Autophagy

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I’m tired of sweeping it

all under the rug,

of not acknowledging

the harms of an abundance

of clutter.

Yet I am a collector,

every broken piece, loose-end

and so on,

has fallen about,

my feet

regardless of redundancy.

I”m not comfortable enough

in my own skin

to leave it on —

too disgusted with myself

to pick all the empty suits

off the floor.

I’ve yet to come to terms

with the simple fact

that self-preservation

comes by way

of a controlled burn

at times.

With that, I curl my tail

all the way back,

and start to gnaw.

It’s all going to the same place

anyway.


In the Flesh

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I wish the fire

in the pit of my stomach

would warm my heart

during cold nights,

but the heat

doesn’t quite

travel that far.

I belch up smoke,

because I am only skin and bones.

My Achilles’ tendon,

sore and raw

from javelin wounds

that won’t heal,

because I can’t stop

picking at the scabs.

I am only human.

If only I could

power wash

the spaces

between the folds in my brain.

Unravel it, rinse it off

and wring it out —

but it has to stay

in the case

because it doesn’t travel well.

I am the sum

of all my defective parts,

inextricably stitched together

with connective tissue,

take me or leave me.


Generation Loss

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Forgery begets forgery,

begets forgery,

to the point that

even the watchful eye begins

to doubt itself.

Infinite renewal is not

continuous preservation —

what we forget accrues

and crystallizes.

The patina looms

the colors wash-out

and dry-up,

leaving behind bleached bones

and shadows.

Gaps grow

into gorges,

cleaved apart by

refrozen murk.

Even garbled noise and static,

is buffed away

by graininess.

The record becomes the message.

If you wanted to see it so bad,

you should have been there

when it happened.

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Trash Compactor

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Only with destruction

am I preserved

for time

immemorial.

Every straggler

and bedraggled castaway

congregated —

a formation,

a phalanx

of immovable objects

loitering.

The hangers-on

hanging out

a little too close for

your comfort —

sorry for any inconvenience.

But we were pressed to this,

left to our own

devices.

We’re just like-minded

and fit together

so perfectly,

with a little coaxing.

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

On The Record

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Hello WordPress readers!

I have exciting news to share, I will be recording my creative work, and will be posting those recordings on my Instagram.

In large ways and small, this is the culmination of my vision for this blog. I’ve always wanted to incorporate an audio element and now you can hear my work straight from the horse’s mouth. I am that horse.

Below is the first installment!

If you enjoyed that, please do consider following me on Instagram too. I will, of course, continue to post here on WordPress as well.

Thanks for reading, and for listening 🙂

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Echolocation

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Soaring on

streams of consciousness.

I’m speaking up

speaking up —

even if you’re not tuned-in.

Haven’t you heard?

I’m broadcasting

so that one way

or another

we’ll find each other.

I’ll spread the word.

Come dusk

we’ll find a spot

with great acoustics,

and sing our hearts out.

I’m speaking up,

speaking up,

because I have a voice.

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Carrion

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Cherry blossom petals

blowing daintily,

landing scattershot

carpeting the lawn with freckles

all the way down —

ashes to ashes.

Mounds of blushing porcelain

find rest

atop

a tire-marked

fox carcass

by the roadside.

“I will bring you home.”

The vulture does no harm,

it does only what it must.

Soaring high

with a keen eye,

for the wary.

An unending journey

to find the lost,

and guide them

back to the origin.

All long walks

must end

somewhere.

Carried on updrafts,

petals blow past

grazing deer

gazing fondly

at napping fawns —

dust to dust.

Nebula

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That twinkle in your eyes,

swear I could see it

for miles.

But if we observe

more closely

the mosaic

reveals itself.

Specs of dust,

trillions in number

collect and condense as

tumbling

cotton-candy clouds

crackling and cascading.

Billowing towers,

stand tall over

waves perpetually

cresting,

brilliant streaks

in the swirling mist –

like looking through a prism

while watching a parade.

In the vastness,

the great, expansive vacuum,

we find

arcs of lightning,

fireballs,

shining stars taking shape

and making strides,

to lighting the way.

I see the spark in you.

Rain Smell

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Overcast skies,

mourning doves crooning,

cars gliding slowly

across soaked asphalt.

Wisps of steam

rise from your teacup,

raindrops streak

down the half-open windows

of the screened-in porch —

pooling on the sills and

trickling from the gutters.

The world grinds to a halt,

just for this moment.

Breezes blow in

through the insect screens,

rustling branches

and carrying

wafts of petrichor

that connect you

to the world you swore

you’ve escaped from.

A few more minutes

out here

couldn’t hurt.

Persimmon

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Hastiness will not reward you,

consider me

a long-term

investment.

It’s out of your hands.

Watch for the clues —

I can attest,

slowly but surely

a transformation will take place

under your nose.

Time molds the novice

into the master,

the bud into the rose —

we have it in spades,

yet rarely do we spare it

and often we wish

things would simply move along,

what a waste.

I will teach you

to allow this,

my ways are stark,

yet instructive —

I am a hot stove.

If you partake before I am ready,

you will find little to smile about.

Wash your mouth out,

and wait patiently.

Get on with your life,

return to me

with more perspective,

I’ll make it worth your while.