Outrage Fever

Outrage fatigue,

I’m sure I have it.

I can no longer be

any more outraged as

I’m already so exhausted.

I’m outraged into submission,

which is not giving up;

I just need a vacation from

this constant outrage,

a little break is all.

But I cannot,

the outrageous outrages

just keep coming, endlessly,

without any chance for respite.

We must keep vigilant,

and awake and… (yawn)… fight.

Something or other with the

whozzits and that whatsitzs,

that we have to keep shaking

our fists at because those

ne'er-do-wells need to be

put in something something.

I’m sort of a cynic by nature,

I’m a little bit nihilistic at times too,

and yet even I am fatigued by the

outrages the news exposes me to

Every. Single. Day.

Is that the goal I wonder?

To wear us all out to the point of

complacency and get us to merely

acquiesce to the outrages as, “just more

of the same, blah, blah, blah”.  

I mean, I want a nap, a nice doze,

a quick retreat to the quiet sanctuaries

of my mind, but it’s too outraged to make

any more space. I can’t move the fluffy pillows

over any farther. It’s too crowded in this angst room.

Outrage Fever,

I think it’s spread like a zombie plague,

and the only cure is it to lop off

its head so we can get some

damn peace in here.

Meh, I’m too tired to lift

my arm. Just eat my brain zombie,

Eat me.

Ha.

Vive la résistance!

Image Credits

Creator:OtmarW

Credit:Getty Images/iStockphoto

Irreconcilable Sleep

Set the alarm clock,

turn out the light,

fumble under the covers,

rest your head on the pillow,

and silently stare up.

The ceiling fan,

the cracked paint,

the outdoor lights reflecting,

the low hum of traffic,

the thudding of neighbors.

Roll over onto your left side,

find the cool spot on the pillow,

close your eyes,

the wheels of your mind spinning,

dwelling, remembering, wandering.

That time you kissed the wrong girl,

that time you made a fool of yourself,

that time you embarrassed yourself,

that time you cried,

that time you regretted.

Shake your head in the pillow,

clear your throat,

tell yourself to forget it,

move on,

leave it.

Drift to light sleep,

dreams of sex, loves, fears,

noises too loud to be real,

old hag sitting on your chest,

a dragging, pulling sensation.

Realize your dreams are not real,

roll over to your right side,

grumble with annoyance at your merciless dreaming,

breath slowly,

mutter to yourself about the time.

Sleep, irreconcilable sleep.

Wake before the alarm,

remember the long dream,

about her, about you, about the

look on her face, your face.

Go to the bathroom,

reeling with ghostly memories of

the unsettled sleep,

passing into nothing by the time

the water in the shower hits your face.

Let Me Be Honest, Maybe

The honest confessions

of a mind unencumbered

with the trappings of social

morays is seemingly unwelcome.

The line between what I

want to say and what I can

actually say is quite strict.

It’s a tightrope.

The thought police would

have a field day with all the

impure, aggressive, and bizarre,

images that flash through my mind.

I can’t really say anything about

them though, as polite society would

not be too keen on my excesses of

random musings.

I am certain I’ve taken the joke

too far, I’ve been too rude, too

disinterested in your perspective to

speak wisely, as often as I have been nice.

I say I just want to be honest but

usually only deliver the half-truth,

because the whole truth would probably

make you think twice about our relationship.

I wonder about the half-truths we tell each other,

the unfinished imaginings aching to be fulfilled

but stay incomplete because we’re too afraid to

offend, embarrass or hurt people’s feelings.

I wonder what lusty thoughts tumble through

the minds of those around me, what hurtful

terrors are on the tips of tongues, what

true sadness is under the surface.

I can’t imagine mentioning it either.

Self-censoring is probably the key to a healthy

society, if we all just said what we thought,

it’d be anarchy.  

Perhaps not full out anarchy,

possibly anarchy lite.

Like, there’s fires lit, but

they’re not doing any damage.

The pillars of society aren’t going

to fall with a few choice hurtful words,

but we don’t want to take that chance,

as if one magic phrase will doom us all.

So I’ll bite my tongue,

smile politely,

nod with a resigned look on my face,

and carry on, keeping my thoughts to myself.

Here I Am

There I am.

Just where I was.

In the middle of nothing.

Surrounded by everything.

I was there, the whole time.

I just sort of forgot that I was there.

Doing nothing, with nothing to do.

Engulfed in a World of possibilities.

I’m not sure if I was lost in

daydreams of summer days,

late night loves and long boozy

conversations about the state of things.

Or if I disappeared into the background

of someone else’s life, an extra in the

movie of some other random character,

who is now the star of it all.

I was certainly there though.

Somewhere, dancing, drinking, smoking,

in the background, acting like the life of

the party or the destroyer of it.   

Aware of being there, but not paying

any attention to my presence.

A blip on the radar screen, but not

really there.

I am still there though.

Taking up space. Filling the void.

Making faces at babies and trying

not to be bitter, bored or belligerent.

Here I am.

Don’t fret.

I’m not going anywhere.

So it would seem…

Einstein Made Me Do It

In pondering the unimaginable,

Einstein gave us the greatest of

all answers; that there are more

questions that need to be asked.

Satisfaction is only derived from

the truest stripping down of all

the unnecessary details of a thing

and analyzing its essence unencumbered.

In that bare bones exposure, we can see

the mechanisms which drive our quests

for a clearer understanding of the universe,

and of ourselves.

It is singular in us to want to know

what it is about us that makes us.

We want to be stardust and something

more, simultaneously.

Each beat of our heart’s echoes subtly

through the incomprehensible vastness

of infinity, through the curvature of Space

Time, and through each other.

The science of the universe is

the science of our hearts,

our hearts quicken with each new

discovery that brings us all closer together.

It is in the asking, “What if?” or,

“Why not?”, that we can begin to

unravel theories laid out for us by

some singular genius.

I want to know your heart just as

deeply as I want to know why light

bends and time literally skips a beat

in weaker gravitational fields.

I have more questions than answers,

I am uncomfortable in the unknowing

but excited by the prospects of learning

something I never knew.

A Unified Theory of why I love,

why we lose, why two people can

create something from nothing,

why we sing the blues.

We’re all just stardust,

forced together through electrical

attraction, made to ponder the infinite

and the end, with so many questions left.   

  

Memorials

I keep the cross my grandfather

wore around his neck on his

dog tag chain from WWII in my wallet.

I have transferred it to each new

wallet to keep it safe and close

to me at all times.

It is a talisman of sorts for me.

I often attribute my survival through

the various dangers of youthful life,

stupid adventures and poor choices,

to this simple cross once worn through

the terrors of war.

It is the most personal of Memorials

I can have. It is a treasure to me and

I do not know what I would do if I

foolishly lost it or had it taken from

me. To not have it, this Memorial,

I would be demolished.

I also keep the obituary of my other

grandfather in my wallet. He too was

a WWII Vet. It is tattered and worn

from all the transitions from wallet

to wallet. It too is a Memorial I hope

keeps me safe from harm.

I’m okay with giant statues and

chiseled facades depicting the heroism

of all those men and women that have

stood up for their beliefs, who took it

upon themselves to sacrifice their lives

for the betterment of those that come after.

Those statuesque Memorials are for the collective

consciousness to remember, and while

important, they lack the visceral intensity

of holding a sacred item in your hands,

you cannot turn a plaque or statue over through your

fingers and feel the weight it is burdened with.

You cannot run your fingers across the small

details of a special trinket without the fires of

memory igniting in your mind,

flashing to scenes of those times,

now so long gone. A precious item

of innumerable value to inspire and comfort.  

Personal Memorials, the weathered photo, the broken locket,

the knick-knack on a shelf, the item that means

absolutely nothing to a stranger

yet means everything to you.

These are the Memorials I value

more than any other.

Lamentations

Perhaps I’m overloaded,

perhaps I’m tired of it,

perhaps the act of caring,

has all become a bit much.

Stunned into stoicism,

through the sheer multitude

of grief and inconceivable acts

performed daily and globally.

The meter broke,

the scale snapped,

the weights and measures

are rusting in the back.

A standard state of mourning,

that’s the simple fact,

black arm bands and half mast

tributes too often in sight.

Perhaps it’s a funk,

perhaps it’s a fugue,

perhaps it’s just how it is,

perhaps it’s always been.

Personal and public,

they both sing dirges

by choirs of the spent,

the worn and weary.

A threadbare soul,

worn thin through

wringing of hands and

furrowed brows.

Perhaps I’m just annoyed,

perhaps I’m just irritated,

perhaps I’m just exhausted,

Perhaps this is the end.

It’s just how I worry,

And I worry a lot.

The poet’s burden,

I guess…