Desert Walk

I recently broke away from my day to day reality and went for a simple walk. It was a cold fall day and the grey clouds were scattered against the horizon. I drove up to the desert preserve we have here and buttoned up my jacket. For this solo adventure I plugged in my ear buds and cued up some Pink Floyd. As I walked the path I enjoyed the nature around me; the Joshua trees, the massive bushes, and the bounding jackrabbits all combined to make a living melody for my senses. As I weaved my way through the post lined path it was the skyline which continually gave me pause. The sun was sinking in the sky behind a large cluster of patterned-worked grey clouds. Shine on you crazy diamond was drumming in my head as I looked up and could see the smaller of the ink blot clouds light up like burning coals of yellow and crimson. As the winds of last night's storm transformed the brush strokes before me, The colors blended and melted together before slowly darkening behind a behemoth. The walk continued and I found myself zipping and fastening my jacket against the cold breeze. Digging my hands deeper into my pockets and quickening my pace, I looked to the sand below my steps. My mind was adrift upon an ocean of my own thoughts and worries as the natural world moved below my feet. I came to the most unfortunate part of the trail where a stretch of ordinary desert had been violated by vagabonds and their broken beer bottles. I stopped and peered at the scene for a minute before the dimmed sky began to change. As the large cloud slowly ascended, the preserve lightened; the heavens began to smolder as once again lumps of grey ignited into a vivid intensity. The sunlight slowly melted down the trees until it splashed upon the ground warming every inch of the desert. All those bottles, so mischievously smashed upon the sandy ground, now erupted into fireworks as beams of light dazzled in every direction. Breathtaking is but a cliche, but as I stood there my very life was held captive by that moment. There were no questions or worries or thoughts, there was only that moment with its mind shattering colors and gentle warm touch. Walking back to the truck I simply smiled to myself as I lit a cigarette and returned to my day to day reality.

Omega’s Steps

Who can say what time reveals

Who can know what age will yield

Who can perceive that graceful climb

A lifetime’s achievement oh so blind.

Not I, says the wizen man

Nor I, says the withered woman.

A hand extended though tempest’s fury

Gladly taken upon such a journey

Feeble grasps and stumbles made

Lead each one of us to the grave

And yet we strive for unknown reason

To make our pace among the seasons.

Held in our hearts a needed meaning

Crumbles away when our sojourn’s fleeting

Looking back we ponder the steps

Regretting not the paths we met

May only the trails upon which we never

Give us pause into forever. 

Zombie Walk

One step placed before the last

The last breath long since taken

Forward into the night the walk proceeds

There is no pain when the body is numb

Gratification is elusive in the absence of purpose

Another step is taken, and another, and onward

Senses are dulled in the cold of darkness

The heart pumps no more

Blood pools stagnate within the veins

The mind flickers as a disused florescent

Hollow shocks from decaying synapse  

Serve only to move

Yet another step into the night

Passing Thoughts

Plunge that dagger into my chest! I want to feel the biting splitting pain rip flesh from bone. I want to feel the tip slowly pierce my pounding heart as the blade scrapes though my breast plate. Use your nails and gouge eyes from scull. Pull my limbs from their feeble sockets and yank the cartilage clean away. Hurt me, torture me, work on my skin with razors and flame. Let the blood pour forth like a macabre font of putrescent scum. Destroy this body and beat in my mind. Speak ancient incantations to mince my soul and leave the fragments wasted upon fields of shit. Trample my pride and take away my name. Leave nothing of who I was or will ever be behind; let there be no reminder that I ever existed. 

Upstream

As I boldly walk against the current of a turning and flowing river of people, I look upon the water. Faces of every kind and shape lazily drift by me, their expression placid. I wade through the current. Blue eyes with tight blond curls, an Asian tourist with wide glasses and a wider camera lends, a mother clutching her wispy haired infant; thousands of people of every type, all slowly making their way around my defiant path. I choose my subjects carefully by a measure unknown even to myself, and then look into those passing soul’s eyes. I see the browns and grays and shimmering blues look from one distraction to another. Of all the captured inferences of these chosen ones’ eyes, snapshots of personalities and hearts more felt than seen, not a single entity peers back into me. The realization hits me as I widen my selection: I am unseen. That is why the trail I chose to wander is beset with so many obstacles of flesh and body constantly colliding with me without any apologies. I am invisible to these purposeful sojourners; tourist, consumers, lovers, and laborers. I stop dead in my movement, centered on the stream bed. Cameras flash and video silently hums from the corners of this parade; am I but a darken mist within these images?  I ponder this cloaking power I seem to possess; or is it a curse? More faces pass as more people course around my form; plump freckled cheeks framed by natural dark red, deep earthy swagger from bling encrusted shades, a near perfect obsidian haired angle; thousands of people of every type, all slowly twisting around my paused stance. Turning for a moment, I look to see where they are heading and can see nothing but more of the same path I’ve already walked. I turn once more to try and see where my journey should take me and find only a darken misty hall. Shall I join the river, a peaceful comma taking me down a predestined path? Should I remain still upon a rock jutting through this shallow water; simply watching the life of the world pass around my atoll? No, not for me… I will continue against the current; my mussels weeping with pain, my mind fatigued and delirious, and my invisible essence alone upon this chosen heading. While there maybe no reward laying for me in that misty cave of future, I will at least know who I am… and not what I’ve been told I should be. 

Bleeding

The wound lets the blood escape

The blood trickles down

A pattern work of

Thick crimson lines

Rivers finding their winding course

Down the boulevards of

The aching body

The doorless chamber slowly fills

A vat of sloshing death

The level becomes too high

Too high to take a breath

Sputtering writhing choking grips

Frantic struggling form

The blood

Mingling with the air

Splatters walls and ceiling

As the body

Muscles tense and twitching

Screams out with desperation

The blood

Another victim claimed

Becomes still and calm

As the body

Sinking slowly to the bottom

Knows nothing more

Raising Children

To raise a child

A tender task

With hugs so mild

And soft cheeks kissed

To hold their hand

When bumped or bruised

And make all better

Through and through

To watch them grow

With your guiding touch

And become a person

That you love so much. 

God’s Breath

Walk though those fields 
Feel the drifting tall grass 
Let it brush your outstretched hand. 
See those vibrant colors 
The green coursing verdure 
The brisk blue skies 
The light violet flowers, 
Close your eyes dear reader. 

Can you smell it? 
The spices of the land 
The nectar of the earth 
Can you feel it? 
The soil beneath your feet 
The caressing fingers of the breeze 
Can you breathe? 
Let that life giving air fill you 
Let the moment enter you 
Let your emotions weep 
At the splendor 
At the beauty... 
At god’s breath.

Desirers of Freedom

I’m tired of the chains

The binding rings I’ve forged my self

I’m tired of commitments

Tethering vines I once nourished

I’m ready for my freedom

Never more those thoughts, that past, my demented trap

I’m ready for the wind

A wind of my own evocation

A brisk breeze or terrible tempest

Shifting, pulsing, spiraling currents

An unpredictable direction for my future flight

Where I go and who I’m with

Matters not at all this moment

What matters most is freedoms call

A pulling yearning I must follow

The Boy and the Blue Jay

Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived in the horrible dirty center of a massive city. The young orphan lived off what scraps he could find and the rare coins the desensitized urbanites seldom tossed his way. Alone and deeply saddened, the dark eyed youth looked up into the black nights sky every night and made the same wish: "Please, I wish to leave this city." Alas, each morning the boy woke to the same dingy mold covered walls and, the pain twisting at his stomach, knew he must resume the search for food. He could not simply walk out of the wretched building infested land, because there was no way to survive on the bleak wasteland roads stretching outward in every direction. So, the boy rubbed his soot smeared face and began his dreary day of rifling through dust binds looking for frozen bits of sustenance. 


As the boy climbed into his long since abandoned room, he laid down upon his soiled rags of a bed and tried to go to sleep. He closed his eyes and made his nightly wish as a scraching noise roused him from his silent plea. Looking up he saw a magnificent blue jay illuminated in the shimmering moon light, standing on the glasless  windowseal. The boy cocked his head, tangled greasy dark hair falling over his face, and thought how odd it was to see a bluejay in the middle of the night. The poised bird stared directly at the boy with unflinching black eyes. The shivering youth was amazed that the tiny beautiful creature did not fly away as he sat up. Truly, as the boy stood up and approached the brilliant blue and white bird, the creature did nothing more than lock eyes with the boy. Slowly and as friendly as he could, the child reached out his hand and stroked the smooth back of the feathery life. 


He could feel the heart of this being upon their shared touch, a soul so generous as to make the boy shed a tear of undefined gratitude. The little bird, with a fluder of sky blue wings, perched herself upon his shoulder. As she rubbed her beak across his moistened cheek a tremor of understanding coursed through the boy's mind. If he was brave and wishes it the little blue jay could grant his wish. With a joyful teary nod the boy accepted her gift and the creature immediately returned to his hand and pecked a small scratch upon his palm. 


The child watched in awe as a single drop of blood formed at the minuscule wound; from that prick he could see a tinny blue feather sprout. The ticking fragile feather was joined by another and then another as he watch his hand transform slowly into a soft wing. The walls seemed to grow around him as he could feel his new form overtake his entire body and mind. The impulse of flight, a feeling of freedom seeping into his soul, gripped him as he spread his delicate wings and shot out into the cool night. Waves of excitement washed over him as he saw the gritty awful city become a collection of dots far beneath him. Looking to his side he could see his new companion keeping pace with his flight. She smiled at the boy's giddy enjoyment in a way only another bird could understand. 


She took the lead as the two flew without fatigue far away from the city; higher and higher into the star speckled darkness until the boy could hardly see the earth below him. Losing all sense of time and physical reality, the boy could feel the shift within his own spirit. The lines of existence and dreaming blurred together as the serene pair made thier way to the grass hills before them. 


Landing upon a great granite bolder, the boy looked around himself and knew where he was: 'This is far enough away,' he thought to himself. Seeing the happy tears in his savor's eyes, he leaned over and gave her a kiss for saving him. The two nestled down together in contentment and listen as the great bolder told them a story of ancient times and peoples that existed long long ago. 

Walking with the Dead

As I wander this quiet pasture,
The dead resting below my steps,
I feel the peace, the calm,
The gentle breeze of sleep.
Death wisps in the air,
A scent aged and subdued,
A reminder of inescapable prophecy.
The futility is soothing,
Once promises are accepted.
The realization is rapture,
Once understanding is grasped.
To sit among the dead
A pleasure,
When at last the serenity holds you.

The Fairy and the Gnome

There once was a fairy who knew no home. She lived upon the wind and traveled with its course. Where she began and where she would end were of little consequence to the fragile creature. She lived for the moment in every action she took and never tarried upon any decision.

As the little violate fairy sailed upon a strong spring wind, she landed herself on top of a lush hill crest. Resting for a moment upon a soft open daisy’s peddle, the young little fey looked down to see a lump of a gnome. The odd little man was doubled over in pain, his wide brimmed hat obscuring his face. Happy for a curious pause from her endless journey, the cheerful fairy fluttered down to investigate. As her dainty bare feet touched the bent grass before the gnome, he looked up in frightened alarm. The fairy simply smiled a warm beam of sunshine into the suffering gnome’s face as she saw the pudgy little figure's torment.

Stumbling backwards, feeling the ground below him, the eyeless gnome cried out, "who's there!"

Shot through the heart with painful empathy, the fairy said, "do not be afraid, I will not harm you."

The magical tenor of the sprite's calm voice relaxed the terrified creature, "Who... who are you?"

The fairy glided towards the gnome taking his hand in her own to show her mercy, "I am Silvana, a fey of the wind. What has happen to you good gnome?"

"A fairy. I was traveling to find my fortune when the Lingarn that haunts this mountain attacked me and took my eyes for his gruesome trophy necklace."

The horror of concept gripped the delicate fairy; to not be able to see the splendors of the world, lost and wandering in fear was a certain nightmare for all free creatures of magic. "Come wounded gnome, tell me your name and I will take you to safety before the setting of the sun.

The thankful small gnome sputtered 'Darmente' before Silvana, humming wings lifting her tether body upward, pulled Darmente to his booted feet.

The two walked as the sun slowly sank in the sky and the fairy was saddened that the tearless sobbing little man could not enjoy the sight with her. To lift his heart she softly sang of the beautiful rose reds and sunflower yellows that caressed the sleepy dusk sky. To her amazement, the smiling gnome picked up his pace, exclaiming, "it’s as if I can see when your voice pours into my ears." The hike quickened and the pair came upon a perfect tinny cave of a crack splitting up a giant bolder.

As the moon began to crest over the tree line, a powerful wind picked up Silvana's dark purple hair and she felt her soul’s natural pull urging her to take flight.

Darmente could feel the tug of her loosening grip and looked up at her with the saddest expression of understanding that any living thing could ever possibly display, "the wind is calling you and you must go. I understand and thank you for your kindness. Silvana is a name I shall never forget.

Sparkling tears rolled down the fairy's cheeks as, speechless, she turned away and flew into the night. As the wind carried her frail body she had an unusual feeling wash over her heart. It was so cold and so warm all within the same breath. Without conscious thought, she felt herself turn and, flying into the howling night's wind, returned to the bolder. She could hear the miserable gnome sniffle and moan in agony as she placed her gentle hand upon his shivering cheek. His sobs softened as he raised his face in knowing bewilderment. The two laid closely together as the grateful Darmente told Silvana a story to ease his own suffering mind as much as to thank her for her return.

Long after the two had drifted into gentle dreams, the pair was awoken suddenly. A crashing of angry careless limbs snapped trees and destroyed bushes. The violate fairy looked out into the moon lit clearing and saw the dreaded Lingarn sniffing at the air with it's grotesquely fused dimorphic heads. The size of a human, the pail gray monster wailed enraged spitting nonsense words. Silvana cupped her fragile ears and Darmente cowered farther into the hole as the evil hulk made its way towards the frightened couple. Sapped of strength by the shrill noise, Silvana collapsed to her knees. The coarse hand of the furless hermaphroditic beast reached down and scooped up a handful of soil along with the tinny fairy.

It was suffocating her as it carelessly squeezed, sniffing and sputtering with its masculine face, "I'm going to pluck those ittsy bitsy wings off you for my neckless fey."

Pushing and kicking and screaming, Silvana did everything she could to break free with no result. The Lingarn used its boney thumb and finger to catch Silvana's translucent glittering purple wing and began to slowly pull to prolong her suffering. She could feel the pain scraping and ripping down her back as the Lingarn suddenly tensed and cried out in pain itself. The fairy's tender wing was released as the frantic monster grasped at its own back. The fairy bit and clawed at the Lingarn's tightening grip as she saw the gnome evade the demon's clumsy blows. Like a gleaming needle, the gnome produced and thrust his dagger deeply into the beast's shoulder. He rappelled down it's bicep to the elbow leaving a spurting blacken gash. The Lingarn, howling in painful surprise, threw the battered fey to the forest floor and began clutching at himself for the gnome. The abomination turn and twisted as his claw like fingers struck their mark. Darmente cried out as he renewed his bloody upward climb around the boney spine.

Silvana wretched her wing back into place with a wincing tremor. Looking up she saw the ashen colored spinning beast with the gnome reaching for its hunched neck. Darmente clasped his talon like grip securely around the Lingarn’s insidious chain of evil trophies and leapt away from the hideous creature. A flurry of rotting fey wings and elf ears flung into the air as the jerking tether pulled the Lingarn off his stride and into a stout pine. Darmente swung around the tree as the necklace twisted and noosed the despicable fiend. Pulling the Lingarn to the ground, Darmente steadied himself and pulled upon the foul rope. A second later Silvana joined him in the mortal struggle as the Lingarn savagely ripped and tore chunks of bark in its attempts at seizing its attackers. Sputtering and yakking, his face draining to a flour white, the dreaded Lingarn twitched his last spasm and then moved no more.

For a long time the two lay panting, their hands still loosely holding the heinous necklace. As the bruised fairy sat up she began the task of searching the line of withered parts.

Darmente stood up curious at her movements, “what are you looking for Silvana?”

Her grateful heart searched in silence as she acted without decision. At last she came upon the eyes, tied to the chain by a sturdy braded knot, and pulled them free. Even in the din of this dark evil night, she could clearly see the radiant soft blue of fair gnomish eyes. She knew well that the price for restoring the beauty that was taken from Darmente in the most gruesome way was to give up a naturally charmed part of herself. As she reached under her arm and felt her smooth and battered wing stem she prepared herself for the pain of detaching it from her slender form. Just as she was about to pull, eyes tightly shut, she felt a large pudgy hand fall heavily upon her shoulder.

“You must’nt do that wind fey,” said Darmente as Silvana’s eyes whipped open into the gnomes hollowed face. “I have lost my keen sight and it is true that this is a tragedy for me, but you would lose so much more than your wing and your flight. You would lose the freedom of the wind... the liberty that makes you who you are. I would not let you change that beauty that is within you even for my own living breath.”

The tears rolled down Silvana’s florid cheeks as she let go of her lavender wing. As the pair stood in quiet agreement, the first hint of light flashed on the horizon. Both the gnome and the fairy turned their faces to greet the warm light as it began to pour over the distant mountains. As the birds started to chirp high above them, Silvana let the glorious sunrise fill her body and wove from it a single gentle humming note. As more of the white and yellow rays washed over the forest, the fairy’s note formed into the most beautiful enchanted melody. Darmente smiled at the newly seen day while simply whispering “Thank you.”

Of course the two enjoyed each others company as the gracious gnome tended to the fay’s wounds and, in time, nursed her back to full health. When she was once again well she accompanied him to the labyrinth of gardens and mines that the adventurous gnome had long sought. On the way they enjoyed games, stories, music and all the merriment of a new friendship. Nevertheless, the wind did eventually call the fairy once more and, with grateful well wishes and a tender embrace, Silvana set off into the heavens.

Many centuries have passed in our world since that noteworthy event occurred. Even so, some would say, when the wind is just right, on rare cool sunsets, you can still some times hear exquisite vocal music drifting on the breeze; a song telling of vibrant colors and natural beauty sung in a foreign melodic tongue.

Knights and Fiends

It’s as if something is growing within my body, becoming
larger and more insistent of its own self determined path. This thing, I can
feel it even now as it puts its spasm inspiring claws upon my lower back. This
thing feeds off my fears, my worries, my ever deepening sorrow. Even if I tell
myself that I’m happy and feeling great, it feeds off the reality of my
emotions. Feeding, consuming, growing larger and larger until what? Will this
demon within me split my skin, break through my ribs, become some incarnate
fiend of my raging mind and bleeding heart… I wish it would. If this thing made
itself known to me than I could become that Knighted soul I seek to be. I would
raise my cautious blade and strike down this foe of my existence. As I wield my
dagger, the prostrated villain of unbalance before me, I would make that final
merciful red line across its throat. Then, I could walk the earth once more, a
knight of swords, without the vertigo inspired highs and without the drowning
lows… Corse, I probably couldn’t write anymore if I did that. J

Yawn

Here I sit

Here I wait

Sick of folders

Sick of work

A craving for adventure

Silenced by dreams of a nap.

Bla

Hero

I want to be a hero,

just like every man who breathes.

I want to be that hero,

that does all those good deeds.

I want to save the broken,

because I seek to ease their pain.

I want to make a difference,

even if it is insane.

Because everyone of us is a hero;

every one a broken swan.

And in the end the only one to save,

is this lowly broken pawn.  

A Dream of Belize 1 of 4

Imagine that you can feel the heat of sun caressing your skin as you lay back upon a soft body forming cushion. You can feel the hot sensation blaze upon your cheeks, your arms, your stomach; your calf tracing the fiery ridge of your other leg. The radiating warmth is welcomed as, your eyes lazily closed, you silently listen; you hear the sounds of the ocean’s breaking surf softly rolling, rustling leaves above you, in the far distance a couple laughs. As you let the sounds of the world freely drip into your awareness you began to make out distant chattering birds, the soft crackle of the melting ice in your drink, and the faintest of breaths rhythmically flow in and out next to you. Sharply inhaling, you open your brilliant tropically mirrored eyes to see a post card reality before you. The beach’s speckled white sands flow towards the fluid turquoise water. The tension melting deep blue of the ocean beyond the corral reefs spans out into the horizon.  The smells of salty sea breezes mingle with the sweet spices of the daringly close jungles behind you. Your drifting mind quiets as you soak in the vibrant colors of breeze dancing palms, shadows creating a black and white poetry as they brush back and forth upon the sands.

Your flesh melts in ease and comfort as you turn your gaze to the gentle breathing beside you. Lying on a baby blue full body pillow, cradled by unfinished grey wood slats, is a sleeping man. Dressed only in black swim trunks, his tanning skin gives depth to his face and features. His temples graying and his face soft, the sleeping bear of a man looks to be in his late thirties. You lean to your side, your skin hot, your form pressing against the pillow, and reach over to grasp your drink. The cold condensation trickles down your moistening hand as you draw the dark sweet liquid onto your dry lips. Your parched mouth hungrily pulls the fluid into you as the last remains sputter though the straw, ice cubes flickering with the sun’s reflection. As you set the frosted glass down, you see the man, eyes the steely blue of an equatorial storm, watching you with an intense fascination. You look down at yourself, a ruffled red wine colored two-piece swim suit hugging your natural form, and look back up at his dark jungle reflected eyes. He smiles as you giggle at the surrealistic reality of actually being so far from the life you know.

“It’s hotter today,” he whispers in the breeze towards you.

You reply with a smiling content nod.

“Did you want to try out the scuba diving today?”

As you lean back into the pillow you feel as if you could say yes to anything today, “okay.”

The chair creaks faintly as he sits upright, “I’ll be right back,” he says as he sprints off towards the darker waters and leaps head first into the splashing waves.

You sit up to gather your things to go and realize with a startle that you have brought nothing with you. The concept hits you: you are free of the daily burdens of all the stuff that usually holds you hostage with bands of responsibilities. You sigh heavily as the notion sinks into your body. You are free this moment.

Returning from his dip, water glistening down his furry light brown chest, the man pulls his tangled wet hair back upon his head and smiles warmly at you. With an extended hand he offers to help you up. Placing your fingers into his palm, he gentle lifts you to your feet and, hand in hand, you set off down the shore. Walking silently as the waves darken the beach along side of you, you look down and watch the sticking off-white sand brush from your feet. The two of you talk of starburst and the meaning of life as he stops suddenly, pointing, the distant dolphins splashing in the twinkling waters. As you approach a dock you see wooden poles jutting up from the coral like a row of choreographed palm trees leaning in unison. Along the procession you see large brown planks lining out to a large square covered patio like boat dock. As you walk towards two small speed boats, water sloshing against boards below you, you catch the man studying the slender boards crisscrossing above you. The stair like stepped style of the wooden awning makes playful geometric shadows rain down upon the deck.

Standing before you is a tall lanky dark man, leaning against a silvery hand rail lining the back of his seaworthy craft, clad in white shorts and a bright yellow shirt. The small ship has masks, oxygen tanks, heavy dark mettle buckles, and all sorts of nautical equipment covering the half walls and floor. The swarthy gentleman beams a huge white smile at you and your companion from behind glossy black warfare glasses. He speaks in a smooth and scratching French-Haitian accent as he tells you that you wanted to go out on his boat. Your man agrees with a broad smile, helping you into the swaying boat, as he exchanges room charging information with the joyful water master. Before your even sitting down upon the built in seat edge, the Haitian grips the wheel and, plunging the throttle forward, rockets you into the great blue. You grip your lovers hand as you shakily fall across his lap giggling despite yourself. He looks into your eyes in that same old way, but the feeling is reignited by the sultry magic of this place; his soul reaching out through that piercing unflinching gaze to touch your rapidly beating heart.  The speedy light craft hops from wave to wave crest as the sea spray and wind cools your sweating figure. He holds you there, forsaking the splendors of the nature around him, for a long unbroken minute before pecking a quick playful kiss and helping you to your seat. 

Chocolate Dreams

As you lift open your heavy eye lids from a long deep sleep you see the sheen of light brown silk. Your mind drifts for a lazy moment before you realize that you are not in your bed and snap to confused attention. You are warmly covered in layers of thick fuzzy blankets and slippery bronze colored silken sheets. As you sit up, vision slowly accepting the soft light, you are both apprehensive and amazed at the room surrounding you. Cascades of every imaginable hue and shade of brown caress your wakeful perception. Walls of thin Hershey and Good Bar bricks make mosaic interlaced patterns of checkered delight. A subtly melted relief depicts a swirling volcanic scene, chunks of erupting truffles and Cadbury eggs raining down upon a village of logged Caramello buildings. In an attempt to dispel this impossible reality you tightly shut your eyes and are at once assaulted by the rich chocolaty scents permeating your every cell. Shaking your head and reopening your eyes, the room defiantly surrounding you; you accept your fate for the moment. Sliding off the slippery sheets, donned in comfortable felt pajamas of mahogany darkness, you feel the pure melt-less dark chocolate give softly under your toes. Surveying the wonders around you, you pause at a cherry wood table with a single inviting chair. Taking the seat you carefully examine the solitary slender vase and its incredible sweet looking flowers. The bushel of fully blossomed long stemmed hazel roses seem too delicately crafted to be real; their curving soft textured petals sparkling with dew drops of crystallized sugar. Your will sapped and your curiosity inflamed, you reach out with your shaking finger tips as slowly as the setting sun. As you touch the delicate looking petal you expect it to break off, but the delicious thing responds to your touch as a living rose would; soft milky chocolate bending and flexing with your connection. Pressing, swirling, thumb and finger tip test the feel of the delectable flower until you see the melting sweet joy thickly coating your pads… Without thought, you impulsively place your finger in your mouth and feel the burst of sweet gratification fill your body.  The full creamy flavor holds on to your taste buds as your thumb presses against your bottom lip, spreading chocolate pleasure. Eyes widening, pupils dilating, you snatch a petal and pull it from the rose. Your salivating mouth moves the delicate confection up and down, teeth chewing the candied nectar across and down your tantalized tongue. As if a gentle ghost ran his hand upon your jaw, your head lifts to see a simmering Jacuzzi of syrupy cinnamon warmth. You wonder to yourself… 

Dark Waves

There is nobody at the helm of fate;
the wheel is spinning and nobody's there.
I look at the raging dark sea,
waves rising and falling,
great mountains of quenchless water.
The ship tossed about the ocean's surface,
bile rising up into my throat.
I'm all alone upon this ghost ship
specters of living accosting my path.
peering over the edge,
deathly black sea below,
I ponder what nightmares await.
a dream of sinking never to be fulfilled.

The Quiet One

I am the one who does not fit. 

I am the black knight in this tavern of thieves. 

I am the free rogue within this labyrinth prison. 

I catch their curious glances, 

I see their confusion, 

I know their pensive worry. 

Sitting in the darkened corner, 

Hearing their unguarded words, 

I exist on the periphery of their world. 

An invader of comfort, 

A marauder of serenity, 

A man misplaced 

Within this world.

Chasing Ghost

I see the products of my mind,

Those misty forms

Flying around corners.

There one goes now,

A blur of smoky black,

Seen and unseen.

Existing

Only in the periphery of sight;

These wanders of dreams,

Those invaders of reality,

Lovely perpetrators of imagination.

For most they plague the senses.

For some they stand as curiosities.

For me they are a dangerous prey.

Chasing ghost adds excitement

To this dreary life of solid forms.

Today

Today I can feel the insanity slowly rising up into my body, my calves, my ribs, my biceps, slowly gripping at the flesh upon my neck. I desperately want to fly away from this mundane life of tests and students and the endless proxy of living life. I want to get into my mechanical red colt and drive off at top speed into the spring day that I know waits for me. I want to talk with trees. I want to wander those quiet natural music lined paths. I need to breath that sultry spiced air, to raise my hands to the heavens and call forth my own salvation. Please pull these chains, heavy solid iron things of man, pull them off my shoulders and let me be free for this day. Yank the locks of working imprisonment open and destroyed; throw them on the cheap blue carpet of this air conditioned dungeon. Let me go… My impotent obfuscated frustration weeps behind my mask of ‘how do you do,’ and ‘hello hello,’ when all I want to do is scream ‘Let me Go!’ 

Booth's Day

Today should be a lovely day of spring fueled delights. Before I make my way with friends arm in arm, I shall sit here and anticipate those moments.  

Booths little desert city abode has a magical charm all it's own. The white mettle mesh pulls aside to the sound of endless msnbc as a massive flood of spiced scents strikes my slowing form. I sit and wait in the cheery house with its clock ticking away and the light gurgling of water emanating from the fish tank. It's going to be a good day. 

The wish was granted, with charming effect, as I glided through that emerald green place. The tall soft blades of grass stretch towards the spring day's sun. The crystal shimmering creek laid a backdrop of ambiance as i twisted along. Walking the trail with wispy dreams rising with every step... I came to that moment; silent, radiant, magical. To one edge of the sandy path the great mountain shot up, a carpet of green gracing it's surface. In the clouded light I could see the hundreds of tinny white flowers clinging each to it's own vine. Standing there with deep appreciation for this natural beauty, the sun slowly made itself known. Those warm rays splashed and flowed down that hillside as each and every precious little flower exploded in a glittering diamond-like display. Truly a symphony of dancing light; for those fractured seconds, slowing upon time's line, had their own melodic flavor. My appreciation turned to rapture as I let the entirety of it, the coolness, the breeze, the distant bubbling, that shining green, those gifts of dew drops, as I let them all enter me forever.
A good day for all... And a good night for me...... Until the next adventure.

Humanity is a Virus

Humanity is a virus. Since that fateful day that one man took up fire into his hand and saw not fear, but potential, we as humanity have cast aside our ability to live with nature. While previously we lived in the sublime circle of life, we know now that we can never return to that course of existence. This production of consciences should not be viewed as an admonishment of our way of being, but instead should be seen as an awakening of our path to further progress. Since that fateful moment in our history we have been handed both our god given curse and power to achieve what is best for continued existence. By out striping all other forms of life upon our own planet, we have secured our future into the treacherous heavens and beyond. It is now necessary for us to do these things because after one pulls apart all other forms of emotion, thought, and conciseness, we are left with the overpowering need for survival. We are thus confronted by the tenuous hold on our planet as being the one basket into which we have placed all of our eggs. It is essential that we move on to colonize other virgin worlds with our particular brand of existence so that we can adapt these gardens into our sphere of control. Without this great leap of effort, we will be doomed to suffer the fate of whatever catastrophic calamity that will someday be inflicted upon our earth, and by doing so condemn our security of continued living.     

Being sick

Being sick sucks. There is no more artful way to say it I’m afraid, for true viral or bacterial illness is no work of art from the humans’ view point. The gnawing ache pulling at your back and shoulders; nose and sinus filled like a splitting stuffed bell pepper; pulsating dull pain piercing the back of your scull and splashing throbbing against your forehead.  Of course, this is not the view for the living invaders themselves. We do not often yield to a concept that these microscopic miscreants are alive much less conscious; a particular human quirk developed for anything we wish to kill. And yet, we have, as a society often personified illness in a verity of forms. Whether they, voracious viruses and bellicose bacteria, have a mind or not, it is clear that the way they live there lives is a type of poetry. They live off of us as we live off the earth; they live together in tight little societies, enjoying the bounty of our bodies as they multiply and grow; generation upon generation they watch their collective situation improve; forging paths forward with all their hope placed in their society. The best viruses, from our view point at the very least, are those who can live in tandem with our fragile biology; multiplying and enjoying their existence without going to such extremes as to endanger their hosts’ living existence. Many of the friendlier parricidal beings we live with have actually improved our own circumstances in ways we, more than take for granite, don’t even know exist. It’s the evil tribes of sickness that we regard with so much distain; their insidious ways providing us with torment, suffering, and at times death. These are the truly foolish clans of disease for their fate is fixed. We humans, their anchored planet of existence, will take notice of them and use everything in our power to crush the annoying threat to our own comfort. If unsuccessful, the invaders may win and, in a twist of painful attrition, destroy the host which once gave them a home and life. A certain lesson should be taken by humans from this macabre play preformed on life’s stage. Though the setting may be of a different local, the principals are the same; humans as a collective of breathing life should be kind to their gracious home. We should attempt to live in a harmony with our world and any others we may join with, never taking more than can be safely offered, so that a benefit between world and inhabitances can be enjoyed.  

Sojourn of Death

When one starts such a sojourn they bring with them a basket of life’s collected fruit. This vital sustenance help carry us father upon the mountain of the ethereal world until transcendence whisks us upon our new existence. Though the basket is heavy and tiresome, ending one’s journey early only leads to a weaker and more feeble hike. Even if my invented dreams of the end are dead wrong, I am still overjoyed to have been blessed with a weighed down basket of sweet ambrosia. 

Avenue G and 196th East

Broken empty buildings still stand here despite the fragility of their existence. Homes, a bar, and a church are all that remain of some collection of lives lost to the wind of time. Just as the cold winds of the desert stream though my hair, making a tangled mess of my physical form, those howling winds of time make a calamity of anything that once truly lived. Most think the desert is an endless track of lifeless sand and perhaps it is for many, but I see immeasurable life in this place. The bushes and grass give testament to lifes’ ability for eternal existence. These plastered boxes of dwellings are what are really dead in this place. Their ghosts of occupants are all the life that remains; like memories of happy times lingering after love’s breath has been extinguished. How can a man be his own man when these mental images of beauty and joy hold tightly to his suffering soul? How can a man walk his own path when every natural sound gives impetus to reverie? The cut is new and the bleeding has yet to fully commence. Just as the shock of a wounded soldier holds back that red glistening life, so too has the numbness of this event taken my heart hostage. Knowing that the tear splattered pain has yet to drain the power from my veins gives me little comfort as I somberly attempt to gives words to this life’s moment. The setting sun, no glorious explosion of color this day, sets softly upon the horizon. Hazy yellow and reds blend with the blue grey of the dusky sky. Here too is a reflection of my mind; impotent sadness slowly sinking, leaving nothing but darkness in its absence. Life will go on as the Joshua trees will forever stand defiantly against the desert torrents. Nevertheless, my greatest fear is returning to my emotionless daily existence. Just as I was before love knocked upon my door disguised as a harmless coy smile. I have many options, many paths, all laid out before me. But I only wish to sit at this cross road and enter the oblivion; matching my desensitized heart. No hope, no dreams, no lingering longing; Just to exist or not exist as fate may plan for me. 

Coffee Quest - The Bandstand

As I sit here in a plush armless chair, the fabric a disorderly collections of multi-drab boxes, I soak up the light atmosphere of the coffee shop. Live folk music hangs as a sun lit mist in this little rectangle of a room. The last rays of the day creep in from high set windows as the swanky brown and black streaked ceiling lamps come to electric life. This oddly mixed little place of unique and cliché tends to put one out of ease in the most sublime way; not a place where you can gently fall asleep, nor a place where you can feel anxious anomalies of perception. It is in essence… playfully beautiful.

The small band of patrons that inhabit this place of modern subdued magic chat happily among themselves. The young couple smiles excitedly as they share their collected experiences; a pair slowly intertwining their current existences together. A digital mystic of a man sits quietly in the corner; his ebon bald bust framed artistically by a shortly trimmed snow white beard. He contently performs his clandestine clicking activities upon his lap top companion. The elderly couple, conservatively clad despite unconventional flickering grins, appreciates the joyful beats as they sip from their tall white cups. In the back works a lovely olive purveyor of caffeinated delights. Her clenched towel vigorously cleans away as the men on stage play on.

As night makes its presence fully known, the performers switch the stage with friendly passing greetings. In the seat a large, bright smiled girl nonchalantly sits with an arm resting upon her acoustic guitar. Her long black hair drapes her face as she takes in a deep breath. The velvet of that voice was pulled taunt and relaxed over and over again as she intermingled her song with softly strummed and plucked notes. The glide of the sound doused the silent assembly as she continued to slowly twist that soft velvet into a variety of emotional concepts. Her set of nameless songs complete and a transitioning duet with her lover exhausted, she retakes an admiring seat among the other musical parishioners.

The young hippy, frazzled blond locks and heavy guitar clutching hands, was no master of manipulated melody, but neither was he a novice of notes. His upbeat happy tune brought a certain amount of joy to the smiling crowd as he played for the pure self gratifying pleasure of his own sound. As he began to entice the familiar harmony of my own favorite cover from his stringed accomplice, I found myself mouthing the words in tandem with this innocent youth: ‘How, how I wish you were here…’

My reverie breaks as a ska styled youth, black hat and oversized hanging ear lobes, inquires about the vacant chair placed besides me. With a warm smile I offer the wood and fabric furniture to the boy. Looking at the body filling room and my own extinguished coffee cup, I collect my things and make my way to the door. With a line of sweetness anticipating customers awaiting her attention, the hazel coffee maid takes the time to thank me for my choice of entertainment.

I smiled to myself on the windy walk back to the truck, ‘I think this self assigned quest is complete… The Bandstand might just work.’

Far Enough Away

There is a land so far away that freedom pours from every cloud, can be touched in every blade of grass, breathes in every tree, and penetrates the air that envelops you. There are no laws that men make to crush others towards their own will. There is no church demanding a life of sterile experience in exchange for salvation. There is no money, no credit, and no taxes. Nothing is worked for that does not have true value in its bounty and joyous gratification in the task being achieved.  This is a land of romance and of natural beauty, from its rejuvenating fire yellow sunrises to its majestic burgundy crimson sun sets. In this land the trees speak to you of their long lives and the great stones tell stories of ages long since passed. The cautious black bears can help you find meaning in your passed and the excited sparrows seek to show you the best course to take for your future. Some say that you can only travel to this place in your mind. Others say that this land only exist in your heart. However, there are those few blessed entities who know that to get there one only needs to make their own miracles. This is the land of Far Enough Away.