Weather or Not (e.e. cummings-esque Slam)

The foreboding clouds surround any sound of silence.
He becomes specious
in his thinking.
And as his sinking suspicious soul longs to taste the sweet relieving freedom of peace, his eyes close again,
swallowing, sucking
him
in
(the bowels of his own soul)
side
collapsing his ribs of reason,
cra\ck}ing his spine of time and rhyme.
He feels not, he lives not, he is not.

Once again, in the moment of the shining light, he is revealed. The blades of light his (split) soul, he writhes in the satirical destiny of what he has never known, understood, or felt.

More Poem (Than a Short Story)

More Poem

I seem to be chasing a thing society calls "living."

Consequentially, I've heard you need to be breathing.

I inhale subconsciously, but there is no life.

I seem to need more than mundane blurring of sight.

I am always wanting more, making excuses,

about the past, which is pretty useless.

I haven't caught on yet. I need more understanding,

more comprehension, to stop these demanding feelings.

But I don't have it yet. Maybe someday when I care enough.

A Tale of Two

While in the bliss of riding my cycle this morning, I was a strange sight to behold. Clutched carefully in my left hand were 12 ounces of aromatic Sumatra in a Starbucks cup (as I had just departed from Starbucks a short while before) , and an egg and bacon "Artesian Breakfast Sandwich." As I rode, leaning this way and that, attempting to steady my ride with one hand, and endeavored to keep my morning liquid and sustenance intact, I chanced upon the sight of two old women. At first glance, nothing departed from the mundane, but a prolonged stare led to the deduction that they were participating in a verbal altercation of some sort. Their apparent dialogue falling short of me, one of them attempted to jog away. Accounting for the fact that they appeared to both be aged round ninety, our jogging friend was by no means jogging at a slow pace. In fact, the rate at which she jogged was astonishingly high. My eyes, focused on her antics, failed to observe my approach on the other old lady. Noting this, I swerved into the grass beside the sidewalk to avoid the inevitable collision. Such a maneuver presented its consequences shortly, as my coffee splashed onto my hand. Fortunately, it was a small amount; the majority of the liquid remained in the paper cup. The longer I traversed upon the surface of the grass, the more I began to perceive that the turf I was crossing had deceived me. It was surprisingly rugged, making it not only to difficult to ride on, but also to balance my beverage and provender in my hand. Once again, I speedily weaved back onto the smooth, cool concrete slabs of the sidewalk. As I continued to cycle, I recollected what had just occurred. I reconvened in the bliss of the morning sunrise, the clouds over the mountains slowly fading from the fiery red they had been earlier in the morning. The sun had still not risen over the peaks, and the cool, crisp air embraced me. I thought to myself, "There's nothing like hot coffee and a warm breakfast in the morning."