Crazy Train

Free-flow, uncontrolled, random ramblings and verging on coherency, I think, I muse, I ratify, file, retrieve, and process, bare of the knowledge of how it all arrives, I take what comes and spew it forth, and what is this I see before me, I dare to imagine my imaginings are meaningful, for of all the seconds, the minutes, the lifetimes within this life I have squandered would dredge up some horror indeed to examine and acknowledge, and thus I avoid.

I am big in my pond, immense, a giant, for I know myself, or think I do, and then I stand back and gaze upon this kingdom of mine, and it barely contains me, it is so miniscule, thus what does it avail me my measure in this universe, so relative it might be. I bang my own gong, beat my own drum, on frustrated occasion, so rare am I validated, and I fight back the guilt for having done so, thinking it necessary, for if I do one good work, is that work less valid for never knowing the light of notice? I soak it up, take it within, store it away, if only to crowd out my unworthiness, for I am indeed in so many ways found wanting, if should I stand in third person and judge, so harsh a judge I can be. Masochism, the gift you gave me, Father, the only gift short of your whip-tailed delivery of your half of creation, which I do not thank you for, for what would I know of never having existed?

Flagellants all, those of us who know something of empathy, of possibilities, or goodness so rare in the hearts of men in a heartless world, where to think to hard, to speak to loudly, to care of things best left uncared for, said thoughts that rock the boats, sink the ships, bring down towers in a heap of dust no less dirty than the roads trodden by the common man. I care nothing of your heart, your acts pronounce you loudly enough, even though deaf ears abound and rush to defend all manners of folly. You claim your page in history, and wish it written as though with the quill of a blind scribe, for if you knew truth, you would know how false any thought you could lay claim to history will reveal. You shalt sleep well tonight, and I will not, for your very existence does vex me, as Hitler vexed Churchill, thus I suffer my humanity, while you savor your lack of it.

But I digress. Like some train with a choice of tracks I try them all, and arrive in pieces, once I have returned from every journey my fleeting mind embraces, all at once, for what fun is linear when there are parallels all enticing, to explore, embrace, digest, and deposit for your inspection. I know a crazy man, residing at the end of a copper wire, saner than I could ever hope or wish to be, for he sees things, while I deny them. I know a sandpaper soldier, who rides an iron pony, and visits a forgotten world, still percolating in the background of our geography. I know a harpy, a cynical yet refreshing amazon who fights even battles she's already won, for when she tastes the blood of torment, it matters not she escaped, for her prison is too precious to escape till she's torn it down brick by dirtied brick. I know a sparrow, trapped in sorrow and joy, who knows herself by knowing me, always touching me in slumber but never in a waking moment, for she knows me so well. I know an artist, a jokester, a jester, a knave, who tilts at windmills and orbs and speaks my mind before I can. I know a gem forged of love and adventure and well spoken wisdom who takes as much from me in her absence as she gives to me in her pages of a life well lived. I know a sojourner, a wise old youngster blessed with adventure and a lust for learning to his last breath, who offers me peace should I need it bad enough. And I know an ebony mystery, elegant, quiet, who can laugh even as she dries a silent tear, and winks at me from some secret place.

I could say this all in some humdrum fashion, with no room to guess, no wicked smile to accompany my scattered thoughts, and you would shake your head and light a candle in whatever temple that draws your worship, and I would be no better said than in all these months of rants, raves, and rare moments of sense, but I see no labor of love in such a dish, thus I serve it up and beg ye clean your plate, for your Mother lied about starvation in China; no, my friends, it is you who starve when my muse speaks easy and you have nothing to ponder.