Written Words #4

"To be consumed by thought is to be incoherent."

                                                                     - B. Medeiros

We Few, We Brave Few (or Cassidy)

We don’t think about death, rather,
It follows us into our rooms, under our sheets and into the hollows of our dreams;
Here shadows pace & pace in visceral unknowns, unable to obey,
Unattached, why awaken these sleeping souls?

As stillness cradles us we cannot notice our final thoughts;
When is the last time we will hear our fathers’ voices in our heads?

This is for the dying fathers, the mourning mothers,
This is
For those that guard us & feed us & clothe us-
For those that shower us and surround us
With breath & absence, with hope & reluctance

All around, life exudes but we few, we brave few,
Forget every name, every hour,
Every face, to push
Farther into nothingness, into an abyss
Until we are forgotten—

The emptiness enclosing absolutely in the impervious mind
That rearranges the order of things.

-B. Medeiros

Cereal Anxiety (or the discharge of matter)

he carries the remote in his back pocket
as if it is a tool of his own mischief, of his own deviant nature.
an endless universe not expanding, not numbered,
not random.
he feels as though
he enters a circus made in heaven;
he can do anything.
he is afraid clowns will eat him.

he sits legs crossed, back straight, hair split
a fixed position, a fixed gaze
cutting emptiness, cutting darkness,
cuts predestined
presupposed, preoccupied;
he asserts attention, unordered
unidentified, unnamed.

he is transfixed by a tarnished pocket watch that sways,
the back and forth of time, a piece of time
passing through space.

the lunatic, the non-believer, the hypnotist, the devil himself!
and he the man in the mirror, clearly lost in his trance,
anxiety to stay crunchy.
clearly a madman, inaudible defiant,
indecipherable interruptions, fake concerns
told by a bottom buttoner who wets whistles, that twice a week
a bowl of cereal would talk to a call girl, it says,
stay crunchy.
cereal with anxiety.
cereal with anxiety afraid clowns will eat it.

he is told to go inside by an outer voice.
he waits absently in a hallway,
stretching skin over his head like a kettle drum,
pacing round like a clock hand,
the devil knows how much time he spends.
a devil in the mirror.
twirling his curls tighter than circus wire
a toaster teases the bath water,
taking center madness,
a ringmaster holds a gun to his ear,
tonight’s show--
the discharging of brain matter to uproarious
applause & mindless smoke.

- B. Medeiros

Complications of Glass

A spectacle of disorder, and is no order not ordinary,
no search for no will resembles less
hopes more, and there will
be no mercy washing that’s in unnatural colors.
a difference, a very little difference
is sugar.
so hurt out of rudeness that’s so rudimentary,
and so earnest not to red.
a soul coal color is not cheaper
no reason is light enough, and not exaggerating
may be, may not, may not be a color darker—
a cause, a cause,
a cause
a loud clash, establishes a thought
to replace the use
to use paper,
the one, the one that makes
the one to make,
to be left open at the end,
to be left sooner than a choice in color,
a yellow dust color,
if dust is sooner than paper, if dust is
a considerable cause,
a dust, a sad that is not sad,
is blue.
a mark by cut,
a flat nothing, a flat nothing,
cut in,
cut in, cut more,
to be left nothing but complications of glass—
more than shadows waving color.

- B. Medeiros

Written Words #2

"A scattered mind falls to pieces."

                                                                                         - B. Medeiros

Written Words #1

"If love could make us grow, then surely we'd be giants."

                                                               -B. Medeiros