Thursday, November 5, 2015

John Lasater- Three Poems

Lathophobic Aphasia

I've never been much like them.
They shout about their pride and degrade me for my craving to explain them their self destructive ways. 
Ways that forget their own reality.
Realities we all know to be honest.
Honest is all I've ever been.
Without it, what is left of me?
I'll stick to what has gotten me through.
Through this superstructure of neat words, phrases, priceless biases, textured privileges, groups, teams, gangs, and the dreadful few with peace offerings, correctly stacked for the politics unmatched to any image of where we have been, constant struggle is not how we fit in.
Into the sum of an equation, ike ovary cancer in the pit of mother earth, we writhe, unnaturally, against the grain.
The grain of our very impressive stand on top of each of our own mountains.
Mountains are our safety blanket when it comes to knowing how  we will make it through this teeny little speedbump of occupying a space.
A space in time that we exaggerate into the mountains which we selfishly create. What we humans are about is creating anything to keep our division. 
A division kept by creating.
Creating community laws that lower communication and feed an unreasonable system we hold in our strongest adoration.
Adoring our self esteem defeat, we rustle through damnations that appear fulfilling in the mountains, fake and bleak.
Bleak is what our surroundings contrive. All left behind remnants are out cries of mismanaged methods instilled into the summit of a dirt mound that is breathtakingly elevated above any comprehension.
Comprehension is foreign to humans. 
Humans only mumble what we heard the last animal announce across a ravine. 
Ravines are my recommended reclusive spots for having not a glimpse, an inkling, a single clue why I can't gather up a sentence that defines the mountain beasts once known as humans.
I thought I would remember what they were, but shielding my name under these rocks,with my opposing thoughts, I concur. I only know my wavering self. 
And, in myself, anymore, I'm not too sure.

Feast Frequently 

A picture may be worth a thousand words, but a poem will leave your heart realizing the endless miles between you and others who do not know of your infatuation with finding a connection amongst us all. This, while comforting, exposes individuality, in all it's beautiful confusion. Some pieces will be worth more than numerical value could ever represent, in our hysterical assessment of all life's instances. They will leave you feeling that connection, but understanding that the distance, which is just a facade between ourselves and the next, is traveled relentlessly, wearing down the souls of our inquisitive ponderings that seek a bond. I could write a million words, a thousand, or just a few, but they would serve only to be read as a single interpretation of this craziness we all experience, together, but alone, on a single road with countless forks our intellectual palette isn't built to taste. Chew on written language, charred by the fire of expeditions made before our sprinkling of seasoning across the words we ingest to sustain our survival. Subliminal substance is art's delicacy. Starve on the bones. A poem is worth only the mind it devours.


The thread of any relationship will, always, only, ever be as strong as it was before eyeing the needle of connection. We are drawn to multiple people, throughout life, who we hold dear or take for granted. We will make a, seemingly, good hearted person feel as if their insignificance was the only necessity we aimed to acquire and sling them to the curb, just like a self deprecating artist's blue splashing into a sea that was meant to be a common ground. We think of life as leaving the past, but we are humans. We can't function in a logical agreement that who we were is not who we are. We attempt to cut ties with folks for different reasons, forgetting the fact that the thread already eyed those needles. They pierce and stab and are pulled by the weight of the other end, the end that we thought we'd leave there in the past. Without understanding, the threads of all relationships, despite their severity of impact or slight discomfort in the condition of the human heart, have tripped us up. I can't move. I'm free to go anywhere I want, but these goddamn threads hold me in captivity, always contemplating. Intrinsic and manic, I struggle only to fall further in the depths of that despair, reaching for traction in that place. I've never named this feeling, thought, emotion, gesture, mannerism; I am helpless against the threads of relationships and I know I can't admit, it gets worse from here. 

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