Self Portrait In A Minor (8.11.2017)

I grasp the tattered pages of ancient texts. The grape vine wilted wine skin scribbles. Each word a passage way into the heart of human existence. Sweat pours bloody into the margins, soaking deep into fibers leaving dark purples and browns, resembling Pollocks drips or my morning coffee.

I smoke with yellowed fingers the dangerous truth of Hunter Thompson, tinted glasses revolver bang bang. In the chamber heated bullets rip the air open with a punch out Patti Smith lyric assault. My ears red, hot from thunder, as I drag across Euclid Ave towards campus crossed up wormhole workdays.

Each step a heartbeat breath, bombing targets that only my mind can reveal in closed door meetings. War room eyes paint my inner man with love longed lust as I remember to forget where I am. Each hour a foot ache guard tower arthritic test. Mental fortitude beating back yet strong when challenged. Building stamina and courage to lean on provided care.

Oh my soul, penned out or typed old style draft, click, click, bing! I'm a 1954 Royal, gun metal blue, standing firm on a sturdy oak table. The legs of my chair creak like the joints under the scarred flesh that embraces them.

I hear those ghosts, yipping like coyotes, preying on my once prayerful tongue. They eye me from fields of old habits and poor discipline. Seeping poison thoughts into a cavernous hope that has annoyed me for decades. The voices of destruction fight those who see my potential or know my love. I must seek outside help, I must wrestle and not lay down. I must find a way.

So black ink filled journals and typed up notes on my hand held personality. With a great fury, I gravitate into new atmospheres, engaging beauty in raw portions. The red bloody truth is gorgeously brutal yet needed as much as my breath.

So beyond this, such a troubled circumstance, lies the very things that freedom has written of since its inception. It's the fire burning burnt ember glow. That heat. The raging yearning disease of passion persuades me back out into the light, it is there I find my hands. They are clasped firming to the idea of self-awareness and Mindfulness yet my eyes are often closed. It's in this contradiction of self that I am both defeated and victorious . It is there, in this place I will rise from the ashes once more.

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