the passion behind a conscious rage

It is bubbling to the surface,

now and then as this fume of rage.

It is seething as a flow

of minute unconscious turbulence,

not really as repetitious

or presenting as accident prone,

not revealing as the hidden source

of self destruction,

yet a haunting behind presence

that echoes as a shadowy familiarity

but in a somewhat muted distain.

Forensic evidence can be everywhere,

dressed in bystander's observations,

as a clumping of minuscules and fistulas

of tension in their field,

held somewhat hidden but back there,

as a fired up ganglia within,

reserved for reaction

yet without a specific focus,

slightly trailing off into oblivion.

It appears as a sloughing off

of endless karmic dander,

always in the picture

but seldom accountable

in the perceptual frame.

If you strip away the clues

that instigate higher blood pressure,

what a method to their madness?

For some, you will find

where memories arrive like bird shit

on the windshield of their attention

as apparent tells to their familiar view,

you will further find that the safety is off,

both hands on the trigger

and there is a smoldering,

cross hairs of blind response

secretly set on taut.

All the subtle physiology

of this body is heightened

as if in anticipation is a way of life.

The auric fanfare is frozen

on the presentation of full red alert.

The electric infusion of personal amperage

is sparking off as twitches

and restless body syndrome.

There is a sinkhole of self-witness

readied to take on the darkness

as if total blame

would be shedding sufficient light

to see and sense an intended target.

A dream bleeds through

blatant with coagulant trauma

as a movie too personal to disregard.

There are emotional water balloons

stored everywhere waiting to rain

against any cactus of admittance.

The unsaid premise; no nametags,

no prisoners, no one unscathed.

There is the indelible black ink hurled

at a white life through accusations.

The stream tracks from tears are forthcoming

but there is neither engine nor caboose.

The release of a sky,

full blown with white doves

of dynamite cascading down,

gives us an unscripted trap door feeling

for there are fire ants issue bound

on the warpath towards undeserved pain.

The blithering sound of one's own voice

is, in this state, indecipherably falling away.

You can lip read the clouds near by

and hear the curse of all existence

by the shaping those clouds make.

There are compressed involutes, as beings,

bent of the rage expressed as disaster,

moving towards a total personal horizon

of impact and rage release.

But, if you strip away

the shriveling up of topic as motive,

really as the source

of this crisp burnt indigestible chew,

then this meltdown of character

and its position

as the standard bearer of cause,

and the utter wasting away of belief

as bone and fear is as fragrance

in the idolatry of having issues,

you will come to find

that there is most essentially

an infusion of spirit,

a vapored breath with utterances

of secreted soulful self

beyond these topics of disdain.

If you strip away all

of this graphic destructive entourage

as heavy and thoroughly as it is presented,

what really is left?

What is this essential source as driver,

after all of the horrific is stripped away?

What is really left

is the ambient passion

profoundly concealed

behind this as conscious spiritual rage . . .

A higher power of spirit as being,

trapped and kept in issue-bound

emotional contrivances,

never to have cleanly express

the most precious of sacred loves

from its collective radiant heart

blessed with these,

these paradoxical circumstances,

yet all hidden away

deep within their being

is the passion

of a conscious rage

yet unclaimed . . .