stigmata stone

2nite, no prose, avoid it in droves; ink marks, on

many parts of my clothes, bones; overdosed in emboldened

throws.  Recite forgotten rhymes to sidewalks, even when

my mind balks.  Time talks only to assigned blocks.  Even

still, the dialogue of interactions progresses ill.  The

IPA, why me stay.  Find Self in a tavern only lighted by

lanterns; decisions churn, while month incisions burn.

The following evening, only thought; each capillary in

clot.  Floor, officially mopped.  Reign, topped. Their lane,

cropped.  No need for grammar, formalism’s hammer;

or any meaningless banter; actual vivacity hampered.

Follow no lead, I’m of separatist seed; unsteady steed.

You rely on however many bands to help you stand;

my advice, find a new strand or be a true can’t; and then

you criticize and complain. What exactly is your strain?

Only far-fetched aims straining in your veins.  We, solo

Literary wild types, don’t aspire for sane.  Yelling or telling?

Maybe both, depends on the note.  Sometimes a poet’s

a bloke cloaked.  Hardly afloat.  My paragraphs, blare at

maps.  Hoping to scatter opposition.. but does it matter?

My stock’s in vision.  But a bit blurry.  Exploration sudden.

Hesitation button.  Certain circles I’m loved in.  But then what,

if I hit a block, or miss a talk.  Conversation laceration.  Need

more safety than a simple maybe.  Our contrast, ideological.

Ripples, seismological.  Temperatures, in rise high, so I oblige

odd invites.  Late nights, just in front of screens, the wine blended

with me.  Innings in 3’s, ceased.  These weeks, strong meeting meek.

De-clutter to free hover, in a tree’s stutter.  Interviewed in cinder plumes.

Hard to breath when the stars seep ease; paradox, but then my merit’s

mocked.  Alarm, loud.  Ejected from dream’s cloud.  Progress, makes me

feel proud.  No need for plans.. I’m with hand, holding pen, unfolding when

the table’s cold with ten blocks of ice, next to my laptop.  Enough of that, stop..

My life, only on pages; remembering what I was taught.. one of the avant-garde

sages, unable to be bought.  My consciousness in metaphysical knots.  Have

I written that before?  The moment, remolding itSelf in my pores.  Reservations

restored; my free thought deplored; I’m alive through 3 doors– I try to keep score.

(8/4/12, Friday, 10:55pm)