Bombing

Stone Cherub by kmls

perhaps
if i put my ear
to the ground
and bid the cicadas
and birds to
be still
i can hear
the far off
rumble of
explosions

here the sky
like my heart
like the soul of
this land
is empty

A Society of Discontents

Their purpose is to create a hole within you that never gets filled up.

The latest version of the newest model of the most recent rendition of the smart phone, TV, tablet, computer, gadget is one that you cannot live without.

That is what they tell you.

The snap crackle pop of the latest pop music crackles with the static of love without commitment, fame without responsibility, an endless party while the world burns, shadow puppets on the stage.

Buy what I am selling, they say.

My house is bigger than yours. My tummy and butt are tighter. My penis is larger. My breasts are perfect. I have the face of a goddess. I am the perfect lover. I do not have ED or PE. My children are prodigies. My car is shiny. My vacations are dreamy. My investments are sound. I am more than financially secure. I am the Jones times a million.

You can keep up, they say.

How dare anyone threaten this lifestyle. Missiles, drones, ships, jets, weapons of mass destruction, bombs smart and dumb, they can always come up with a reason, something or someone to fear, to launch destruction.

Aren’t you a patriot? they ask.

Fill it up. Take a long swig. Stuff your face, your pockets, your house, your shopping cart and grocery bags, with as much as it, they, you can hold.

Funny how it is never enough.

Lockjaw

I need to lose this bulldog mentality,
this eternal case of lockjaw.

There is nothing wrong with tenacity,
but so much of what I hold onto leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

It trickles down my throat like arsenic,
sickening my soul,
and oozes out of my pores onto those closest to me.

Anger is the byproduct,
a loathing of self then spilled upon others,
toxicity.

Release.
Balm for sore jaws.
Something else to chew on.
Grace?

Breaking or Healing

image

Those are the two options.

To be part of the destruction of that which is precious,
even the life of the enemy.
Or a conduit for the substance that binds up wounds and the broken hearted.

Even when flaws cause me to hurt those around me or engage in broken thoughts and so for a time join with the razing power,
if I am repentant, make the necessary changes, and return to the healing stream
then the danger of losing my humanity is minimized.

And if at the end of my life when I am weighed in the balance and my contribution to fixing outweighs the breaking then I will be satisfied to rest easy in the knowledge that in some small way I was an addition to the healing sum.

The Prison of Me

I have become who I do not wish to be.
Upon waking this morning I could not find me.
Instead a stranger had taken up residence
beneath machine gun towers on a razor wire fence.

Somehow while I slept a prisoner I became,
captured naked  and exposed, a number for my name.
The cumulative refuse of years like a disease
had suddenly overwhelmed my inner faculties.

The circles I ran in turned around again,
enclosing me in my own hoary skin.
In what putrid lab had this creature taken shape who now inhabited a body with no escape?

But I must confess that these bars were of my own making.
My subtle declination left me ripe for the taking.
And so in this prison I will forever be
until I learn to love the me that most frightens me.