Category Archives: Poetry

Journal – Jacking trades up

 

I am afraid of work. I am afraid of art. I am afraid of failure. I am tired of being hurt by my own inadequacies.
I suck. I have to be fine with this. The only solution is to remain in motion.
Jack of all trades master of none
This is me
But when I dedicate ten years to something
I still cannot master it
I begin to wonder why I came
And why I haven’t left yet

It’s easier to jack trades up
Than it is to master them
A master never actually masters his craft
A master only ever gets good
If you want to lead your field you must dedicate everything
Sacrifice everything
And risk still being outdone by somebody
With easy natural talent
Who is fifteen years old.
Leonardo da Vinci bemoaned his lack of knowledge
On his deathbed he faulted himself
For never having learned it all.
He was a perfectionist
He is the standard for half a millennia
And will be for another millennia more
But even he
Was dissatisfied.
Why do we push ourselves
When there is nothing at the top?
Waiting for us is emptiness
The goal is a hollow point
So what is this drive
This need
This greed
I want to kill it
I want to feed it.
So I fight myself fighting it
And get
Nowhere
On either front.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Inside a glass of water

Thin wet wormy spiral
Color mixing in thready dissolution
It lands at the base of the glass
Still heavy with momentum
And spreads
A loose puddle
There is no place like the world
Inside a glass of water.
Rules are different there.
Things bend without breaking
Moisture saves anything
Moisture ruins everything
Insinuates from the outside
Desolidifies
Dissolves
Until everything
Is just water again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Dip into creativity

 

Dip into creativity
A deep black well
Creatures run deep
Under the glassy still water.
Just a cup is all you need
Look close and see
Tadpoles, minnows, miraculous life
Crayfish, seaweed, plankton, krill.
Swirling alive
Unfathomable life.
Sometimes you can catch a big fish
But content yourself with minnows.
Even these
Some cannot catch.
Even these are a boon.
Lucky, lucky, lucky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

Home

 

When you’ve spent your days
Scooping up viscera
Hosing down gore
When you’ve spent your nights
Huddled with the others
Waiting for the next shell to hit your trench
When it’s them or you
So you pull the trigger
And fear to miss more than you fear to hit
And you want to dream about peace
But all you see when you close your eyes
Is the face of that kid dead in the rubble
And the yielding pressure of her body underfoot
Before you realized what, in the haze, you had stumbled over.
When food tastes like water
Water tastes like worms
And heavy smells permeate
Gun oil, swamp foot, metal blood
When all this smells like home
Then
You’ll understand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

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