The fringe, p.1
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       The Fringe, p.1
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           Ryan Paich
The Fringe
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


  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.


  he halts at the open gates


  Whispers he does not hear tempt him to enter,

  his rhythm overwhelming.

  Quietly he whispers back,


  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.


  she stops at the open gate,


  Whispers she barely hears beg her to come home;

  her rhythm unknown to her still.

  Quietly she whispers back,


  Their Rhythm

  Tragedy and delusion bind them together


  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,


  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,


  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.


  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


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