Author: bosQ

Categories
Personal

Icarus

I am broken once again. It’s happened so many times that I am surprised there are still pieces large enough to put back together. But back together I must become, because I cannot fail. It is not a matter of choice or preference, although I have wished it so many times beyond measure or memory. If it were a choice, I could abandon it, allow my identity to wither and die, and become exactly what society wants me to be, what many of them assume I already am. That would be the easy route, and there is no shame in it. It is a fool’s errand to rage against the machine. Alas, I am no fool. Nevertheless, I cannot fail.

It is not pride, not after the first half a dozen falls. With each rebuild, I am diminished. Something gets left behind. Some part dies. For a long time I thought that was the reason: humility, and maybe it was. It was certainly necessary. Inevitable, even, as the wisdom of Icarus would suggest. I have crossed poverty lines and picket lines, and found pleasure castles on both sides, literally and figuratively. I no longer carry the bias and arrogance of my limited youthful experience. What remains of my pride is but a shallow, solid stone foundation to endure the tremors and quakes that knowledge and wisdom beset upon the ego of the woefully ignorant. My pride is neither shield nor sword. At best, it manifests as a dance to distract attention away from the softest parts of me: my passion for the arts, for love, for harmony, for creativity and story-telling–all vulnerable and inextricably bound by insecurities.

I am not the lesser man that my skin commands me to be in this society. I am not an arrogant fool, incapable of self-awareness and lacking the capacity for change. I am broken, and when the world sees a broken black man, these are the only two explanations that grace affords him. But the truth is actually much darker, and far more sorrowful. The truth is I broke myself. It was inevitable, as the wisdom of Icarus would suggest.

I have been burning the candle at both ends for quite some time. Desperate to establish myself within my community and to succeed in a role that others have failed at for years, I allowed my goals to consume me. My therapist has been warning me about it for months, imploring me to take more time, care and attention for myself. But my goals were so close. I was starting to feel accepted by my peers and establishing a local social network. My boss was grooming me for a promotion. I just needed to hold on a little longer. I sacrificed the only time I had left to spare–bedtime–in order to meet all the demands of my lifestyle. I would sleep in small intervals of two to three hours at random times of the day or night, relying heavily on melatonin supplements. Alas, such acts are made of wax, and the sun is not the realm of men.

I am broken. I am burned. I am a victim of the pursuit of happiness. I am not unique in that circumstance. I am afraid, embarrassed, disappointed, angry and sad. I am facing felony charges in a boy who cried wolf case, and I am a black man. Worse, I am a black man who is intelligent enough to understand that all my pedigree and accomplishments (basic, though, they may be) mean very little in the eyes of the American justice system. I am afraid, embarrassed, disappointed, angry and sad, but more than all that, I am tired. So very tired. Too tired to even put pretty words to it. I am tired of having to defend my character as a man while suffering the indignities and disregard from a culture and a society that will reap the fruits of my labor but never endeavor to reward or even recognize my value. They call me the criminal when they steal the very hope for peace and prosperity from my existence.

Jail is a terrible place. Incarceration is the worst thing you can do to a man. To deny someone the opportunity for purpose, passion, hope, and love, it is to strip away the very thing that makes us human. There is a morbid solidarity that exists among the confined. It is an unspoken understanding of your irrelevant place in society, and a silent fury at being forgotten that is shared by all. Skin color, age, and in most cases, even the crime you allegedly committed is forgiven by your comrades behind bars. You realize just how insignificant all your machinations on the outside were, and how quickly you can be dismissed without a thought. If there is peace to be found in despair, it exists only in the shared misery of the deprived.

I am broken, but I am not worthless. I am fragile, but I am not weak. I am vulnerable, but I will not be misguided. I am flawed, but I accept no failure. Icarus be damned. I will not drown for my hubris. Hard times are here, and more ahead, but so, too, someday soon, shall they join those hard times behind.

Categories
Uncategorized

25-Minutes

How do you catch up on life when it moves too fast and never stops? I don’t even know where to begin with this. I recently started seeing a therapist and we both agree that I should start journaling again. She suggested I start small, set a timer for myself and just write. I always try to have some sort of cohesion or reason to my journal posts but this won’t be that. I’m currently sitting in my office and wondering how many minutes into this 25-minute timer until I am interrupted by my team’s needs or my mind’s remembering of something that I forgot to do.

Earlier this week I was possessed by the phantom of my past excellence. I found myself working the front desk on Monday and Tuesday with exuberance and guile the likes of which I haven’t expressed in my work for many years. I had almost forgotten how good I am? …was? …had been? at this hospitality thing. I had almost forgotten how easy it is? …was? …used to be? for people to love me. It was a pleasant reminder of how and why I have made so many connections in my life. I also made $25 in tips and had a guest buy me lunch. #winning

Such guest love is very rare post-pandemic. At first I thought it was because the guests/people have gotten worse and become more selfish in this post-apocalyptic world. Then I realized that it’s the spirit of service that has been in steady decline since (before) 2020. Of course I want to blame these younger generations and their overinflated sense of entitlement combined with soft egos and a general disdain for face-to-face, interpersonal communication, but it’s not all their fault. I mean, it’s mostly their fault, but I suppose we old-heads can take 20% of the blame since we were so wrapped up in surpassing and impressing our parents that we neglected the tutelage that the little shits needed. Oops. Our bad.

I don’t know if I will be able to recreate that spirit of awesomeness again but I sure hope so. I like liking my performance even if it’s shit-work. My biggest problem with being good at hospitality work is that I feel like a house-nigger, the favorite and most tolerated of all the slaves. But that’s a conversation for another day. My 25 minutes is up.

Categories
Pro Wrestling

Smackdown 12.15.23

Professional wrestling has always been a guilty pleasure of mine. Very few people in my circle share (or even tolerate) my enthusiasm for the world of sports entertainment. The simplest and, really, only argument that anyone has against it is that it’s “fake.” The layman is very quick to exercise this opinion as if it is revelatory or somehow demeaning to competitive sports and athletes. The occasional critic is even offended, as if my support for wrestling is a slight to their masculinity (…because, let’s face it, only men take sport-spectating so personally). Nevertheless, my love for this ubiquitous yet underrated form of entertainment has endured for over 35 years.

Wrestling and writing are my two great passions, and had I been wise or even remotely self-aware in my youth, perhaps I would be one of those obnoxious folks who brag about never working a day in their life because they love what they do. Alas, I did not listen to my teachers (sorry Mr Baker), nor my friends, nor my family, and not even God when he destroyed my life plans at 19; but I hear it’s never too late to blah blah blah—or something. I know this will be somewhat disappointing to folks that enjoy my writing but hate wrestling (which is pretty much everybody), but if you’re not picky about the content you consume, or if you’re just bored and need something to help you avoid doing work at your job, or if you’re curious as to how (and why) a 40-year old black man can enjoy a fictitious sport, then please read my recap of this week’s WWE Smackdown.

Opener: The Bloodline opened the show with Tribal Chief, Roman Reigns, returning after months-long hiatus. Personally, I hate how WWE puts so many of their Champions on a part-time schedule, but from a marketing standpoint, it’s a smart play. Afterall, absence makes the heart grow fonder…unless you’re a heel (bad guy), in which case it just makes everyone hate you more. But not me. 1200+ days as champion and I still love this evolution of Roman. Randy Orton interrupted the Tribal Chief to issue a challenge for the Royal Rumble. Amazingly, The Viper stood alone in the ring with the entire Bloodline and did not get smashed—not even after he threatened the Tribal Chief with an RKO. In fact, not a single punch was thrown. It was strictly verbal sparring and the two pros were on promo point! Paul Heyman didn’t even speak, and that’s the real miracle.

Match 1: US Champ Tournament, Carmelo Hayes vs Grayson Waller—Logan Paul (current US Champion and eternal douche) sent in some stupid pre-recorded insult promo making fun of both competitors. I ignored it. Took a few minutes to get the chemistry going in the match. There were a couple sloppy spots in the beginning, probably due to jitters on Carmelo’s part (this was only his second showing on the main roster) but the two were definitely vibing by the end. Waller pulled out a new move (some sort of twisting leg drop DDT from a top rope perch) and Carmelo sold it perfectly. Good performance by both competitors. Waller put over (lost to) Hayes which made me happy because I’m bias for all black wrestlers. I’m not a real journalist so I can do that. Welcome to Smackdown, Carmelo.

Backstage promo: Randy Orton and LA Knight—Always good to watch folks trying to befriend the Viper. They never learn! These two lone wolfs needing (but not wanting) to come together is good drama. You want to see the team-up just to watch it implode. I can’t wait!

Match 2: US Champ Tournament, Kevin Owens vs Austin Theory—Are we going to get a Logan Paul pre-recorded home promo before every tournament match?! Yes, apparently we are… 

🤦🏾‍♂️

I hate the growing power of so-called influencers. As for the match, another keeper! KO is a rare breed, a brawler build with surprising athleticism and a decent aerial game who can actually wrestle in a classic style. Personally, I don’t like him, but his talent is undeniable and he puts on good matches; as does Austin Theory, and this match was no exception. Some good spots by both competitors, including a jumping seated Spanish fly suplex off the top turnbuckle by Theory. The drama in the match was KOs broken hand (given to him by Theory and Waller last week) which was played up appropriately and ended up giving KO the victory by accident which was a refreshing change because it saved us from having to watch KO use his stolen Stone Cold Stunner finisher (since his stolen swan-ton and stolen frog splash didn’t get the job done previously).

Bloodline Promo: This faction has such good chemistry, probably and obviously because they are related, but also because they have three years of drama to lean on so there’s no need for elaborate speeches or big antics. “Main Event” Jey Uso is getting great push on Raw and we love that for him, but his brother Jimmy Uso is an overlooked lynch pin holding both storylines together in my opinion. The Yeet-movement is taking off the Tribal Chief’s disapproval of the simple word is poignant and hilarious. Jimmy’s facial expressions are priceless and Roman’s silence speaks volumes. 60 seconds of great wrestling promotion.

Backstage interview: Kayla Braxton—so hot right now! I love that beautiful orphan! She could wear a potato sack and still be the hottest segment on the show, but she didn’t, she wore a red leather skirt and matching sleeveless top. And my heart exploded in my chest.

🥵

Oh yea, KO was there, too. I suppose she was interviewing him, but who cares? Carmelo Hayes interrupted and said some stuff before the camera went back to Kayla (where it belongs).

Breaking News: Charlotte Flair out for nine months?! Noooooo!!!!! 

😭

I think that unexpected injury forced WWE to pivot. So now Damage Ctrl is showing a united front (whereas before they were getting ready to turn on founder Bayley). They bragged about taking out the Queen and bringing back the Kabuki Warriors.

Match 3: Kabuki Warriors vs Michen & Zelina Vega—Everyone knew how this match was gonna play out. No disrespect to the competitors, but this was a recovery match for the crowd, which is necessary in order to keep the energy level up for the main event. Nevertheless, these ladies delivered; although one more than any other, and that’s Michen. After nearly a year of leaving no impression whatsoever, Michen looked great in this match: some nice martial arts sparring with Asuka plus a good showing of her power and a few well-executed technical wrestling moves. Her partner, Zelina, on the other hand, looked slow and uncertain in the ring. I really hope Zelina can find her lane in the WWE because she is a great personality and she has good wrestling ability, but lacks execution. Bayley and Dakota Kai interfered out of habit more than necessity. The Kabuki Warriors looked great, although the match as a whole lacked natural chemistry. Fortunately, Kyrie’s finisher, the Insane Elbow, is such a thing of beauty that it leaves fans with a good feeling at the end of every match. Damage Ctrl still going strong.

Promo Battle: Santos Escobar (pre-taped) vs Bobby Lashley & The Street Profits—Santos is really coming into his own as a solo superstar. I don’t know what’s going on with Bobby Lashley. He needs to bring back the Hurt Business faction because whatever it is that he and Street Profits are doing, it ain’t working.

Main Event: Randy Orton vs Jimmy Uso—Not much to say about this match. It was a low-drama, fan-pleasing match designed to put over Randy as he ascends through the ranks of the Bloodline headed for the Tribal Chief. It’s the standard first chapter in practically any faction storyline. Randy hit all his standard spots and Jimmy played his low-man-on-totem-pole role well. I can’t remember the last time Jimmy won a match, but it’s probably more recent than I think. The real drama came post-match: the return of AJ Styles! The Bloodline was laying the smackdown on Randy Orton and LA Knight when “Phenomenal” (AJ’s entrance music) hits. After being absent for over two months, AJ hits the ring, and the Tribal Chief, with a Phenomenal Forearm! The trio forces the Bloodline to retreat, then out of nowhere, and for seemingly no reason, AJ Styles floors LA Knight with a massive clothesline, surprising everyone, even the The Viper. He then casually walks out the ring and up the ramp, right past the Bloodline without a second glance. Umm, wtf just happened?! Tune in next week to find out!

Categories
Short Story

Fairie Tales, Part 1

I haven’t wanted to admit it for quite some time now, but I am stuck–professionally, emotionally, spiritually…ecumenically? I don’t know what to do. When I don’t know what to do, I do the only thing I know how to do which is is write. So I guess I’ll write… I’ve been working on this story for some years now. It’s become such a complicated piece in my mind that I have decided to break it down into short stories in order to build the world leading up to the novel. The character I created to explore the world is called Jason. These are his stories.

Jason hurried home. Today was a long day. Normally, he would go by land, preferring the scenic route of trains and trollies so that he could enjoy the pristine beauty of the alien isle’s landscape. The alternative was the SkyiBridge: 9x faster, 100x more terrifying. He wasn’t exactly scared of heights, but he possessed an overabundance of anxiety about falling from the sky without a parachute. No one could explain exactly how the SkyiBridge worked, but everyone (except Jason) seemed to trust it implicitly. But today was a long day. The kind of long where Jason felt every second tick slower than his undead heart. He had been in zombie mode all day. He had woken up to bad news–a text message–and while he was half-expecting it, he was still stuck on its contents 18 hours later. It ruined his whole shift and even caused him to break his perfect Karen-Cairn record–that’s the real tragedy in all this, he thought.

Jason was a Negotiator on the Island. It was one of the most coveted positions in Hyrule. Negotiators are local heroes to citizens of Quill. They get called in whenever there is a hostage situation–anytime a resident worker is being bullied or harassed by an Island guest. Jason was somewhat of a prodigy in the Negotiation department. He was one of only three Fifth Year citizens recruited to the department and the youngest Negotiator in the kingdom. He had earned the nickname “Karen Whisperer” after his ninth takedown in just three months; although Jason suspected that the moniker had more to do with the rumors that he slept with three of the assailants, rumors that he could neither confirm nor deny. Karens are notoriously difficult hostage-takers. They consumer underlings and target management. If a negotiator can’t stop her before she reaches the Final Boss–the venue GM–then the guest receives a Master Key, and the venue receives a Cairn which must be placed at their location in shame for a whole cycle, engraved with the names of the Negotiator and the Karen that was left behind. There were no Karen-Cairns in all of Gerudo Valley where Jason worked… until today. Today was a long day.

Jason’s cheek quivered as he stared with dead eyes down at the plumber’s crack of an overweight tourist that was moving surprisingly fast in front of him. Jason wondered where he was off to in such a hurry, and why. He decided to let his brain follow that train of thought as far as it would take him–As long as it’s away from here, he thought, thinking not of a here, but of a her. The plumber’s crack hooked a sharp left and headed for the South SkyiBridge cannon station. “This time of night? Must be going to the Pleasure Palaces down in Zora Domain,” he said softly to himself, trying to force his train into another station. That’s actually not a bad idea, the train picked up speed just as a comforting thought shot into Jason’s mind: Lyrica. Jason stopped and pulled out his Sheikah Slate. One of the reasons Negotiators were the envy of the Island was their access level. They had view-only (restricted) access to the entire Guest Directory. Dossiers of personal and private information on every Island guest were literally in the palm of his hand. Jason was certain that the Guest Directory violated countless international espionage laws but it was the Island’s best kept secret. 98% of residents think it’s just a list of names. The nefarious potential of the Guest Directory was obvious, which is why Negotiators were investigated so thoroughly by the Hylian Knights before being offered a position. Jason was surprised that he passed the screening, but apparently being an orphan with no ties and a non-violent misdemeanour background are not disqualifying factors.

He opened up the search function on his Sheikah Slate and typed in L-Y-R. The name Lyrica Jackson auto-populated from the search history. It had been six months since Lyrica was last in Hyrule and Jason was pleasantly surprised to find her listed as “In House.” Lyrica was an occasional Masked Guest on the Island. The Majora Program had started about a decade ago as a refugee and outreach program. Originally intended to provide displaced international refugees and asylum seekers with temporary work and lodging. Maskers are not citizens, but they receive wages, a Level 0 Master Key, and discounted lodging for the duration of their work contract. Nowadays, thought Jason, most Maskers are struggling artists and entertainers, or sex workers, or both… Such was the case with Lyrica Jackson.

The Directory said she checked in three weeks ago. Jason wondered why she hadn’t contacted him. Lyrica was a singer and a songwriter of no real acclaim. She would apply for an Island work visa whenever she ran out of money or, to be more precise, whenever the money ran out on her. She had a lovely voice but lacked the discipline to make it out of the local clubs and open mic nights. She had a casual addiction to shrooms and a casual relationship with her two children that lived back in Oklahoma with her mother. She also had stunning beauty and keen perception but only average intellect, which made her quite attractive to Jason. He typed out a direct message–You up?–and hit send. Normally, he wouldn’t be so crass. He knew Lyrica had a gentle heart and a hard time saying no, but today was a long day… (to be continued…)

Categories
Uncategorized

Sad Vibes

Pour out my soul to control the hurt
Why must Earl Simmons swim in dirt
I’m gon’ make it work–
28 and trying to get baptized
Priest scared to touch me
Cuz he said I gave him bad vibes

~DMX

I was late to the rap game. My boyish romanticism was largely supported by R&B back in the Nineties when Rap music first started weaving into the mainstream. I remember liking Tupac’s “Dear Mama” song and decided that rappers were pretty cool, even if I couldn’t understand their too-fast lyrics, but I didn’t really start getting into Hip-Hop until the 21st century. When I did finally get into the game, DMX was one of my first favorite artists. He was much more gangsta than I could ever hope to be, but I was drawn in by his storytelling and honesty on the mic. He reinforced my belief that vulnerability and weakness are not the same things.

Pour out my soul to release the hurt
Why must Q Bostick swim in the dirt
Can I make it work?
Desperate to feel alive at 39
Queen scared to date me
Cuz she said I gave her sad vibes

~Q

I think everyone agrees that dating in these modern times is the worst. It’s insanely difficult and also dangerous. Global anxiety has crippled social growth and development. Trust issues are a prerequisite nowadays, and not an unfortunate side effect. Dating has become less about partnering our strengths and more about pairing our weaknesses. We seek to match vices more than virtues because a drinking partner is a lot less work (and more fun) than a study buddy. I’m guilty of it, too. I don’t think I could date a woman that’s not 420-friendly. Is that fair? No, but I’m not willing to give up the habit. I haven’t wanted to work too hard at love (or anything, for that matter), so I have only been open to the riff-raff and trash that wafts in the wind, just looking to get higher and higher.

I have not been intentional about dating for a few years now. After my last relationship ended, I was solely focused on my role as a father until the pandemic came along and the Kid left me to follow her own path. I was emotionally wiped out in the fallout of that catastrophe. I have spent the subsequent years healing, and searching for acceptance. I always thought that acceptance would mean relief from the pain, but I am having to re-evaluate that belief.

The assessment that I gave off “sad vibes” left me unsettled, but not unsurprised. A few weeks ago my sister was surprised to hear that I wanted to date someone, and I was surprised that she was surprised. She explained that I just didn’t seem like I was interested in the act. As a hopeless romantic, I’m always interested in the possibility of love; however, after hearing her assessment, I had to admit that I had unintentionally made myself emotionally unavailable in the years following the heartbreaks of my dad’s passing and my daughter’s leaving.

Now here I am trying to dive back into the dating game but I have not built myself nor my confidence back up. I have spent so much time being small and feeling less than as a result of my losses that I approach every potential partner with the assumption that IF she even sees me, surely she will leave me, too. I manifest my own worst fears and then wonder why it happened.

A lot of this trauma is the result of my own disappointment at being unable to connect with my daughter in a timely fashion. If I can’t get my own offspring to see me, especially when she’s so annoyingly similar to me, then what hope is there for a stranger with no ties? I know it’s an unfair comparison for so many reasons, but I can’t shake the fact that I don’t feel seen by anyone. And this latest rejection is just proof that I still have more changes to make before I can emerge fully from my cocoon.

The truth is, I don’t feel sad, but I don’t feel happy or fulfilled either. I want to be seen. I want to be heard. I want to be appreciated. I am not sad. I am angry that my plans have all failed, and I am tired. I am tired of this cycle of grief. I remember being told once that “Happiness is a choice.” I also remember the Green Goblin counseling the original Spider-Man that “We are whom we choose to be… Now, choose!”

I choose…

Categories
Movie Review

Till: A Q Review

Till was fantastic!

Full disclosure: I had to be convinced to go see it because I don’t do horror or hate very well, but I am so grateful (and proud) that I made this exception. It is definitely a film that sticks with you long after you experience it, and it is an experience like no other. It wasn’t just a good movie, it was brilliantly produced and directed**. They told one of America’s most horrific and tragic stories in the most beautiful and elegant of ways. Through the love and courage of a grieving mother, we see one of this country’s overlooked heroes in Mamie Till, as well as its overlooked history. The camera angles were so powerful and precise, they forced your mind to see the bigotry and hatred that was nowhere to be found on-screen. The juxtaposition between white lives and black lives was displayed with such poise and subtlety that it captured the gaping socio-political divide in this country and portrayed it with all the characteristic nonchalance of white-supremacy. It wasn’t just thought-provoking, it was illuminating and infuriating all at the same time.

The movie is made all the more captivating by the fact that you know the fate of the boy going in, so you find yourself going through a wide range of emotions as you watch the boy simply being a boy, knowing that his ignorance will be his downfall. At first you find yourself getting mad at the boy, then you realize how absurd it is to think that way and you get mad at yourself, then you recognize your own innocence so you get mad at everybody around the boy for not doing more to intervene or protect him, and finally, after you cycle through all that fury and frustration, you settle on the undeniably sad truth of it all: there was no one and nothing to protect any Black people at that time, let alone a 14 year old boy.

The most sobering thing about the experience is hearing the rhetoric used in the trial and the media only to realize that nothing’s changed in 70 years–MAGA is just the next evolution of bigotry in America. As you exit the theater, you’re left feeling helpless and furious at your own ignorance and ineptitude.

Anyway, I’m glad I saw it. And you will be, too. Add it to The Queue!

**Till: Chinonye Chukwu (writer, director) & Keith Beauchamp (writer, producer)**

Prologue: Unleashed

My spirit is weak, my soul heavy. I seek counsel and comfort from the minds of others because mine is broken, flooded. The structural integrity of the great dam holding back the torrent of repressed emotions has reached critical levels. Dam personnel have been evacuated and only the priests remain in the valley below, prayers the only sound in the sky above.

I walk the empty streets, mindless of the chant around me, blissfully aware of my impending demise. The dam served its purpose, though that purpose has long been forgotten, lost with the repressed memories that were slain and mixed into the mortar of its construction. It was a noble purpose (whatever it was) in a war of aggression, or so we were made to believe, and I believed. I believed in the whole dam thing. I believed it was there to protect me, sure as I believe it will be my end.

I could have left with the others but my spirit is weak, my soul heavy, and the destination unknown. I would no more survive the journey than the dam. At least I know the dam. I know it to be safe, even now, even when it isn’t. There is solace in certainty, comfort in release. I have never been able to release anything, not on my own. I am like the dam, full of rage, and now the dam is like me: broken, abandoned, unleashed.

Categories
Poetry

Humble Poetry, vol. 2

Cards on the table: I know very little about humility, but it is a new skill that I am learning through life. I hear she’s supposed to be the best teacher and she’s gonna have to be because I’m not a very attentive student. It’s taken 30+ years for me to even realize that humility was on the syllabus and honestly, I feel like that’s kind of her fault but whatever, I’ll take the L as part of the first lesson. My point is I honestly couldn’t tell you what the fuck I mean by “humble poetry”; I just wanted to keep with the theme and mood and rant of the previous post(s).

This next poem is about a chance encounter for a boy with anxiety. When I told the story to my sister she said it sounded like a robot interacting with a human for the first time, no shade. I thought that sounded like a pretty hilarious short story which is what Laundry Day was originally supposed to be until Writer’s Block turned it into the poem Prepositions. I hate when he edits my shit… he’s such a dick. 

Laundry Day (Prepositions)
Do not be silent stranger
For I cannot speak near you

Content to know her furtively
Lest my ears betray me
A greeting dropped through the eaves
Changes everything

Beautiful on the second glance
Quite alluring on the first
Captivating once I heard
The sweet lilt of her voice

Do not be silent enchantress
For I cannot speak to you

Her words are bewitching
No mistruths will I utter
The sharp tone of her aria
A fear I dare not risk

My speech is screeched cacophony
She paraphrases me with harmony
Her song is happy and haunted
While mine is naught and same

Do not be silent sweet siren
For I cannot speak like you

Laughter is her accent and tone
Soothing and soft like raindrops
As if a melodious giggle nestles
Forever beneath her breast

The pauses in her speech
Reflect beauty in her features
Crescendos and sharp notes
Even muted she sings

Do not be silent queen of kings
For I cannot speak over you

The dirge of her goodbye
A bittersweet earworm
Her memory a requiem
Her absence a dreadful noise

Mellifluous as the tide it flows
Rinsing me in a wave of words
Rescinding in resounding silence
Pulling my attention with it

Do not be silent my lady
For I cannot speak of you
Categories
Poetry

Humble Poetry, vol. 1

I often struggle with finishing a poem. Well, to be more precise, I struggle with being satisfied with a poem to the point of publishing it. Whomever becomes entrusted with the passwords to my PC will have their work cut out for them if they are to fulfill my dying wish of posthumous notoriety. Finding “appropriate” (non-defamatory) content will be only slightly less difficult than finding complete and/or coherent transcriptions. Even the poems that I do publish are often edited after the fact in my private collection. I hope the sentiment of my verses lasts longer than the copyrights. The following poems have passed my One-Reading-Without-Edits-or-Cringing (ORWEC) test. The editorial board is comprised mostly of my insecurities along with a grammar nazi and some minor creative oversight.

Float Trip
life is a float trip
time is a river
the water is choice
prayer is the raft
faith is the current
faith won't protect you
but it will carry you
you will fall in the water
the raft will save you
if you can swim to it 
Tetherball
I feel--
the approximation of love
tethered and broken
like a ball tied to a pole
Hit 'round and round it goes
until wound up tight
Game over
Unravel
Unwind
Repeat--
alone.
Infectious Diseases
Feelings of inadequacy 
Self-delusion
Severe anxiety
Real grief
Necessitated solitude
Nihilistic submission
Beast of burdensome

Rejection is a symptom 
Failure is a sign
The problem is me
I am contagious
Indifference
To you I am too new
Too different and too blue
Nothing more than two
Too dissimilar points of truth
Within differences of view

Out of deference to you
I shall love true
Suffer rue
Distance do
Choose you

Respect a different sort of deference
Indifference
A Prayer for Peace
The older I get the more I forget 
The acts of love that forged me

A foolish youth too proud and dumb
No goal but to prove folks wrong

Whispers of half-remembered dissenters 
Echo dismissively 'twixt my temples

The mad commotion of doubt and reason
Eroding faith towards moral treason

Consumed by fear of choices past 
Reaped from what was sown in ash

My sins have grown since being committed
Please teach me the lesson of self-forgiveness

Amen

La Poetry

How does one describe love without using the word “love”? Hell, how does one describe love with using the word “love”? How does a person show anger or rage with words, without violence? How can frustration, annoyance, elation or equanimity be expressed in text? Why do we need emojis? Because no matter the phrasing, when you’re communicating sentiment to someone, it always feels like you’re missing the mark; and that’s because you are. (You fucking failure!-) Trying to translate your emotions into words is an exercise in insanity, and the bigger your intellect, the greater the feelings of inadequacy become at the endeavor. Vocabulary is the biggest opponent of emotion.

Vocabulary is the rival of emotion.
Poetry is the war between them.
It is illogical prose.
It is fact derived from feeling.
It is fantasy manifest reality.
It is false memory, clear as day.
It's an autobiography of an eternal moment.
It is a mystery solved without evidence.
Poetry is a confession.

If poetry is a heart’s confession, then plagiarism is the mind’s crime. In a verse, the poet transcribes the forces of the nature into something with form and substance that can be touched by the mind. It is a paltry parody of poorly redacted prose, but we call it a poem, and the unwritten words are emotion. The human mind cannot fathom the depth of the spirit whence our emotions come, but ego wills us to try. You will never find a humble poet, only humble poetry.