Tuesday, December 27, 2011
June 9th, 2011
The mouth talks
To the one who excites by word
By being, gravitation from bodies
Of great mass across short space
In planes of electricity from a background less passive
Than cosmic radiation sending us to each other.
Confidence exuding eyes
That send wavering wanting something more,
Steadfast and straight is the response to the heart
Of a hormone that keeps kicking days later leaving
Soaked shirts and wandering mind.
If the rush's vector is unpredictable
With speed increasing
Then the heart might find
The radiation too great to withstand,
Muscle fibers dying in their firm, false belief
By multiplying errancy,
Too great to out live.
Posted by A Certain Man at 11:00 AM
Friday, December 23, 2011
And in this life discover
Is to be yourself,
For your limits
Though this may sound
Leaving you stunned
and led to rest
Must keep walking
For to be you must challenge
Yourself to overcome fear-
's native destructiveness
That blocks haute color
Of a life in deep longing
Where feet never languish
And hearts never break
Attacking only with love
And strength to meet its match
In equal strength to hold back,
Like a child sent to school too young,
Being both conscious and unaware
That your time never stops
Proceeding from space and matter
Means both are on your platter
To dine and deliver as you will
Subject to evil found in legs
Grown tired and sick of twitching,
Fights to maintain
Along guarantees of Peace and
Balance to destroy selfishness,
All illusions to accomplishment
Of a goal long desired,
Posted by A Certain Man at 1:16 PM
Monday, December 5, 2011
November 28, 2011
And if only the only.
In the shadow of several others, She waited. You displayed generosity in the form of your skillful beauty, any from which I could pick. It was on first sight I knew She was the only one I could take; the only one I wanted.
Above the fireplace She was hung. The splendor of many a house guest's loving compliment; the envy of a roommate's striving ability; the pride of a grandson's grandfather.
While relaxing on the couch, She blew dreams from her wispy skies of a future where I'd be a farmer. While studying, She lended motivation to agony's worth-while ends. While passing, She wrote inklings of what the land demands from us, and what it promises in return. Then in Her blades of maize, I saw the fields... they flowed.
Your phone call was received as a blessing. My response was to be a consolation. Your words were to be a nightmare.
One day a regular came, to take his pick of my grandfather's created beauties. On hearing of Her beauty, he asked for Her. My grandfather thought Her to be lost or destroyed, forgetting Her place with me, so he borne Her a sister.
On seeing Her face a year later, in my grandfather a fever grew. Weeks later he asked for Her to be gone by my mother's grasp on Her neck. Even though, months ago, I told him She was with me, he was ecstatic. Innocent though confused was the other's birth, why couldn't the situation be explained? That was too practical. I offered to trade Her for Her sister, so distantly She'd live on, but that was too unprofessional.
The dagger finally flew and splayed the heart when he said that that regular thought Her sister to be Her, and there to be no other. If white would be mother's bloody hands, then black he would find his soul.
Scales shrunk and She came to see Her fields' end. Foregoing Her harvest She was raped, though gently, for it was the will of god that She leave Her earth. She was a painting in the way of Her artist's integrity. White did Her blood run. Silent She went, so for Her I screamed.
She was my muse. She was my him. By killing Her he had killed himself in me, and in Her white-washing nearly killed me too. Worth less than the customer's patronage, the importance of the grandson and that gift was sacrificed to hide the truth of his illegitimate daughter.
If it was a mistake
Then I'll start my tears.
If you lied to keep your hide
Then I'll offer you a cheer,
For when cowardice is the Lord's will,
Who are we to say no?
The dreams She awoke in me will hold me on toward a season of plenty. If you didn't see through the pigments on Her face to that land of promise, then how do you hope to live past the end?
Posted by A Certain Man at 6:14 PM