Who am I

What am I?

The face in the mirror

Yes, I’m me, the body,

Ben

But I watch the body.

I watch fingers tapping at the keyboard

I make them move

They belong to me

I can see thoughts too,

They create swirls of feelings like ice cream cones

Trains move through the station of this head that I can feel and I’m the only passenger on the platform.

 

So I’m the passenger and there’s no one around when I really look. When I look from Me,

This floating eye moving through the landscape of dimensions that I once knew and that I could one day come to

 

Yeah

 

Possibly I’m just depressed and longing for the answer to the questions that could serve me to my sustenance

but I believe in curiosity and the fruits of persistence

When falling from the path of the heart, I throw a line and hope it finds it’s destination

 


-Ben 

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Photography by Rafael Guajardo

Remnants of love

Never did I believe in love at first sight til I met her,

The floor fell from underneath my throat and my eyes saw only flowers

The remnants that I keep of that night are the chips of my past that were never washed in the tight lips that spoke a thousand truths in an instant [without saying anything] and in a daze were gone

And we walked for morning coffee along the tree strewn path and the leaves and the sunlight danced like the cistine chapel in our wake

She held my hand and led me to a dark corner to whisper in my ear. She told me about love and I didn’t believe her until she was gone.

The next day was grey from the night before. Reason tasted like cookies from school; raisins; off.
I felt like a lake in the moon light, left only with the still reflection of what could have been had I been quite right in the head.

Yet the unknowing is the loudest silence

the roaring thunder of torment that lingers on the lips of the assailed – nothing.

My arms have gone

My arms have gone

they jumped overboard

all that is left are the

blood stains of yesterday

and the stumps of tomorrow

still I pick at them

the scabs of my eternal imprisonment

asking “when does this end, when will it end?!”

Knowing full well that the death of yesterday is the birth of tomorrow

and so I am cradled

in the womb of the wound

hushed at the bossom of the great mother

who holds me steady and reminds me of my birthing teeth

and my small hands that scratch at rocks

yet are capable of so much love

 

I am the body in purgatory that speaks when it is not needed

I am the gluttony and the prudence that weighs the scales down till they bend at the joints

I’ll be the flower that in death by starvation in the desert of my mind

casts its seed into the fertile land of the heart

to let it bloom

 


-Ben

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Stranger

Not normally one for a fight
I’d normally run into a fight with a spork (instead of a penknife)
Thinking I was being smart of something
Working laterally at the problem

Once I was asked to do a cartwheel
So I did a triple standing backflip and broke my neck
And I never wear a suit and tie for that reason

And I hover around normally about two feet in the air
It’s more comfortable up there, or maybe I’m just fixing world problems – who knows

But I still go for a punch up with the local 10 legged tentacle monster down the cafe on Tuesday mornings, which gives me a good training for life tomorrow

 


-Ben

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