BLACK MARKET LIT
words.
there is a selfishness
inside.
a dirty
cold
scheming
ugliness
that asserts itself quietly
in every whim
every action
every moment.
that refuses to let go of anything
no matter how inconsequential
or unnecessary.
and we don’t feel it until
the others make us feel it.
that knotted
filthy
tangled
rope
that binds us closer
to the animals
than the gods.
and you find that humanity
is just a word.
like empathy.
or kindness.
or altruism.
or god.
or love.
words to describe
all the empty space
between what we believe
and what we do.
About Ian Driscoll.
IAN DRISCOLL is a writer from Southern California. Ian writes poetry and prose, he thinks. He lives in Peru. He studied comparative mythology for 13 years. Now he lives in the jungle and drinks Ayahuasca full time. His eyes are going. His back hurts. He drinks too much gin. Ian keeps traveling.
stolen.
there are these quiet moments
when i’m not alone
precious moments that come too seldom
when i can feel everything i’m meant to
suddenly i’m given a gift
a way to control it
a cage for my thoughts
and i don’t feel so inundated
or so panicked
or so afraid
or so certain of all the dark inevitabilities
i can’t call the moments
they come of their own accord
and stay as long as they will
and when they go i’m left alone
with my wild thoughts
that drag me roughshod to and fro
that toss me this way and that
and all i feel capable of
is holding on for dear life
not losing my grip
or my mind
or my heart
just holding on
but in those peaceful moments of silent knowing
i stand on firm ground
and i feel myself connected
to him
to her
to them
to every living thing
and people don’t complete me
and things don’t distract me
and my mind can’t defeat me
and i’m right
and truea
nd loved
and i am love and forgiveness and understanding
without a self-seeking pride
to obscure my vision
to dirty the mirror
and nothing in this world or the next
can separate me
from you
in those moments
that come too seldom