contingent

 

contingent

by Tim Reed

I used to say
creativity is contingent on conflict
so why have I been so dry
when all that’s within is conflict? 
that critical pressure
on which I used to rely
and by which, let words fly
has failed me
and I’m left in the swirling mass
of my tangled thoughts and desires

maybe I can’t create because the fight 
is myself versus myself
like the blocked barrel of a gun backfires
like a car with a jammed tailpipe —
the explosions that used to propel
now just propagate pain and inaction
and maybe the reason I feel directionless
is because it’s hard to steer a stopped car

and I’m stuck in the reality 
of where I am, which is far from what I wanted
so far from where I’d imagined
and I’m so tired of sweeping up broken dreams
tired of tossing them in the street
to pave the way for those who actually
get there. 

if sweat equity could ever be enough
I’ve paid
I’ve paid 
I’ve paid
I’ve pleaded and plotted
and hustled and hurried
and just ended up filling bubbles and filing forms
sucking down the last drops of my naive determination
while I drag myself through this endless cycle

what I once thought was a mountain to climb
has been scaled by the roulette table for others
and here I am, adrift and sweating in drifts of snow
miles below the summit and wondering
if I could live with myself, even if I could make it back down
but I know I couldn’t
I never could
I never will
And maybe it’s a grace the snow covers those it’s killed
so I can’t see the wreckage of my cold companions
brought to ruin on this peak

I’m not looking for pity —
I’ve sampled enough of that delicacy
to know the platitudes and expressed gratitude
are just a panacea meant to pacify
this gnawing ache in my gut
but it burns and bubbles and is never satisfied
all I want to do is discover
why. 

But I’ve written for years 
that ends are not always clear
and maybe my job is to stop reaching so high
and just live in the moment
but it’s hard to understand why
and I feel so done with wrestling 
 the muscle-bound doubts of my own mind’s eye
that’s strained and stretched to see 
but maybe I’ve been blind. 

All I know is that simple peace and happiness,
which seems so easily grasped by others 
feels like the dark hole of burying my head in sand
And in such a small space it’s easy to see
but I can’t help but wonder if I was constructed differently
why contentment is such a challenge
I long for simplicity, but maybe it’s just because I’m so tired
of myself. 

I used to say 
creativity is contingent on conflict
so I hope that my pen reflects
the war-zone inside my head. 

(acceleration)

(acceleration)
by Timothy Reed



white mouse, black mouse
gnawing at the branch,
blend to grey, blend to grey
as we counter-rotate, accelerate

the day hastens - we need not ask











"There is an old Eastern fable about a traveler who is taken unawares on the steppes by a ferocious wild animal. In order to escape the beast the traveler hides in an empty well, but at the bottom of the well he sees a dragon with its jaws open, ready to devour him. The poor fellow does not dare to climb out because he is afraid of being eaten by the rapacious beast, neither does he dare drop to the bottom of the well for fear of being eaten by the dragon. So he seizes hold of a branch of a bush that is growing in the crevices of the well and clings on to it. His arms grow weak and he knows that he will soon have to resign himself to the death that awaits him on either side. Yet he still clings on, and while he is holding on to the branch he looks around and sees that two mice, one black and one white, are steadily working their way round the bush he is hanging from, gnawing away at it. Sooner or later they will eat through it and the branch will snap, and he will fall into the jaws of the dragon. The traveler sees this and knows that he will inevitably perish. But while he is still hanging there he sees some drops of honey on the leaves of the bush, stretches out his tongue and licks them. In the same way I am clinging to the tree of life, knowing full well that the dragon of death inevitably awaits me, ready to tear me to pieces, and I cannot understand how I have fallen into this torment. And I try licking the honey that once consoled me, but it no longer gives me pleasure. The white mouse and the black mouse – day and night – are gnawing at the branch from which I am hanging. I can see the dragon clearly and the honey no longer tastes sweet. I can see only one thing; the inescapable dragon and the mice, and I cannot tear my eyes away from them. And this is no fable but the truth, the truth that is irrefutable and intelligible to everyone." - Leo Tolstoy, "My Confession"

Keeper of the Dead

Keeper of the Dead
by Timothy Reed


I am the Speaker for the Dead:
the Keeper of the Dead
and Dying. 


the only gift I can give
is to walk with them
to that dark door
and fasten it gently
Once they have passed


I am the Keeper of the Dead, 
and the Dying seek me out. 


I keep the Dead,
for I cannot bear to let them go. 

What Time Does Not Heal

What Time Does Not Heal
by Tim Reed


last night, I dreamed of you
- it seemed so real
yet, I awoke to darkness
a lone castaway on this bed
sailing a thousand moonless nights


there is a famine not of food
there is a drought not of water
I am consumed inside-out
you have sailed past the horizon
your laugh is a dying star

Clinic

Clinic

by Timothy Reed

The cupboards stood in ranks

Symmetrical 

White as death-faces

Pegged eyes staring

in vacant malice

The table is flat and white

Like an unwritten book

Feigning innocence, charity 

Blank scroll stretches smooth as snow 

before a foot says “no more”

Soap, soap, soap

Scrubbing the scars, scabs

It loves raw things, open things

no warm, unsanitary memories will be left,

tolerated - all are effaced, eroded

And I smile and say something polite

Signing, smiling, signing again 

I would run, but for these wretched pink walls

Pink as cotton candy

Flat as a pressed shirt

My stomach turns

But my feet cannot

escape the white halls

the white faces

the white walls

and that pink - mocking pink

reeling me in like some hooked fish

Desolation #8

Desolation #8

by Tim Reed

there is no return

from the future

spent calendar pages
hold us hostage

 father time keeps us

at arm's length

Desolation #7: Oaks and Dandelions

All bonds break

Friends

Family

Love

a lone oak in a field

cursed

To live

Through countless generations 

Of dandelion companions 

Desolation #6: Good Morning Moon

Good Morning, Moon

have you stayed up late

to spy

and try

to pry

me away from the yellow eye?

Never before

has jealousy reached

such great heights

Desolation #5: November

Why do we use such

grandiose

gargantuan

hundred-dollar

words

to describe such

small 

two-bit

hearts?

Desolation # 4: Winepress

As Dionysus

trod upon grapes

in the winepress

the howling wind

and merciless hills

change mice to men

or men to mice

distress

grants either

rich sweetness

or dregs most bitter

blame not the foot

but the grape

for what you become

Desolation #3

Sweet rain

Wash away

The facade

The savvy

Let it fall into the gutter

Where this shivering orphan 

Now lives

Desolation #2

and so I cower

amidst a swarm of receipts 

tasks

Obligations 

wishing to be in the company of my peers

heroes 

more of ink and pen

than of truth 

Desolation #1

Where do I live?

with face pressed to glass

longing

for a flurry of white 

to grant this present wasteland

a softer countenance