On the Labyrinth Betwixt.

Outcast,
misfit,

odd duck,
black sheep,
strange bird:
fish out
of water.

Labyrinth betwixt
my element and I,
drowning
in the seemingly
absurd.

Yet one more square peg
in a world of round holes.
Come on, cut the crap:
I know I am an imposter.

Immobilized by a fear
of being found out.
No, I just don’t belong.

I know I
don’t belong
and it’s no surprise
that reactions elicited
in the herd
are always so

black and white,
yin and yang,
one and zero,

so goddamned binary,
so fucking digital.

No between,
no gradation,
no degrees:

fate lost to any hope
for balance;
left in the tug-o-war
of extremes:

divided, conquered
by the blade of fear,
left to struggle
with this bloody, messy

polarity,
dichotomy,
duality
within me, knowing
that in the Argus-like eyes
of the herd

difference means
either distinction
or dysfunction,
and so it’s clearly

the podium
or the stake,
the throne
or the gallows…

the blind eye
or a frenzy of praise
would be far
too much to ask for

and either
would probably serve
to kill me
to the core in the end,
anyway.

Call to Falsify.

Do you only confuse my mind,
feed me these lies,
to manipulate

me, or are you trying
to open my eyes,
inspire self-honesty

in my approach to my true spectrum
of choice,
of probability:

degrees of difficulty inherent
in the paths
left for me 
here in this dismal reality,

providing a basis
upon which I can recognize
the options that exist betwixt
extremes, polarities

— the paths
of least and greatest
resistance —

so as to at least have a hope
in their mythological hell
of choosing wisely?

I just don’t know anymore, standing,
shaking on this unstable ground,
confused as to who to trust,
deeply questioning
everything.

My mind has consistently failed
me, leaving me hanging,
as if from a noose.

So have you.

For all I know, I’m totally
crazy,
and you’re both the same. 

Leave me
with something worth weighing,
evidence to tip the scales
one way or the other

to falsify this lingering allegation
in my head that I lost
my mind long ago:

that I am merely
hallucinating,
delusional,
self-blind
and hopelessly
insane.

War of the Walking Damned.

“When I was a kid, I asked my grandpa once if he ever killed any Germans in the war. He wouldn’t answer. He said that was grown-up stuff. So I asked if the Germans ever tried to kill him, but he got real quiet. He said he was dead the minute he stepped into enemy territory. Every day he woke up and told himself, ‘Rest in peace. Now get up and go to war.’ And then, after a few years of pretending he was dead, he made it out alive. That’s the trick of it, I think. We do what we need to do and then, we get to live. But no matter what we find in DC, I know we’ll be okay. Because this is how we survive. We tell ourselves that we are the walking dead.”
— Rick Grimes, The Walking Dead (episode 5×10).

Smoke and fire.
Channeled rage.
No choice left for us,
so war, it must be waged.

Pretend to know we win;
that today,
we build a better world;
that you don’t die
and make it
through to the end:

and in that order.

Camaraderie.
Determination.
No mercy…

at least
until there’s no
choice again…

Who are we?

So we were cornered
into this, understood,
but now

we are left to question
where we all draw
our limitations,
or if we save

the chalk to outline
the silhouettes
of the enemy:

how much of ourselves
do we sacrifice on our path
of death and destruction
to liberate ourselves?

Fighting fire with fire,
striving to ensure
that we’re never too far gone,
never stray too far

and become the enemy
in order to defeat them,
for even

if we meet with triumph,
who is truly left
when the war is finally won?

Impeaching the Symptom.

So hopelessly full
of himself that there’s no room
left within for empathy.

All confidence
and no self-awareness,
made all the more dangerous
given naked displays
of his previously-inconcievable
extremes of stupidity.

Truth holds
no value for him and his herd:
so many contradictory lies
randomly woven
into a single sentence…

Lunatics
have always run
the asylum,
true, but we’ve now
given the throne
to a nut
of a higher order.

How on earth did we get here?

I’m all in
when it comes to the fight against
him, but you do realize,
don’t you, that we’re really only
striving to impeach
a symptom?

Lunch: Launched.

Eyes wide open,
so vulnerable and wild,
through my mind
I’m screaming,

Bring it.

Confidence up until
it was brought, then knees
buckled
and I thought to myself,
in my weakness,
my hell,

Keep it coming.

So it knocked the wind
out of me,
then punched
me in the face, leaving

me falling
backward, limp
as a rag doll,

a lifeless bag of bones
hitting the mat,

blossoming a vermillion
pool
in which to wade

the silly container
as I walk,
float and fly free,
exploring 

origins, triggered,
inspired
to flee to the safe

space of conventional,
consensus reality. 

Such nausea.
Feel so fucking queasy.
Oh. Jesus fuck.
Here comes the lunch:

launched

… and you forgive
me with such ease.

Innocent/Ultimate/Whatever.

Name comes to me.
Bursts into my head,
persistent echoing.

I remember the feelings,
feel drawn to them. To hell
with it, one life
(at a time)
to live, might as well, right? 

I mean, why not?

Succumb to the craving.
Ride the wave.

Just return alive, with notes.
After all,
this is just an innocent
experiment, right?

Nothing fatal, nothing final.

Of course, if it comes
to that, I’ve got
either nothing to face,

as by definition I cannot
be there to face
it, or eternal recurrence

of the same
via different masques
and stories,
each altered, evolved.

Bad Omens (Creep & Pounce).

Constantly
resisting the aching
urge to look
over my shoulder.

Alerted to movement
in my peripheral
that stood as convincing
enough to inspire

me to turn
my head in expectation,
only to find
no one and nothing
was there to be found.

Still, that potent,
overwhelming sense
of being watched persists.

Though strangely
managing
it better than ever,
I feel myself
on edge,

battling for balance.
Am I on the cusp again?

Signs that serve
as bad omens 
clearly creeping

in, flaunting
their wretched,
alien faces,

however briefly

between their creep
and pounce.

Truth, as a Gas.

Tumbling backward
at an ever-accelerating rate:
no debate.

And I’m just
an exuberant little child riding
the rollercoaster,
surfing this surreal tidal wave

with my neck,
legs, and arms
stretched, held up
and away,

fingers spread out,
all as if I were literally
trying to capture the experience.

Document the downfall.

Determined as fuck,
so immediately fixated.

Such an intense overreaction,
even factoring
in the heights

of my global
thermonuclear
hypersensitivity. My halves
were suddenly free
of friction. Control freak asleep,

we plotted
against him. And just guess
for me, please, really:
who do

you think’s winning?
Vote. Cast.
I promise: the truth
will be a gas…

Strum.

Not a complex
mind, save
that it may constitute
a breed
with which you are unfamiliar,

though if I can claim
to know you at all,
you’ll learn the ropes

soon
enough, master
the push, pluck, and pull
of the strings
in record time,

strum
and establish
it as an art form
shortly thereafter.

Make Haste.

Atheist to the core,
still you strive
to see an angel
in every being,

a light at the end
of every tunnel.

Well, sorry.
It was not meant to be.

Silly, you see:
you aimed
for reality.

So tell me:
is the most vile
of enemies governed
by a conscience, sincerely

believing
that they are doing
the right thing?

Ask
and a darkness smiles
back:

not the least
bit comforting.

So make haste,
cover your ass…