Grand

grand

I want to be the man with brawn

Who stays all right when all goes wrong

It’s just the luck of the draw I guess

I really couldn’t tell you why

I want to keep the most control

And not allow you to take hold

It’s only shakes from the willow tree

I could get lost in your sky

But now there’s this and that and then

I cannot keep them in again

It’s just a cotton tulip show

To say I’m done’s a lie

I want to stay the one who's strong

The Iron Heart never melted down

Then my eyes began to flood

Right as your well ran dry

But now there’s who and with and when

And everlasting tales to spin

Grandest illusion of them all

And you really couldn’t tell me why

cas 52916

ain't got no title

This doesn't have a title

He said, “I can be your dream,
but it will only last tonight.
Remember when you fall asleep,
I’m gone at crowing light.”
I said, “You may think it’s me
you flee with cosmic rays.
But I am more than solar flares, believe,
I am the light of day.”

He told me, “If I take you there,
don’t hope for it to last.
I’m only good for what you see,
and my heart’s made of glass.”
I told him, “I am blower’s friend.
I’ll shatter upside-down,
the heart you hold inside your chest,
while wearing Maple crown.”

He whispered, “I will press your keys,
the white ones and the black.
The song won’t hold much levity, &
I will hold it back.”
I whispered, “I am not the keys,
I'm the entire thing.
I’m notes, I’m bars, I’m staff, I’m clef,
I’m spaces in between.”

He said, “Now I will play the roles,
of whoever you desire,
to get the wants that I would have,
yes I will be the liar."
I told him, “All the parts you play?
Seductive, I confess.
But the truth I am, the tales you spin?
Unparalled, at best."

He growled, “When this is over,
because for certain it shall be,
I’ll leave you in a wake of tears,
and you’ll be on your knees.”
I responded, with an eyebrow raised,
“I loathe to drop this bomb, but
in the end they all crawl back,
and curl up in my palm.”

CAS // 5.23.2016

The Trick to Angels

The Trick to Angels

the Spectres of love

shadowboxing in

poised to fight demons

boots laced to win

bags under eyes

purples & blues

worn from the weeping

stressed out from you

was WILD at first

fire not tamed

now I lie maudlin

prerequisite hate

I’ll go to your land

and trace beelines down

rob honey from hive

and burn to the ground

it’s my secret wish

you will not deny

both my secret wings

I won’t let you find

thought you were the Trick

a new happiness

angel to sins

if I had to guess

yet I got it wrong

I can’t call it love

the Trick to angels is:

you were never one

CaS o5.21.2016

Beast.

Beast

so watch us all take bets.

don’t give me a bite of your lust & flesh.

strut what I strut in a blood brotherhood,

I long to make some new debts.

watch every plane crash down into flames,

when Dragon brings his shame.

all Washingtons and sir Benjamins will prove:

I chase the Beast into the night.

I can get higher than you thought,

in the tempest of your drive.

Beast runs from me into the night.

this is no lie.

turn with the jackal, carnivate

my way to the top of the chain.

Lotus, a fungus, a dry heady thrust,

my drum beats tap in your brain.

even the ax can’t cut down the pain

when it chopchopchops away.
if Washington were sir Benjamin you'd lose:

I chase your Beast into the night.

I can be horror if you want,

in the fable of your life.

Beast runs from me into the night.

this is no lie.

I will light your way down

and then,

I will guide your way out

 of it.

I chase the Beasts, brother, into the night.

and I’ll do all that you’ve brought,

before I slip out of sight.

Beasts run from me into the night

this is no lie this is no lie this is no lie.

cas 5.20.16

Like, Only

Like, Only

Only smiling, because that’s what they want
Simply dying; I can’t have what I want
A paper chain link fence
A subtle hand blueprint
A little sideways myth
But you knew what I meant

Only playing, it’s what all boys do
Just reframing; me & you, us two
A furry-lipped debate
A mountainous heartbreak
A little lust enflamed
But this is what you made

Only diving, in an oyster’s shell
I’m surviving, in my strung up hell
A rigid sign thirteen
A post beneath the sheet
A stroll down ego street
But you know what I mean

CaS // may seventeenth // two-thousand-sixteen

HEART.BEAT

HEART.BEAT

It destroys me silent in a washed up way.
Its goes straight for mine eyes; I cannot remain.
In the same heart.beat I feel fueled and then fucked.
In the same landscape I lose Rabbit’s foot luck.
It rips apart muscles when you speak and not speak.
It preys upon prey when it’s believed to be weak.
In the same heart.beat I am golden I’m rock.
In the same mistake I gifted keys for my locks.
It’s a drill-bit coat with a blanket-all cold.
It’ll cover my wounds with a goat-made fold.
In the same heart.beat you give life you give death.
In the same caskette I will tend to my bed.
It’s an eat by day and a stalk by night.
It’s a carry me above by a raven’s winged flight.
In the same heart.beat I felt love I felt brave.
In the same happenstance you snatched it away.
In the same heart.beat I am awed I am mute.
In a believe it or not, the only thing I want is you.

cas // o5.15.16

under streams

when I pulled the plastic life
it glowed in blood-red-streams
when I caught a paradise
it overgrew with weeds
when I stormed behind a mind
you’d see it through my eyes
when I set my feet on paths
I stumbled on the lies

I got that thingwhatdoyoucallitcrush?
you gave itandilikedtoomuch
you took itandiwishyoudcome
I want itandpleasegimmesome

when I wrote it down for you

I risked a bit of me
when I asked you what he was
I only saw the streams
when I lost myself I tried
but then I could not breathe
when the honey becomes milk
I'll cut down all 'dem weeds

cas // o5.14.16

some pain

As an addict, you become intimately acquainted with pain. From an outside perspective, it is a shallow, ego-centric pain. It is anguish that, unless you have experience with addiction firsthand, you would probably be hard-pressed to grasp. This is ok: it’s understandable you don’t understand. When you see an active addict, it is only natural to see the surface. You see a thief and a liar. You see an unconscionable being taking advantage of everyone and everything he can to get what he believes he needs. You see someone who has robbed you of your love, thrown it to the ground, smashed it into the dirt, and spit on it. You see a being who, try as you might, try as hard as you might, you yourself cannot make better. This is the surface.

But please remember, he knows pain. He knew pain before he started abusing substances. More often than not, the drugs, the alcohol, these were put into use to try and cope with that pain. It starts when he is young. The pain forms like a tiny seedling in his heart, in his mind and, for want of a better analogy, it blooms and grows inside him like a cancer. The seed of pain does not thrive on water and a brilliant sun. It feeds on the discomfort he feels when he wakes in the morning. It feeds on an aching self-awareness that he is different—not in a good way—and on a cosmic fear that he is nothing, he is no one. There are times when all he has to do is breathe, and it blossoms with every fetal position he takes, or every time he pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them and asks between tears, “What is wrong with me?” Even when his own voice does not ask this, the multitude of other voices in his mind plague him with the question relentlessly, among many, many more, that are screamed at him incessantly without reprieve.

It may appear to be a superficial pain, because it is not the same pain like that of a loved one passing to the next realm, or the pain of poverty or those in third-world countries, but it is not to be discounted. He knows pain.

But then, there is drug. There is alcohol. And there is passing respite from the pain, at last. It is passing, because while the break may seem to be a potent, powerful healer, it is fleeting, and whether it takes a short while or years, decades, the pain comes back. And it comes back with a fully-stocked artillery. Our boy (because that’s what he is (despite him being the physicality of a man, inside he is still a boy)), now knows the pain of solitude more profound than any he may have thought he knew before.

However, you see him get high, and you don’t believe for a second he is not enjoying himself. You see him stealing from your purse, your wallet, your business, your children. You see him lying to you, and manipulating you for his gain, so he can get high. You see him stabbing you with a knife, so deeply in your chest; you think for sure you aren’t going to survive this one. You see him not accepting how much you are trying to love him sober.

Know, though, he is feeling pain. He is lying on the grass, looking towards the sky, and wondering where God is, and why He won’t just let him die. He is fetal again, with his hand on his chest, wondering why he can’t feel his heart anymore. He is crying, because he had to steal from your purse again, and your wallet, and take things from your store to pawn. He is crying, because he had to sell his very body. He is crying, because he wants so hard to let you love him sober.

And then occasionally, there is a miracle (because it is most certainly nothing less than a miracle), and our boy makes it into recovery, and he is sober. Not only is he sober, but his life is being rebuilt, more wondrous than ever before. There are burnt bridges mending themselves, there is trust gained when nobody thought there could ever be trust again. There are good, wonderful things happening.

But while the pain of active addiction subsides, the pain that was numbed for so long threatens to creep into this life again. He does what he must to keep it at bay, and for the most part, he is successful. He knows that the path he is on must be tread carefully. He is relearning how to do everything. He is opening himself up and putting himself out there as he has never done before. And because of this, he is wounded all too easily. 

Words (or the lack of words) and actions (or the lack of actions) are like missiles to his heart. Pain he believed could only happen to him while he was using, attacks him on a sunny day when he is over a year sober. He will make it, best believe. But please, be careful with him. Take caution how you handle him and treat him.

He is me.

CaS o5.11.16

CAKE: Or, GLORIOUS FOX

WHAT STARTS AS MOSTLY JUMBLED THOUGHTS:

I'm layers & layers of cake, O, glorious fox, come to me, and fox, eat this sweet. What would it be, if you tried me then? A tremendous monsoon, the smell of water? Flowers? Smooth, like warm, drawn butter?
     Prodigious one, Herculean one, powerful stratified.
     A baser abatoir as the base. Hemoglobin for days & days.
     Join me at our table for the next one up. What's it like, the next one up? Silky like scales of piebald creatures? Bottled like fumes from amplified jasmine? Money can't buy this, though they've tried for ages. Cash for the cake, no no, though you may have suggested it.
     In the purple zone I've got a field for two. Come, sweet fox, I'm making room. The firmament is full, my heart is warm, the bedsprings creak, when you wallow this one. Its in the woods, just a lead-foot away. First you choke, to get the remains.
     Its spring in the middle, and serious as rod. Knotted in the wood, and painful gain assured, I can take the grit, if you offer the chew.
     To the top its funny. I'm funny and there I am. Gimme the grins, and I'll give you the cake, each layer & layer from which I'm made.

BECOMES POETRY BUT STILL MOSTLY JUMBLED:

CAKE: Or, Glorious Fox

Come on fox, and eat this sweet,

like so many layers of layered cake.

Glorious fox, so much to say,

like all the words I fail to make.

But there's no matter what words may say,

if the music swings a certain way.

A baser abatoir at my base...

and hemoglobin, for days upon days.

Come here fox, I'll take your meat,

the firmament's thick with my layered sweet.

Totem, fumes, belief, beseech,

I'm making room for the springs to creak.

Creek like water if you daren't tried,

warm drawn butter to keep me alive.

Sated, filled & stratified...

bottled sawdust, amplified.

Give me arms, foxed in your embrace,

give me tails tucked around my waist.

Give me breath, no pain, no gain,

give me passion to last the age.

Darling fox, I'm keen to play,

for keeps and I would have it that way:

Give me the ardor and I'll give the cake...

each layer & layer from which I'm made.

CaS o5.o2.16