Mea culpa, readers, mea maxima culpa. I went out and had fun with some coworkers last night and three Jack and Cokes, consumed by a lightweight like me no less, turned to going up to an apartment for some… ahem… alternative… recreation. Before I knew it, Ms. Christine was in noooooo shape to even be picking up her laptop, much less blogging. So, again, sorry. Hopefully the quality of this offering will make up for its tardiness.

 

Journeyman Masochist

 

I take a step
and everything shatters
I try to move
to more pressing matters

 

But I cannot
I am frozen by guilt
harnessed in place
by the pain that I built

 

It’s not my own
it’s given to others
and I shut down
as inaction smothers

 

I cannot grasp
how you can be relieved
my contrition
should not be believed

 

I believe too
I want this to be real
needing to end
the self loathing I feel

 

It’s all false hope
this flight from agony
Peddling damage
now that’s my specialty

 

 

 

Manufactured Eden

 

Mound of earth and wood
rises above the cityscape
ignored by the restless herd below
an untouched feast for unfed souls
a banquet of tranquility filled to overflowing

 

A gentle blanket of green
rests on the rolling hill
cooling all in the summer breeze
a loose wrapping in our cradle
that soothes nerves bothered by mundane trials

 

All are welcome here
everyone called to this calm space
but no one bothers to respond
save the buzzing, chattering, and squawking thousands
that know a good thing when they have it

 

So much life in one place
a chaotic heap of bush and blossom
interrupted only by the dark, gray asphalt
running in veins throughout and strangely natural
or at times by man’s roaring chariots

 

Just within reach and just out of view
the open air monastery stands alone
sculpted by the hands of a giant
home to a million every day miracles
meant for us all to enjoy

 

 

 

Sung Along

 

The utterance
the syllable
singing out loud
the holy word

 

My own safety
my peace of mind
are all paid for
by this discord

 

An ageless theme
played out of tune
passed on to us
from ancient times

 

They drown it out
you cannot hear
the plaintiff wails
against our crimes

 

An d if you could
what would you do
try to tell me
you really care

 

But you do not
and why should you
for the next act
you must prepare

 

I plug my ears
trying to listen
I imagine
the song anew

 

The notes that build
hopes of grandeur
and we can show
what we can do

 

 

 

And there you go. Hope you liked it. See you in the funny papers (aka Saturday Morning Cartoons which is coming up next.)