I’ve no use for steel anymore;
to attack or defend.
Soft skin, thick blood and a strong spine.
That’s all I need.

I won’t retreat or withdraw.
I won’t hide.

I’ll expand and extend
I’ll connect and transcend;
see the world with new eyes.

Head floating ‘twixt the clouds
feet firmly on the ground:
I’ll be a giant — only human-sized.

So, I saw “In Bruges” again and it reminded me of this poem I had written when I first saw it. Here it is.

It’s a magical town.
It’s a fairy-fucking-tale town.
Who the fuck wouldn’t like the fucking swans and the canals and the fucking medieval buildings?
Who in their right fucking mind wouldn’t like to be in Bruges?

Sure.

I mean…yeah.

What with

allthepsychopedophilechocolatechuggingkillersandthewhoresandthecokeandtheracistmidgetsandblindskinheadboyfriendsandwhatnot.

Who in their right mind wouldn’t love this town.

I mean I knew it from the start.

“This place is a shithole”, I said.

I said it.


But Ken disagreed. Fucking culture and bullshit, I KNEW this place was rotten.

And the only thing I had, the only thing.
She was too good.

Too good to be true.

But she wasn’t.
And it was.

And so in a kiss in the streets
in the lights, in the mist, there was a

-pop!-.

Not a christmass ball that broke.
Not a falling glass of beer.
Not a vase that hit the floor -

no. It was something more.

More of a splatter than a pop
more of a lake than just a drop
more like a bullet in the head
that found the priest and young’in dead
that shot Ken right up on the leg
that killed the midget, square in red
the gun that Harry forced and fed
into his mouth before I said

“No, Harry, he is not a—”

bam. No whore from Amsterdam
no (queer) beer
no chocolates or sweets
will make me wanna walk these streets
more than my love for Chloe does
red, frowning, crying as she was
seemed like she’d put on too much rouge -
goddammit, here in fucking Bruges.

Was there no other place to die?

I really, really hope I won’t.

I hope I don’t.

I hope I don’t.

Extend
and retract.
Pendulous leg -
foot barely touching ground.

Say toes are severed
say bone is broken clean;
say death is close ahead:
what then?

Say nothing happens -
I shudder to think.
The pull is overwhelming.

If only these futures would show.

Sometimes I do not wish to see.
Sometimes I simply wish to know.

Signal exchanges have

sent electricity back and forth

between neurons

and shifted chemicals to and fro.

-

Moods and thoughts

would ebb and flow

laid out and measured in tics

and tocs.

-

I’ve felt it

-but perhaps haven’t said it-

enough.

-

My exterior is tough

but easy for you to pierce through.

-

There’s a number of ways

for me to tell you I love you;

I haven’t used most of them

and I’m sorry.

-

There’s a number of ways

for the future to unravel before us

and for peace to greet us once more.

-

All I need

is you nestled inside me

and your eyes meeting mine.

-

It should be simple

and if not

we will make it be.

-

All we need

is some truth

some quiet

and some wine.

-

All we need 

is some quality time.

Cracking knuckles
tapping pens against tables
flicking Zippos open and shut-

‘been waiting. and thinking.

Sentences of
deliberation
punctuated by action
and reflection
all written down;
sketched out like a roadmap
for me.

Seems like any time now
I will see
that version of me
I’ve been looking for.

Humming songs and
flipping pages
tracing surfaces
with restless fingers

but it’s not really waiting.

It’s just springing to action
in slow
m o t i o n
over time.

Got the reason;
I just need the rhyme.

I know now
that the stronger I get
the softer I become.
The wind feels different on my skin by the day.

Way up on high mountaintops
I see the blinding sun;
I see the blinding sum
of peaks I’ve yet to conquer.

The pain will just dissolve within
when I have learned to sway
to the rhythm of the leaves
to my undiscovered song -
the metronome that will never stray. 

Homo insipiens is thy name,

and this earth is thy residence.

Thine enemy is reason,

and thine ally is community.

Thou shalt procreate wildly

and uncontrollably

until homo sapiens

and the Übermensch

are no more.

Oh, how the wishful thinking
of some blood-pumping muscle
crumbles and dissolves
into illusions
illustrated.
. 
Perhaps it’s better to aspire
than to possess.
Better to look up in childish rapture
than to look down
in disappointment.

My mind’s a wild, two-headed wolf
with jet black fur
and eyes brighter than gold.

.

Upon the outreach of a hand
one head will bite
and one will lick-
one will submit
and one will rise.

.

It’s in these eyes
that the world is interpreted;
that freedom is lost and won.
It’s these strong legs that carry it
from one place to the next
in something less
than a second.

.

My mind’s a wild, two-headed wolf
and I still wonder if I should
put a big leash around its neck
and try to tame it
or somehow claim it
as my own.

.

It does my bidding when I ask
yet sometimes it rebels
and yells
in anger
or frustration
or joy.

.

My mind’s a wild, two-headed wolf
and it will roam just like it should
around the thick and blackened woods
of what I call my conscience.

.

It will return to me
forevermore
not for fear or servitude
but intrigue
and respect.

.

I do suspect
this is a friendship that will last.

.

The spell of binding has been cast.

I’m more of a conduit
than a generator
of things unheard.
.
My actions guide the philosophically inept
like a beacon
through foggy tunnels
and uncomfortable thoughts.
.
This light does not belong to me
and yet I fully enjoy its power.
.
Hour after hour
I lose myself in its call.
.
Pride’s not a part of this at all.
Only reason, curiosity
and the tools I need
to break down the next wall.