Duality/Bipolar ‘Gibraltar’ 

So half of me is gravel in the grass

Done hiding hidden and done

Maybe less than half

The rest is Gibraltar 

Lone proud hard

Standing millenia against hostile waves

Both sides of me are stone 

One shattered

When shattered

I will remember Gibraltar 

Singing defiance in the crashing 

Echoing over the sea

And loud enough

To shake the grasses I lay under

In pieces

Guarded by the whole

Gibraltar 

Nightlight over again

In the dark 
the world looks on 

through heavy lidded eyes. 

the moon perfoms,

the earth is still 

and reverent. 

Tired.

Content.
The light seems reverent.

tentative. 

Just brushing at things. 

Laying on them

like a diamond dust. 

It touches the top, 

Nothing more
What is underneath 

can hide and dream. 

Where day intrudes, 

night only hints. 

You can see, 

but only

A silver outline 

of shadows. 
It’s all still there. 

You just have to move 

closer

look 

on purpose. 

The day shouts 

‘Here is everything!’

Here and there, 

this and that, 

there you have it. 

A spectacle. 
This night whispers 

around the edges. 

It allows the earth 

to speak for itself  

keep its secrets. 

All of it lives. 

All of it breathes. 

But I can hear 

the heartbeat now. 
In the same way 

the strain of day 

leaves a man’s face

Softer than his worries

While sleeping, 

the wrinkled lines 

lay softer now

upon the face 

of the worrisome world. 
Jared M. Moyes

4/22/16

And Fuck you too 

​I guess I’m sick of being told, by everyone who loved me, all of the good reasons why I don’t deserve it  
Fuck that. I was born deserving. We all were. One way or another. I don’t, I won’t buy that no one could ever afford me. Would keep me. Could ever. I don’t. 
I am my own. I am also someone’s. Maybe not son, brother, husband, lover, not yet. No. Dead can rise. Seas can part. Maybe pigs can fly. Maybe they’ll have to. Maybe I’ll have to make them, but I would rather that be the case than to agree that I, me, I am not worthy. 
It’s been too much, the fighting, to just hold me in my own hands. Too much to say that there is no more. Myself and I battle eachother to weary truces. But we fight for them. How, then, can I be all that can hold me? So small… 
As it ever has been, I say that they are wrong. That they couldn’t, all couldn’t, hold on thus far is not a rule. It’s an exception. They all get to be loved, and so do I. Help me, even dyeing alone I would say that. ‘Fine then. God can try now.’ 
Call your own Mother a liar if you have to. I do. I will have to, it seems, some more. You can be loved. Say it again. ‘I will be loved.’ Say it.
Say it weeping. Say it screaming. Say it alone. Say it at your trial and sentencing to the contrary. Say it from the cold womb that shat you out. Say it to the cold and uncaring expanse raging away from you. Say it after every goodbye that was said and never said and comes for tomorrow to say and not say that you are wrong. Say it. Huddled alone on a bed that would be your last, but won’t be. Say it. In the arms you pray will never let go. Say it shivering as they shove you to the rain. Say it. Prophetic as the End Times. Pathetic as a beggar at wet bread. Say it. To yourself, ‘I will be loved.’
Say it to your last breath, and I will join you in the gasp. Say it. 
‘I will be loved.’

Safe.

Guarded. 

Home.

Fed.

Washed.

Missed.

Useful.

Necessary.

Wanted.

Kept.

Till death do us part, and forever beyond that mystery.

I can be. I deserve to be. I am worthy. I believe it is there for me. I can’t help but be.

I will be loved.

Fuck You, Dark!

​Loud as Hell crashing up through the ground. I don’t do gently closed doors. There are locks for a reason. Slam it and deadbolt. Kick it off the hinges. Dig a moat and fill it with piss and acid. God is a gentle whisper. He and I ain’t the same.
Pain is a coal that slowly blackens and eats away my insides. Pulling it from a bed of ashes makes it hotter to touch. I’m already burnt now, and I’ve got fuel for days. To steal a line from a love song, here’s a ‘spark for my bonfire heart.’
I don’t simmer well. Bitter herbs only make a bitter reduction. Boil the poison out. Burn the haunted house to the ground. Set a blaze in the black and dance naked, screaming ‘I am here, you Night!’
Here’s what I think of this black and clouded sky: I’ll make my own stars of the sparks from this inferno. A fleeting true north of my own. In the red light of fire reflected in my weeping eyes, I will be my full Moon tonight. 
I know how to tip-toe quiet in the dark. Learned how when I was afraid of it. I won’t now, because I’m not anymore. I won’t now, because fear never served me well. Crashing the brush. Breaking the glass. Dare them, ‘Come out!’ Dare them, those phantasms under beds, in closets, in my head. We all die. I won’t await my doom shivering in my bed. I won’t. 
Fear eats me from the inside. A cooking flame that prepares me for the beast, slowly. Rage burns without, and within. When it finds me for my turn on his plate, he will taste not but ash in the mouth. My tender parts will have been spent as sparks soaring up into the night. Bon Apetite, motherfucker.

Singed

​It is within me

The quit

To reach out to light

With trembling hands

And burn

And curse the light

All light as hurtful
It is within me

To know better
There is no dispensation

For me

Sanctified though I’ve tried

To be patient

Worthy 

Ready to begin
Light is light

Some is flame 

Wrongly touched it must burn me

No matter how long I have fasted

In the dark

Light is light

Flame is flame

Burned is common
It is not that I will forever shiver

Or make my way by pin pricks 

Moon and stars alone 

Though they are still enough

Brave in the dark is good

Unafraid of all light

For the sting of one

Is not brave
I am brave. 

I no longer fear the dark

I will not fear light for this

Nor flame
I will learn to touch

What I can hold

And stay distant 

From what can only warm me

Staying warm

Unburnt
I will touch the lights still

Trembling hands

Nervous

Ready to pull away

Ready to hold tight

What will light

Yet not harm me.
Light is light

Burned is burned

I am brave. 

Bogeyman 8/15

I stayed quiet in the dark
Hoping wouldn’t find me

Hurt me

Screaming inward

Screaming
I was dying already

And hated the living of it

Long enough to welcome it
I screamed aloud at the dark

Rose from my cover

Taunting fear to come and end me

And it did not come out
I hunt it in the night shadows

Now and nightly

I still fear

But not the darkness
I stalk it in the black

Haunt it to retreating

No lamp in hand

No hiding now
I am the sound in the silence

I am in the terror closet with the monster

I still fear

But not the dark.

I stole his cloak and wander his hallways now

Thief of his rest

He can find me

In his house now

Under his bed

Watching him

Thinking late

​When mom gets up at 1 a.m. just to dig in on that Irish soda bread. That’s a winner recipe there. I drop my head a little every time my residence comes up because I know what it looks like. No one needs the story about why it is, but there is a story, and so it is. It needed to be, and when she gets up and snacks and gabs with me when the house, and a lot of the world, used to be empty, I know why it was necessary. I drop my head, but I also wouldn’t want it any different now. It was a hard year, and now it’s a bit better. Getting better with every late night snack, gluten-free experiment, Sunday night show appointment, feeble yet heartfelt attempts to make real the illusion of time we think we have. Maybe that’s the thing that makes us drop our heads when our circumstances are not what they ought to be, according to some. The story we can’t tell, that isn’t welcome, that is every reason we could ever need to be just fine with it all. We can’t explain it to the world, why it is, why it has to be, and it breaks our hearts that we can’t say it plain or simple. Maybe it’s just me. Believe me, no one wanted better or more than I did. No one is more aware of the failures and flaws that led up to this. Maybe that’s the other thing. To wrap our arms around the life we have at this moment and love it anyway. Maybe that’s just me. I know that mom had pretty much given up on baking anything she would enjoy with the new guidelines, and that i pulled it off. I know the little warm ball of joy and even pride I have for being able to do it, and to be in the kitchen reading when she wakes up to have some more at 1 a.m. There are mountains of successes that I would turn away just to keep that.

More Meteor

​8-15-16 

Boise Ridge

1:15 a.m. (persied)
Waiting on all creation

I stand ready for her gifts

Quick

Watch for long, get a little 

A seeming small, actual lot

Wait

No impatient man can find these

Narrowed 

Hurried. Looking

Eyes searching point to fixed point

Of light

For light

New light

The gifts are unsteady

And where the light is

Is not where it emerges new tonight

No one place is enough

All or none

Look to none to look

At everything

Know enough to know

Known points may guide 

your eyes

To no surprises.

What beckons from certainty

Shouts down the emergent

Light from nothing

A newer memory

Quickly

Even seen it is a memory 

Out of time

Before even realized

It is remembered

As already gone

I await a new light within

The constant and unknowable night

Between the ancient

Fixed points of light

Attentive to nothing

But everything at once.

On The First Draft

​Actual hundreds of pages of handwritten words. A stack of sturdy, worn, leather-bound journals next to another stack of cheap, thrashed composition books that grew from nothing between the space of two Augusts. I know because I found the receipt for the first leather book under its cover.

I feel like it’s fated somehow that I’d gather them all and begin skimming through on this night. Same date as that night when I had resolved to begin writing in earnest.

No story. There is a story to be gleaned from it all, but not as written. Meeting notes. Musings. Night-on-night of sleepless weeping. Night and day the minutes of my refusal to let the injuries cripple me more. 

So much joy and hope. So much ache and rage. In rant, prose, and verse all inconsistent yet constant: ‘Mother fucker, this hurts, but I stand.’

I don’t know if there’s some publish-worthy something in all of those pages. I am surprised at just how much of it doesn’t sound like steaming trash to me though. More than anything I am profoundly surprised by how proud I am of the man who wrote it. Not always, but enough. More often than not. 

That’s the treasure in the pages. To go a full year without wishing I had done it all, every day differently. Not wishing I were someone else. I’m proud of that kid who took a thin and hungry year that overflowed with cruel loss and screamed defiance and hope back into the night. Smiling, he walked through the cold dark and called it home.

I did. If for no one else, it’s a story that I am proud to have written.