SPOTLIGHT: These Plastic Boats Are Melting by Christopher Donaho

Distractions

I’m beginning
to see it
all for what
it is.

Distractions.

“The TV tells
us what
to think.

Why else
would they
call it
programming?”

The game.
The cars.
The books.
The catchy
jingles.
The religions
of the
day.

Shiny trinkets
and baubles
on weighted
souls.

I turn my
face
inward
to sweet
salvation.

There is
no death
in me.

No commercials
telling me
I need
something
and to break
my back
to get it.

My lineage
was
burdened…
such heavy
burdens
of self-
delusion
and self-
sabotage.

Why sit
with demigods
that pervert
true nature?

There’s room
at eternity’s
table.

I go on
and on
and on.

I am forever.

And I am
no longer
distracted.

Shadowboxing

I don’t want to grow
old and
bitter.
That’s a hell within
myself without
a key.
And I don’t want to
whimper in
my arms,
that’s a fetish
for the broken
and weary.

But the landslides
in my mind can
take me down.
The undertows are
daunting.

I turn my head
to suffer
another blow.
These knuckles
are battered and
bleeding and
so fucking
done with
me.

I fight within me
on nights like
this one…
they’re peppered
amongst my days.

I blame the moon.
I blame the tides.
But it’s me who
suffers me.

My cracks are
stuffed with hope
and faith and
wax from
dying wicks.

Give me a god
or give me self,
let me dance
again
within these walls.

May my windows
blink snapshots
of a world I
can conceive.

My confusion
is a pet without
form, whose eyes
never leave me.

I fed him once…
a thousand times.

My path has always
been crooked, winding
its way through
doubts and despairs.

My soul
yearns.
But my flesh
has gotten too
good at giving
up.

Everything Points to Her

All of these roads intertwined.
I became confused and lost.

But I found her, that
Golden Teacher.

She’s opened her gown
and shown herself.

And I blush at
her beauty.

All of her gardens.
All of her mysteries.

The hidden is not quite so
hidden.

Life is a distraction from
her radiance.

Our embers burn low
with want. An ancient
hunger in these modern
bellies.

Everything points to her.

Everything.

Ouroboros

My father was a sparrow.
A broken man, just like you.

He cooed and cawed
and cackled.

He died from cancer,
they said. But I
could see that he
was just tired
and
wanted to go
home.
Death is just a little
door we step through
when it’s time.

We spend our lives
peeking through
the windows.

I had gotten sober
a few years earlier,
so he got that version
of me.

He never got to meet
my daughter in flesh
but I know he’s
here right now. He’s
everywhere.

He dove back into
Everything.

A grateful heart will
never really
perish.

He died with string
in his beak. He
was building
tomorrows.
And I suppose we all
are. We’re all
broken builders.
Broken fingers.
Broken memory.

The melding
between
this and that, the smeared
lines… that’s where we
interlock. It’s when
we step back in
masks of ego
we lose sight of
the
truth.

That we are one.

We feed to be fed.

You can be the smiling servant
or you can be
the downtrodden
slave or you
can be an empty vessel
without want.
Either way, we are not our
own.

I want to brim
and bubble over.

But we are all subjected to
this servitude… that’s the price we pay
for living this tiny
moment.

I’m Wiley to Your Haunts

I know where you hide,
what mask you put on-
it’s of stone and autumn.

Peeking out from
miles of flesh.

Show me your gaze full
of sunsets,
those lazy afternoons
where
lovers
lay
exhausted.

Come shake your shadows with
me, sister- in gardens of
wilting remains.

Time is a thief… a wicked,
terrible thief.

It’ll rob you.
It’ll rape you.
And it will watch us all
die these horrible
deaths, one at a time…
or en masse.

Time.

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