Highway

I am realizing that my writing

is a lot like my mind.

There's more of it

than I thought there was.

It's not organized by structure

so much as it is by pattern...

I think.

I have no idea

how to make sense of it all

let alone how to arrange it

into any sort of sense

for anyone else.

And the poet in me

of course says

"screw everyone else"

but what's the point

in being able to speak

if we have to keep secrets?

So here's this huge mass of words

and images,

greater than the sum of its parts

but nothing more

than highway confessions of a madman.

"Got a look that'll kill, a voice that'll carry and a half a dozen women I think I want to marry." -Everlast

"And now I'm walking

down the sidewalk

and I am singing to myself.

I'm going to leave it all behind me now

because I don't need this,

Just don't need this."

-C. Pureka

Complex

underneath this two toned mask

I behold the scraps of disarray

and gather the tears

falling from loving places

on the face of my angel.

Peeling back old paint

and orange rinds

I watch the labor of my fingers

unearthing old truths

and honey sweetness.

And all last night I dreamed

of the spinning searching sound

we use to pry into the after hours.

The stretching and reconciliation

of our bargaining mortality

speaks out from old poetry

beneath headstones and lucky pennies.

Let's dive into the uncertainty

with stones around our necks

and sink beneath the desultory surface;

we protect our ability to remain complex.