The Fringe
Published by Ryan Paich
Copyright 2013 Ryan Paich
Table of Contents
1) Cadence Talk
2) Fringe Dive (stretch)
3) Dark Focus
4) Clock Tower
5) Hell Wisp
6) His Rhythm
7) Her Rhythm
8) Their Rhythm
9) Gray Companion
10) Leaver 1
11) Accidentally Perfect (coincidence tricks)
12) Giantform (same)
13) Dreamwalk Blues (drift)
14) Caffetine
15) Leavers (cross)
Cadence Talk
Don’t you see how
our dreams were so huge they destroyed themselves and
how beautiful they still are...
Like a perfect view - teasing us into actions we never took,
revealing the shallowness of our resolve,
a fragile shell,
a lack of focused energy.
Then, the discord -
turning us inward as
the dreams burst into dangerous fantasy.
Don’t you see how
our world is so vulnerable to influence...
Like the conversation that spurs us into movement -
movement that burns holes through this reality,
letting through discomfort,
a failure to understand;
a touch of the unknown.
Don’t you see...
Fringe Dive (stretch)
It’s a pulse
it’s a rhythm;
a heat in your chest as you recognize
the urge to dive
into the fringe.
The realizations that wait for you there
suspend your judgment
for a moment
blinding you with truth or
tricking you with patterns set in opposing motion.
The fringe,
where you are available to the universe;
able to send and receive
messages that may inspire or
horrify.
Keeping part of your mind
rooted to the Earth
is constant and necessary
for a perspective -
making damn sure
the dive is shallow enough
to emerge;
to breathe familiar air.
As I concentrate,
I begin to hear the murmurs
of some wayward soul
looking for someone... Not me...
Then suddenly
a woman’s figure approaches through a dimly lit corridor
reaching out
begging for me to hang on
as the clocks circling her hooded face
shatter across the nonexistent ground.
I am floating through a sky full of colors I cannot describe
with any accuracy
and heaven seems so close but
how far can I go...
It’s a burst
it’s a sharpness;
a splinter in your mind’s eye as you recognize
the need to come back
from the vulnerable state -
having stretched thin to accomplish
whatever end you sought.
Dark Focus
The light hours can’t compete
not now,
not with the slow, even pace of darker times.
Inspiration fuels genius like fire -
words playing at the abstract,
concepts that dance just beyond human understanding...
To reach separate lives
with a distinct creative burst
makes individual meaning;
each perception becomes a unique reality.
What could be untrue?
Sometimes the fire burns so high, it touches the heavens
even for a moment -
generating ideas we will surely alter
yet the beauty is permanent.
Find this...
Harness the sound, cool surge
unleashing your will on the world.
And when the dark fades into day
light draws a balance,
weighing out the inspiration that dwells within the night.
Clock Tower
Could’ve sworn I saw the starlight flicker
making the jump to uneven ground -
a break in breaths and the space between seconds;
night-stepping over old ideas and burnt bridges,
I looked again at the tower with wiser eyes.
The sight was scattered and familiar
like staring into a broken mirror
a version of the past stretched tall.
Once the foundation for arrogant plans,
now a reminder of dreams crashed down
My eyes play tricks.
What did I see and what do I see now?
The night darkened and the Earth shook
or I wasted my time here.
Inside the tower was different
An ancient quality -
time was strange in this place
partly because I wanted it to be,
partly because there was something.
It still stands;
not as high as I remember.
Hell Wisp
Years later, but still sensitive to that demon’s growl
I hear it close to madness
cogs of the spirit crunching on one another,
a low hum.
A language I forget; terrifying yet familiar -
the roots of my being disturbed after years of comfort...
Some people understand how to break -
shifting a high torque mind with their own insanity.
They look me in the eye;
I see rage
I see too much truth inside them.
To shortcut reality,
to grasp at madness for a glimpse of some master plan,
is sure death;
more weight to keep me looking down; not ahead.
The demon’s hum still upsets,
coercing me back
toward chaos.
His Rhythm
A beat pulses in his stride;
as his footsteps fall
the ground beneath bends to swinging rhythm.
Marching steady with the noise,
his thoughts drive the pace forward,
quieting the outside world,
making the way clear.
The path toward his hell
is treacherous and erratic.
As he draws near,
his rhythm must be heavy enough to embrace
the guns of mercy firing through the night;
strong enough to ignore
demons that attempt to counter-inspire.
“I will not fail,” he says.
Then,
he halts at the open gates
satisfied.
Whispers he does not hear tempt him to enter,
his rhythm overwhelming.
Quietly he whispers back,
“No.”
Her Rhythm
Stubbornness swings lightly with her walk
a rhythm is borne of counter-reason,
of why not.
As her footsteps fall,
the beat is accidentally charming;
her spirit builds an effortless flow.
The journey toward her heaven
is foreign yet gentle.
As she treads the smooth trail,
her rhythm is powerful enough to ignore
the guns of rage firing through the night;
clever enough to embrace
angels that show the way.
“What await
s me here?” she asks herself.
Then,
she stops at the open gate,
curious.
Whispers she barely hears beg her to come home;
her rhythm unknown to her still.
Quietly she whispers back,
“Yes.”
Their Rhythm
Tragedy and delusion bind them together
forever.
Their rhythm is born of fantasy denied,
of near death.
Their walk toward each other
is too much to grasp.
As they come closer,
their rhythm is perfect madness,
love impossible to bear.
“Do you crave death?” she asks.
“Yes,” he tells her.
“Good,” she says, “you’ll need that too.”
They recall
the gates,
and how they once loved each other
enough to create a divine spark.
“You know I can’t live without you,” he says, “and I must.”
“Yes,” she agrees.
The kiss at the onset
as they understand
what must happen.
Whispers they know too well pull them apart,
their rhythm beautiful.
Quietly they whisper back,
“Soon.”
Gray Companion
There is so much I want to tell you;
I don’t even know your name.
Your story is equally filled with mysterious coincidence
barely allowing you to overcome.
The call was difficult for me also
stress heavy enough to break - forcing change in the soul.
Our crippled hopes led to suicide prayers
not to be answered
though we begged for His divine pardon.
What have you seen?
I would love for you to show me.
Have you got your scar; the empty pull
that replaces something valuable?
Did you hear your hymn when you woke up?
I would guess that you sang beautifully
on your way toward soft destruction.
I want to tell you
the idea you are to me
is invincible and real.
It kills me and
rips me apart with quiet grace.
I believe you exist to dream
near the highest point of imperfect glory,
nameless to me,
near me,
without me.
Leaver 1
The leaver is the ultimate sacrifice –
breaking your own heart because you love someone enough
to let them walk away content.
You can feel the strain; the painful pinching
contorting the soul into something dark.
The leaver is a lesson you receive
in the depths of misery.
Hearing its sweet and terrible music
pushes your heart beyond despair
as the notes flow by.
The leaver is the most impossible of all hopes
to move on,
because you are sick from loss.
Such is the extent of the sacrificed love.
The leaver burns,
ready to be unleashed;
if time should call it to duty,
may God have mercy on your soul.
Accidentally Perfect (coincidence tricks)
Stretching your gaze across past events
reveals truths too small to notice
while living in the moment.
Broken perfect through divine method,
“Save me from arrogance,” and
“Lead me into calm solitude.”
But you have already said that prayer,
this gift so hard to harness,
what starts as a clue becomes an obvious instruction
carefully destroying yet fueling the reason
for a life to exist -
part of the unseen consequence to every action
placed on a timeline leading up to this very second.
“Send me toward comfort,” and
“Crash my life into chaos.”
And you would not say that prayer,
Knowing too much to turn back now
is the best reason to realize
there was never any chance involved -
looking back.
Giantform (same)
The illusion of circumstance...
How it fools me at times...
As its massive curtain lifts for a moment
an opportunity exists
to call the giants out of hiding.
And just look how huge they are
once you finally see them.
The illusion...
It becomes taxing once I feel the apathy
settling in,
the curtain falling,
and I am forced to distance myself,
remembering:
Does the regret
not equal the passion?
Does the confusion
not equal the mystery?
These heavy splashes of tension
are perfectly balanced,
telling me all that I need to know
as the giants vanish from view.
Dreamwalk Blues (drift)
It has taken some time for you to notice
how your nightmares are more vivid than the dreams in which you fly.
Why don’t you just accept these nightmares
as real memories,
since you are becoming worse
at knowing the difference.
Maybe then you might find some relief -
diving fully into an easy, drifting state
of uncertainty.
But then the nightmares worsen
to the point where
you cannot take it and
are forced back
into making a distinction.
As if to say
how dare you try.
Caffetine
The falling ash upsets the balance of my cigarette,
tipping the fire higher,
snapping me out of a thoughtful haze.
I stare intently at the empty mug
unsure of how much coffee I’ve had today.
The caffeine fuels a slightly manic buzz.
Pen at the ready,
I wait for ideas to shoot through my head -
catching them on a page if I’m lucky.
Sometimes it does not come or
is gone too fast
for my nets like
something I shouldn’t know.
I realize that I want more coffee,
but it’s four in the morning
and one can only push the mania so far
before it gains the upper hand.
Smothering my cigarette in the ash tray,
I stand ready to summon the magic
another night.
Leavers (cross)
Send me home;
send me the end of my mind.
There is someone
you love fiercely
and I am starting to understand
the method -
how soldiers are made.
She exists beautifully next to you
when you need her
reminding me how
the crossing of worlds burns
straight through your
fingertips.