People Watching

Focus on everyone else,

this is my goal for the quarter,

I am one of the best at my profession,

I am a people watcher,

I proudly admit,

scanning the aisles consistently,

albeit diligence and precision,

I am watching like a hawk,

the denizens who occupy space,

their attributes interest me,

even the ones who have familiarity,

compel me to observe,

linger in their inadequacies,

pick apart the rhyme or reason,

the depth of themselves,

and I ask myself,

do they know what I’m doing?

do they know that I’m watching?

do they care that I’m talking to myself?

apathy is usually the easiest answer,

serves to pull away,

like protozoa in a Petrie dish,

they split,

only to migrate moments later,

using speech as fodder,

visual cues in each action,

as I pull my gaze backward,

and address the information collected,

somehow shapes my interactions,

makes them whole,

terrestrial,

this eerie preoccupation I have,

people watching is what I do.

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The Road I Have Taken

The road I have taken,

is my own,

singular,

solitary,

I walk along its rigid surface,

one which no other treads,

some say it’s golden,

others say it’s fractured,

mired in imperfection,

but they don’t know,

standing where they can simply observe,

make false statements,

judge indiscriminately,

foolish expression..

that measures no real weight,

should equal nothing to me,

but in truth,

it sticks to my core like barnacles,

yet I slowly realize..

that it doesn’t determine anything else,

or decide my fate,

I make myself,

so does He,

yet I lie,

put on a proud fixture,

to deter hecklers,

and see my mothers,

all three of them,

transform into the ‘me’ they invoke,

I  humbly thank them,

pass on what I learn,

encourage feats of strength,

in those opposed to myself,

while I stomach the bellows,

wrestle them limp,

and move forward,

in this dual identity.

Close Yet Far Away

Goals are malleable things,

we form them,

we grind them,

we swallow them whole,

we digest them,

and throw away the rhind,

purpose of such things is evident,

to hold us together,

in ways magnetism cannot,

anchor us to this rock,

before Heaven,

shoulders to spill sorrows into,

we attempt to focus,

light into a fine beam,

capable of many things,

even smash atoms,

as miniscule as they are,

they burst!

and we are satisified,

that we have directions,

that the unseen path is more negotiable,

an internal compass,

one which never reads North,

a semblance of time and place,

a notion of our own making,

by the time we stop counting steps,

we’ve gotten to the fork,

pronouncing what was sought,

we look onto the horizon,

so close but so far away…

On A Spring Afternoon

On a spring afternoon,

the fluttering of fireflies set a tone,

one which quietly echoes,

to a delicate pallet,

as the Sun fires its rays,

flowers perk up,

trees show their second wind,

a beautiful yet renewed vigor,

green and plush,

pollen swirls the air,

when the scent of dew arrives,

and the first raindrop hits someone’s nose,

cold and wet,

its divided parts slide,

from their face,

to the ground,

where ants scurry through moist terrain,

a puddle-riddled labyrinth,

while dirt becomes messy material,

yet enriches growth,

a child’s sneaker makes impact,

pushes these grassy stalks aside,

a sign of playtime,

temporary in the mud,

memory made eternal,

once an image is the effect,

a multi-colored arc,

Roy G. Biv,

they called him,

a legend of innocent happenings.

Opaque

Emotions can be so simple,

yet complex at the same instant,

some feelings can overwhelm,

and others can simply…

taper off,

become confused,

rip through patience,

make one paranoid,

riding the surface like a needle  upon a record,

producing beautiful music,

melodies that key into communicative rhythm,

between one another,

out of sync sometimes,

coalescing rarely,

all to fight the darkness within,

a stoic prison where one can think,

too much,

too often,

in description,

it’s thick and muddy,

to the touch,

deep breaths may help,

drown the stutter out,

perhaps change the venue,

make maturity useful,

and draw out something opaque.

Fiction

I have a fixation on imaginary creatures,

things of an abstract persuasion,

colors which bubble from nothing,

and make their way through the veil,

taking awkward shapes ,

tracing the eye with vivid detail,

forming scales and teeth,

growing floppy ears,

swinging its long tail rambunctiously,

I grab on tight to its back,

as it floats through the air,

exhibiting grace in its innovative movements,

into another world,

a realm composed of ideals,

imagine that!

pigtails on a unicorn,

curly and coiled,

reality which is wild in every sense,

invisible foods cover an elongated table,

as children clamor over the savory smells…mid-air,

aromas from kitchens spanning the globe,

cheese, sugars, tomatoes, and goodness inhabit the nostrils,

while swimming in circles,

like fish in a barrel,

one that monkeys have climbed out of,

each aberration pollutes nature’s ethos,

yet it feels vital,

convivial even,

freeing the spirit,

metaphysical inside a million jars,

all human shaped,

children are blessed,

for they have the ability to capture this each day,

this portal to something which is understanding,

yet outside,

out of sight,

out of mind,

this aspect defies.

Looking at the Clock

Time is the question,

the one that alludes me,

each occasion I prescribe,

moments unchecked,

and how!

the verses align where my mind tells them to,

to gel like mingling fronts,

akin to hands on a familiar face,

growing up is not a matter of..

chronology alone,

synchronisms occur as well,

physical forms take notice!

the pattern trails to you,

as seconds fade into minutes,

minutes to hours,

hours to sacred days,

oscillating mandibles prove themselves unilateral,

taking the human race along,

becoming quintessential,

in our Maker’s “illogical” design.