The Blurring Shades of a Loving Schizoid

Find me everywhere,

look, my friend, use the hazy eyes and see the bleeding fumes

of trachea upon shifting trapezoidal misconception,

find me everywhere,

for I am everyone, fact or fiction,

blatant in being and, in being,

one of Four consistent and for always throughout the diagnosis,

the climb of vine and ash breaks me into

an orchid of deconstruction,

a detective who lost his last case and forever haunted haunts himself,

and falling back in giving forward

in the beginning in the end, there is

always Four:

In the abyssal shifting rivers coursing through Colorado caverns aloft,

find me in each story, the characters convoluted through caricature complication,

and bereft is not the fallen oak,

heavy, heavy through despond and the shallow plunge into dirt,

among dirt, among soil,

becoming dirt, becoming soil,

and through Father and Mother and Friend and Lover, the Four of me in every

blossomed sunrise, find me in the

cinematic tragic comedies, ghoulish and grave,

the open paged hardcover of adventure deep within it’s own said age-old wisdom,

through forces fantastical and mystical and not of this earth

and in song, not by the purpose of the writer,

but instead of the purpose,

and through the delusions of reference I find myself:

Ten Years Hence, and I create my own cartographical maps.

Blue the desire of my slender heart, Four ventricles same and same without

coagulation or floundering disruption, this the azure first:

as open and embracing as the sky for the birds

and the same for the falling soul from cliffs amongst the wry thought of

a plummet solving life’s gradient issues,

Blue as the sky and Blue as the water,

home for the teeming multitudes of creatures

kind and honest and darting forth and back within and without me,

storming schools of sunfish on a lake in Minnesota,

shark fin horrendous off the Ivory Coast,

Blue as a home for the swimmer.

Blue as death for the drowned.

Blue Father, of all, through delusion, holding me back and breaking the same

upon waves of waves of distraught care for a species also broken and delusional

and myself, also through delusion and also snapped sliced skewered into separates of Four,

delusional care and self-hinderance.

My child, do you see the Red? Crimson rivers of auger arteries,

blushed self-imposed mediocrities in ancient matriarchal dissatisfaction with how

her children have run, [red rover red rover quit your childish games]

sprinted even at the dawn of light with the first seeping breath of morning,

sprinted and beyond into the rushing traffic lights of calamity, stop stop stop!

First at recess on the playground and then at recess at the dive bars,

lowly and laundered and levied through burgeoning stylistic maroon,

marooned, each one, the same as on the playground, never breaking beyond

and an island isolated and navigating with

a sky that is blood and harrowing

and a Red mother hen knowing not how to

give the aid she feverishly wishes to offer

with the deep, ravenous bloodlust of a mama bear

entirely fed up and full to the utmost brim of

a sycophantic, unamusing, blatantly unhealthy

pecking-order hierarchy which leaves many children uncared for,

and still my words echo empty,

as unsatisfied as the inner gore of a mother who can no longer

take care of her brightly brazen and both fully petty and fully promising children.

Third is the Yellow Friend of the moon, and, in deep respect and eager dichotomy,

the sunlight shining golden upon dandelion dew in contrapositive support.

The wolfish night of a pack wandering, the few claimed upon my heart

to be also yellow to me, to be moon, to be sun,

through determination destined and hallowed sacrifice we have swayed not

and remained, through turmoil floundering and flame sacrifice remained

duly the same: Friend. Third, Yellow, the final of the primaries,

and in Friendship the the wolf shares with the wolf and the rest,

bright cadmium flash of luna lighting liquid skies and crying

upon and to its young howling children,

all equal; all trying.

And then upon the night’s succumbing to Sol holy-thought and fettered,

the tender growth of plants, the thirst of lemon through lit streets and neighborhoods,

the Friend tends to the Friend, and slowly through the manes of lions,

in pride but not of pride,

Holy Friendship three involved confides deep throughout the grassy Yellow savannah in protection and provision through the light of day.

Fourth the final, Lover in my green eyes,

dagger-like and piercing and lonely for indeed holding a gaze is near impossible

for one or the other ever and evermore,

emerald scythes of dualistic equations, feeding and fed,

taking in all and giving back as much as nearly possible in the

same brilliance of one who Loves but who is bladed and cutting with honesty,

even throughout attempts at breaking mold.

Green as grass, growing with Blue water and Red Colorado dirt

and the bright Yellow sun photosynthesising into more and more and more

Green.

Split, they say, the mind of the diagnostically psychotic, and for me

this means Four, and this means the leaves of

clover in Irish kirks and draping vines off of cottages,

crumbling and abandoned and quaint.

The Lover eyes fully aware of each side,

The X and The Y both within me and about me and of me and me, truly,

weaving chromosomes and weaving stories and gleaned thoughts from thoughts themselves

foreshadowed upon a story written at age nineteen,

and now, at thirty years of arbitrary age,

my mind perpetuates diminishment,

and my colors shine more brightly than ever.