A NECESSARY EXPLOSION
Cranial pressure can be defined as
the subjective measurement of
the worrisome crap accumulated
within the confines of one's skull
that directly impacts the quality of life.
Each day concludes with
impressions left by the world—
love, hate, commendation, criticism,
humility, ego, and opinions of
people who have imprinted themselves upon us—
and we're left to decide if
the words and their meanings
come from friend or foe,
are meant for support or destruction.
The pressure, contained by a God-made shell
intended to gather all the goodness of humankind,
builds and dissipates eventually, as designed,
as it must to ensure survival,
but the outcome can go either way.
We need more space for the meaningful:
knowledge, words, ideas, desires, humor,
history, stories, feelings, poetics, life, creativity,
love, talent, lust, skill, and music.
Fortunately, everyone has a release valve,
a "purge-erator" of self-preservation,
to disperse into the depths of the netherworld
everything meaningless and toxic.
Take out the trash.
Make the decision.
The tiniest shred of an idea is
a story waiting to be unleashed,
although it struggles to climb to
the top of the garbage pile in one's head,
to harness the heat of the morning sun and
light the wick, a strand of fibrous material
coated with a thousand life incidents
waiting to be ignited, each to burn as
part of the previous one and the next,
on the way to the ultimate climax.
Light the wick and get rid of it all,
blow up the trash heap and start fresh,
and let all the good of the world flow
from thought to pen to paper
for as long as the hands of time allow.
Only by releasing the accumulated energy
is one left with the golden flakes,
to analyze and forge together
and begin anew, even if not completely.