I really hope that the therapy isn’t hopeless.
I really hope all our problems can settle over mimosas.
I really hope we eat our next breakfast over the toaster
While we’re both wearing my shirt.
This is only year one, I hope the rest doesn’t hurt.
The barrista downstairs is sexy. I hope that she doesn’t flirt.
Any response I could realistically conjure would just make it worse,
And I need you to stop me from convincing myself nothing works.
But it wouldn’t be the first time.
And the next time won’t be the first time that we find both ourselves lying.
But next time would be the first time time we’re both fine at the coastline.
Because every time you touch sand, you get to thinking about old times.
And every time we talk plans, you say you were planning the whole time.
I keep asking you not to do that until I figure out if we’re both mine—
If I don’t have me, how can I have you?
I know that on the uneventful days you say you’re happy, but is that true?
Plus the active times are what matters most; When it’s gametime, can we have truce?
To be honest, you look receptive, and that’s a great sign, but can I have proof?
Heard emotions attached to your namesake through the grapevine, but is that you?
If Bookmarks Savored Justly Thine Sweet Lips
artistes would not guilt quivering for thee
But what they pen would strike no fear in me
For what we have stretch farther than the quill
It stretch laid long on thoughts bedded within
In cavities cut well to sculpt your curves
And synapses to keep warm every word
You wish to speak, til on page you lay still
And once well-sheeted, spoken, and much sought
The sheets of your will archive books of gold
Your fibers tightly to me, never soled
Body absent, thine name still head the bill
So should I savor your lips by the line—
words like you resonate with every cult,
Hope you not see my permanence in fault—
A bookmark to reach thee shall be my pill.
Forever, moments sought beyond my will.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published April 22, 2013
Every night I go to sleep and have a nightmare
In which I will have gone light years
At a failed attempt to escape night fears and night terrors
Only to face heavy treble when my mind tunes in reflexively to its own frequency
As I’ve dealt with it having done oh so very frequently
I can even currently feel it committing to this very stated frequency
In a way that I unfortunately cannot truthfully say I’ve felt it do much more recently than this
Because secretly there’s nothing more I want much more seriously than this
Because secretly a mind like mine has dreams and nightmares one in the same and all at the same damn time, and what’s the glory that Dimethyltriptamine awards you if you never take that almost-fatal risk?
It’s nothing, just chemically drenched tissue crumpled like your sorrows’ metaphysical, metaphorical tissues, in a hole biologically set to be dark by intention, only to accidentally turn into a dark hole leaving itself to diminish.
…Or maybe I’m the anomaly; would you offer your consciousness to its own abyss?
I welcome the burden of the fact, but the fact just may be that this burden is my nightmare’s very wish.
I promise myself constantly that I can absolve the burden of it all and gain this ability by grabbing it consensually in my own two fists
But for all I know, shit like this might just be me dreaming and making a wish.
But when I let my consciousness arrest my consciousness and take the risk to make a wish like this
The problem amplifies like the volume of the instrumental behind the psychological, dark, mechanical, cerebral lyrics I feed it with
To have that very conscience believe that I’m the person it’s pleading with
But if it believes that weaving of a fairytale I’m slinging it, I’ll have to leave my home, run downtown to Brooklyn to pick up the deed to a bridge I’ll have to sell myself
Pledge to spend my wealth
in ways to spare my health
Thought or monetary currency, hell or high water
I will lace up by boots,
look in the mirror,
brag to myself about how much of a walking fucking paradox I am,
sleep and stay up all at the same damn time
to stand in the crosshair of a madman and a martyr
All just to save myself
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published March 31, 2013
While I appreciate the way you dive into thought,
I fear that if I follow you down, I’ll end up in too deep.
I commend you for learning to swim boundlessly, effortlessly,
Almost as if to bring Deep Sea Diving to an art form,
But for me to even float atop these waters is a miracle, one burdensome at that.
Truth be told, I was only able to get to this lake of thought accompanied with a life raft.
I used to be upon the highest tier of the highest ship, my head in the clouds,
Above the millions of people on deck, who were, and remain, dry enough as it is.
When I learned that such a life was unsustainable, however,
I decided I needed to come close to the water, for both social and health purposes.
So, I took to this lifeboat as an emergency means to save my life.
Since my head WAS so high in the clouds,
I’m sure you can imagine why, even ‘on water’ by pure technicality all this time,
I never actually learned to swim.
Hence, I can only travel these seas thoroughly enough to say that I did,
And can only reasonably allow myself to tread these shallow waters.
I’ll admire whilst you dive so far down that you wind up over my head,
Hopefully like you’ll admire the statue I’ve commissioned to be built at the ocean floor,
To show people, falsely, how far down I’ve been,
And to prove, falsely, to them that I’ve seen how far down the rabbit hole goes.
But if I dare to actually challenge myself so far down—
Which, mind you, I’m even willing to do—
I’ll surely end up in too deep, and drown.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published February 1, 2013
Bright lights set our skins ablaze,
The booms set up around us, like long grey stars
And the camera starts to roll.
On the scene now filming, we dine.
The camera pans, showing the hottest of foods,
The steam doing nothing but magnifying the heat from which we’re all suffering.
Regardless, we sit, and we smile.
We scoop, we twirl, we pass, like a perfect and happy family,
And we do what we once thought to be impossible.
See, these lights are hot enough to boil our skin,
But the steam emitting from this fettuccini before us
Is too glorious and powerful a heat to be sustained by a floodlight.
So we sit and feast, upon our steaming plates, Suffering,
But we will only suffer on Take One without the faintest intention to reach Take Two,
Because we suffer for a living, and we know to overcome.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 31, 2013
You are the star in the sky around which I fixate.
I lie, with my hair and back indented in the hills
Admiring your glow, hoping that,
Amongst the millions of lives you illuminate at this moment,
I might, greedily, get to be the only stargazer to really admire your light.
I track your spot in the sky
Hoping to see you scar the black midnight sky with your luminescence,
So I can admire the gracefulness with which you move.
And while the worst part of my night is the cue by which I’m forced to leave,
I worry not, because amongst a uniform militia of stars above my head
I could never fail to recognize which you are.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 29, 2013
I live in a Fantasy land,
with a whole army of gingerbread soldiers.
Instead of depicting our art in shades of grey,
We dream and speak in Technicolor, of colors never familiarized, but still appreciated.
Instead of living in decaying mortar fortresses,
We live in cascades of crystal castles.
Instead of breathing every breathe to our death,
We breathe life into the universe.
Instead of wagering our funds on the brazen and efficient cavalries and foundations,
We use money like it’s disposable, because as limited as it may be, with it we create opportunities.
Instead of forging impenetrable metal armor,
We decorate ourselves in candy and frosting, because we are sure of our safety.
Instead of piercing flesh with a plunging sword,
We pierce mentalities, if playfully, and challenge them
Waiting for them to take initiative, and play the game,
Because once they play the game, they will have fun.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published January 28, 2013
A spy is only as good as him team
As if I am to continue this mission,
I will need the resonance of your voice in my earpiece, telling me what to say
Because lord knows,
That if I couldn’t rest my thighs on your shoulders
I could never raise myself high enough to hear the meetings
of the wise, the cultured, and the knowing through the vents,
And would promptly fall flat on my face.
Your sultry voice, not only soothes me,
But, more importantly, gives me a sense of direction,
So nautical you, and nautical me,
Take to the seas.
And should we crash, let the record show,
Let the history books shout in italic and bold, to waves of students and connoisseurs,
That we died in the heat of warfare,
Robbing the time of pain from the rich in clandestine, evil riches
And giving time of solace to the poor in desperate, honest rags.
And should we hit the bottom of the sea,
Our bodies dancing horizontally,
We shall find for the bodies that the desperate, honest rags wear,
A treasure that they’ve given up on,
Because, nautical you, and nautical me,
Have never yet taken to the seas to find it,
And never yet fallen, like dripping ink, into the history books
As the martyrs that gave to the universe,
A rich treasure.
A treasure in the form of a painting,
That shows the boundless beauty,
Of the intellect we’ve amassed for the well-being of our nation, stuck to the canvas,
As me, hearing you, through my earpiece,
With your sultry voice, not only soothing me
But giving me a sense of direction,
Nautical you, and nautical me.
This poem © Kevin Blain Harrison. Published Aug 22, 2011