The Dwindling of the Fire / Consider the Steer

While I write often, I update few and far between; deeming only a select few pieces worthy of posting. Recently I have been seeing a bipolarity in my mood and in my actions, and only in reflection can I see it in my writing. This poem is a product of an unknown dismal fear, influenced by a certain 1984 by a certain George Orwell. In The Dwindling of the Fire, I want to draw the reader's attention to the predicament of cattle in modern society. I want to expose the concept of society having the ability to exist only in sought-after emotions while simultaneously blotting out the unsavory ones. I want this to cause reflection on the fear of fear as a necessary element to life, it's increasingly obsolete nature, and present the alternative of universal unification as a dream turned nightmare.

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The dwindling of the fire, a road irreversibly traveled

“Emotions give way and give away,” they shouted from their capitols

“Peace is freedom, freedom is unification, unification is cooperation!”

Surging masses quelled, armies disbanded, tyranny evaporated as anarchy rained down

Abolish government, unify the corners of our square into a circle, it was the only way

In peace lies complacency, a mulling of cattle on the very property of their death,

Graze as cattle do, they shuffle through paradise unaware.

Perhaps it is the steer that benefited most from domestication, for their own good.

Mortality rates wane, life lengthens, smiles broaden and frowns simmer.

Encouraged to forget the filthy primal instinct of fear, of anger, of woe;

We settle on our pasture and await slaughter in peaceful repose.

To forget fear is a fleeting nightmare of the human essence, a duality longed for to be destroyed. In that wish lies our paradox of compassion versus compliance, a struggle to save as we cleanse in a self appointed righteous fire. To choose utopia is to choose a compliant fate worse than death, to end chaos is to ignore the fact of life that we strive to preserve.

The Trick

I wrote this on a beautiful autumn day in Valley Forge, outside of King of Prussia. The changing of the seasons was an excellent inspiration to writing about the changing seasons of my own life and daily ritual. Finding truth in life is as essential as finding the falsity in life. Enjoy!

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The truth of happiness lies in the pain of sacrifice.

The pain of sacrifice is driven by our fear of regret.

Choicelessly, we take the plunge hoping all is right

By the time we land.

Accomplishing everything we can

As we gain speed and the weight of the journey pulls us closer to that final truth.

On occasion we find a boulder on which to grasp with futile stubborness,

Knowing our optionless destiny

But not its path.

The pain of sacrifice lies

In keeping our grasp on the boulders we encounter long enough

To catch our breath

But not so long that they become our regrets.

Roses and Love!

I just wrote this. I decided to take something familiar and attempt to twist it into the unexpected, though i realize this has probably been done many times in many ways (I can't think of a more cliche way to describe love, and writing an 'arch-nemesis' poem about it isn't that new I am sure). Either way, as always, enjoy!

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My love is like a bright red rose,

Cut early across country and shipped

In the ghettos and by the highways it dwells and thrives.

By the cars I give myself to all who dare look onto me,

Primed with enough sustinence for my love to appeal to the would be reciever –

My love is like a bright red rose,

I know I am among others of my kind, doing the same dance for the same reasons

We dance in fear however, our days are nigh and our nights frigid.

Day by day one or two of us surrenders to the elements and is cast astray.

It is that freedom I seek, lying in the garbage company to other used individuals.

`

My love is like a bright red rose,

Thorns are cut, leaves removed, my love is vulnerable and

Uncorrupted as opposed to the figure selling it for profit.

The people pass me day by day as my love whithers and moves on.

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Since this has been recently written and hasn't seen a second set of eyes or second revision, please note that it is unfinished. As always, open to suggestions (particularly the absent final line).

Imperial Red

Not that I have any followers at the time of posting this, I am (like I mentioned earlier) coming back to this blog. I just need a better way to market it to get more followers. Here is a poem from my archived writings, it is called Imperial Red and I didn't mean for it to be as serious as it may come off as.

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Imperial Red

Mercurial red gleaming flesh

The meat beneath is a lovely beige.

My face is battered, pulpy and bruised.

I have been chewed and

Spit out

Tossed around.

It was my mother you know.

I didn’t know my father.

I got pregnate, she cut me off, kicked me out.

She used to love me and

Nurture me

Hold me.

Enjoyment Best Hide.

This poem was written after a particularly nice class discussion in one of my poetry classes, where we discussed the significance of simplicity in amateur poetry. The supposed 'Mark of the Amateur' is the believe that every poem must be epic, must have a deep brooding under-meaning. So I wrote about the desk I was sitting in that class. This particular version is not the final revision but it was the one recently published in Indiana University of Pennsylvania's student run New Growth Arts Review. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did playing with it.

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Enjoyment Best Hide

In my old class upstairs

In my old desk chair

Left handed bastard with an ass-worn lap.

Right beneath is a finger net to hold my tired feet.

Pantera, Obama rules, I love beer.

Kelly is a slut, Fuck, an unreadable smudge.

To an unknown curio I glide my fingers

Gently caressing her back—

such Love

A man put into this desk, his sweat and blood.

Into ridges and valleys, cracked and waxed skin.

I come across an old taboo.

We chew gum, so sweet, cherry velvet.

Now a disgusting dried tumor.

It is still beautiful to me.

Warm Silty Retribution.

The title of this piece was originally 'Father', which was changed after i decided it was too vague and after a few re-workings of the dialect and composition, the title 'Warm Silty Retribution' popped into my head. I will have the reader know I am not Southern and do not possess a Southern accent. Anyway, here is the first post of my blog; I feel it is one of strong emotion and abundant with symbolism. I can only hope you (the reader) will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also note that this particular piece is the product of revision, if you would like to see the original copy I can provide it via post or private message.

Warm Silty Retribution

‘Bout nine to five.

Most of my neighbors and friends are gone,

Gone to higher grounds.

They’ll soon see it too.

Th’ water don’t care,

It’ll fill up their rooms like booze in a frosty mug.

Ruin their crops and livelihood inna snap.

Father don’t care, he don’t care ‘bout us or our lil plans.

Reckon he’d do it anyways,

As I see it, father’s above reason and emotion.

What my cousin’d call ‘indifferent’.

Even as I sit here in my rocking chair, pistol in hand-

I come to appreciate th’ moments he’s left me with.

The moments before me and him have words,

If that’s what you’d call ‘em.

Down comes the water, eatin’ up my farm,

Snapping trees like twigs, faster than any man could axe ‘em.

It’s a good thing father comes round here every so often,

Reminding us kids just who’s in charge down here.

Not really here to spank us nor pat us on the back all kind like.

Cause I do believe he would be round these parts—

Even if we were never birthed.

Though most’d tend to pray for otherwise.

We built a wall, using our heads.

Tryin’ to keep father back, trying to make him ring our doorbell.

Bout’ eight to five now, I reckon that wall’s six feet under.

Rain don’t care, it’d sink a boat if given the chance.

Won’t be long now, I can hear them boards in the porch,

Snapping an’ creaking.

Soon it’ll be me, silty dark water filled with splinters-

And this pistol.

Thinking back, I dunno why I even brought this damn thing.

Not gon do much now.

An’ the only option left even a man such as myself is too proud to take.

Armed to the teeth yet uselessly naked

We can bang on his doors all we want—

Beggin’ him to forgive our sins and take us back in.

He’d give a real scorned look for a good while and take us in,

Washing our cuts and scrapes asking us the same question each time:

Boy, what did I tell you? Did you learn your lesson?

An’ each time, we’d say yes sir.

Then trot back out into the yard.

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I shared this piece with a few peers who found the recurring theme of father to be associated with a God-like figure or even Mother Nature. I tend to agree with them and would like to further point out the idea of such a powerful force being present regardless of our existence. I am wholly against most modern/popular religions due to the fact that they are no more means of crowd control than they are never ending sources of profit by those who realize the first statement. Keep that in mind, I do not support religions nor make an argument against it, but what if "the man upstairs wouldn't have done anything different if humans were not present?"