As a child, I would often proudly proclaim I would never smoke.

I would say "The body is a temple, and shouldn't be stained by THC and nicotine."

As though priest and shaman alike have not reverence for the sacred power of smoke stained air. 

Nowadays, I'd say the oxygen that was once sweet in my mouth has soured.

I'd say I see a little too clearly, and could use the grace of obfuscation. 

I could weep rain and craft clouds with little more than breath and intention. 

Yet the holy wind within me remains undiminished,

I can cleave it, as sharp as a knife if need be,

I smother it with lip and lung,

I shape it with tooth and tongue.

Yet it ever trembles in my chest demanding release,

Sometimes it escapes in squeaking stuttering struggle

Sometimes it seems to only return in anguish. 

But this cycle of repeated release

Vibrato born of storm shaken passion,

Could be called singing.

Or weeping.

or both. 

In Defense of Stray Thoughts

Thoughts are not clouds against the sky, they push up against my feet so I say they are the ground.
Watch as illusions, conclusions and contusions blossom when from my lips leak creation sound.
Words wielded as weapons are no more weak when whispered, or so I have found,
thus it is neither volume nor vibration, but thought to which the soul is bound.
I am not mindful nor am I mindless,
don't confuse my distraction as being thoughtless,
my scattered psyche and tangent trails are a form of progress.
Moving on from a single volition is not a symptom of weak decision, I must confess,
had I not divergent dedication and meandering meditation I would need medication and be pointless.
There are those who would have me be pointless though,
and if I were we would never grow.
I do not want to simply hand out lines for you to toe,
nor do I was to hand out neatly wrapped gifts tied with a bow.
See I would rather have you say "I think" rather than "I know."
How many times have I heard: "You got somethin' kid so with your points be blunt."
Sadly, my mind does not speak in gesture and grunt.
You could learn lessons from non-linear lyrics that loop backwards like they're asking "why only approach from the front."
Don't tell me that my mind is tattered,
because I have never thought that mattered,
and it was never simplicity with which woeful worlds were shattered.
I am told that I have a problem with ambiguity,
probably because I seek to make a throne for it in my poetry,
and I am fond of double entendre, which means I lack maturity.
I seek to make you question mind, soul and authority.
How is this for a work out? Can you flex your morality?
Are you no longer relishing this relative reality?
Are you enjoying this taste of true authenticity?
Come and join me in the writing community.
I understand if your can't get a grip or handle me,
but if you do see yourself as sky, strong, blue and free,
than I hope I have done nothing else than made you cloudy.

Mary's Light

I think that everyone is afraid of the dark,
but, I was still ashamed of my Mother Mary night light.
So much so that once out of sheer peer induced 6 year old bravado,
I unplugged her,
that night as I lay in bed, of nothing was I sure.
In fact I probably would have cried,
if not for on of my city's thousand street lights.
At age six those lights tinge everything gold.
It was a comfort really,
and not to get all touchy feely,
but it made me feel not so alone,
like if I curled exactly where the light shone
The monsters couldn't get me.

Nowadays the lights tinge everything orange.
Kind of like it has been dark so long that the shadows themselves have started to rust.
It's kind of funny that of all the things the night could become, it became oxidized,
because it seems like oxygen has been less than abundant lately,
My lungs are saturated with exhaust fumes,
and I scrape my feet before coming inside,
lest I leave a trail of carbon foot prints leading to my door.
Then I have to shake the orange flakes from my shadow,
cause we dont want that decay on the floor.

I take up my position beneath a skylight,
and wonder if maybe the night didn't rust,
but was obscured by the trapped in amber dreams.
Dreams people let go of in trade for things like job assurance or self confidence.
then instead of the night rusting it's burning,
because after all, what is more flammable than a dream?
and what is more flame retardent than gun powder?
Cause I dont know anything that can douse an abstract ember faster,
than a misplaced bullet... unless it was a well aimed one.
Wouldn't be ironic if we armed fire fighters with these most fantastic extinguishers?
Send out the kids who never let go of their bright red toy truck ideals,
and let them deal with the blazing detritus of abandoned aspirations.

I think everyone is afraid of the dark,
so I understand why someone would give up a dream
light it with a cigarette
pulled from a pack called regret,
a pact they never thought they'd get.
Then curl up on the edge of the pyre,
thinking silly thoughts like:
"Maybe if I lie right here the monsters wont get me."

It doesn't matter that it has been more than a decade since I unplugged the maiden Mary.
I am still afraid of monsters.
Boogeymen named failure and solitude,
who have long dirty claws that scrape at rib cages,
and the space just behind my eyes.
I'm far too old not to believe in evil.
Far too old to think that a:
"Hail Mary, full of grace!"
could put bold monsters in their place.
I'm far too young not to try it anyways.
Isn't that why anyone prays?
because the plausible and the possible have been played,
and all that remains is grace.

At this point, most hope has been painted to black doom,
with soot from dreams burned up in exhaust fumes,
and breaths that were eaten up by the oxidized gloom.

So scared of the dark am I,
that the first time I experienced true night
the kind speckled with stars that inspire,
boys to tell sweet and sweaty lies
to get girls to open not yet ready thighs,
All I could think was that here hide all the monsters I despise,
here where the night is new and free of rust
the monsters have their time to bide,
and no number of fiery dreams could have that night defied.
I surpassed terrified and became petrified,
my body was now a cave,
and if one were feeling brave,
they could have read the message carved into the stone of my rib cage
"Do not waste your time, this one wont be saved."

I think that everyone is afraid of the dark.
If they think aren't,
than I think they've never looked inside,
suddenly it's not so funny to think of "Where the sun dont shine."
Cause the sun doesnt shine,
on things curled around your spine,
nor does it radiate inside of your chest,
are you sure that is a heart that beats beneath your breast?
I think if I were a monster it is there I would like best.
I do not mean to be a pest,
nor do I wish to disturb your rest
but if sleep alludes you, you could try a guest,
I have one I might suggest...
her name is Mary.

My Drug of Choice

They say I'm not the type,
and sure I've never hit the pipe,
but don't believe the hype,
cause when the moment's ripe:
I'm a master of addiction
and Lord Almighty, is my drug lethal,  it's called conviction.
I could probably found as a picture next to the word stubborn in the book of diction
cause my need to be correct while you're wrong has become so strong it is now a restriction.
It holds me back from the light.
Like two good friends will hold you back from a fight,
or like a flickering street lamp will hold back the night,
or like gravity and calories hold me back from flight,
or like a muzzle can fail to hold back a dog's bite,
or like a BB gun can hold back a little boy's sight,
or like my XXXXXXL jeans hold back an ass that aint tight,
That's how bad I need to be right.
So yeah, I've never smoked a cigarette,
but my drug is worse I'll bet
see with smokes you can get like e-cigs or nicorette
but I dont know a good substitute yet.
So I can always be found, curled on the ground swearing: "No regret."
I probably wouldn't care about my grade,
like that's not how I get paid,
but for me the red exes on my test dont fade,
and I'd rather get checkmarks than get laid,
so buy magnets for the fridge cause my shit get's displayed.
Really though, y'all don't know how bad I get,
like sometimes I swear there's no fact I could forget,
So someone needs to call the vet,
cause I'm frothing at the mouth and need to be down,
don't look at me with that upset frown
what goes out always comes back around
and with all my bullshit outward bound
you don't want to be here when by karma I am found.
So you could say that I'm an argument whore,
can't you imagine me retching on the floor,
scrabbling, scratching, scraping at your door,
screaming: "Please tell me once more."
"You're right."

Fears

You know when you lean too far back in a chair,
and you almost fall and it gives you a scare?
Well, that's how I feel when I look at you.
Like im falling out into the open air,
and it awfully funny that I dont even care
that often a smile is all that you'll share,
see to me that is a trade quite fair:
My last living breath for the chance that youll dare.
See there, are worlds we could open,
with naught but soft words spoken,
and it's quite clear that I am broken
but I am not past the point of hoping
I think we're just afraid of choking
and only part of you hopes were joking
cause we are that close to blowing
and you're pretty brave with those matches you've been throwing
cause there is simply no way of knowing
whether our fire will be gently glowing
or one that is violently burning
just like you cant finish a book without page turning
or a class without some learning
or a romance without some yearning
because isn't that all that love is?
A simple state of need?
Like a stomach's got to feed,
like a heart has got to bleed,
like eyes have got to read,
like the tide must recede
like animals have got to breed--
Wait. Crap. That isn't what I mean
I swore I could keep this clean,
So let's swing it back to you and what I've seen
Like giggles and grimaces with smiles slipped between
or eyes that wander and day dream
or a soul so big you're bursting at the seams
but such vague things are all that a can glean
because if I were to find out more
 I'd have to get closer, and I have done that before
the experience struck and cut straight to my core
so here I stand, knuckles inches from your door
and I cannot complete the action.
See among your friends are certain factions
that would reap such extreme satisfaction
from your negative reaction.
So I have a worry, I see a complication,
in your possible lack of reciprocation
because you have your ways of intimidation
that make me into a fool, an aberration
 but I cannot use words like fear or fragility
for they would impune my masculinity
and although that is a part of me
it does not define all that could be
and it is a simple reality
I am afraid but I hide it in jokes and poetry
I slip it into a slew of metaphor, smart-ass and simile
but I better stop hold my words right there
lest I fall right out of my chair.



Poet's Note: I wrote the first three lines of this poem over a year ago, the rest came to me recently.

Impending Departure

I cannot attach.
I would extend hands in friendship,
or affections in courtship,
or ropes in hopes of salvation.
However such grips would break,
reciprocation would be fake,
and threads would tear, loosing me to damnation.
The issue is distance and time.
As it usually is at the heart of the crime,
Too soon it will be that I'm no longer be here
I will be miles away in what seems like hours,
and such issues desperation devours,
and this is what I fear.
I cannot attach.
I would leap, grab and aspire,
instead I ignite in solitary fire.
The blaze beats back the black of distance.
So instead I crouch, huddle and yearn,
I sit and I bask as I burn,
I am safe from the cold, at least in this instance.
I do not attach.

The Futility of Poetry

The problem with describing feelings
is that even at their best,
words are minute.
A thousands words could never,
given the adjectives and adverbs,
describe even the basest of our motivations
Take my simple jealousy.
The green eyed monster so it is called,
with fangs and devils horns,
Leathery black wings that beat the night,
as it swoops and drops
upon the dimmest doubt
making it the loudest shout.
Or does it have frogs legs?
As it leaps and hops
from unintended words
never meant to be overheard.
we do not know.
For whatever monster plagued the Moore,
whatever beast turned sweet Desdemona,
from maiden to whore,
tis not the same thing which knocked upon my door.
Or how could one describe affections?
Could it be a light bursting through a window?
bringing brightest light to the east ,
stealing the suns fading glory in the west.
Or could it take the form of an eye opening in the ocean?
consuming all bringing it fathoms beneath
to lands where such fore mentioned light
could never penetrate,
but for the faintest photon,
which exists but in desperation and futility,
which is to say it does not exist at all.
The problem is thus:
feeling exists in a dimension beyond perception.
It exists in a world lacking polygons or perfection,
in a chaotic paradigm which shifts upon heart beats.
This poem was not meant to describe my feelings,
but describe my own ignorance.
I could no less use words to explain feeling
than I could use lines to draw circle.
My life would be better devoted,
to spinning lies in honey,
whilst vinegar speeds through my veins.
Or chiseling vague images in ice,
and leaving them at your door on hot summer days,
because the pools that remained when you arrived
would probably better depict my feelings,
then anything I could ever intentionally make.

Two men walked down two parallel roads,
and on their backs were heavy loads.
Although these two walked side by side,
neither mentioned what they had in mind.
That both shared a similar fate
That both men fought for state
One was red, one was blue
then bullets flew between the two
and once they were clad in that crimson hue.
No one could tell who was who.

Counting Up

I live in moments,
each second is a millenium in which I can define the world and all that is in it
and still forget it in the next eternal moment.
With each tick the world changes
and is reverted upon the tock,
new meanings new hopes,
 but still the same dream,
 the same illusion of control,
like we live on the face of the clock,
at least you do.
I don't.
Because the only timepiece I  keep is the measure of heart murmurs,
but my heart does not murmur,
it shouts
speaks out
 has mind of its own
and though it can only give voice about once a tick
that seems to do the trick
because by the time tock comes
I have loaded my guns.
You live like target acquired,
I live like a poet inspired
and don't you dare get tired
because every second lost upon yawn
is day done until the next brink of dawn
and like a child sprawled on the lawn
who you claim does not realize what he's losing
you've already lost too much.
You say youth is wasted on the young
but moments are all too often wasted on grown up humdrum,
our years are numbered in days
which are constructed of hours
which are made by minutes
which are counted in seconds.
So everything comes down to this next second
which is really the next minute
which rolls into the next hour
which falls into a day
which concludes this year.
Now as you walk into the daily drivel you call maturity
I want you to see,
we youths know our days are numbered,
we are simply unencumbered
by the weight of wasted moments
because we did our best to spend them wisely,
not upon completing the next task
or rushing to get to class but by sprawling on the lawn
watching the coming of the new dawn,
 in awe of moments which last eternities. 

Devil's Advocate

Ahh look at this sun, radiating beauty, purity, innocence.

Innocence? HA! Like innocence could exist here, even your precious sun makes shadows, only in the creation of light can darkness be found

Well see here the majesty and power of the ocean!

The ocean is a king confined to his throne, his power is a sham, he can struggle to rise out of his chair, but he will be chained, forever.

What of the sky? It has no beginning and no end, truly free! 

 

Free for what? To expand forever into nothingness? Has the sky ever gripped you? shaken you with its power? It may be free but it is purposeless.

And the ground upon which I stand, holding up the weight of the world?

You make it sound so strong! It is riddled with cracks and cavers, even molten lava runs through it the ground is useless out of its own division.

So what?What should all these things mean for me

I just told you!

Don't strive for innocence when by your nature you are dark, with light within so must dark be within, recognize it and take away its power 

Don't be fooled by the appearance of power, for power only exists within boundaries and as soon as those boundaries are reached all appearance of power is gone, power like all things power is relative.

Don't fear tethers, finding something worth tying yourself  is a gift within itself. Living for the sake of living will leave you empty

Don't believe anything is too solid, you know nothing in this world, the next second of your life could be an end or a new beginning. Things are always shifting dividing and crumbling, take solace in the lack of human permanence.

Know yourself, do not fear power, look for worthy links, be prepared for change.

My shoes.

Most people who have known me for a while know I don't really care about my shoes.
In fact, I like to think my shoes kind of match my personality.
For instance, my current shoes are monochrome black.
Not flashy, not fancy just simple.
I like to think I'm not flashy or fancy, kinda simple ya know?
But, I also run around and I'm really energetic, so my shoes are all torn up.
I don't know, I guess I ijust like my beat up ol' sneaks.

Release

At some point there's no more space left

At some point there's too much weight to heft

To push up against, to force high into the sky

And I? Am I to simply step aside and stand by

As you rip, tear and destroy everything that I hold dear

You don't realize the need they have to hold you near

Hold you and hope, that maybe you wont ruin it again

A basic hope, that again and again you rip and rend

Made useless, in that it has been torn and tattered 

The things they wished for you have since been shattered

And here I  stand, too mad to beg but too scared to look away

So I fall too my knees, throw my head down and pray

I beg God to intervene, to cross that divide that you created 

To brighten your heart, to defeat your thirst that cant be slated

To do whatever is needed, to take you from where you stand

Refusing help, scorning aid, turning away each extended hand

Because I don't know anymore, I have nothing left to say

I have no olive branches unburnt no hopes for the new day

Too many times have promises been broken, chances squandered

Too many times has the path been laid bare and you still wandered

So now I'll stand back, I wont pull you away from what you become

But never forget where you once called home, where you came from

A house of sainthood, of sinners trying to make some light 

In a world where darkness is stacked against all the right

And you succumbed, you fell and you let yourself be taken 

Shirk the blame create the guilt but it is still your faith that was shaken

You stepped away from the promising future the plans and power

And I remember when once I was wrong and i looked to you in that hour
And you were good you reminded me of proper dos and don'ts

So maybe you'll return to that  man you were or maybe you wont

This is the first time I've done a poem this way, I kinda just let go of some things I had been holding onto and this is how it turned out, I know it's a little rough but bear with me.

God Bless,

Ammon

The Nature of Expectations

At the start, they're good things

A recognition

A commendation

One likes the start of them 

But at that point they're rare

An instance of going above

And beyond

The thirst for appreciation 

Drives one to exceed expectations

Again and Again

Until one is no longer complimented

Thus the extra work falls by the wayside

Now there is disappointment

Why has the good work stopped?

Extra work piles on

Now more good things are needed

To be recognized

To be commended

Hands Talk

Our hands define us
Not in that they shape destiny
Nor in that they foretell the future
But in that they record the past
Scars, callouses stories of a life
I scratched at what hands meant
In The Process of Existence
When I feel hands as a general rule
I look for things, callouses of course
But also a strong grip tells stories
If a person has something to prove
They'll clench your hand like a vice
If they're personable they'll be firm
Weak handshakes burn me especially
You're meeting a person, that's important
It's an opportunity for you to connect
And weakness is what you show?
Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous.
Knuckles talk too
Rough knuckles are angry
Soft knuckles are more calm
Nails are also a tell
Dirty nails mean a worker or a slob
Blunted, chipped, nails probably a worker
Long creepy nails with scum? slob
Clean nails mean lazy or clean freak
Short manicured probably clean
Long or chewed on lazy bum
I'm just saying hands reveal things
So I always look at hands
Maybe you should too