Careless

If I had said sorry sooner, would it
have mattered. If I had only held onto
that hand instead of letting go
would you have stayed? Maybe a kiss,
an embrace, that gift that I should
have thought to bought sooner, any of this
would it have kept your feet planted,
stationary in my world?

If my words were poetic, if they were melodic,
If I wasn't so awkward as I danced, would
you have loved me longer? My eyes, they don't
shine all the time, my hair doesn't part in
the right spots, and my face isn't made
of stone, but my heart was for you, is for you
and it's yours to hold. Is this what you saw in me?
Did you not see the fight, the constant urgency
to find the light to hold within you, to share with you,
the way I touched your face didn't show you these things?

Now I see, in my mind, maybe I shouldn't have given so
freely, maybe it was you, not me, no, not me that had
wronged all the rights. If you hadn't found a different
bed to host, maybe the cost of all my hearts wouldn't have
been so much. I see you through these sphere of tears as they
dance down my cheek bones, washing away illusions
of what I had imagined in my small mind what you
really were.

Ah, but hell, if these things aren't jaded by your lips,
by those legs around my hips, driving me deeper into
a despair of longing and want. My hand, is your hand, and
keeps me warm during these lonely nights as you dance
transparently over me. Maybe that's all you were,
maybe, dear, without you knowing that is all you will
ever be; you're the back end of empty looks, and licking
lips that taunt actual meaning. I split my two minds
and the ugly faces they portray and wish, secretly, that
I could say I care less, but because of this, because of you
my heart is careless.

Beautiful Confusion

I wonder, as I often do, usually in some state of confusion, about the life that is happening around me. I ponder constantly, consistently trapped in my own mind, about what makes those around me tick, what path they are on, how their journey is turning out in their own mind, regardless of perception of others. Most of the time there are to many questions, to many different ideas swirling around in that dome for me to grasp on to one and pull anything useful from it; too much A.D.D. clouds my thoughts, "Look at this guy, long hair, dreads, full beard like ZZ Top...Hey, look at that car!"

But there is one thing that is amazingly consistent in my life, there is that one person that no matter what is happening, always has away of bringing things into focus. He is a creature of wonder, he is, at the simplest form, the love of my life. My son. He is all of three years old and doesn't know it, and everything is new to him but he attempts to approach each and every obstacle as if he were an old vet saddling up for one more go. His eyes tell a different story though. They are still big, they shine, they gaze at a world that is still fresh, clean like the air feels after a hard rain. Yes, those big blue eyes that are windows to his heart, to a soul that is fearless show what he is on the inside.

I stand in awe of him, his willingness to attempt anything; stand on the couch - jump off. I'm OK. Good, move on. Stand on the arm rest of the couch - jump off. I'm OK. Great, I must be a cross between Spiderman and Iron Man because I'm just perfectly fine! Stand on the top of the couch....Ohhhh wait a tick, this is higher, negotiating the descent is different because now, I can't just jump, but I have to JUMP to clear the cushions. Not to mention, all of this has to happen with quick, military like precision because Mommay and Dadday (this spelling is how he pronounces these two words.) will whoop my back side if they catch me up here. Forget about it, I'm SpideIron! Wooosh! One can get the picture pretty quickly.

He is what we lose as time goes on, as life jades our souls, he's free. When we're younger we know nothing of failure, we do not carry about scrutiny from peers, we don't even have to block those things out because we do not understand them. Tests are pass and fail, there is no grey area. My sons only goal in life is to make us happy, "Was that cool Dadday?", "Are you happy Dadday?" Nothing but pure love, no personal gain, no deceit. I see this, I see his ambition and his exuberance and I almost envy him. It breaks my heart that as he grows he will meet people, like me, that will take this from him. We all rob one another of this, we take it from each other without even knowing it!

What if it were all this simple? What if we all jelled with one another as we are, as we are when no one else is around but in a crowded room of strangers? What if, I dare ask, if those strangers didn't judge? What if we lived like my son? Like young children in general? How would this life be? What could we achieve as one? A documentary entitled, "I AM" comes out soon, it's done by the director, Tom Shadyac, that did Ace Ventura; this documentary claims, from some of the brightest minds in the world, that we are all one. We, fundamentally, are common, are linked in the core values of what we hope life will be about.

John Lennon had the same principal, one doesn't have to search far to understand this; listen to Imagine, or pull up almost any interview with him and he'll make this very clear. But a soap box is not a flattering place for anyone to be seen.

I look at my son and admire him, admire what he is and what he will be. I draw from him. I hope that I can protect that wonder, that awe of life, the tenacity to forge ahead no matter how many times he falls, not matter how hard the landing might be, that he has and to protect it as he grows. In doing so, I have rekindled mine.

Together as a Part.

Words might be at a loss, as the lights flicker through my mind.
Doors open but close quickely, I try, vainly, to express, to paint
this canvass, to make it clear. But lost are my thoughts through
these corridors, darting in and out of each room, playing through
the night of voices, of statements, and arguements that stain
these floors.

Can't you see? I am here, it's all fallen, at times it's
been blown apart and the memories linger, creep up on us
and remind us that we're not perfect. But we're perfect
together, we're perfect when we're not apart, but completely
incomplete when left alone.

This you have to believe, because faith is not seeing but feeling,
and with reason finding a point to believe in, a thought to latch
on to, an action of proof. We are still standing, we are still moving
and even if the dance has slowed does not mean the chorus isn't
the same. The beat changes but always come back again; constantly
flowing and renegotiating the atmosphere around, the different players,
the different faces, and what? Then back to us. Back to us, slowly
we have to rotate as one and understand that words aren't always
enough.

But at this moment, hold your tongue and hear mine, know as confusion is
rampant, clearity and direction is always around the corner. I am here,
as long as you're breathing I am always here.

Terminal Male Infancy

I came across something several days ago that struck me with a great force of comedy and a stark truth. It’s amazing how life will drop these little nuggets of wisdom upon you when you least expect it. The place, the time, the environment around, while all can be conducive to discovery, doesn’t mean fate hesitates for location, location, location. My realization came about something that is an eternal, albeit a terminal, genetic code in males. A part of our make- up that, when asked, we can’t conjure the words to explain. Not even the brightest of our gender could put to reason the inert addiction to this cosmic love affair.

I think irony, also, has no pretenses to timing – this is what makes irony exactly what it is and something that I enjoy right down to the very fiber of my being. I’m not saying that all irony is comedic, or even satirical; it can be cold and have a brute like force. But that is a topic that I dare not breach today; nay, friend, this is irony with a smiley face, this is irony that kisses babies, and loves unicorns, and all the limp-wristed shit one could conjure to make it jolly! Irony walked up and slapped me on the hind-end while I was at my thinking spot, guys know exactly where I’m talking about, the one and only thinking spot that universally unites us all! That spot in our homes that no matter what the day might bring, or what the week, the month, our jobs, our cars, our spouses, family, agendas… I digress… No matter what, this is the spot that alleviates all, that brings us peace of mind, relieves us the weight of a day and/or night in some circumstances. You know the spot; you knew it as soon as I said thinking spot – it’s the porcelain thrown!

Yes, irony, such a fickle beast of a thing.

In that moment, it hit me; we men, we will always be amused by at least three things. These things, in our minds, in our hearts, in our very souls, are things that will be infinitely humorous. Ladies, no matter how hard you try, no matter the prep school, the training, the edict you attempt to place upon us, these three things will always make us giggle/chuckle/laugh, dependent upon our distance from you! This passionate genetic code is much like doilies, puppies, rabbits, soft blankets, pink things, small things, scented things, perfect color combos, down comforters, throws (whatever the hell these are; tiny blankets that do nothing but keep only a small portion of your body warm.), and so on, are to you females.

What are those three things you might ask?

Well sure, I will get to that, but I think one has to understand why it is amusing to us as a whole. We are primed early on much differently. Our process of production is much less drastic than yours and here is why; we are not made to take ourselves seriously and to not do this, we can’t take much of anything else seriously. Our ethos is not the sole purpose of our function; we do not base our thoughts off of this barometer. We are a mono-ethos creature; Anger. This is the only thing that registers, anything else is either funny or mutates to something hateful. With that, we find most of everything to be comedic because it’s just not fun to be angry all the time, when you get down to the brass tax, anyway. So yes, other people in pain, wrecks, explosions, anything that embarrasses the hell out of someone else, and you will find us clutching gut and bellowing some sort of laughter. There is no helping this; it is incurable, unaffected – restrained? Sure, but only ever -so slightly. There are three, main events that will forever tickle our fancies.

It goes back to when fate plants these realizations in our brains and how that grows into something we could have never imagined. Here is the replay: as I stated previously, I was on my thinking spot, pondering life, pondering my ever living soul, and then it came to me… I can still make an amazing faux gastric explosion from my arm pit just by properly negotiating a pocket of air!!... At which point the only, logical, thing to do was to prove myself wrong. However, oh, a huge HOW-ever, I was completely RIGHT! I could do this, I still had it. It reminded me of the night when I first learned to master this feat. I was in 8th grade; Jeremiah Sweezy and I were camped out on my trampoline waiting for some girls to T.P. my house, at which point we were going to foil their sly little plan! Jer said, hey, listen to this… and so it began. He walked me through the fundamentals, the proper technique, the different pitches and tones, what didn’t work and what did. It was amazing! The tutorial was brief; I was ready to spread my wings, or better yet the collar of my shirt to give my best shot to this new found talent. I never could have realized how good I would become at it. We were masters; these noises from the pits of our arms were so real that even the keenest of ear to the art wasn’t sure if what they had heard was real or a hoax. We could do long ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, high ones, bass rumbling low ones; basically any pitch or inflection of tone and we had it in our repertoire.

I sat there, astonished with this. Not that I could still do it, but rather, that I still fund it so amusing, at 28 years old I still found this to be funny. Which, in turn, made me wonder what the hell was wrong with me?! It then hit me that a boat load of my guy friends would still concur, that it was indeed, still comical to them as well. This is where I realized that there are those three things in life that we, as men will always laugh at, and they are as follows ladies:

1. Fart noises

Yes, no matter how hard you try, no matter how disgusting you find it; we will rare back rip one and the rest around will follow suit and/or a hearty laugh. Embrace that this is who we are and you will find life to be much simpler.

2. Random, yet vicious, shots to the nuts.

The comical thing here is actually two part; 1. The plethora of grunts, groans, sighs, chokes, or gasps one might make after being hit in said region is enough to invoke tears. Also, the descent after shot; there is the sniper, the buckle, and the launch. I’m sure all of us have seen them – if not I’m looking for demonstrations as I write. 2. WE know the pain, it has happened to us. We laugh out of empathy.

3. Midgets

I realize that this is terribly politically incorrect and I do apologize. But, I do so with my fingers crossed and middle finger up. Don’t be so serious. We can’t help ourselves.

Consider yourself learned.

Youthful Ignorance

You ever find yourself wondering what a young, naive version of you would say to the you of the present? I guess if you're my age, you're old enough to have a decade between your eighteen year old self and, well, yourself of the present. It's reflection that drives us, it's the look in the past of what things were that guide our light to what we want, the path we feel, at the time, is most pertinent to us. It's upon these reflections, these glances of yesterday and the combination of what was with a healthy dose of present and future that urge us, that forces us to manage the now. One does not exist without the other. What would yester-year say to present? What would he/she say when shown what you've done with yourself? Would they be proud? Would they believe that you allowed yourself to make the decisions you've made, gone the places you've gone, or lived the way that you've lived? How would they feel?

Within this self examination one has to look at what can be changed and what can not. Decisions can only be changed if in the present, can only tilt if weighed upon in the now, this is the divide between past, present, and future. One can not change what one has done, one can only imagine what one would do, but one can immediately determine a new venture, a new idea, a new path here in the now. This, is the only instance that a decision can be changed, it's only for a second that the world is yours to control before it rolls over into what was. So this thought, this function is to live in the now, live for what is, and think about what was sparingly, and think about what could be more-so, and live in the present constantly.

But to the main point of this post; what would the old you say or think of the you of today? I've found myself pondering this over the last ten years of my life; based on decisions I've made, mistakes that I have made, and the successes that I've obtained. I see my life in a vacuum at times, so tunnel visioned on one theme; failures. Call it the pessimist in me that drives these feelings of inadequacy, the torment of short comings, flailing potential slowly drifting out of sight, and opportunities fading away. We are all our own worst critic, we all wish to be the other guy, but is this a bad thing? It can be. You can only do the best with what you have, everything else you have to take through determination and hard work, discipline, and a relentless pursuit of your passion regardless of how often you've been told no or fallen short. Not all of us are capable of doing this. We allow the pessimism - pessimism being a bigger, prettier word for fear - to eat us up, to allow us to give up, and walk away with excuses. We can justify just about anything. But sometimes focusing on the bad things, the mistakes can be what pushes us to the positive, it can be our motivation, our driving force that doesn't allow us to give up. This is something that the younger us could not have understood. This is something that the younger me would not have been able to wrap his tiny, eighteen year old brain around and comprehend. Failing is a necessity in life, but the lot of us have a fear of success, not the fear of failure.

I ask about the younger US because of the naivety that we have in youth, the wild ambition that is unhampered, or tainted by reality, by the world around us; bills, vehicles, homes, jobs, friends, disease, and so on. The idea is to embrace that junior version, take that ambition and mold it, keep it, and focus this on the now. Sprinkle that drive, that, almost, ignorance and force it into your system, to fend of the jaded cancer that becomes reality. I think the younger version of ourselves would ask, "What dreams have you gone after? Why not?" I think if we were to go back we would realize just how much we've conformed to what we're supposed to do as 'adults'; graduate high school, go to college, get a job, find a spouse, have kids and that is that. But why? I'm not saying one shouldn't finish school, but does it have to be a set routine? I would contend that it does not. We have this once, and only once. So the younger us should tell the present us to live now, realize now, don't give up on what was and what could be. Make your decision in the now to realise your full potential. Do not allow it to fade away, burn out, or be snuffed about by insecurities. The younger us was not scared. The younger us didn't care about failure, couldn't. Failure are only imposed by the thing that we surround ourselves with, and mostly failure is another word we use for comparison. When I compare myself to Bill Gates I feel a lack of legacy, a lack of accomplishment. We do this with friends, loved ones, and those that we have an innate disdain for, even though we don't care for them. Always comparing; but success is measure through the same. What would the younger you say about your success?

So we shift the focus of what is asked, and revitalize our focus. This is what the younger us would have done, because they would have known no differently. So I ask you, can you compare yourself to the younger you in thought, in belief, in motivation and determination? I know that through the last ten years of my life this is what I've come to understand, all of this chaotic rambling is my school of hard knocks on display. Is it possible to merge the past with the present to make it our future?

You ever find yourself wondering what a young, naive version of you would say to the you of the present? I guess if you're my age, you're old enough to have a decade between your eighteen year old self and, well, yourself of the present. It's reflection that drives us, it's the look in the past of what things were that guide our light to what we want, the path we feel, at the time, is most pertinent to us. It's upon these reflections, these glances of yesterday and the combination of what was with a healthy dose of present and future that urge us, that forces us to manage the now. One does not exist without the other. What would yester-year say to present? What would he/she say when shown what you've done with yourself? Would they be proud? Would they believe that you allowed yourself to make the decisions you've made, gone the places you've gone, or lived the way that you've lived? How would they feel?

Within this self examination one has to look at what can be changed and what can not. Decisions can only be changed if in the present, can only tilt if weighed upon in the now, this is the divide between past, present, and future. One can not change what one has done, one can only imagine what one would do, but one can immediately determine a new venture, a new idea, a new path here in the now. This, is the only instance that a decision can be changed, it's only for a second that the world is yours to control before it rolls over into what was. So this thought, this function is to live in the now, live for what is, and think about what was sparingly, and think about what could be more-so, and live in the present constantly.

But to the main point of this post; what would the old you say or think of the you of today? I've found myself pondering this over the last ten years of my life; based on decisions I've made, mistakes that I have made, and the successes that I've obtained. I see my life in a vacuum at times, so tunnel visioned on one theme; failures. Call it the pessimist in me that drives these feelings of inadequacy, the torment of short comings, flailing potential slowly drifting out of sight, and opportunities fading away. We are all our own worst critic, we all wish to be the other guy, but is this a bad thing? It can be. You can only do the best with what you have, everything else you have to take through determination and hard work, discipline, and a relentless pursuit of your passion regardless of how often you've been told no or fallen short. Not all of us are capable of doing this. We allow the pessimism - pessimism being a bigger, prettier word for fear - to eat us up, to allow us to give up, and walk away with excuses. We can justify just about anything. But sometimes focusing on the bad things, the mistakes can be what pushes us to the positive, it can be our motivation, our driving force that doesn't allow us to give up. This is something that the younger us could not have understood. This is something that the younger me would not have been able to wrap his tiny, eighteen year old brain around and comprehend. Failing is a necessity in life, but the lot of us have a fear of success, not the fear of failure.

I ask about the younger US because of the naivety that we have in youth, the wild ambition that is unhampered, or tainted by reality, by the world around us; bills, vehicles, homes, jobs, friends, disease, and so on. The idea is to embrace that junior version, take that ambition and mold it, keep it, and focus this on the now. Sprinkle that drive, that, almost, ignorance and force it into your system, to fend of the jaded cancer that becomes reality. I think the younger version of ourselves would ask, "What dreams have you gone after? Why not?" I think if we were to go back we would realize just how much we've conformed to what we're supposed to do as 'adults'; graduate high school, go to college, get a job, find a spouse, have kids and that is that. But why? I'm not saying one shouldn't finish school, but does it have to be a set routine? I would contend that it does not. We have this once, and only once. So the younger us should tell the present us to live now, realize now, don't give up on what was and what could be. Make your decision in the now to realise your full potential. Do not allow it to fade away, burn out, or be snuffed about by insecurities. The younger us was not scared. The younger us didn't care about failure, couldn't. Failure are only imposed by the thing that we surround ourselves with, and mostly failure is another word we use for comparison. When I compare myself to Bill Gates I feel a lack of legacy, a lack of accomplishment. We do this with friends, loved ones, and those that we have an innate disdain for, even though we don't care for them. Always comparing; but success is measure through the same. What would the younger you say about your success?

So we shift the focus of what is asked, and revitalize our focus. This is what the younger us would have done, because they would have known no differently. So I ask you, can you compare yourself to the younger you in thought, in belief, in motivation and determination? I know that through the last ten years of my life this is what I've come to understand, all of this chaotic rambling is my school of hard knocks on display. Is it possible to merge the past with the present to make it our future?

No Title

Give nothing for the torn stitches that are greased through the ligaments of hateful torment, let go, leave the pasted, flaccid eyes with nothing to spare. Let it fly away through a nuclear current of stale breath, feeling the wings of a pretender upon the pores of sincerity, let it flex, let it give. Do you see this now? Can you feel this now? He might say as the fingers of redemption pull and rip at a bountiful youth, at a gorgeous straight laced, crooked mouth of an ambitious tyrant, a fake, a patriarch of envy. What a few lines might do, how the wrenches and spokes of words will turn, lubed to perfection rolling off the wheel of quick thoughts, oh beautiful sentiments of air, how perplexing in sound, pitch, how the ears tweak and readjust to the brightness of sound. Pleasantly falling away, cracking, creasing, flaking away at the surface as the fingernails of hope sink through the layers of despair, and the dry sweat of fate eats like an acidic avenger. Pluck at the hairs of hate, feel them shake within your being, within your shallow core, that plastic shell of lies you play upon. It's a stench that burns the tongue, it burns away with each kiss of conformity, and nestles in to the back door of the mind as uninvited as a cancer. Let it sit, let it rotate, sink in, boil away what was, and leave only what is.

Lost Time

So sensitive to touch, the light freezes, pauses in despair of toppling what is left. Time does not bend, does not press forward, instead the clock relapses, it re ticks the moments to find the beginning, to find the meaning of itself. Each hand moves slower than the next, forgetting to cover open mouths in awe of what has become, anger floats through the timbers of thought and heart bleeds from swelling anguish. The end of it all has never been an option, the edge of this cliff is erased from the canvas, yet it finds away to approach, reproach what is logic, what is meaning, and what is myth. All practical applications of fair living, of reasonable being are demolished through this demolishing of sorts, a cohort of abominations, and the tears dry out across the landscape of hardened cheekbones. Time tenses, it fidgets endlessly, confusion setting across its plain, no tick is left unnoticed, but no tick is left without misunderstanding. It is a cheater, a faux friend in a land of meaningless space, it finds no shape in these flat hills, and protruding valleys. So sensitive is the touch, one single touch.

Melody of Grey

The leaves dance with a sway, a beat to the melodic wind, that
Crescendos with the falling rain drops. Tiny percussion's along the
Surface of the leaves evens to the tone along the roof tops. The
World is still, calm, washing away the everyday grime. As the sky
Smears all tints of grey, the drums of thunder bellow across its canvass
Intertwining with vibrant flashes and streaks that crash like electric symbols.
It is the chorus to the main rhythm, the heartbeat, the four count to life awakening.
From the interlude, to verse, to chorus, back to the leaves catching each flyer from
The heavens, they still dance. The melody softens, the drums fade away, the symbols
Halt, and the wind carries the tune to its conclusion, to redemption, to a new beginning.

Cornell

We were in awe of you, protected by the haven of your walls.
Your exterior provided a place of peace during the chaos the
Infected everything we had known. You gave for us and we in turn
Bled with you as you took the knocks, we saw your torment,
The agony as you drifted alone. But we were there with you,
Traveling the same path of abandonment and betrayal.
We tried to fix you, we repainted your walls hoping to hide the soot
That resided before, and oh how we laughed. You said we were all
That you needed. A triangle of trust, a trinity that could never be broken.
But your windows were never secure, never sound proof. Why didn't you see this?
We were too youg to realize your foundation had cracked and shifted away from us.
We needed you, did you not see? You were our haven, we found safety and calm within
You. But you took us for granted, you found a new trinity and new walls,
And now we are left with the cracked paint and empty foundation that outlined what
Used to be. Yet we still wait for you to return, we still pull the weeds from
The foundation we called home just in case your new one falls through.
We don't know why we wait, we hurt and we flail without you all
Why you stand by the wayside and watch us struggle. But you have your
New trinity, your new three, and a new haven to call your own.
But know, we never forget, never stop hoping because we were there long before
Hoping to always call you home.

Change

Windless, breathless, the rooms wheezes for something
the night can no longer hold. Anticipation mounts, and suppress
as we hold fingers outwards to a movement that will never come.
We know nothing, from the blind to the fallen we sit silently in this
hole. Anticipation spreads for thought, it bleeds for insight when
all is lost in this river of doubt.

The floor trembles as we gasp, its frightening, exhilarating,
the motion of the sound tickles my eye lids and reverberates for
an eternity. This leveling sound of peace, it moves by like a pulsating wave
and settles between our toes. Hope, it rolls over us as the night
seems to shift, and the stars dance between one another, catapulting
from one point to another like rocks across a pond.

Yet we stand screaming quietly with our mouth's wide opened, fist clinched,
and yet motion is halted by conformity, and we press tighter
into our box, into this room. Hope exits with the tides of the wind
and the branches of anticipation that once spread throughout
our veins, now retreats back into this hole where we once lay.
The sight of the could be's leave with the sound of the never was,
and now we sway diligently in this calm night, motionless
as one heart beat fades into another, and the river calms.

J.L. Copeland

Porcelain Dream

A smooth sensation works through my bones,
as the scent of lavender tickles up my noes
and settles into the very heart of me. The touch
of her fingers penetrate and delight, as we
collide with one another, motionless, and serene.
She shutters, and moves across the room on air
hovering over my eyes like a porcelain dream.
The air leaves the room, time has halted, or vanished
into another dimension leaving only us, my porcelain
dream.

I find no inch of comfort from the anxiety
that her presence brings, but comfort is replaced
by an exhilaration of touch and sound, the moist
ruby purse of her lips that slide across mine as I
draw her near me. My hands tremble down her swaying spine across
her silk hair that tickle my shoulders.
She can't be real, she can't be here, not with me,
not this porcelain dream. But as we slide and
shift across one another I block out all the rest, all the
trepidations of incalculable insecurities and
trap my mind inside this moment, this second that
I lie with her. She fills every inch of me, as I breath
I'm entranced by every drop of her. As I close my eyes
I can only think of one thing, my one and only
porcelain dream.

J.L. Copeland

Chasing the Night

Failure hounds my bones
forcing its icy fingers over
the pores of my tattered skin.
I feel the contraction of anonymity
and pulse with the hatred of the
rejected. I can't seem to find the
light, flailing consistently for something
to anchor my spiral. It haunts me,
my hair stands as this shadow stalks
my every move, mocking the light
for which I follow. This hill I climb
shakes with every step and oozes
with condemnation for the fallen
making every step delicate.

How do I press for the light?
This night envelopes me like a blanket
scratching at my eyes and neck. The
precipitation around my eyes make it hard
to find focus. My voice tightens. But I feel the words
of reform crawling over my spine, tickling my
nerves, pressing for movement, action in
a positive direction. I look for this, turn the hunt on
it's nose, and chase this imposture of my fears. I can
not be shaken, I mash my teeth into the bones
of despair and cut out the air. I feel it
in my finger tips, my heart races over the hills
of my anxiety, beating, pounding out the night.
The moon rests in the corners of my eyes, and
I sigh with delight as the sun emblazons
my mind for a new beginning.



J.L. Copeland

Father

This seizes, tightens around our throats. It pushes and scratches at our eyes. Its so hard to see, to believe. The inner demons are mounting and forcing their way to the surface. It won't last, this won't stick. A pretentious dance trembling the surface, expanding despare, compressing faith. Where are you now? My hands out stretched, fingers desperately searching. Where are you now? This wool blanket itches on the skin, but its what's left, this abandonment is too familiar. It was easier this way, you knew it, you felt it, as your hate carried you away.

Its here, nothing will divert this inevitable path. I wait, ever so patiently for a faux sense of calm, for a false sense of hope. I close my eyes and see the faces of our past, I needed you then, peered through the eyes of the blind thinking you could be apart of me or me you. But its at the surface now, this cold stranger that we always knew. He's here for you, selfish is the cloak of this traveller and the face of your journey. My eyes bleed an eternity for a father with no son, but he sleeps in the shadow of the ghost that was you.


J.L. Copeland

Teaser for the book I'm working on.. THE MIRROR

THE MIRROR
BY: J.L. COPELAND


PART ONE


Some say that life is merely a game of chance, that you must allow the chips to fall where they may. If you play your cards right, you'll end up cashing out in the end. No one says how much, or how grand it will be, because this is all up to the individual passenger. The lonely warrior of a road that only narrows as time goes by. To be optimistic, to look at the glass as half full instead of half-empty this is how the 'great ones' perceive their journey's and this is their path to success. It's funny, optimism. Like a complimentary slap in the face these lines are thrown out, regurgitated onto young minds and spirits to make them believe that they can accomplish anything, and that really, it won't be that hard. What about the funny little quarks that life has? How it likes to pull the rug every now and again to make everyone aware that the control they think they have, is nothing but an illusion. The sooner you realize you have no control, the more control you will gain. But these are lessons only obtained through hindsight. Very few can be lucky enough to make the right decision's, even, fifty percent of the time. This is the hoot of it all, if you will. Life throws huge, sweeping curve balls that you will never, ever have a chance at. It's like flying blind and deaf all at the same time. I learned this the hard way. It is what landed me where I'm at now.. How curious a thing a moment in time can be how monumentous sixty seconds truly are. But some of these moments must be shared, lessons that many want to learn, yet few grasp understanding. This is my story, a life not far from normal, but miles from reason. This is my sixty seconds.

The curtains were pulled almost completely shut, all but for a small slit, allowing a narrow stream of warm sunlight to dance across my face making my cheeks tingle. As my body slowly idled, I realized that the rest of the world was awakening. Some parts had been up for hours already. Dave, the Wonder Bread man was making his normal delivery to Anne's Bakery across from the Market Wal-Mart. Cute, little Suzie Parks with her bouncing brunette locks mashed to her forehead, was hunching over her bundle of Exclaimer Newspapers trying to get her arthritic fingers to unbind the stack of news. She delivered her stack to the local gas station every morning at 7:00 a..m. sharp. Her beauty was the hidden kind, one that was far too great for such a mediocre existence. It was familiar, a feeling that shot electricity up and down my frame without warning. I couldn't stand to look at her long. Most of these people, even with the early hours, were sunny, happy to be breaking a hard sweat and their backs for a small pension. None of these people knew me. I occasionally passed by them on my way to work as they were ending their day. Pondering what they went home too, how their lives were. If they looked forward to going home and receiving passionate hugs and kisses from loved ones. I watched all this from a far, I always watched. They knew that I was giving them the once over, and I'm sure they didn't like it much. I came to this conclusion because of the awkward smiles they returned. A look of, "Hey, I know you’re looking at me, and to be quite honest Jack, I don't appreciate it all that much!" Most would take recognition to this, and work on altering the pattern. If it was possible I probably would too, but for some reason I was hooked. In imagining these storylines, I felt free, it was my morning coffee. I guess it was the way to numb what my day was going to be like for the next seven hours.. That is neither here nor there right now though, I'm running late for work as usual.

My eyes had a stagnant film over them that seemed relentless in their pursuit to keep their prisoners locked away. This was a routine debate that carried on every morning, day in and day out. This stagnant avenger won most of the battles, as the snooze alarm became inevitable. Today was different though. I felt revived, only mentally. Physically I was the same, maybe worse off than yesterday, but I'm not sure. The same sores, old wounds cried out in agony, stretching their boundaries to keep me still. The confrontation that ignited from my brain through my nerves to the inflicted areas were audible in the cracks and wheezing of my lungs as I tore myself off of my queen size. As I rested, quietly, propped up on my elbow I noticed the time, 6:55 a.m., thirty-five minutes to get to work. Not that I really cared, but one must remember, today seems to be a different day. I ran my hands throw my hair, realizing that my hiatus from showering needed to come to a halt, showering this morning was a must. I'm not going to go out on the limb to shave, albeit, the five o'clock shadow is still in. As I tediously felt my way through my room, I knew that somewhere, under all the piles of debris there was the Jack Daniels bottle lying somewhere, from the night before, waiting to attack my toes like a serpent. Caution was imperative, although the thought of a serpent in my room made me giggle a bit. I had flashes of Star Wars, better yet, Nessy herself, supporting a healthy J.D. tattoo on her side, all the while slithering through my room waiting to pounce. Thoughts like these make me realize how, truly, lonely I must be. Never-the-less, the worst part of my day was upcoming, and coming quickly. I had to face my mirror. This was my ritual, the habitual realization that life is unfair, that I have wasted opportunities that will never grace my fingertips again. My mirror has two sides, one being the reflection of who I have become, the other being the person that I was supposed to be. As I settle on the figure staring back at me I become weak, unaware that he is screaming at me in disgust. I hate him, I loathe his existence in this place, yet I can not escape him. He never falters, he never waivers, always on time and always judging. No matter how many times the pieces are shattered, I can never defeat him. I know because I've tried several times to no avail. But face him I must. Its different everyday, I guess he has mood swings. I seem him snickering this morning. Is it at me? I'm not sure what to make of it. "What are you laughing at?" I ask as my hand runs across my jaw to feel the jagged stubble standing at attention. "What do you think I'm laughing at? It's a grand day, a different day is upon us, and I feel ambitious. Is there something wrong with this?" the stranger replies. I shrug him off and pop off the lid to my tooth brush. As I lather the bristles I feel the need to close my eyes and shut down for a bit. Try not to make contact with the damned mirror. I tense up as the razor blades in my brain remind me that I can't block out what is and what always will be. As I turn the lights back on in my eyes the man in the mirror is still, at this point it was worth noting that it was me again. I can never get past the bags, the dark circles, and the ring of yellow sneaking up around my pupils. I've lost too much weight; my hair seems to be thinning down the middle but not enough for anyone else to notice. Not that anyone would. I decide to skip the shower and just get dressed, less time in the bathroom means less time to think. After all, this day is one for the books, I can feel it crawling up the walls of my chest and squeezing tightly around my soul. It's positive, its optimistic, a different smell than what is expected.

I couldn't think of this right now, I was late for work. As I ran out the door I had to shake my head steadily several times to get this feeling of wonderment out. It was like sweeping the cob webs out of an old storage building to find the critters that had accompanied it for so long.


.....Still working on it - but I'm having a bit of writers block..or I've just written myself into a corner with the story.. So I might post more in the near future to see what everyone thinks. That is..if anyone reads this... LOL.

Cool Moon

I left for a moment, the words still ringing in my ears and the night still racing around my head. The blinking lights of this road are weary, dazzling in my confusion of direction. It all melts together now, drifting to and from my conscience as if a dream, it bounces around now persisting to find connectivity.

I pace now, wishing to hold still, wishing for a peace but none is found in this cool moon. If words were enough, if good intent were the drug to remedy then we could go on in a mindless bless. I feel the sting now, like ice to my lips I hasten my thoughts to flee. But they do not reside now, and like a whirl wind I'm lifted into a lonely state of dark. There is no redirection, there is no redemption, there is only the quite of this still air, there is only the torment of my dancing mind, and images of what was. I stand here, pacing, my heart tepid, searching for the end of this cool moon.