The Resting Chin of an Exhausting Search.

And in an instant, hanging from the edge of eternal sleep a voice called, "write as if you will never wake" and so instead of seeing fear or seeking death I saw your eyes, so much more than brown or bright, a place I found myself eternally warm inside the glimpse of an instant, a split second into your soul and through the beaten path of the kind heart I used to know.

It's haunting to know I will never feel so alive, an addiction that cannot be appeased by the touch of a flame, only the remembrance of love in it's purest form, without brush of the body or explanation from a tortured soul, a wordless understanding gone unrealized so many times, for what makes us whole, and what will never fade, or gather dust, or age, or see pain, or need to be soothed.

In a glimpse of perfection I found God and eternity, and I saw fear subside, for the first time since I rolled in the bosom of youth I found the safety of you.

Before it ever happened, without fate, or lust, or love, it was gone...and with the lingering yearn I understood all to be nothing more than dirt and broken wants of what will never be found outside of that instant.

It cannot be described and it will not, for there is no writer or orator majestic enough to describe the moment you let me inside; you looked into me and you knew who I was. I'll turn the page a thousand times in hopes it will say what laid on my mind, and the more I search the more ink will fade from the fragile leaflets of wood that will rot and decompose back into nothing.

In your eyes I found more than your soul, or your heart, your mind or your hurt; I found you. As insane as it may seem, I know myself to be lost, and in that instant I gave myself to you. Though we may never be, and though this may go unheard, I know you saw the reflection of feeling I did in that moment, and in that instant you found what I will spend my entire life searching for...me.

This One's For You Babe.

Your face is gleaming brighter tonight than it has in some time. I know the mundane and seemingly repetitive days wear down perception, but tonight baby, you shine through the fog and my doubts. Tonight I want to let go of the world babe, I want to dance across it all. Luna, that birthmark drives an appetite for your lips, as the glow that bestows us is too glorious for permanence, and I know the time to act is winding down.

You were always too elegant for glass slippers, you deserve the comfort of silk mosses beneath bare feet, and tonight it's yours, anything you cast your gaze on is yours babe, it's always been that way, even if I don't express it as often as I should.

I know you'll follow me to the end, and disappear every morning before I wake, but if days are for anything, they're for creating distance that only warms the nights when you tap on my window. Doll, can't you see? It's your world, all of it, just a show and a gesture, anything to get your attention, all of us actors in whatever play you want us to perform.

I try to wipe away your tears, but some days they wipe away villages and move Earth, nothing my reserved touch can do to stop the flow.

They're all looking at you baby, at your slender dress and your twinkling eye, but you're only looking at me, and I'm not going to let go of you or that smile, because I know this dance will last forever.

Our One So[u]l[e] Possession

In life the individual is only given one true guarantee, death. It is something we constantly wish to avoid, something we create laws and medicines to deter, and follow religions or readings to ease, but death is a true unknown we can never escape, it is an unopened gift which cannot be returned.

Though we are constantly reminded of our expiration, and quiver in fear of what is inevitable, we seldom as a people enjoy the freedom life offers by merely existing, and the endless possibilities our temporary playground offers. We waste our days building walls, bombs and prisons, defending a fragile existence at the sacrifice of lives of others, in massacres we do not witness, horrors we cannot imagine, and an unnatural battle, seemingly endless which guarantees us safety from an enemy undefined.

Americans constantly argue over the freedom of press, religion, speech or of arms, of wealth and medical treatment, of consumption. The numbers don't lie, people kill each other, guns kill people, cars kill people, wars kill people, police and unhealthy food, defunct cures and the act of procreation itself kills. Neighbors kill and so does the sun, and the water, and harsh winds, unstable bridges and cigarettes, alcohol, heaters, and dogs, and etc. and etc. We are told information is dangerous, that politicians are dangerous, that Muslims and Christians, Jews and spies are dangerous. We are always kept aware of the dangers of homelessness and malnutrition, of cold weather and colder hearts.

If we are not to be blown up by extremism, we will surely starve or be invaded, or oppressed or beheaded, disappeared or questioned, or poisoned by under cooked meats. If the world will not end in 2000 it will in 2012, and if not by then, surely it will end at some point, so prepare, warn those around, and be afraid, because in an end of the world scenario, the world will end.

Freedom is the right of an individual to exist, and experience the shortcomings and small glories life offers, to not just be alive, but to be a part of life, to learn and to witness, to question and explore, to do anything desired in a place nothing is owed, nothing is permanent, and nothing can be truly controlled except for the self by the self.

People tend to chain themselves, to fear freedom, to mock the oddities and curiosities of random events beyond comprehension to those contained. It is truly a bubble, a false bubble of protection, the thought of saving something which will not survive. The only rationale in life is to be irrational, to be random, to follow desires and beliefs, groomed through individual successes and failures, tears and joy, because all of it will some day be gone, because everything we strive so hard to obtain and hold, can never be secured.

Land exists thousands of years beyond it's multiple "rightful owners", homes and property can be seized or destroyed, but the individual follows itself, it will not be claimed and cannot by anyone or anything beside self, and though people and government, laws and social restraints make every attempt possible to keep this power from being understood or self-controlled, each passing moment is a chance for the mind to be free, to explore the world our best scholars and scientists can only pretend to comprehend or explain, and do so from our own perspective. Freedom is not a light word, it is not offered in halves or sections, because if it is restrained, than it is by definition not freedom. We are given the opportunity to be free every day of life, and still it is fleeting.

I understand what freedom is, (existing without external control) and I know both the bad and good things which can spring from freedom, I also see this theme constantly playing-out in life. I see there is both good and bad, there is both life and death, and there are both tears and smiles in life, and I have no doubt both will exist in a free world. I hope to reach the peace of mind that comes with a life unfiltered, where I can experience my existence while I'm breathing, and not cower from it's dangers as a spectator from the outside. Freedom will never be guaranteed or given by government or by other people, it can only be given to the individual from the individual, and while mankind tries it's best to curtail and restrain that God-given power, I see many things out of my control, but I do know one thing, I know what freedom is, and I will aspire to achieve it, even if only for a gasp, before my last breath dissipates.

Did You Read The Fucking Thing?!?!?

What glories would ring if all at once, every. single. fucking. Person. who made follies of the mouth, truly foul, ill-informed descriptions and definitions of words, could define themselves as mutes. The end of bastardizing language, and the beginning of God's pure tampon inserted deep into Earth, clogging the bleeding pit of ridiculosity that exists within the mind of a dullard. Tears of politically correct retards and fagots would fill the streets, as the circus of lawyers would abruptly pack their mobile homes and scurry from mob-beatings delayed by progressive mothers and the politically correct muzzles of justice. Oh no! It reads as arrogant and insensitive to generalize a mass of human as such!

Oh whoa is me, and whoa is the world. Yes, Mrs. Brown some people are morons, and yes, it could be their environments or upbringing to blame, but this does not change the importance of reminding morons how dull their wits and how many shits (none) are given about their attempts to decipher reality. With censorship of the idiot, reality itself would be a little more real, and for the sake of arguing existence is a good thing, it would make the world better.

Can you see it now? The day pundits and politicians opened their collagen lips and collaborative schemes to reality, or the correct use of words, would be the day skies would open and Jesus Christ himself would return to the world, slaughtering and saving the tongue all at once, choosing syllables over antonyms, leaving parenthesis behind to perish as meaning ascended. Oh! Just one day! Just one, when the phrase “shut up” was adhered to, and all the bitching and bickering and whining and hissing turned off with the right tightening of a hose's handle! It would be a stroll through the neighborhood without Bill or Martha telling you where to put the newspaper or the exclamation point! Can you imagine how this day would be? It's excites me to think what would or could happen without rules and the critics of writing and of cynics, an open discussion celebrated in the assumption of education!

Oh, glorious day we have found you! For there are no more fucks given about who is offended and who will need mended, because the faces of pussies, and cowards, and wimps, and those who want to just hear themselves speak...or argue, will be sown shut. Say what you want tomorrow, but for just one day, let every person say what they mean and mean what they say, for just one day, lets open the lines of human interaction and actually be able to handle it.

War would be taboo instead of being called nappy-headed hos, and television without commercials would discuss human rights more than race, people could speak of violent Muslims and not have their heads cut off by advanced sand monkeys, or indicted by advanced “civilized” pale monkeys, all of them, “hoo-hooing and caw-cawing” about insensitive remarks as they sentence another cracker Swede or Netherlander to a death sentence.

Every fucktard who complains about art, every person hired by a company to make bad things seem PR-friendly, every marketing whore bore deep within the bukkake of sales and every person who uses a word to misinterpret things purposefully can just shut. the. fuck. up.

--------.......................................

The Greek Tower

Red beams burnt 1:00 into Lukas' eyes; fate's silent alarm reverberated through his bones, deaf yawns and high-pitched buzzards in his ears faded into numbing buzzes...familiar to those who take trips outside the realm of Parental Guidance, but Lukas had not traveled in just over a dozen years. Greece was restless. Elders paced across nights, searching for ways to raise their children, who grew into nightmares for abandoned tourists, spending wasted bills and hours on unfamiliar phones canceling cards and numbers that create a stolen identity.

Outside Lukas' cottage, ancient tongues sprayed from the mouth of Hades as rip-tides battered Cape Tenaro. Bottles shattered against rock, messages within disintegrated into nothing more than wounded words. As Lukas emerged from the warmth of blanketed mounds, an irrepressible gust kicked in his front door, uninvited dirt and unwarranted papers rushed inside, knocking over Lukas' dresser, shattering mirrors and tearing through screens.

A path unveiled itself to Lukas, from the foot of his bed into the pit of the storm. He toed the line carefully barefoot, across splintered wood planks then course and battered stone stairs. Once in the yard, Lukas felt soothing moss under his heels, until he looked to the light-tower and witnessed torrents so fierce, the light within had extinguished. As caretaker, Lukas knew it was his duty and his alone to replace the light, so he solemnly climbed the summit he feared to be his grave.

Winds penetrated what he thought was impermeable stone, whistling in dull and ominous tone as the handrail creaked and conducted the chills of the dead surrounding the cape, swirling in foam and cast into the unknown of a frigid December night. Shards of broken windows sliced into Lukas' cold feet, causing feeling and blood to return.

Lukas fumbled in the dark, searching for tools to fix the light, as howls from the world swirled around the point and demanded attention. He finally viewed the clouds above, and for the first time saw the Mediterranean from his world without glass casing below. In the distance, fishing vessels toppled and collided, as changing waves swallowed lives and turned over from every corner of his fear, Death greeted Greece in this New Year.

A Western Suicide

Look around, there is nothing here for you dilapidated cowboy, your boots are caked with cow shit, and the dip in your lip makes your breath smell the same as your soles. You don't farm, you don't produce, you have a big truck you can't drive, and you are as on point as your pointless bumper sticker.

You act tough and drink hard, so hard you kiss your toilet at the end of the night, and hug it in the same pathetic manner you hug your opponent to the ground. Go spend some more money cowboy, get those new boots, get the designer jeans all of the urban cowgirls like to much, as they sing terrible songs by men as feminine as they and sway back and forth like denim dipshits with developmental retardation, cackling and laughing at red faces that pray for them to take a wrong turn into a ditch.

Go on and rant about freedom cowboy, talk about the niggers and the fags, in soliloquies of Jack Daniels and dur-d-durs, because God knows driving a forklift horse is so difficult, only a white man can pull it off. Go on cowboy, get-R-done, tell hunting tales to city kids who had guns and knives pulled on them by real animals, convince them how soft they are, how rugged you are cowboy. Get a new tat about it and flex it off in public, tanned in December, because real men act like superficial women.

How's the cattle in Columbus? Or the corn around the corner? Did you till it, did you bail it? I'm sure you did, and I'm sure the free housing and everything else momma and pop give you along with the $200 dollars under the table is a flat rate for all real farmers. Go on cowboy, ride your bicycle, I mean motorcycle, because every hard ass has a leather jacket and 25 grand between their legs.

We've all tried to understand you cowboy, you are as American as they come, as American as American cheese or cellophane, microwaves and cheap plastic imports. Bright lights and mud wrestling, tent cities and coolers in open fields, caked in shit. Just like a stable aren't you cowboy?

Drink up cowboy, because the cowgirls love a man who can piss himself in public then run his lip to a stranger, laughing through rotted teeth and dull wit, always ready to fight and even more ready to be held back. Size is scary, bigger is better, just like the truck, with a bed full of cow shit, parked in two spots when it isn't driving in two lanes or hitting curbs when it turns. Here's a loaded revolver cowboy, do the one trick, where you spin it around back and forth, as the barrel points inward to your face and gut over and over, take another shot like a real cowboy, bottle of whiskey in one hand and hand cannon in the other. We're all waiting to see.

Smoking Out The Rabbit Hole

Modern political debate since the 1960's circles around the violent clash of philosophies, sinew, and tidal waves of upheaval, sweeping Revolutions throughout Latin America, The Middle East, and all of Africa signaled a time to many that the world was going to change.

Unions and empires crumbled as fists of children around the world raised, and proud cultures and neighborhoods defiantly stood their ground, protecting their ways of life against outside forces and nations seeking land, labor, and resources to exploit, this is nothing new; human History has shown us how terribly wrong the experiment of teaching the concept of sharing is to infants. In two generations, the face of the world has changed, there are the living and breathing who have seen it all, the Depression, death, war, Polio, drug cultures, shootings, attacks on the country, attacks on civilians, Communism, Socialism, McCarthyism, internment camps, terrorism, media blackouts, repressed expressions, assassinated leaders, rotted through politicians, Madison Avenue swindlers and a loose bundle of problems rolled out over time.

The entire world was at war, and in that peace came the most destructive weapon created, Crippling Fear. People feared to live in a nation where their beloved President was murdered in cold blood, as he promised to change the world, he seemed to be the last who executed in a positive light. Fear of nuclear war, has turned us into a nation willing to destroy any country seeking nuclear power. We break their economies, we starve their children, their scientists are killed, their leaders are threatened, their lands become infested with spies, we carpet bomb their cities...because we have to.We created a demon we battle everyday, and the battlefield has been in the backyards of farmers, seen through the show windows of markets, waiting inside piles of limp bodies and skin turned cold.

In today's world, units can sweep into a palace, silently silencing guards and a target within minutes, a missile could be intercepted in the split second of a button pressed on the keypad, and acts of war can be stored on a USB file double-clicked. Forget days of untrained pilots manning million dollar projects, we live in an age where unmanned planes can be armed and driven, over your families and your friends by a power source. It is for our protection, just as cameras are just monitoring our streets for our safety, as the war on Terror was for our safety, and the thousands of young men we sacrificed for revenge, not a cause, to make a statement, not a difference, were to keep us safe from cavemen.

The world had more color before, everything wasn't charcoal or pewter, black or metallic, sleek and fogged, by empty promises of eternal safety for America and for steel. Our kids don't play in the yards, they sit and play video games, eat McDonald's for their safety, from perverts and pedophiles, who are everywhere, like underground spiders waiting to crawl to the surface and smother the Earth. Every breath of fresh air in this country is followed by a look over the shoulder, flashing lights and a fine, fine executor.

We must be protected from drug lords from Mexico invading our land like the cockroaches and people they are, refugees of a business deal and a handshake called free, and a trade that changed it all. The world is in upheaval all around, buildings burn, people are hungry, they are poor, they are desperate, everywhere. Money is tight, people are rioting for money, killing for their money, rampaging in the streets, stomping out highway projects and public offices, and we are here, in America, safe from it all.

We cannot fail, we are a machine, we are the greatest Democracy in humankind, look at George Bush and Al Gore, George Bush and John Kerry, John McCain and Sara Palin, Mitt Romney and Barack Obama, we built faces that emerge from mountains, and points highest in the world, the best place to look down on those all over. We rant and rave, and debate and we change things, we change how people think, we change how people understand us, we give them Democracy, we give them freedom, they feel it when they see assault rifles and flack jackets. We have the greatest economy the world has ever seen, where useless baskets can turn into million dollar machines, and buildings are rebuilt every twenty years, our fuel is our great craftsman ship and our drive to better the world, with apps and bright lights, plastic computers that create illustrious worlds of endless possibilities and falsity.

Things have progressed so much since the times of our fathers and grandfathers, we would never fall back into times of despotism or torture, debtors prison or coercion. Sure there is the IRS and Guantanamo and free speech suppression, but this is America, so love it or leave it, hippies don't belong in the street, cargo does, and it's your own fault you didn't pay someone to do the paperwork right, because after being taxed on food, gas, cigarettes, beer, inheritance, for social security, medicare, property and schools, in cities and state funded projects and federal projects, and sure you were taxed for the clothes on your back, and there was a tax for shipping the finest goods and services to this country, but who doesn't do their taxes every year? You deserve to go to jail if you don't pay income tax, because we are broke and need more, and we need to borrow more, because if we don't spend more we can't grow or prosper, or spend enough money on military and defense contracts to keep us safe.

Because our grandparents survived the depression and the war and the disease and the heartache and hardship, and they survived boat rides across distances and worked hard in coal dust and fiberglass threads, they were safe, they survived, but for some reason they always remind me it is their last Christmas or their last 4th of July, always talking about how they are lonely or blind, but I just ignore them because old people do that.

The Humpty Dump

The wide grin of a dealership's owner raises high atop wooden scaffolds, wavy blonde hair frays from beneath an oak top-hat as his story-high eyes hypnotize the daily sedated. Sparklers and fireworks ignite, mounted into wooden boards of the sign, fools become customers in loose and gawking lines, innocent bystanders are struck and turned into the "target market". They stare at the spectacle, as brass instruments scream into the distant sunset, forced by brass musicians whom insist. A lovely lady poses and presents a limp silk curtain, holding behind it, the inventory of dreams. Her soft legs prance and tangle on coat tails, abandoned at the cheek, cut off by net leggings for all to be drawn. The catch of the hour smiles between false and seductive, unquestioned talents are admired by all.

"One at a time" her felt gloves brace each consuming shoulder, a slight dash of comfort and conveyor-belt welcome into a vast, humpty dump.

Used salesmen greet the colorful and eager families into a new world...with half-empty bottles of scotch and browning pant-legs, loosely secured around ankles, as a pile of Chevy's burn in the distance. Warming extensions of sporadic vomit and obscenities towards invisible fathers echo over blowjob slurs behind unplugged Pepsi-machines and stacks of VHS tapes, molded into castles. Flags rise high above and praise "Fujifilm" as CEO's laugh and banter from a drawbridge made of VCR re-winders. As new arrivals walk past the triumphant tower, at least thirteen feet high, bodies in bandanas constantly grow, tossed out the backdoor of a game of roulette, only a slight glitch in their idea of the chairman.

Children enthralled to see the lot, so excited they bellow and cry for their mothers, who worry and clutch at their husbands, whom grin and accept their new vacation, continue into the wastes, excited to see the variety of food.

To The Lost, Drink Up

Down the back alley of an existence that should never have been thought, trickled streams of stale rain navigate over worn gravel, where they pass beneath rubber souls and disingenuous leather, mixing with the booze and the sewage and the piss, where glimmers of forget and hours of delayed regrets release silhouettes from a smoke filled room, inhaled through a splintered board, dangling by the fibers on the outside looking in a hole in the wall.

Laughter in bursts crowds dead air, as the shrills push and swirl behind force and tradition, no matter how drawn and undeserved they may be. A babbling rosy-cheeked orator squints and sways, toasting his own demise with a belly of joy and a grin peeled far back by blind illusions of happiness and respect, successes and points, truths and paychecks. Acquaintances stare in solidarity, as their blank faces erase self-indulgent thoughts, of screwing and soaring, beyond the orator, or the leaking ceiling or the piss or the bullshit, searching for their own prayers to be answered by their own Gods, whom tend solely to their own piss and shit, while they scream "Fuck God!" within.

Inevitability wades in the air, jumping from lips of passersby and newsboys, punishing sidewalks with repeated paths of late trots and obsessive stares at wristwatches of gifts, and wristwatches of bankroll. Pressure from time opens the cracks, breaking the manly successes of dried dirt mixed with water, where sprouts of reminder of the final dance and last appointment are ignored by "closed" signs and "will returns" battered and tested by swift winds carried through canals of windows, locks of bricks, and the will of the old man we've all come to know, cold and impatient, kicking us along like a can of soup, someday admired by the seeker whom treasures another man's trash and will not waver in the spit of a critic.

In the eye of the stream, where tires are busted and dreamers sleep in filth amongst cans of garbage and trash, trampled so relentlessly that it adheres to it's place, though it struggles to float away, a hypocrite bellows and judges, screaming for the attention of humanity, praising it's glory and it's tale.

The braggart accepts the fact of the matter, but refuses to knowledge what the matter was before he took credit for it's explanation, cursing all who question the latter, but he stretches higher into heaven, stacking a ladder on top of a soap box, balancing his act on stories of stilts, pivoting finally on thin pity and the merciful child, whom the braggart tossed a coin, though he relies to steady and overlooks, down upon the crowd who through him a coin, pondering the questions looked over without study and observed for the fate of a debt, a curse or a deal, sometimes for fame, and others for a warm meal.

Rats scurry along the canal, beaten with paddles, by paddies, into patties, they slide into panties, and sneak into parties, only to be greeted and festered by other rats, snickering and such, fitting into the traps of flames, or quakes, or the stakes and retribution, the loan sharks and long shots. In an instant they scatter from sirens, beatings, lashings, electrocution,  hangings, sprayings, in an instant they scatter, chased off by loud buzzes, or loud hoofs, or sticks in the night, cracking over "leaves!" and leafs pleased to disperse.

Seeds fall then spread, then plant just like had a year prior, and will again in a year again, into soil rotten, by the spoils of victory, and the blood or the liquor, or tears, or the come from the years of strangers and seamen, floating into anything unknown, from one port to another; decades of silent communication amongst whores unfamiliar in but one place, itching to find the sailor who on the ground trotted, beating paths as they met others in the service, hoping to be serviced, as the brakes to the morning snap and fail, all sacrificed to find the nearest watering hole, where echos of laughter peer from dim lit rooms, filled with smoke and braggarts, and piss...

Edit This, Bitch.

Before you send praise, doubt, and even credit,
Please keep in mind that I refuse to edit.

I'll drag and drain, complain, and brag "Yeah I said it"
But I'll never erase or re-type, I must reiterate, "I will never edit"

I'd rather be a creditor than and editor, I'd choose infection over correction,
I'll take my typos, chicken-scratch and questioned lines,
Take your opinion, complaints and whines.

No matter how bad, my gramMer or Prose,
Something bores me about backtracking what flows.

Some writers want fame, perfection, or a "mastered craft",
It's all just a crutch, lame, like arm-floaties and such, just use a raft,
Because all they completed was a pure thought deleted,
Readers could have reminisced and some may have laughed,
If they weren't safely guided to shore by the Math.

Subtracting taboo, hoping to multiply an audience by refusal of division,
Congrats on the neutered and snipped, and the overly-respected "revision"

Sometimes I make a point, others I set a mark,
Sometime I jot just to be stark.

So how do I explain my shame to a reader?
Why I'll never find fame or be seen as a leader?
 I don't, because planners are plotters, and in my book, a plotters a cheater.

Ode to Fall

Memories of lives frozen and imagined march across the gentle width of entities far simpler and far above, refusing to look down on those beneath, only into the eyes and hearts of those seen equal and important to all. Expressions of clouds laugh and stare, the grim and dead, the alive and the celebrated all share soft interpretations and softer whites, and even friendlier shadows. Within the smile of the unfamiliar self is perceived, and reminds of flows of change, they rearrange into mustaches and lips, of broken bits and reaching fingers, hoping to caress, but too often interpreted as claws of mischief, and fear. They dance and wander, begging for company, praying for those to join them on the journey over tiers and piers, the fallen and the risen, promising a safe return around the same time of departure.

Breaths of Fall, sweep through the dank and humid, the labored and tired, sweat dries as vapors of relief cleanse through brisk wind and gusts of comfort, whispering to never be afraid. In it's yearly hymn of release and reminder, of days ahead, where we must warm ourselves and others around us, for the blisters of Summer are soothed by the revival from the steady and drooping, what leaves follow and forge the foliage will forever be, the whisper asks to mourn not the tree.

Behind screens and mist, beyond rooftops and hilltops and manicured fields and the unkempt, oaks and pines join in rhymes of taunts and dares to wander and climb to visit their prayer. For it is all silent, and unexplained, and it all constantly reminds, it needs not to, and the furious may argue, and draw, and explain, and frustrate themselves as they try to control, what cannot be kept and cannot be explained correctly by the tongue of it's shepherds, who dwell within a gift they tend.

Swift gusts roll over the hills, and the fields, through the leaves and the trees, enticing all affected, on behalf of those who cannot speak, as they rush through open windows, waking children and adults alike, without a shake or alarm, nostrils widen and relax, only to huff and puff, welcoming and hoping the rush will come back. It's not too this, nor is it not too that, we marvel in perfection of the day and the month, knowing the bitter is ahead and the party is behind us, but for a moment we all bask in the perfection of being somewhere between, the morning and night, the dull and the excited, what is planned and what is random, but the degrees of these are not overwhelming, they are accepted, and will leave as they came, abruptly and unannounced, only to return another day.

Untitled

Has anyone ever cried for you? Have you cried? Has anyone told you they would die for you? Have you lived? Did some tell you to lose the glory? Because it's all guts and innocence drowned, in the torrents of reality and numbness to life, smells of morning dew slowed to decades of ignorance of the simple pleasures of breath that help you slow the clock and take the ride.

Did you lose? Did you let them heckle and runaway with your pride? Did you stop caring, or did you ignite the flame within that only the omnipotent question can understand or fathom? Did you walk out on the entity that knows you better than yourself? Did you quietly return into nothing but clay in the Earth?

Did you cash your check, did you pay your bills, or did you just survive and let the nightmares of reality dictate how thick the bars to your cage are? Did you grasp them, or did you simply look at them and roll back over?

Do you even care? Have you even cared to accept the random, Does Murphy tap on your window and remind you of the law? Did you a?ccept the fate of a mindless drunkard, or did you find the truth?

Did you realize how reserved judgment is and let the machine flow, or did you stand aside and wait for the blind to lead and dumb?

Do you care?

My Left Hand Jam

Writing with purpose is difficult, especially when no matter how extensive your vocabulary is, a natural instinct to grab thy genitals and furiously shake shifting facial expressions to loud tunes of "fuck you's" grabs hold of your muse.

In times where creativity screams behind a core completely paralyzed, logic and understanding dissipate, ashes broken by gravity's wind, gentle fury, nothing in a whisper. Everything has been done, everything is old to everyone, and all things exist only to expire. There is no point, thus, there is no punctuation, or pride,or glory, or triumph, or hope or victory, no changing of the tide 'nor the guard. There is no art, because all things extraordinary are a distraction from the gray and dull, the predictable, the accepted, the missionary, all demanding respect for their subsequent boredom.

This is a left hand jam, so there is no pressure of anger or junk-grabbing to tunes of "suck my third thumb", as writing itself is task enough, and so is the drive, the smoke or snuff. Fill out the sheet left handed, get the prescription left handed, take the pills left handed, get pulled over left handed and acknowledge the court date...left handed. This is my left hand jam, and it is scientific fact, that lefties have the worst luck.

Hey did you see in the news that.....I'm on drugs. So in conclusion, in matters of the "what have you's" and "what you will's"  of the whole thing, life goes on, and naps are an inescapable, inevitable, impermeable, omnipotent, palatable, parabola, hyperbole, rhetoric-filled quagmire of depth and drowse, limp leg, mind roused, numbing portals of deceptive snores and collective mind-boggelry, beyond which there is no alarm, left handed.  

Kill The President

Wake up. We live in an America where the title of this article alone could land me in prison, or in a detention camp where I could be tortured or killed without trial or jury, treated like an animal, because I used harsh words against a public figure who is dismantling everything this nation once held sacred. We live in an America where people like me so desperately try to warn others of what is happening in the open, and are ignored and ridiculed, because it is the natural instinct of people now, to numbly go through their days without thinking or caring, only to rinse and repeat their dull and pointless lives until the gravedigger clocks in. We live in an America where the idea of greatness is an impossibility, submission is an unspoken acceptance, out of fear we have not questioned and refuse to confront.

The President of the United States is the biggest criminal in the United States, and should be killed for treason, it is that sharp, and it is that simple. Like George Bush before him, Obama has waged a war on the American people and on world peace. We are chasing ghosts around the world, as reckless rage and hatred from September 11th has turned us into nothing more than killers, killers of our own innocence, our rule of law, our reason, our freedoms, our shared ideals, and our own safety. Somehow, Thanks to another treasonous leader, we have turned a small group of Saudi Arabians who ran planes into buildings, a World War. To deny this War on Terror of it's rightful place as a World War, would be ignorant and brainwashed. Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran, Syria, Libya, Egypt, Saudi Arabia have all been destabilized by either or military or intelligence agency over the past decade. Hundreds of thousands of people have died, and yet, have we fulfilled our blind vengeance? No.

Now, after Bush completed the first phase of a wartime government, Obama has come in under pretense of change and transparency to bring the War on Terror to us, the people. He has passed Executive Orders that allow the President to order any person in the world to be killed or disappeared without a trial. He has given himself the legal authority to do this. He has given himself the legal authority to at any time put this country into a state of emergency, giving himself the ability to shut down the internet, control radio waves, and take over all communication amongst American citizens with an iron fist. His demonic child, The Department of Homeland Security, treats our people like animals in every airport, giving strip searches to children, pulling apart medical disadvantages of travelers to embarrass them. The TSA is conditioning us to think it is normal to be treated as a terrorist, and assumed to be terrorists. They are expanding themselves to public events and other modes of public transportation, making sure we cannot go anywhere without the Federal government literally holding us by the balls.

Our leaders, the Presidents are supposed to protect us, supposed to lead our military, but instead, our Presidents are OK'ing wire taps of innocent citizens, OK'ing the constant hacking of our private emails, our search history, what we read on Wikipedia, what we see on YouTube, who we are on Facebook. It is all documented and tracked, because after all, YOU might be the terrorist. And now, to a city near you, unmanned drone planes and helicopters will be patrolling U.S. skies with heavy weaponry and surveillance to "protect" the American people. When is the last time you began looking above the stoplights in your towns busiest intersections? Did you ignore the cameras standing high above the lights? Did you ever question if they were cameras? Why they are there? or did you just trust a government who does not trust you enough to let you go one day with privacy.

This all sounds crazy doesn't it? This sounds paranoid, like a rant from a terrorist or Crystal Meth-head. It isn't, it's all true, it's all documented, and if you care to know the oppression you are being set up for without knowledge of it's existence I will provide all the evidence I must under this call to arms. It is a mental call to arms, only to be aware of what is going on around you, to understand the bickering and political arguments you see on T.V. are pointless, they are a Republican and Democrat distraction from what is really happening to our country, a complete control grid that will do nothing but take over our freedoms from the inside, and the President is allowing it, he is refusing to talk to the press, he is refusing to openly discuss our involvement in Middle East countries we have not declared war on, he is refusing to answer questions, he is refusing to uphold the promises he made four years ago, refusing to stop the violent suppression of protests across the country, refusing to acknowledge rooftop snipers and arms aerial teams watching over unarmed citizens as they protest NATO or their corrupt leaders. He is refusing to speak about his own Executive Orders, refusing to admit economic calamity that we feel every day. Everyone knows someone who has been laid-off, whose homes have been taken and put up for auction, who's factory has been shut down, who's credit will hold them as slaves for decades, who's diplomas and degrees are useless and undervalued, yet we are told by our leaders, the reality is, these things are not happening.

The more we learn, about our leaders, the more we speak out against the corruption, the more we are cornered and set up to be controlled, to make sure our anger and frustration is nothing more than empty words of a weakling that will be bullied and broken. Our "Commander" like the "Commander" before, is in reality, public enemy number one, and he will do nothing more than lead us into slaughter. But for some reason we believe these people, we trust them, though we do not know them, and when we study them, we quickly learn, THEY are not US, THEY do not care about US, and they will sell US down the river, so THEY can buy vacation homes and lifelong seats as our masters. Kill the President, as a matter of fact, leave the jury and hang the judges, burn down the House. No? Too scary? OK, don't fight for yourself or your country or the future of your name, but don't say I didn't warn you things are only going to get progressively worse, and surely don't pretend when you hit rock bottom that you didn't see it coming.


Obama's want to shut down the internet:

http://www.inquisitr.com/294735/obama-considers-executive-order-on-cybersecurity-after-senate-kills-the-bill/

Drones over U.S.:

 http://www.jdnews.com/opinion/line-107036-drawn-drones.html

Assassinate U.S. citizens:

http://www.motherjones.com/politics/2012/07/congress-disclose-obama-targeted-killing-memos

Pretext to war in Iraq, I mean Syria:

http://www.leaderpost.com/news/Chemical+warfare+could+prompt+move+against+Syria+Obama/7119022/story.html

CCTV IN America:

http://www.timminspress.com/2012/07/25/police-get-eye-in-the-sky

TSA Expansion:

http://www.examiner.com/article/tsa-amtrak-police-hassle-journalist-recording-their-activities

Surveillance of Internet:

http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/political-news/internet-surveillance-put-off-until-after-the-election-20120809-23x6a.html

Wire Taps?:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/08/17/todd-akin-missouri-gop-se_n_1795844.html



STOP DENYING THE SAD TRUTH OF WHAT WE ARE BECOMING.

Kiss The Strings Bitch

First off, this http://www.weeklystandard.com/blogs/biden-invokes-paul-ryans-deceased-father-question-vp-candidates-values_649913.html does not matter. In, fact, I met an ex-felon who played a single string guitar tonight who mattered way more than this potent bullshittery.

There is no reason to talk about this http://www.weeklystandard.com/blogs/biden-invokes-paul-ryans-deceased-father-question-vp-candidates-values_649913.html because it does not affect me. It is garbage, and for some reason this http://www.weeklystandard.com/blogs/biden-invokes-paul-ryans-deceased-father-question-vp-candidates-values_649913.html is something a person actually wrote, commentated on, and got paid for. While people bickered, winced and judged about the tomfoolery of this trash, and picked sides of an argument based around the generation of trash, I played air drums on my knees, beat them numb, patted my way into the minds of anyone around, and did so while my friend and his mustache..and his one-string guitar, brought the house of a two-person concert down.

At least four pisses I had tonight lasted longer than the attention span of the average voter, so this, http://www.cnn.com/2012/08/13/justice/texas-am-shooting/index.html?hpt=hp_t1 does not at all matter to me. Reading this http://www.cnn.com/2012/08/13/justice/texas-am-shooting/index.html?hpt=hp_t1 changed my mind about nothing, to be honest, I didn't even read it, all I had to do is look at the headline and picture, and I knew, it was a waste of time, never to change my mind...about anything. Truth is I don't live in Texas, and a couple dead folk aren't going to scare me into locking myself in a prison of fear. In other news, three people shot pool tonight and had a great time at a rundown bar called Tony's in Newark Ohio, the survivors all tell tales of laughter and sarcasm. Innocent by-standards enjoyed themselves with complete strangers whom they had nothing in common with but existence, and for the sake of attention-grabbing lines it was a massacre.

I don't know how any of us can live tomorrow knowing our globe is warming, that hurricanes and earthquakes are a reality, and that people in the desert across the world hate America. At least three people died today, OH MY, the world is a cruel and ugly place, we must cower from it, and plug ourselves into shit that does not actually happen in our day-to-day lives to dull the pain, of things that do not affect us. Oh no, we must all be afraid...shit happens, and it is shit happening that we need to focus all of our energy on, and it is shit happening that we MUST avoid, because in a perfect world, if God was willing, nothing would happen, and we would all live eternally boring lives, free of death in collared shirts and tivo'ed favorites. Please have mercy on us events.

The End of The Tunnel Blinds

All I own is a hand full of change, all I care for is for the world to rearrange, no simple rhymes and no darker times could lead me back to what I may never know. The glass beyond has no color or shape, or definition, or explanation, or time, only a glimpse of what could be, what I pray, will someday be mine. Without the drama or laughter, comedy or divine, I do not care about what I pray to be mine.

And I will be yours, forever and more, and statements and words, and life without core. Without rhymes and score, I know there's no more, what lies ahead and unknowns are in store. All I can do is imagine a world, a month, a year, a moment of yours. And sure enough as life went before, and will go on forever and more, and all I know is pain and growth, and the bad soliloquies, pain-staked thoughts and frozen depths of a lost understanding, of life and children, of joy and smiles, and possibilities seen, not by God or by miles.

A truth, no words can explain, or find or ignore, a hope that I can implant what could be in store. But if life existed it was and not were, tales would be poured of our time and much more, cadence and word become such a bore, when I get a split second of what you have bore. A glimmer, a hope, a smile, a second, all gone in the is's and won't's of what will never be splendid.

A day, a minute, and hour, or glance, I cannot deny such a miserably fortunate circumstance. I am but a fish with a bit of worm, a fisher losing his crawl, I cannot laugh, I will not ball, but I will long, for the distant doll, and as life goes, I will forever dream and want, what I'm destined to chase, a prayer I can repeat and will never have, and though it pains to know what is truth, I am blessed have seen beauty in a world, so closed to the most and controlled by the host, a glimmer of hope in the beads I love most, and this, will never change, and so though it may be a hand full of dime, I still hold on to things which could be down the line.

The Bastard Glass

The open end of the Glass never speaks, though it’s lips are curled, capturing the essence of an angered scream, frozen in the sands and waters of charred hands and focused eyes.

The Glass has but one expression, though It’s insides pour to the soil, delivered without hymns or enunciation, explanation, appreciation, representation, or what begins at a sea and holds a commune without E Pluribus Unum, in the modern times iNation. 

An iFor every word, as entertainers giggle at The Eye’s in every word, temples of worship and hidden degrees of threes in these, but Symbols cannot see and will not, the things held dear to This and Me. But I is Them, and They are not I, so I say to Myself I cannot be trusted or battered or busted, because They will never cease and this shall be infinitely true, in a world filled with Them, Me’s, I’s, and You’s. 

The tree stands strong, though splintered in winter, and lashed in the spring, but the Devil may play and torment all things. He dances and laughs, over broken glasses and ashes, of Those he had burned and Those he does seek, only a mirage, a play, and portraits of bleak. Oh, suppose without him the world would be dull, destinies fulfilled, races with one-million tied first, no hunger or war, no disease or thirst. 

The Glass could be evil but it never speaks, it stands between the days and years, holding and pouring, both mead and beers, and wine, and whiskey, delegating strange nights and days, mistakes to Us all, and stories and song, of both right and wrong.

The Glass delegates to us how life will spill, though it is the glasses content inside Me, not My own, not Thine own, a foreign object frustrated and dormant, using Us as puppets to scream and carry out cemented abandon, tricking Us to be as hopeless and concerning as itself, The Bastard Glass deserves some more discerning.

Killing for Fifteen Minutes

James Holmes is not the "Joker", he is a joke, another twisted example of how perceived normalcy can quickly disintegrate into a fractured reality. His "work" is already being compared to Columbine and rightfully so. It wasn't a high school, it wasn't a two man job, job but it was in fact a production, a trick we have all fallen for. Unfortunately, our rating system is to blame, our media is to blame, our social atmosphere, and our current obsession with doom.

In the Columbine case, Eric Harris and Dylan Kiebold have been placed under the psychological microscope for years. Some pointed to bullying, some pointed to violent video games and movies to pick up the blame, but it was always about something more to the two murderers, it was about relevance.

Harris and Kiebold video-taped themselves plotting and planning, hanging out and listening to "Miserlou" by Dick Dale, the intro theme to "Pulp Fiction", talking about DOOM, and glorifying other mediums of conjured violence like Natural Born Killers. Kiebold himself planned on attending college to be in video production. The two talked about how Columbine was their prison, and on that fateful day they decided to put on their biggest show, one that is remembered better than most movies, games, or cd's from that time period. In death, they reached fame, and if Kiebold finished out four years at school, then spent twenty honing the craft of becoming a director, the chances are that he would never reach that same level of fame or notoriety.

James Holmes has some striking similarities when it comes to strategy. Fish in a barrel scenario, where the mentality is not to assassinate a specific person, but to "kill em' all". The more dead, the more of a shock wave will go through the media, if you score enough points, you will be remembered as "the orchestrator of the worst shooting in U.S. History", that is, until another nobody comes along and decides any press is good press. Both situations involved the use of explosives, careful planning, and a sense of no remorse. James Holmes smiles in his mugshot as if he had just received a major accolade that he is humbled by. Holmes also shows the obsession with film, killing at a Batman preview, dressing like the nemesis Bane, telling the arresting officers he was "The Joker". Is this just a schizophrenic who has lost touch with reality? Doubt it.

It is the middle of a presidential election, and all we will hear from the media for the next month or so will be this story. Even in the attacks and negative light, they will play right into Holmes' plan of fame by force. Violence, especially against the average American, gets ratings, so it gets the coverage. This modern obsession is a sick and public version of mass masochism, though some would argue this human obsession stretches beyond newer-age media. The political games will begin, and surely we will learn it is "never too soon" to exploit a tragedy, whether it be for tightening up gun laws, or witch-hunting scapegoats. We will continue to ask the wrong questions and provide the wrong answers.

To me it has become obvious that the best way to handle these situations is to keep the killer's name anonymous. The media can be intimidated into not releasing the truths about war or various other names and stories that exist, but there is almost a sense of ratings-driven worship for these people. It must stop. If the fame and name is detached from these slayings, they will decrease, at least this style of media-driven murder. It has become apparent that those who have a true problem with being nameless will do anything to be remembered, and have no remorse, because they did something they wanted to, and achieved what they crave. It's a form of selling your soul to the Devil and never learning how to play guitar.

If James Holmes knew that he spent all of that time bugging his home with explosives, planning out his garb, plotting the attack like a militant for drama and effectiveness, only to be called "the gunman" by every news outlet, my money is that he wouldn't have done the attack at all. These are events that are not driven by beliefs, they are not sociological, political, or religious, it is violence for the sake of violence, killing the innocent to prove only that you have killed the innocent. So James Holmes, this is all you get from me. You are a nobody, a nothing, a coward, a loser. Perhaps the nerdiest thing I have ever heard is to stage a mass killing of unarmed civilians that circles around Batman, you pussy. Hope it was worth the lifetime of prison reaming, because last time I checked there aren't many neuroscience students in the big house, and I'm sure all the boys in the pen would love to have their first.

Last Call America

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2IhqYu8RRlk

It's last call America, finish your scotch. It's last call America, your clean shaven boys in their twenties, thirties, and forties don't drink scotch anymore, and they sure don't let sweat from rocks abandoning the glass dampen dirt beneath manicured fingernails. Say your prayers America, before an atheist with godlessly good lawyers topples your temple of worship. Drink up America, you are getting fucked, and the morning only promises the grim clench of a regretful face and mistakes made in the night.

Take two more shots, quick, before the drive home America, deaden the pain, go comatose for the boys in blue, because when they peel you from the wreckage, your whole body will be the same color as their uniforms, even if you climb out unscathed. Buy a lawyer America, spend money to delay the inevitable incarceration, the clammy cement of a sleep on the rock bottom, because you feel absolved of crimes attached to the lifestyle of a destructive lush.

Blame the Republicans America, blame the Jews and Democrats, the media, the spics and crackers and niggers. Blame the youth, the teachers, the leaders and the unions, blame the rich, the poor, the unemployed, underemployed and billionaires. Blame the failures and successes, the taxes and wars, the trade deals, blame it all America, but it's last call, so you drink up, and refuse to blame yourself. Curse the bartender if you must, but tip accordingly America, because he's been putting up with your hateful bullshit, and you scaring off all the good customers with your drunken nonsense.

You're card was declined America, you ran one Hell of a tab, you told a Cherokee he had a drinking problem then threw up on yourself. You owe your home, your job, your dreams, your promise, and most importantly, your word. So pay up, because it's all drunken babble and it's all just a way for you to escape what you owe. The TV told you it was OK, Hell grandma told you it was OK to escape, to deflect, to bury yourself in the pointless finger-pointing and endless gripes of a divided nation on a fifty year bender. Curse em' all America, whine like the soft spoiled brat you have become, blame the blackout on your tab, it doesn't change the fact that the binge wasn't on the house. Don't cry America, I didn't do it, I just said it, a cab is on the way to take you where you sleep. They will drop you off at the corner of Censorship and Fear. It's OK America, you won't die, you have been choking on your own vomit for over a decade and still manage to stumble in to the Stagger Inn, and hassle your favorite bartender, fate.

The Russians are Coming, The Russians are Coming!

While contemplating the (lack of) benefits of fame the other day, I realized, nobody really gets more than fifteen minutes of fame. The longer fame lasts, the further privacy falls away, and the more accustomed you become to worrying about judgement from imperfect critics as opposed to self-reflection. Even if you're famous for a lifetime, in the real scope of time, you will be forgotten very soon. The son of God made a visit to Earth, and forgave all of mankind for their sins, and only 2012 years later, a majority of people in the world doubt he ever existed, I mean, Jesus Christ, what does someone have to do to get some respect around here?

 It is human nature, to not believe in what you do not witness. Do you actually remember the Cold War? Most people in their twenties or thirties don't, even though it was a defining moment in U.S. History, only few decades ago. Many currently in the U.S. educational system believe they know everything, but see the Cold War as another part of History that without evidence simply, "won't be repeated". Well folks, time for a lesson of constant in Political Theory.

Many in top political positions make decisions based on their belief in Realism, and the idea of looking at countries around the world as threats, ones who must be outdone competitively on both economic and military levels in order to maintain Independence and legitimacy.

If Realism is the way of the world, nations will always be aiming for the top-dog, which in current times, is America. America is young in relation to other failed governmental experiments throughout History called "Nations", "States", or "Countries", and has only held sole dominance over the world economically and militarily since the late 80's and early 90's, during the collapse of the Soviet Union. This was seen as the final blow to Communism. The problem with our assumed victory in the Cold War is that Russia never really left, and Communism never died. It waited, kept allies, kept building weapons and homes, kept vast borders rich with natural resources, and still, during it's "collapse" had more money, people, military might, technological advances, and industry than a large majority of countries in the world.

Russia is back. Ex-Kremlin and KGB hold an overwhelming amount of political positions, Putin has successfully given the country a new face of political suppression, another grim Russian face without emotion, one that represents the country and people dictatorially, and their economic ideology of mixing government and industry has been successful enough to cause many American leaders to abandon the U.S. economic identity of "Laissez Fair" in order to craft a dismal, and desperate copy of Russian economic policies.

While we see turmoil domestically, Russia has gained power and influence through it's ability to successfully build diplomatic relationships with American enemies, such as Iran, but also has built strong economic ties with countries whom combined, have economic strength that dwarfs America's when combined; Japan, China, and India. Recently all of these countries made agreements to avoid use of the U.S. dollar in massive trade deals, which if anything, symbolizes a general agreement among these nations that the U.S. is in a serious state of decline. As a direct show of force to the U.S. and NATO, it was reported today that Russia, China, Iran, and Syria are going to conduct allied war games on Syrian soil, a soil currently stained with the blood of it's citizens.

As I type the Federal government is funneling weapons, communications, and money to opposition groups in Syria to help overthrow the Assad current regime. Those with campaigns funded by Israel and weapons industry interests such as John McCain, call for direct U.S. intervention in Syria. This is a Cold War stand off, one we have not seen the likes of since The Cuban Missile Crisis, especially when considering our military involvement in multiple surrounding countries; Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan, and Libya. Combine this fact with instability or paranoia in the region's most important assets to America, such as Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Egypt, and there is a tectonic sized elephant in the room; this is how world wars begin.

The Ottoman Empire is in chaos, during a time when Western Civilization is weak, when the promise of Democracy is failing because the selfish and crooked keep finding themselves in positions of power inside of America. We are being attacked on all fronts. Our government stimulates war in the Middle East because Americans are running out of sand to bury their heads in.

Communism, and other countries around the world are beginning to see an opportunity to climb towards their own hegemony of the world, in the constant chess match between power-lust, the story repeated throughout History...a race to control the rest. The European Union is falling, the U.S. dollar is crashing, and the peon nations of the world who have fed off the U.S. taxpayer nipple for decades are quickly showing us that friends you buy are not really friends at all, they are parasites and bandwagon jumpers.

A short time ago the arena thought Russia would never come back, though it's been around for the better part of a thousand years. Even a thousand years is a short stretch of time when looking at the bigger picture, the seeming permanence of the world, and it's inescapable doom. In the real scope of time, The Berlin Wall fell a real short time ago, and those who remember that day never real took their eye off Russia, it is the failed education system and the younger generation that forget and overlook the Soviet Union. The American scholastic realm has no memory beyond current times, even though it is an absolute that some day, even the Sun will burn out. Because of this, soon, our beacon of light shining down on the rest of the world will too.

If we keep electing leaders whom sell us down the river for military contracts, foreign trade deals, and U.S. countries moving money and jobs across the world while seeking large tax breaks and access to the U.S. consumer market, the only question is whether our light will first be smothered by an outside presence, or blown out from the inside by the careless, the same men whom took an oath to keep it lit.

Wish I Was There

I know I can tell, Heaven from Hell, but can't decipher blue skies from grey, there is no free feel when it's covered by a veil, empty smiles and long, drawn out miles, waves of trees crash into hillsides and valleys, rushing through the center of a doorway afar. How I wish, I wish I could step through, but can only look outward like a fish in a bowl, a hero kept out, with his nose pressed against the glass, waiting and praying, constantly delaying, how I wish I was there. Two lost souls, ghosts from the wall, free from the same old fears, rave of the doorway, and the soothing sense of simply walking through. You can drive for miles, through charred forest, scorched Earth, city lights, and cancelled flights, but still, the doorway taunts from afar, outstretched visions from strained eyes and peering observation catch only a glimpse. The doorway hides in the center of all landscapes and thoughts, canvasses and plots...how I wish I was there. I sense home is on the other side, and no living soul can really break through, we can only wonder and imagine, waiting for our fate as we are strung along the detour of life. We chase and pursue, yet fear what's on the other side of the wall. We fear the trip, the ride, the doorway, the end, thought it may be, our only friend.

Sympathy for Apathy? Pathetic.

Wise blind men in tales of old wander without guidance, navigating into the thicket of what beckons the bewildered heart, as those lost in the bright screens of harsh chips squint to decipher daily lies conjured from the mind of a fool's jester. All men are blind in times without kings, where the shrills of drunken banshees stumbling around the Court echo into shadowed timbers and musty brick roads. Regal ceremonies sparsely fill high ceilings illuminated by candlelight, as beastlike men turned braggart cheer and laugh away horrors of blood shed and lives lost, in a time when daily hangovers nowhere compare to the brutal nature of existence. Gallons of sweat moisten tilled Earth one bead at a time, rolling off the face of a sickly man, wasted away to the frame, stuck on the range of unfair debts and savage torture. Primitive is the idea of ownership of life, in a deal struck upon a handshake and stack of paper, fragile enough for ink to bleed and base decompose in steady rain. The peasant coughs and wheezes, living only days beyond the body's ability to wear itself down through disheartening labor, grinding bones, tasting mud, gritting dirt, blistering hands and feet, straining the mind with lost dreams and hope, beliefs unmet by brighter days. Fear of the imminent and punishment for lethargy trumps the peasants will to brace for the inevitable and sacrifice itself for a breath of free air. The same shades of gray, new songs of blue, we give our only worldly gift, consuming our hour, all upon a world turned sour, under clouds covering the frown of a mighty unknown, from which we will always cower, it growls with anger and shame, as we mindlessly give away our only worldly gift, to assumed power or fame, unattainable in the very name, of that which is unknown. The mind of a peasant is empty, their spirit is broken, life within dies long before the clock stops ticking. Swarms of working corpses breed, and feed, off fruits undeserved, and land reserved, for those who refuse to be molded into anything other than the naked and free, servants of nothing outside the smile and wonder of that which is unknown.

The Runaway Dock

Pull apart curtains of fear, let them slip beneath blanketed leafs rustled by unknown footsteps. Let go of the inevitable, shortcomings of our ancestors rest in invisible hands, trembling as they brace fragile twines of the interwoven, rooted in the obscurities of proud tales and grand times.

Shiver not in the face of doom, brandish grins and songs. Laugh, love, let go. You will never win until you let go. Puzzles of knowledge and existence await, lend your hand, solve the riddle, pry open the chest, open the door. You won’t know what’s on the other side, and never will without courage to peek.

Reach the summit, ignore directions, diverge from paths laid before your feet, climb with vigor as you pass outside doubt. You can make it through the storm, look ahead, hunger for triumph, revel in the pain, know that you will both survive and die.

Drift carelessly down the winding river of time, dip toes in the clarity of flow, you will reach your destination, it waits more impatiently every day, make it wait; you are free, until you vanish outward into the great delta.