Tag Archives: Reflection

“sit alone on that river bank till I forget that I can talk”

I fallen in love with every book I’ve read.

I’ve fallen in love with every girl I’ve seen.

I’ll never know if I’m a good writer, I don’t think anyone ever does. I just want to write prose and have people think I wrote down words with purpose – intent. Interest in one’s self is a characteristic a writer needs to have to find importance in their writings; I’m far from interested – or interesting for that matter. I think a good prose comes from a clear mind, not excluding a drunk or drugged mind, but a clear mind in the sense of just knowing at least the next ten words you want to write before you write them. This allows you to think twenty words ahead and begin to plan for the next thirty. I’m at fifty now.

A good writer writes poems for years and switches to prose to try and prove something to himself. Or vice-versa, impossible to say. Chances are he’ll turn back to poetry (or prose), become a critic, an advertiser, a wino, a bum – whatever. He’ll write. Hopeful something might happen tomorrow.

That was fifty.

This is America, with liberty and justice for all.

I’d be happy writing if I just actually could write when I want and not just when my head is too full of words to allow for proper thought anymore and I just have to write to keep from having to carry around a bag of nouns and verbs behind me everywhere I go. Imagine if an accountant could only add numbers when he had thought of so many numbers he literally spewed abstract decimals to his friends while convulsing on his dinning room floor.

The first two lines are the best part of this piece.

I need too practice more.

I’m a long way from the road I want to be on but I’m closer than I ever have been before.

Bird Murder.

 

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The Pearl, The Bird, and the Clam

To  every word that is spoken I’m not the one who’s chosen to be in simile of a note that is not my own as I call to every phone I find myself a drone to words that are so vague and expressionless.

My back my knee my chest is jarred by the journey of actions I must travel on this naked path of regret and redemption. Redemption of a words that weren’t true and actions that stood on the other side of the world that makes me numb to answers that are not quite there yet.

The lyre bird can mimic sound so can souls mimic passion or does come from a natural plain that is surreal to our human comprehension of what is. I cannot find a soul that flows from the deepest inner holes of my being. Acting for so long has only made a liar’s bird that harks and crows to the upper sky searching for cornflakes at the end of a salty road that came to be nothing. But the road was long and full of bumps that made me know of the twists and turns of the reality I make for myself.

Every strand of hair has fallen and the taste for life has depreciated its value but that comes with age or the new eyes we give ourselves after the world tells you, you’re wrong. Who cares for gravity of mistakes the more monumental, the more of the person they are and will be. Honestly I can’t find a branch I haven’t broken or a twig that has snapped in my misdirected path toward wisdom and truth that exists inside all of us but we refuse to let in because it is too heavy of a burden to bear.

The truth is we are all misshapen pearls that stand to be remolded and reshaped and I am not ashamed or afraid of the bumps that had to be smoothed in the tight clams mouth so that I would come closer to what I actually need and want to be.  This immortality that we dance with is our search for perfection that we deny ourselves with our pride and vanity that consumes us like the clam consumes the pearl holding its soul. The shell that we adorn ourselves with only holds us from the round, perfect, glimmering pearl that we want to be and once you can remove the tight clams grasp than we can truly have a conversation.

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Filed under J.L.Wanderer, Uncategorized

The Shadow

You walk alongside me day in and day out

Stout and tall like I am

Both knowing and being the darkest part of me

What would you say to me?

Would you judge me for my every action?

Tell me things I am afraid to speak of?

You would be the median to my arrogance or cowardliness at the time

The Yang to my Yin

If only you were able to speak…

The knowledge you probably possess is profound

You have great abilities, such as projecting yourself in more than one direction

Being able to stretch varying distances

Yet you only exist if I do, so I feel like a hindrance

We share the same life but you are the better half in my opinion

Maybe I envy your peaceful existence, and you deserve mine so you can live out life

At times I feel like the shadow of myself, while you were meant to be…the part of me which strong and true.

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Escaping the Mazes

Mazes upon mazes of glass mirrors

Wrapped inside a house of cards

Finding yourself amidst the fog and the confusion

Ever so gently as to not sweep the entire masterpiece away

All that you have…away

Judge wisely, dear girl

The King could knock down more than just the masterpiece

Brutally, brutally

Think for a spell

And your entire world has gone to hell

To get a smile out of your misery; they laugh, they laugh

One reflection smiles back confidently

While another shakes its head; avoiding your gaze

Is it right? Was it right?

Never-ending twists, unforgettable turns

Will we ever find the way, away

Or such is life?

Constant mazes

Constant mirrors

In a not-so-constant house of cards

Will we ever find the escape?

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APPLAUSE FOR TYRANNY: CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE 

 REVOLT AGAINST THE TRYANNY

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“That’s Not Who I Am.” (8-11 stanzas)

“I get it!”

He yelled from inside the car.

“Sometimes it is hard to take the leap.”

As if through the dreary haze of a dream, I remember something

in fragments

The desert and the canyon.

The hopelessness and the feelings of being lost.

The bitter taste…

“You just gotta let go!”

He flicked his cigarette at me.

“Who are you?” I yell back, my head pounding.

“I am a nobody.

A no one.

Someone undefined as of yet.

The beginning of something new

and that endless possibility of what is to come!”

I shook my head violently.

The signs and the anger drumming in my head were overwhelming.

It all needed to end.

Those horrible images of a pointless life

attached

to

a

name

“That’s who I am.”

                                                                        I

didn’t

even

like

“Who are you?”

My eyes widened, flitting from the dark ledge of the unknown

back to the shadowy silhouette of the man with no name.

Sweet existential understanding broke through the clutter of past things.

That’s not who I was anymore.

“I am you.”

_

_

I stumbled forward

learning to walk again, gesturing for him to move to the passenger side.

Now was my turn to drive.

He smiled that scary smile.

Scary with all the things that now could be.

I closed the door and he shut his

as he talked of how the possibilities were endless now

life was for me to bend again

through the insight I have gained

in enlightenment.

The past was merely a springboard

from which to launch

with lessons learned

and tales to tell.

Nothing to define the man to come.

That’s not who I am any longer.

I punched the accelerator.

The piece of shit lurched forward into the darkness.

For a moment we flew

Until we

began

to fall.

Toward a bright

white

Light

we

fell.

I close my eyes.

Thinking of the metaphor of the ledge.

“That’s not who I am…

…any longer…”

_

_

The sun was just breaking when I waked.

Gasping for breath, sitting straight in the uncomfortable car seat.

The little light just beginning was orange, purple and blood red.

It was enough to show me the wide expanse of desert

bathing in the blooming colors, soaking up the first bit of understanding.

I leaned back in the seat letting the heat warm my cold body

resurrecting in a way, allowing me to feel new.

Blinking I reached for my cigarettes,

craving the menthol flavor

to mask the bitter metallic flavor left in my mouth.

After a few drags

I twisted it into the wood paneling

chucked the rest

allowed a deep breath

and a grateful smile

started up the car

and began to drive.

I had many miles to go.

The adventure had just begun anew.

_

_

There once was a man, who hated his name,

the history and the definition that came with it.

But that man died-

-disappeared.

Leaving behind only a license and a social security number to show he was there.

With those was a note,

written in hastily excited letters:

“That’s not who I am.”

FIN.

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“That’s Not Who I Am.” (5-7 stanzas)

And so we went

with nary a word into the dark night.

The headlights illuminated little around us

leaving us with a dim understanding of where we were going.

That was for the best,

I tried to convince myself.

That was all apart of this letting go theme.

But was this who I am?

My eyelids were starting to fall.

I looked over at the man with no name.

Saw his silhouette waving in and out of focus,

looking ghostly.

He’d moved onto smoking a joint

and singing under his breathe with the Goldberg Sisters.

I saw shinning tears running down his cheeks.

I wipe away the salty wet from my cheeks

and just as I fall asleep he punched the radio off,

angrily,

muttering,

“That’s not who I am.”

_

_

I woke up when we came to a screeching halt.

My head flung forward and then snapped back.

“MOTHERFUCKER!”

screamed the man with no name.

My foggy eyes cleared quickly, panicking about what could have happened.

I jumped out of the car.

He was just standing at the edge off to the edge of the headlights.

Feet planted.

Arms crossed.

Back to me.

Cautiously I joined peering into the murky darkness the lights tried to pierce.

My eyes widened.

We stood on a precipice of a gorge.

He laughed,

“Marla was right!

You might die at any moment.

The fucking tragedy?

You don’t!”

“Would have killed us?” I yelled, in fright,

in anger,

in excitement.

He winked at me,

“Maybe.”

“That would have made you a murderer!”

He winked at me again with a scary smile,

“That’s not who I am.

Who are you?”

_

_

Walking toward the car, he let out a barking laugh.

My vision went funny and my body began to ache.

Then they came in big billboards

that passed me on this stagnant road right by the ledge.

I saw Lowell being built in the Industrial Revolution.

Flashing before me I witnessed Kerouac sitting at his typewriter,

my parent’s pointless mundane lives,

the banking job I had,

the kids poking fun

(that pain still burning).

Showing me fully connected to the social media of the day-

Showing me a slave to the entirety.

I felt sick as I fell to my knees covering my eyes.

“Why is this happening?”

“Showing you a Jack’s wasted life.

“But

“That’s not who I am.”

He winked again with that scary smile.

Walking toward the car, he let out a barking laugh,

“That’s not who I am!”

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