This is a test post to be removed
when the time is right,
just like
everything else
I write;
nothing lasts forever,
a search initiated too late
will come up empty
sooner or later,
the words that are evidence
of my head in progress
will vanish,
as will I.
Courage
is a ruffle
on a suit
at a funeral,
a puffy sleeve
in a sports bar.
The bravest people I know
are not the instantly, drop a hint and it happens
nude ones.
They are the grandmothers
in huge hats
perched on shrunken heads
and turkey necks,
the old men with the hiked up pants
and flat asses. Sweatpanted
chunky moms, dads
with the weekend beers
thrust out over the belt.
Anyone who says
this clothing
is mine, I chose it,
I reveal myself through it.
Then, if you want the real me
to get naked for you,
take this hot but honest mess
as is
and prove you’re worthy
of seeing my history
uncovered.
That’s a beautiful place
you’ve got there
As intricate as
a sand castle
It’s so
lovely
With such fragile materials
and such a fickle base
You’ll excuse me
if I prefer to walk around it
and ooh and aah
rather than move in
Old and in a way
supermen, in a way
lint, the artists
who came before
are never comfortable
among their younger
comrades. Something
revolutionary stuck to them
like a tobacco stain,
a badge that pins them to their time
and it’s not now,
more’s the pity. They’re
all romancing their own youth
and it’s not coming around
anymore, so they grouch
and slouch and grumble
because no one talks to them
when they’re like that, and they’re
always like that. So
they go home alone and say
I could do better, and sometimes
they do but it’s lint like them,
picked off because it makes
the new kids’ wardrobe look pilled
and shabby, or they get pointed at
like supermen up in the sky far above
when all they want
is grounding and for some of these punks
to say come on, let’s have a beer
and talk, I like what you’re doing now
and I don’t want to dwell where you do
now, but they aren’t ready
for that. Instead they claim
superiority
and say
damn these kids these days,
we aren’t lint or heroes, just wanna be
honored for journeyman work
right now, fuck the damn pedestals
and the dismissals alike, we’re still
just another sack of artists
doing what artists do, failing as often
as we succeed but not caring as long
as we can work human.
Do not hesitate to spill
your gasoline blood
near an open flame.
Do not fear to approach
the angel of justice
when its sharp wings are open.
Don’t imagine the world is safe.
Do what you need to,
shiv the guard before the gate
or bed the devil who carries
the keys to the kingdom.
Just don’t expect to come away
with your prize without a scar,
because claiming to honor
the impulse to danger
and then insult it
by attempting to render it
impotent
is to die indeed.
They are before you now, the teeth of the Hydra
waiting to fall from the jaw
you swear you want to bust open
and grow into a army arrayed against you.
Are you truly ready to fight?
Dark Matter
Dark Matter 