Dark Poetry Prose Poetry July 9, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

7-09-03 wednesday 9pm brick NJ

we're all alike in one respect. we're always looking in other people for that something we believe will complete us. seldom, if ever realizing that's it's only to be found within ourselves. all they can do is possibly help us to locate it.

lots of things aren't possible, but they happen nevertheless.

if i'm inspired by you. or else inspired by the situation we've put ourselves into. i don't know which. or if both. days and nights made a little less arbitrary trading thoughts. exchanging otherwise empty moments.

if i ever lived it was only in two places. one, feet clutching the pedals. flesh beating the wind. the other letting these metaphors undress me. sucking on the rhymes until they would explode in me.

it always comes back to that place of pleasure and primitive sensation. from the basest human urge to the loftiest of meditations. whoever we are. whatever we claim to love or be loved by. whatever we pursue or pursues us. passion is at the root of all of it. it always starts and ends in the sensation. the lust. the desire to feel good at any cost. the constant void of the self. it's the one thing we always want, but can never achieve without someone else.

7-09-03 wednesday 10:09pm brick NJ

if water must move as it does. tethered to the rhythm of other forces. are we the same. just as impotent. only pretending we are not.

the songs struggle against the silence to find their voice. if i listen or if i forget do they notice? the music pulls me open and feeds on my weakness. but all the while i know that it wanted something else. wanted to be strong enough to rape the silence. make it wish that it had never defied. but i'll do in the meanwhile.

if the beer is there. who would drink it if not i. who could love it as much. cold sweet molecules that embrace my loneliness as if there were beauty in it. as if something so dark could ever be lit.

am i to believe that all things happen for a reason. and if so, am i then obligated to prove them. a purpose i can see, but cannot define yet. a cloud about to burst forth with that long awaited thunderstorm this parched landscape is needing. but will it be enough. will it be too much. will the ground come alive again. or will it be flooded.

if it's too hard to say, then it still can be written. if tongues stumble. if lungs betray. fingers speak for us when voice is absent. language is and always has been communication. not sound. if it's wrong. if it's right. if it's something all together beyond the boundaries morality defines. i don't know what it is. i'm still learning yet. just like i don't know why the summer heat is so intoxicating. but i still want it.