Rebirth

The backside of loneliness is longing; or
maybe the backside of longing is loneliness.
Either way both forces seem to draw forward
and backward, surging sideways: left and right
grabbing and dragging its victim into its shadow
and there pummeling it with once held dreams
and desires, leaving shapes and husks of human
form once was. Hissed and slithered words of
comfort uttered from longing and loneliness add
insult to the injuries, conjuring up consuming
spirits from the belly of fear: you are nothing.
Whispered words from the consuming darkness
of the shadow encompassing your entire being
as you lay on your own cold ground among the
shards and shrapnel of those dreams and desires.
And you give in. You succumb. You agree. Yes.
I am nothing
. Nothing else comes up; no other
words present, no other thought arises, no other
comes to your rescue. No one can see you in
this tormenting and tortuous moment. Loneliness’s
weight grows heavier as longing steals more and
more of your form and shape, pulling strands of
inner life out like pulling and stretching playdough
until there’s not enough firmness and resistance
to snap back. Elastic broken; shape broken. And
again to sooth the pain of this madness you agree:
I am nothing. And again: I am nothing. And again:
I am nothing. Love is gone now. Confidence has
fled. I am nothing. Light has been eclipsed by the
shadows and oppressive darkness. And then:
out loud: I am nothing. The words are bullets.
The strength of confession is that the thing con-
fessed becomes real and external, a life of its
own over which and at which you can look and
examine, peering at this side and that side.
In the concession I am nothing, you become
something. And like conception of your being
happening all over again, you are reborn. I am
something
. To speak these words, to affirm, I
am something
. Dark and shadow dissipate and
begin to slip off. I am something. Hands touch
now reanimated and emboldened substance.
I am something. And for this moment, as you sit
regathering and regathered, you watch as you
witness the backside of longing trail away and
you wave goodbye to loneliness and longing…

useful in uselessness

Upon what do I stand?
Is it the shifting sand
of perpetual demand
from time’s command?

This substance is so elusive;
material utterly seducive,
luring things unconducive
that trap me in the illusive.

I can fight if I want—
offer flagrant taunt—
against Chaos’s flaunt-
ing—meager chalant.

But fighting seems dumb—
like voiceless and numb—
like the smallest crumb
against a large bass drum.

I would like to retreat,
run fast, use my feet,
cross this 4-lane street,
to old comfort—remeet.

Things of the past
never seem to last
despite holding fast
in ideological cast.

That which is gone
cannot be redrawn
like the rising dawn:
lifts and then: upgone.

But yet it seems too nice
to repeat things twice;
“Come Back!” (old entice).
But it’s only melted ice.

What was is not a cover,
isn’t my steadying lover;
just a flimsier dustcover
hiding nothing to recover.

I must try to slow and grow steady—
cease being desperately heady,
stop flailing and grasping: sit ready—
dogma has become useless, too thready.

Let my body flow
let limbs grow
into the hollow
of chasmic swallow.

Letting go to be once more born—
like proceeding through flesh torn—
but emerging through darkness worn
summoned to by love’s divine horn.

Finding life in lifelessness
Finding the light in darkness
Finding beloved in wretchedness
Finding ground in groundlessness.

Surrendering useful in uselessness.