A Muse's Musings

the writing of some men

down here on heart attack and vine
our ghosts of memories 
past
serenade us gritty tales of all
we’ve lost
all we gained before
we lost it
our laureates of the
downtrodden
thewhiskey and wine soaked souls 
tell us what matters most-
how to love and lose
how to fuck and bruise
how to bleed 
for days
in awe at our own mortality
we’re still angel-headed hipsters
and we still know to write
is to be afraid
but to write anyway
these ghosts tell us
what matters most
and we walk that path
we tread that water
we drown, blissfully derailed
and are reborn
we live and die
in the bottom of a rocks glass
and tattoo our truths
on all the bullshit
that surrounds us

‘It puts hair on your chest!’
says the grimy local
to the middle-aged female tourist
who turns her nose up at the taste
of the New Orleans in her drink

it is at moments after i have dreamed

it is at moments after i have dreamed
        of the rare entertainment of your eyes,
        when (being fool to fancy) i have deemed

        with your peculiar mouth my heart made wise;
        at moments when the glassy darkness holds

        the genuine apparition of your smile
        (it was through tears always)and silence moulds
        such strangeness as was mine a little while;

        moments when my once more illustrious arms
        are filled with fascination, when my breast
        wears the intolerant brightness of your charms:

        one pierced moment whiter than the rest

        -turning from the tremendous lie of sleep
        i watch the roses of the day grow deep.

-ee Cummings

The river looks murkier than usual tonight.
These nights..

These nights, starving
We look for reason
Mercy
In the faces we know 
Look for empathy
On levels unseen
We are damaged
Destroyed
Repairable,
But scarred
We carry this invisible 
Weight
Our sins 
Our mistakes
Our choices
Burden and enlighten us

We look for understanding
When eyes meet ours in toasts 
We search for camaraderie
Brotherhood
Family

Amidst the smell
The sludge
The storms
The panhandlers
We are home
In this fucked up way
Because we don’t need words
To tell one another
We get it.

There is no one else. There will never be another you. It’s always been you. Through the shit and the blood and the tears, you are the constant. And however feeble, at times, such a love may be…yours remains constant. This is how a cynical heart like mine makes sense of things-weighing the options and attempting to shake off the weight of the pain when such a love seems at the brink of destruction-I make sense of such things by saying, ‘yes-this is normal-such pain and joy in bed with one another is an expected thing. That means it’s real.’ And I comfort myself, however foolishly, in the knowledge that the pain of being questioned about the limits of my love is ‘normal’.  What a beautiful tragedy it is, loving another human when you thought an idea like ‘love’ was a fable.

Unrest

There are oceans in my soul
Tidal waves crashing into shores 
Drowning little feelings
Love and joy fleeing for higher ground
An impending tsunami
Storms on the horizon of my mind
Electric skies pulsing their way to my heart
A planet in turmoil
Facing its own demise
Hidden away in the churning of my gut
Seas pouring from my eyes 
Earthquakes rattling my hands
The fragile ecosystem of my being
Teetering on the edge of oblivion