarations
and dropping them into the sea

every part of me is in spirals
I feel that laughter that was out lived by sorrow
but it was so much sweeter because we knew pain

every part of me is in spirals
I feel that film in the black box
watching destruction emerge from a civilized nation
feeling so weak beneath the strength of numbers
all I could think – It’s out of our control
all I could believe in was tragedy and distortion

JOY IS NOT IMMERSING YOURSELF IN DISTRACTION
I’ll say it again because I really believe it-
in relationship and honesty, I’m a complete advocate
I feel it in my bones that I was created for the sole purpose
of accepting the absurdity of my small insanity
and putting the sorrow aside, all for vitality

It takes sadness to feel joy
anxiety to feel peace
anger to feel complacency
stay with me

Inspiration is a choice
and it is often disabling
I find myself piling my own limbs into my bedroom
dense like honey
weighed down by desire to live out
an inspired and productive existence
but the compelling effects of compassion
and the appetite for a wholesome substance
can be made healthy

(define healthy: contributing, existing, enjoying)

faith is also necessary,
I do not care what they say
my whole self is wrapped up in salvation,
do we not all feel that we need to be saved from something?

save me from selfishness, save me from greed
strip me of anxiety, steal me from defeat

joy is not a synonym for happiness
it’s rooted in the core of your teeth, but not always stretched into a smile
let noise culture your memories
it’s okay to be reminded of different times
discomfort can be followed by a deeper appreciation

I miss you, and you
but I’ll let this song play out because it was good then
and goodness can last for as long as I live
I believe it

running empty of words but
joy is not perfection
it’s not some falsely identified character trait
handed off to the person laughing the loudest in the room
joy does not burn like a cigarette
it can’t be caught by figurative language
but only felt at the end of a night
when circumstance does not make up the
entirety of a soul
it lasts longer than burning tobacco
longer than flooding inspiration
longer than instant gratification
the moment you realize control is not an option
and letting go is the only thing worth while
joy will sound different when it rolls off your tongue
less like a foreign idea and more like family

all I want is for you to know my
heart has been hanging by a thread but
I’m starting to wrap some rope around it
It won’t be loose forever
my
memory, for me,
will never become water beneath the bridge but
this idea of tragedy is coming closer to a current
this inspiration has caught me off guard
and I am ready to pick up and go again
because
joy is being devoted
to what is happening at this very moment
when circumstance has formed an ache
I’ll shake off this gloom and speak

joyis

 

Great

I once wanted to be great,
and here I am in this position
to decide for myself and breathe on my own
and pick up my arms like bags of skin and bones

I once wanted to be free
and here I am waiting with the water
up to my knees

And these are the to-do lists that will make up my entirety
oh, I’ve got worries- worried to the brim of my heart and conscience
but I once wanted to be great and to be free

And if this is not free, then what is?
if freedom does not taste like the world on your lips
like travel and new beginnings
if freedom does not smell like summertime and Sundays
then freedom must not be what I wanted to begin with

I won’t always be free- it will go thin and thick but
I will always know joy- sometimes as my heart knows it and others like a distant friend..
but tell me this,
is joy not when you can laugh
deep, unheard of smile
deep, washed to the core I am
joyful

These declarations might seem shallow
but for so long I’ve been bound up by my sorrow
and I am still
sorrowful
but the difference now is joy
there is a difference between sorrow with joy
and sorrow with sadness
sorrowful sadness that tastes bitter and sweet,
falsely identified like sugar in a faded box of candies

And there are a thousand decisions that I have not yet made
and a thousand more that I will hate
but I know now that these things are temporary and for some reason my mind cannot stray
too far from eternity

I once wanted to be great
and the sky that has now been broken by rain
the sun that has furrowed and frowned on its golden face
has brought to me again
this desire to be great
and to be near to Greatness
and to be in love with vitality
to be in love with living
to be in love with words and language
to be in love with company
to be in love with solitude
to be in love with rhythm set to lyrics and altered by voice
to be in love with creating and making
to be in love with freedom

I’ve always wanted to be great
not for heightened pride, not for praise
only to know in my deepest thought
that there is passion and meaningful living
within my feet, bag of bones
stitched together like a puzzle,
and when one has been made for greatness
how could we want anything other than to be
full, and whole, and together

Let my lips speak life,
let my heart know worth
let my desires be pure
let my hope be held together
by this greatness

I once wanted
to be great

 
Great

 

 

projection

what's inside of me?

image: digital photography with a physical projection on the model, katelyn rebelo.

 

what’s inside of me?
a whole world to see
and we’ll joke about all of the places, we’d rather be
what’s inside of me?
a student will stand, claim another grievance
why can’t we all be friends?

what’s inside of me?
a whole world to see
and we’ll waste away with images all over us
but never inside of us

take a part your sorrows with your hands,
leave them out for your angels to consume for dinner,
or your demons to say, “i’m here for you, sinner.”

what’s inside of me?
an eager await for the next page
that provides a slow claim over my future
but I don’t want to be corroded by these things
what else could be inside of me?

see, it takes a while to feel again
after you’ve kept yourself from feeling at all
because there’s not much time to settle and really discover
there’s really no time to create anything at all

we’re here one afternoon, and gone away with the night
but there’s something inside of me
that’s fascinated, by vast open spaces
and hearts carried by hollow bones, and long faces

and music, too sweet to be let go of
what’s inside of me
something more than I can feed
something more than words and repeated christenings

this was intended to be about adventure
and things like maps and compasses and the grand canyon
and hiking mountains

like most things, it’s become overwhelming
but i’ve got something inside of me that’s
craving and crying, saying “don’t let go of me”
because it gets boring, being sad
it gets heavy, being mad
it gets me going, this anxiety
it gets me wrong, i’ve had enough of these things

so here is the adventure- i was talking about,
here is the freedom, i can see it,
not for long
but for now

what’s inside me?
project it onto me
what’s beside me?
let me feel everything

american dream

AMERICAN DREAMout six dollars and in with the nurture
of a bad habit and a set back
out a conversation and in with the appropriate
regret of too many words, too many things said

but it sure is great how I now know not to expect
but it sure is wonderful how I’ve come to terms with my irrational thoughts,
taken out of context

pen and ink can’t conquer this thing
gone with my judgment
gone with my greed
gone with my selfishness
gone with my needs

sorrow and a sore heart lead to growing frequencies
concerned with the future but now I look at my heart
see it separated by willful decisions and longing and art

I’ll begin with my troubled mind my troubled
faith
and end with my hopeful heart
my endangered fate

I choose to speak with ambiguities
glad to take my situation and throw it to the sea
it’s not great or wonderful at all,
not satisfied nor content
not decided nor specified
just spent, spent, spent

said I’m worn out! save me from this
endless reach for serenity and peace
said I’m finished! surrender all I am
all I have and have not been

american dream
beneath a tucked in moon
american dream
dig in, grab a spoon

LOUD

this is loud,meant to be spoken, like this: SHOUT
this is a to do list, written in ambiguous form
centered by my obsessive
passionate, altogether
lunatic
desires!
SHOUT
this is to be crafted by my own
hands and lips and heart
caved in and carved out by my own
fingernails, and to be left tart
like unripened blackberries off of the bush
mind says: it’s winter time!
and there are only glass bulbs in the trees,
no fruit, no life, no nourishment
but here i am, i come LOUDLY
SHOUTING
because of the plastic chair i have sat in,
and the tile hallways i have walked in
reciting poetry in my head
like the lunatic
like the obsessive, disabled, sorrowful, corroded, alive,
and insightful
full of Camus’ stranger
full of heartfelt characters
that i daydream of
why are the lights blinking, who ever thought of this mode “twinkling”
white lights, white lies
and late night
rampage of my
incessant, obnoxious, surrendering, and altogether
anxious mind

SHOUT
label me lonely,
label me wholly! involved in persecuting ideals
cross my heart with craning necks of bitterness
but i will not stay here, i will only sleep here for the night

the walk that i take from the swinging, thick doors
to my car, red box, littered with ants on my thrown away yogurt can
lasts a life time, lined with desperate steps
held in breaths
what is a day that goes by
with thoughts that make real life
a false reality within
seeping, and soaked up stems

SHOUT