Speaking extemporaneously

This is something I didn’t write so much as find —
the pen just moved, and I followed.
Sometimes the mind drags you through chaos
just to remind you what clarity costs.
These words came from that place.




—

Sometimes this dream feels like a nightmare
Intrusive like a sledge, like I’m having night terrors,
and I just can’t back up from the ledge of this terrace—
like the wall at my back slid, pressing me towards this,
even when there’s no ground on which to step.
Like I just fuckin’ leapt out into the abyss,
really I was pushed by the encroach of darkness.

Heart slipped—became a target of your pardon,
and who knows if I’ll ever rescind terrorist.
Stare at this Blankenship feeling like a hypogryph;
if I’m sighted, I might cease to exist like moral politic.

Just bit the bullet and pulled this vest tight,
let this be the best light on which to spotlight my life.
Any and all nights are good enough to go into that light—
stay hyped about the next life, ’cause this one sometimes
is the pits. Be god damned if there’s any surviving it.

What would be the point of it? You’d have to be pristine
to be able to be downloaded to the machine.
And I’ll be got damned if I’m not far from that scene.
Not much right—fuck, what’s wrong with me?
Or strategy, so I can be relieved of these angst and anxiety.

Let’s just proceed stoic, laconic, like what’ll be’ll be.
Nothing in my hands but to wait and see what’s up the sleeve.

If there’s nothing to benefit anyone,
I’ll keep my thoughts tangled in poetry—
that way I can cloak in metaphor and analogy,
then guard ’em, and let them breathe.

A monster may not be all I can be,
but it is the me that’s most effortlessly.
Deep down the beast needs to break free
and embrace anarchy.

Spinning wheels, trying to be something
I was never built to be—
something for which I have no example
to hold up and achieve.

Winslow’s and Tanner’s something I’ll never be.
Never understood what went on during commercial breaks—
I guess that’s when I made most of my mistakes.
That’s when real life takes place,
and I just want to escape.

There’s a voice inside screams,
everything you love breaks.


—

Everything I touch breaks fine,
but that’s because everything is finite.
Expiration date on every and all life—
so you hold your breath all night.

Nothing you do breaks my stride,
I’ve been baptized in fire and cyanide.
If it’s all decay, then I’ll still rise—
die every day just to stay alive.


—

Nerve damage in my feet—
makes everything I do
feel like I’m walking over broken glass to do it.
That pain’s a reminder of the gift of walking after a broken back.
No gift receipt bringing it back—
the cost of comfort is a cost that stacks.
Full-blown opium addiction right off the rack—
still have the former, but could stack the latter on top of that.

Mic G