Grenades Without Pins

i wonder..

Image by Brian M. Viveros

i wonder 
how many of us are awake by the fire of 
reverb guitars and slowed voices 
in the hours after midnight

i wonder 
how many of us are so battle scarred
that we’re mostly numb until 
someone gets close enough 
and we remember

we are grenades without pins 
waiting in suspension 

i wonder 
how many of us are exhausted beyond 
words and gestures?
microdosing lobotomies
with modern ways..
yet when the night comes,
we remember. 

we are grenades without pins 
waiting in suspension 

i wonder 
how many of us are driven 
by the inner pulls of winter solstice and 
mars retrograding through the celestial achilles heel 
the place where all are supposed to feel at home,
is the place where all are wounded.

our innocence is shown, as is our engine, and our projection 
and we remember

we are grenades without pins 
waiting in suspension

i wonder 
when a chord is struck in sonic esoterica 
do the subtleties of the sustained notes 
draw you to the unfinished earthly business of 
the dearly departed?

do you cry for things you cannot change?
does your grief have a name?
can you move forward and let others draw near
without recoiling from the pain?
jaded anticipation of 
more of the same?

and i remember 
i am a grenade without a pin 
waiting in suspension

in the quiet hours of far past a reasonable bed time 
irresponsible and negligent to my health and responsibilities
i feel at peace. 

i wonder 
how many feel the same 
how many do not operate with the clock of conveyor belt 
why do some of us come most alive when the majority fall asleep 
there must be some reason, something we are supposed to be doing 
because 
every person with a certain calling 
is wired like this. 

perhaps it is our watch, 
things our antennas are supposed to 
receive and transmit, 
that cannot be found during the noise of the day.

fuck. 
that reminds me. 
i have early things to do. 

but, i remember, 
i remember the departed, 
i notice how much i hold from it all, 
as if i’ve survived a cataclysmic apocalypse, 
that most either never noticed or 
get by in pretending it 
doesn’t exist. 

i wonder if this is enough to go to sleep 
will the brain relax now that i’ve let some of it out? 
perhaps. 

perhaps i have to breathe deep and 
try, 
seize, 
with the fervor of the drowning, 
the life that still lives.

that which to be grateful for,
that my delusions tell me,
do not exist.

but, exist they do. 
and who would i be, 
if i let the time slip?

and i remember 
we are all grenades without pins 
waiting, living, evolving, 
expanding, contracting, praying, 
in suspension. 

-Tesstamona, December 2024