I Catch Monsters

I catch monsters.

They gesture in the confines of 8 mm film, screaming at the camera lens. Their mouths gaped, finger-pointing, accusing, in your face.

Their faces can’t find their truths rendered mute by the words they weave. In my prison, they don’t speak but their lips mimic the action.

Black & white, sepia & color.

They exist in all forms. There’s one in every age.

The thing that shakes me to my core when I take in their faces.

They look like mine. Not exactly like mine but they have similar shapes. 

Eyes. Mouth. Nose. Teeth. 

The same but different. 

I can see the monster in me as I do in them. 

Their monstrosity resonating with the stranger in us all. 

I swallow to bile in me, raise my weapon, & let the monsters roll in.

Click.

Self-Censure

That will not be the final title and this will be deleted. I’m trying to get myself going.

I’ll write a line that I don’t think is too good. I debate its artistic merit and chastise myself for thinking that. I push through nonsense–perceived and actual all to get to that scene I want to get to. Writing will get easier once I reach…

Pause.

I try out this sentence then scratch it out.

What am I doing exactly?

Frustrated contemplation
Enact & Redact
Instate and Debate

What am I doing? This suddenly became a poem.

I can smell the stink of ideas festering in my brain. They grow more rancid and the page acts as its mirror.

I further desecrate its unmarked grave and whip the husk of the dead thing until it falls apart at my feet.

I should delete that too. Don’t I always wax poetic about dead things when I’m bereft of ideas.

I should try something fresh–both literally and figuratively.

Delete all of it.

No, not delete.

Make sure it never see the light of day.

My own dirty little secret tucked between pages.

Something Nominal

I’m better at coming up with titles than their content
I wrote three times today
Most were filled with endless non-sequitur
Some actual plot
An unoriginal idea

We are six days in the eighth month
And we continue to count down the death of another year
They all seem so short
Though we perceive the future as an endless stream
That leads to another that seems just as far away

My words are finite
You could count them
And measure their worth
Most have multiple meanings
But I limit them by context
I preen possibilities
And put them down a chute of abstraction
And here we are repeating countless turns of phrases
That have been repeated just as many times
And will be many times more
And yet our language is so restricting
Our tongues more so
I want to sing Italian operettas
Relish schadenfreude
Or intone the cadence of Noh plays
But I’m stricken by an English tongue
With the shadows of languages forgotten

I am but one person
Cursed with finite experiences
And though I can peek into lives outside my own
My world could only be widened by  so much
There are things I can’t know
Things I can’t see
Things I can’t express
I am doomed to one body
Shackled to one cage
And even if it were to melt away and sink into dust
I am still only one
Though the worlds I have are many

August 6th, 2017