we are afraid of the dark

we are the tragic and tender
children bound in adult boxes.

we are still afraid of the dark.

our triumphs are small
but they mean so much.

we have complex systems
to investigate other
complex systems.

we consume.

in our darkest hour,
we ask for forgiveness
for what we have done.
on our brightest days,
we laugh and play,
throwing caution to the wind.

we are afraid of the dark.

our compassion is limited
by our need.
our need is extinguished
by our want.

we hate crime,
but we are in love with poverty.
we are consumed with the rich,
but the rich hate our guts.

we fuck.

we are full of good intentions,
and there is no better philosophy
than our own.

our charity
is bound
by guilt.

we consume.

we are afraid of the dark.

we are governed by want.

we win.

we lose.

we die.

and in all of this,
we still wonder who we are.

we crave love
even if it is detrimental
to our health
and well being.

we make war
and blame it on the
holy teachings
of dead philosophers.

we make war
and blame it on the
need for freedom.

we make war
and blame it on
l i b e r a t i o n .

we celebrate
the day of our birth
every year
as if it will bring
something new
this time around.

we laugh
and we play
while the freedom
we fought for
is taken away.

we build shit
only to tear it down
to build new shit
to tear down sometime
in the future.

we mock who we were
in the past
only to watch history
repeat itself.

we endanger
the very essence of nature
to establish laws
that guard against
endangering nature.

we kill.

we give birth.

we denounce who we are
to become
who we were.

and in all of this
we still wonder who we are.

we like buttery, rich, sweet
statements to cover up the taste
of the atrocities
we have committed.

we blame it on
the greater good.

we are in love with
d i s t r a c t i o n .

we are afraid of
the darkness unfolding
before our very eyes,
wiping away the light
in thin trails
until oblivion takes us
kicking and screaming
into the void
of our own consumption.

there is no need
to wonder
who we are.

taut and caught

    what song
    plays
    in the ears of 
    the dying
    when the light
    finally lifts
    from their sight
    and the flies
    dance about 
    their meat
    ?

        what tune
        drifts through
        the air
        of despair
        upon the misery
        of the deceased
        from the crease
        of skin
        sewn tight
        so the lips
        just might
        remain closed
        when the
        bellow blows
        upon erupting
        from the throat
        ?
   
    what tears
    are there
    to fall about
    the cheeks
    of the already 
    forgotten
    reduced
    to the memories
    of the lingering
    dead
    ?

            and why
            should we care
            that no one
            is there
            to hear 
            the hymns
            of our screams
            because our
            mouths are
            sewn tight
            with wire
            composed from the
                    fire
          for which
    we burn
 ?

pent the gallows whole

running into the sun
as the flames
lick high
at the lips
of time
and part the mouth
so subtle,
the fangs of
pain
become but a myth
moving deep
into the light
of an unforgiving
god,
high on its own
reflection

we live to breathe
and die
in the throws
of living too long
moaning screams
in deadly dreams
and hopeless
traps
set
by our own hands
continuing 
martyrs of the cause
without pause;
our debt to remaining,
defaming our trials
by the burden of guilt

the end stumbles upon us
so slowly
that it quickens the pulse
as the blade dips further
and falls
as a razor
across the neck
of our own doing

the shame of
breathing,
our only sin
in the eyes
of sightless gods
bent on ambiguity

and in this
we are so alone
that the emptiness 
weighs down
the stones
placed on our chests,
quarried
from the empty dreams
which we will never
awaken

bone yard of the bent

the privacy
            of heart,
untamed
            and forever
                                 wandering,
built 
              by
                      years
                                    of
r e a l i z a t i o n,
             exploration, 
                         courage, 
              and hurt.

if we could show what we have encountered,
our faces would resemble a map through
the bone yards of Hell.

if we could capture the love and the pain
in a vial, it would expand into a nova
and wipe away the smirk on those who
have charmed us away from trust.

and yet we still reside
                                in body of mind,
gently stroking the sensitive part of our soul.

what we once were
never left, but continues on
a little more guarded
in the cell of secrets we keep.

                                  who we are
remains untarnished in the vat of acid
            we swim,
carefully armored against
the weapons they wield
to break down the gates
                               of the innocence 
                                             they try to take
in this sympathetic bone yard 
                                                    of         HELL
 

the cries of summer sleep

this time,
she put the keys back on the
nightstand,
enjoying the click of each key
embracing
the wood, clanking ever so slightly
in odd time signatures
as to sound out like the slaps of raindrops
upon asphalt
in Fall as the wind ceases and the clouds
carry steady against the sky,
so dark and milky,
soft as cotton soaked in silk.

and her mouth was dry.

the bed to her side,
so tightly made and soft with down.
the pillows fluffed and in place,
smelling of him,
smelling of her-
and a splash of vanilla that clung to the air
hours after it should have glanced away
like a ghost upon remembering it was lost
to the world as dry leaves that ignite
to the flash of lighting that caught them ablaze
in the dry, crisp air of an August Summer
in the desert oven heat.

the slippers he wore so often
and more than she would have ever thought
when she bought them as a last minute
gift
last Christmas eve while
she thought of his parents coming in
on a plane from Phoenix later that night,
arriving red eye
to spend Christmas morning with she and their son
she loved.

but that sneer when he said
he loved another, just minutes ago.
that sneer when he said her name.
that sneer
as the tear draped sorrow over her
eyes
and she struggled to the bedroom
to take the keys
that she just placed this time,
back on the
nightstand,
enjoying the click of each key
embracing
the wood, clanking ever so slightly
as she cries herself to sleep.

Boy Blue (1)

A calm light shown through from the dark wood.
Silhouetted trees stood out in twigs and sticks,
black and towering against the hillside.

Boy Blue watched
as the Thicket Gores wound
their way up the steep slope
and over until they were out of view.

He could hear their calls in the night,
deep, resonating sounds that made his skin
tingle.

From the satchel at his side,
the one he had taken from grandfather's chest,
he retrieved a length of gold lace, and a piece
of root from a spruce. He tied the lace to the end
of the root and the root grew. The gold lace lengthened.
And of that, Boy Blue was holding a whip with a
fine handle that was sharpened at the base.

Crouching, Blue followed the creatures until he was
at the base of a bluff in the woods. He peaked over
and saw them in the clearing as they danced and sang
terrible tones to the night.

Their bodies were thick tangles of thicket
and thorn, grown in loops and twists where
skeletal joints formed in knots. Torn slats
of bark were fastened at their shoulders and the
knots in the wood were their eyes. The splintered
end of the slat formed a mouth with a root tongue
that darted out like a leech.

A post was placed in the center of the clearing
and a girl was tied to it with strips of bark. A fire
was lit in front of the post, and the girl wailed as the
flames licked up like demonic tongues reaching
for the food they so craved.

Blue reached into his satchel again and removed
a perfume bottle with a wick dangling from its top.
He said a few words and snapped his fingers,
and the wick lit with a pop.

He eyed the creatures in the night and held the bottle
above his shoulder. He pursed his lips and let out a loud
whistle.
The Thicket Gore turned and stared off into the dark.
There were six wavering at attention
as if they could not subdue their dance.

Blue stood tall
and threw the bottle at the feet of the Gore.
An electric light burst when the bottle hit
the damp earth, and the Gore threw up their thicket
arms to shield their slat faces from the light.
But it was too late, and the Thicket Gore began to burn
as the girl screamed from atop the pole.
Their thorn limbs began to unravel and glow like
embers in a fire.
They howled death from their splintery lips and crumbled
to the forest floor.

Blue reached into his satchel and gave a tug. Then another.
Finally, a hose wiggled free, and Blue turned the tip until
a steady rush of water came out. He pointed at the fire
that burned at the base of the pole. The flames coughed out
and there came a sizzle when the embers finally died.

The girl was crying.

Blue took out his army knife and picked a blade and cut the bark rope
that held the girl to the post. Tears stained her face through the
soot that had gathered.

Blue held the girl tight and let her cry.
"It'll be all right," he said.
"They can't hurt you anymore."

"I know," she said with a small nod.

Her face changed suddenly in a mess of running ink
and she was no longer the girl Blue thought he knew.
She wore the eyes of a witch and the deformed grin
of a devilish thing that made Blue step back in fear.

"You have come, Boy Blue," the witch spat.
She floated free from the post. Dirty rags of
a once white dress hung from the wretch, but no legs were
visible from within the gown. Her soot stained hands raised
and a fire caught in the witch's eyes. An electric burn
sparked from her fingertips like severed power lines
dangling from crooked branches. "And now you will die."

As the witch struck out, Blue held his satchel to protect his face,
and when the electric jolt hit, he was sure that he was done for.
Blue felt the impact, and it knocked him backward, but he never
felt the pain. When he finally gained enough courage, he peeked out
through one eye around the pack and saw the witch glare at him in anger.
Scorch marks marred the leather satchel, but nothing more.

Blue reared back the whip with a curl and let loose on the wretch.
With a loud snap, the witch's arm came free and hurled into the saplings
at the edge of the clearing. She let out a shrill scream.

"What have you done with Cindy?!" Blue shouted.

The witch grinned, toothy and fierce. "I ate her all up,"
she cackled.

Blue reared back again and the whip tangled about the witch's
throat. Her eyes bulged, and she let out a faint whimper before
Blue snapped the whip back. With a wet crack, the witch's head came
free. The momentum of the whip tossed the severed head deep into the woods.

And there came nothing more than still silence from the
darkened forest where
Blue stood.

The boy shed a tear for his friend and knelt down on one knee,
bowing his head in remembrance.

The sound of soft coughing, faint but apparent.

Blue tilted his head.

An arm poked out from the witch's neck. Small fingers uncurled
and grasped a wet earth.

Blue looked on in amazement, and opened his knife once more ...

He held Cindy in his arms.

"I couldn't breath in there," she said.

"It's all right now," Blue said softly. "You're safe."

Cindy looked up at him. Her face was covered in black slick.
"Can we go now?" she asked.

"We can go now," he agreed. "No more adventure today."

Blue opened the book from his pocket and read a few lines from between
the lines and the message became clear.

And with that, Blue fetched the brass knob from his satchel and pushed
it into the ground. A fine line appeared in the shape of a door, and Blue turned the knob.
With a faint hiss, the door opened, and dirt came free from the edge.

"You first," he said.

Cindy leaped into the opening.
And Blue followed shortly behind.

a smile and a wink

i have worked terrible jobs
in horrible places for pathetic pay
without future.

you have too.

we work the hours of the potentially
rich
              without
the benefit of reward.

a paycheck?
yeah,
          we get one.
what of it?
is it securing a future
for you and your's?
no? well that's what i'm getting at.

you work away the hours, the days,
the weeks, the years, the decades,
and when you're finally done,
there doesn't seem to be enough
                                            to stop.
you're stuck in the dead end. but
there are a few who luck out
and get to do what makes them
                                             happy.
and be sure that those people
are few and far                 between.
they're a fluke.                  the rest
of us are so goddamn stuck that
we might as well be working in a
flypaper factory with our assholes
used as glue dispensers.

and it gets worse from then on out.
there's the mortgages and the car
payments, the utility bills, and food.
there's clothes to buy and entertainment
to be had. and maybe you like a drink
every once in a while, or a smoke,
or a toke - whatever your poison,
but there's health insurance to buy
and the kids aren't ready for school,
not the real school where they learn
that they're screwed from the very first
breath they take.

don't even think about
how much you're going
to pay
                                                     in taxes!
fuck, it'll make you cry.

so back to your shitty job. we all have them,
every damn one of us,
and they barely pay the bills
and when it's all said and done,
we spend our lives there, making
what we can
and enduring the misery of it all ...

and along comes a smile,
or a wink - even better -
and your day is a bit more endurable
and maybe the dream is real
and you can retire
remembering that wink,
that smile
and it makes the time pass
easy.

then there's the cemetery plot
and the headstone,
and you had better bought yourself some
life insurance or whoever you left
behind
is going to have one hell of a bad time
trying to plant your ass in the dirt.

but there's another smile
and you think that maybe they like you,
maybe it's not all that bad.

and here comes a wink
and you laugh because it's the best thing that's
happened all day.

and your car breaks down
and you shit your pants at work
but they won't let you go home
to change.
you have to keep popping out
those cogs
for the machine that owns you.

when you finally get home, you stink of
a hard days work,
but there's a smile and a wink
waiting for you at the door.

and you get up in the morning to do it
all over again
and hope for another wink
and maybe a smile when the day
has come
to an end
so you can pretend
that it is all worth
the effort.

the wind, the breeze, the air, the need.

the wind howls
from the north,
singing its song of change.

the wind brings
a new air,
warping that which
stands in its path.

the wind whistles
and moans,
overturns the trash
and tramples the dust
inside of the pain.

the wind is nothing but
mind, perceived by a spark,
lit by the hand
who acknowledges it
blowing.

we bring the fire of
our own misery,
shedding skin
after skin
like snakes
biting at the winds
that shift and change
everything over into itself
again and again.

there are a very few
who
break the loop,
and try as hard
as they can
to find need
in the suffering of man.

ask the peaceful.
ask the lovers.
ask the charitable.
ask the wind.

through all of these years,
the wind,
it blows,
again and again.

a time has come

where all of the ideas
have been had
and the images we hope
to represent
have been shed
like clothes
when you come in out
of the rain.

the original ideas
have been spent
and all that is left
is the self,
the individual:
independent hopes
and dreams
shuffling off into the shadows

we are but moments
in time,
speaking the same tales
to warn lives of life.

we repeat the same mistakes
like tunes whistled
in the wind,
lost again to the sounds
of our own blowing.

repetition in the face
of reason
for the sake of sounds
sounding in the smoke.

some say
that the world
is becoming a deranged place.
but that is not so.
the world has always been
full of
wickedness and disgrace
with tiny lights of hope
shining
far off into
the darkness;
little flecks of love,
of reasoning,
of potential,
squelched by those
who cannot stand
by and let goodness be.

we have been making war
and hate
since the dawn of man.
we have created death
in the eyes
of imaginary gods
and let ourselves be
the mechanism
by which
the ax falls.

the disfigured acts
for which you see
are nothing new-
war is the same idea we've
always endured.
suffering is our
inheritance.
doom is our clenched fist
striking. child
has always killed child.
man has always beaten
down upon man.
woman has always
defied woman. power
has always led
to the want of more
power.

it is the idea of
survival
above all else.

but there are
more important things
than simply surviving.

and no matter
how many times
we repeat the same ideas,
we are simply mocking
our own deaths,
over and again
'till the end of time.
amen.

American Screams

old America is dead.
it went the way of
the cowboy.

it went the way
of the middle class.

it drowned on greed.

it starved itself of
its hopes and dreams
and sold its ass
to the highest bidder.

old America
cried itself to sleep
one night,
long ago,
slipped into a coma,
and never awoke.

but we have a
new America
with pretty lights
and flashing screens.

it is owned by
the rich.

no need to worry,
they'll tell you
what they want
you to know.

they will give you
what they feel
you deserve.

they will take away
what they believe
you will not need
for your journey
through the fire.

they will house you
like sardines and
blame it on the cost
of housing.

they will keep your wages
low and blame it on the
lack of economic stability.

they will lower the gas prices
like throwing a bone
to a hungry dog,
and you will eat
what they give you.

they will smile
and say
there is no need
for concern,
you have a new iGadget,
right? that means you're
getting ahead. that means
you're bettering yourself.
don't worry about retirement.
don't worry about the weather.
don't bother yourself
with trivial matters.
and right on the button,
they'll give you another
police shooting to distract you
while they give away your
means
of supporting yourself.

maybe they'll give you
a new Russel Brand
to love for a minute
and hate in the next.

maybe they'll show you
an ethnically diverse candidate
running on Hope and Change
to herd you like cattle
into the voting booth.

but, in the end, they will
only give you
what they want to give you,
and cleverly disguise it
as a choice.
not enough choices?
here's a new type of gun
and they'll call it the tea party
or an independent. that'll get
you moving. that will make up
for the shit they throw on a plate
and call diner.

burn away the haze

life is rough going.
you hold on
and do the best
that you can
with what you have.

lives fall out of place;
good lives
              and bad lives.

there are times
when there doesn't
seem to be
such a thing as
               retribution,
and all the pieces
don't want to line up
the way they're supposed to.

you lose people along the way
and it just makes
the ones who remain
all that more special.

and sometimes
there are so few
special people left
that you feel alone
in the crowd.

simple things
become a burden.

rising from bed
in the morning
is like waging
a war
when you
are the only trooper
left to fight
in the trenches.

in times like these,
you're led to drink
and drugs
or
hurling yourself
in front of a bus.

but it doesn't matter.
you're still here
for whatever reason,
and with a well placed
thought,
the remedy is at hand.
you get on with life
and life gets on with you
and the mysterious thoughts
come and go
like the rain.
but at the end of
every day,
no matter the clouds
in the sky,
the sun must set.
and no matter the fog
that distracts your view,
the very same sun
must come up in the morning
to burn away the haze.

the scam of diversion through media

i have a hard time
supporting
protests
related to criminals
being shot
because of perpetrating
violent acts.

you want to protest?
how about we protest
high taxes on the middle class
while the wealthy
pay next to nothing
or
predatory lenders
or
inflated student loans
or
ridiculously low wages
that do not begin to
support
average families.

maybe we should protest
pharmaceuticals,
growth hormones,
homelessness,
health care
and everything
else
before we support
criminals
based on their skin color.

but i'm white
so that makes me
racists by default,
right?
or maybe it doesn't.
perhaps
i know people
of all races
that are trying to
get by
in an
America
that has gone loony
because of a media corrupted
by the billionaires
who own them.
and all they're trying to do
is divert your
attention long enough
so you don't realize
you're being
played like a fucking puppet.

but keep your eye
trained on the
police against race
soundbite
so they can throw in
a few new amendments
to a bill
that would enable
them to rob
what's left of
the working class.

keep your
attention diverted,
America,
Russia,
Great Britain,
China,
the World
so they can run you over
and take what little
you have left.  

the season begs the question

if we held the
conventional idea
of God to the same
standards as we hold
the rest of humanity,
that motherfucker
would be serving
eleven hundred
consecutive
life sentences
in the highest
security prison
we have available.

and this is why
i do not understand
why
we can not put away
childish things.

no matter the
denomination,
no matter the
perspective,
the lessons
become washed
away
by the actions
of unjust religions.

it begins to look
like children
throwing tantrums,
or governments
slap fighting
on the playground.

someone justifies
murder in the
name of the Lord.

someone rapes
with Christ like
intention.

someone uses
their God
to behead
idiots abroad.

and yet
we squabble
over a few verses
written
by madmen
a couple dozen
centuries ago.

but the fuck
if we can reduce
poverty,
or instill
an educational system
that benefits
the very social structure
we have worked
for
for countless generations.

and God forbid
if we can acknowledge
equality to the whole
for what it actually
symbolizes
by definition
without granting
more rights
to one class over
another.

we are hoodwinked
into whatever
the popular soundbite
of the day becomes
to distract us
from actual issues,
under the guise
of morality
through
scripture.

and it begs the
question:
what is our purpose?

so many lies
are told
by the ones
we elect into
positions of power
that the truth
has become jumbled.

the difference
between right and wrong
is a matter
of freedom of choice,
and the ability
to make those choices
without fear
of reprisal.

bird authority in the dark

Halloween night,
and i was seventeen.
Jeremy and i were
loaded and driving through
town in his civic hatch
singing along
to The Doors.
there was a car
behind us
with its brights on,
glaring through the rear window.
i flipped the car the bird
and we laughed.
then the red and blue lights flashed.
i hid my knife under the seat
and Jeremy crotched the pot.
he pulled over
and the cop
made me get out of the car.
he yelled at me for
a few minutes
before asking why
i had flipped him off.
"i thought you were
some asshole," i said.
"i could have been some crazy guy,"
he replied.
"you could have been," i said. "but turns out
you were a cop."
he finally
apologized for flashing
his brights at us,
and i told him i was sorry
for flipping him off.
we shook hands
and he let us go.
no one got shot.
hell, he didn't even write us a ticket.
Jeremy packed a bowl,
and we smoked it down
as we left town
on the far east side towards his
house.
"you flipped off a cop," he laughed.
i took the knife from
under the seat
and put it back in my pocket.

shred the guitar like a heart made of roses

they were my first roommates
in Minneapolis.
i had known Jerome for a few
years. we smoked
pot together
and tripped on how
fantastic
it was
to be young.
the guy could shred a guitar,
make it do things
i had only heard
on records.
he got this pretty girl
to live with him
and me.
she was all smiles
and her name was Joy.
over the time we lived
together
we became friends.
we burned a few bowls,
drank some wine,
and read our sappy
kids poems to one another
while sitting cross legged
on the floor.
as jealous as Jerome was,
he never accused
us of anything other than
being friends.
which was good
because that's all we ever were.
Joy cheated on him
and they broke up.
worst was that she
slept with one of our friends
that i would have never
expected
to pull something like that.
you never really know
someone until they
break your heart.
last i heard,
Jerome went off
and became
a prostitute.
it was a bold and sudden
move ranked as high
as shitting on the hood
of your own car.
Joy only made it a year
or so with our mutual friend.
i never spoke to
either one of them again,
but through friends,
i knew what was happening.
i never got to
say goodbye to my youth
and neither did they.
we just grew up
and grew away
from our innocence
like it was something
that could be shed
through the skin
and tossed out
with teddy bears
and old baseball cards,
comic books
and music boxes.
you never get to say
goodbye
to your first love
because it ends
so badly
and sometimes
some asshole
with a keyboard
has to write up
a poem
to make you remember
it ever happened.

A Simple Print

The vision is over in a few
minutes, and
he is left there
wondering what it was
that he just saw.

He remembers the woman clearly:
a flower printed dress, the colors faded
almost like autumn, mostly white,
but for the tiny flowers...

He takes his drawing pad and
sketches the flower he saw.
Light yellow,
like fabric stained with age
rather than an actual hue
that could be traced on paper.

From the bedroom window
he can see the bright and livid
Spring day leak through. If
love had a face, this is what it might
look like.

Once he has the flower
drawn, he turns over the paper
and looks at it from different
angles where the sun
shines through. Whatever way it's turns,
it looks the same. It's simple. It's quiet.
It reflects the print on the woman's
dress perfectly. "But who was she?"
he asks.

There was a part of her
that reminded him of himself,
a twinkle of her eye, or perhaps
it was just a glint. Either way,
he could sense a small part of himself
in her.

"Tomorrow, the vision will
be stronger. I will think more on it
then," he says.

And the morning came
from dreamland night
like a wink in time
until the dawning light
drew rays across his room
far too soon
for a boy his age.

He took
the book
from atop the dresser
and read of the woman
who had the print of a flower
upon her dress,
and began to wonder
what her eyes would say
if he should lay
his hand upon the page
in the very same way
before he had drawn its image
the night before.

Her face came to mind
and he traced the lines
until it rhymed with
the sketch of the flower
on the previous page.
It wouldn't reveal
her age
or who she had been
by the description given
no matter how many times
he reread the lines
that described her so eloquently.

"Maybe she's timeless," he says
with a grin
and began to bend
paper to pen
and found
the woman
once again
with eyes of sparkling ice
and a kiss of darkest night
trapped upon the paper
where he drew her.

slowly shudders her name

  her hand in mine
and everything is the way it should be
         there is light
and there is darkness,
but we overcome them
            together, her and i

her heart
and my heart
are much
the same

she does her part
and i do mine
and we give love
a proper name

her reflection
is in my eyes
and my mirror
is her own
through shining days
and troubled nights,
the feeling has simply grown

like the petals of a flower,
slowly unfolding
so has become our time together
as we strip away the layers
of one another

and each day
something new
becomes told,
in each caress and lingering touch,
the story slowly unfolds

and how any other day
wouldn't shine so brightly
without her here
holding me tightly
with the flicker of candles
dancing shadows across the hall
from the door where we share
our passions
enthralled

if ever sleep shall take me away
let this moment last forever
should i not see the dawn of day
through peeking window
clouded in stormy weather-
and held in her arms
till
the last breath of me
surrenders
and the last beat of my heart
slowly shudders
her name
in hushing whispers

hold the fire

the fire is placed
in the hands
and brought to the pit
where the ashes rest
in silence.
the ashes ignite,
and the hands
are cooled
with water,
the same water that
flows from the river.
the river is west
where the sun slumbers.
the heart of the world
is in the sun,
and it never stops beating.
the beating is like a drum
struck by the hands
who held the fire
to ignite the ashes
which are cooled
by the water
from the river
in the west
where the sun slumbers.
feet stomp at the dirt
in dance
from the beating of the drums
struck by the hands
who held the fire.
the dirt is of ash
which was ignited
with the fire
held by the hands
that beat the drums.
the fire is
in the pit
where
the feet stomp at the dirt
in dance
from the beating of the drums.
shouts call
from the throats
of those who dance
like battle cries
to the sun that slumbers
in the west
by the river
that quenches the hands
who held the fire.
the earth shakes
to the stomping feet
and beating drums
that are a call
to the heart that slumbers
in the west
by the river
that cools the hands
that held the fire
which ignited the ashes.
we are the heart
that held the hand
who holds the fire,
and beat at the drums
which began the dance
for the sun that slumbers
in us all
for silence,
for that which
placed the fire
in the hands
and began it all anew.

abide the times and protest when you're told

there are good people
and there are bad people.
some have criminal intent
while others do not.
not all criminals are poor.
not all wealthy people
are law abiding.
there are some people
who commit crimes
and do not believe
the crimes
they are committing
are criminal
to the degree
of prosecution.
some people
who have not committed crimes
are prosecuted even though
they are innocent.
sometimes there are clouds
in the sky,
but they don't always make
rain.
you can set a fire
without burning down
the city.
you can take a drink
of water
without drowning.
there are good law enforcement officers
and there are bad law enforcement officers.
some have criminal intent
while others do not.
not all law enforcement officers are bad.
not all law enforcement officers
are law abiding.
there are some law enforcement officers
who commit crimes
and do not believe
the crimes
they are committing
are criminal
to the degree
of prosecution.
some law enforcement officers
who have not committed crimes
are prosecuted even though
they are innocent.
when there are clouds in the sky,
it doesn't always mean
rain.
a spark does not always
constitute a fire.
a body of water
doesn't necessarily mean
there is a body in the water.

the regulation of consumption

build the bridges
to bind us,
to find us
another
leader
of the sympathetic
mind
and gather the pieces
like pawns
in the fatality
of the game
and be shamed
by the trials
set forth
for value
and worth.
if ignorance
is bliss,
then wealth
is the catalyst
by which we shall
all be burned.
through it all,
we have never learned
from our mistakes
and we continue to take
any and everything-
for our wants
are at stake.
and what we have
isn't nearly as great
as what we take
when all that we
possess
is valued to be
less
than what we want
in the future.
give us new toys
to destroy
the fabric
of the value of life
so we may continue
in strife
at any cost
for all the products
before they are lost
and out of date
because we hate
to lose out
on perfectly good
junk.

in the congregation of the flesh

under the fire
burns the sun
tilting away
from the edge
of nothingness,
singularly
like a rapture
in the eyes
of the beholden.
a glass black
thickness
ruptured at
the center
of the mind,
behind the
leaning sun
where thoughts
no longer grease
the consciousness.
held tight to
the chest
as penance
to the preacher
filled with lies,
disguised
as another
member
of the
flock.
damn us
in our time
of need and feed
on the fatal
flesh
of the fermented
followers,
always giving,
always judging,
always and forever
numb to the necessities
of the living dead,
bound by tribulation
and tears.
only the righteous
can be saved,
and i see no one
of worth
in the congregation.

http://www.amazon.com/Waiting-Die-~-Zombie-Novel-ebook/dp/B009KPQBOU/ref=pd_rhf_gw_p_img_3

Waiting to die is free for a limited time. Happy Holidays from Richard M. Cochran!

Tristan's Adventure ~

My nephews were running,
playing, laughing,
having fun
when Tristan suddenly yells,
"Poop!"
"Do you have to poop?" my
wife asks.
"I already did!" he shouts,
and takes off up the path that
leads around Tom Sawyer's
Island at Disneyland toward
the bathrooms.
I break out into a sprint
and follow the boy.
He overshoots the trail
that leads to the bathroom by
twenty feet.
"Tristan!" I yell.
He looks back at me with a wide
eyed expression somewhere
between surprise and desperation.
I point up toward the bathrooms.
"They're up there," I say.
He makes a quick recovery
and launches himself at the stairs.
He's taking two steps at a time
which is pretty impressive
because his legs aren't nearly long
enough to take one step at a time.
I finally catch up to him at the landing
to the bathrooms and notice
an expression of indecision as he
carefully acknowledges each of
the three bathrooms
(men's, women's, and handicap accessible).
The only one that's not in use is the
women's room.
He looks back at me for some type
of higher wisdom.
"Go for it," I say.
He scurries into the women's room
and promptly drops his pants.
I say, "Dude, close the door."
By this time, my wife has finally made
the half mile trek with the other kids.
"Did you get him on the toilet?" she asks.
"No," I reply, "it looked like he was doing
okay by himself."
"He can't get up on the toilet
alone," she says.
"How would I know, did you see the way
he took those stairs?"
My wife goes in and helps Tristan
while the rest of us wait
on the landing. A few minutes go
by and my wife emerges.
"Did he make it?" I ask.
"Yeah," she says, "he just pooped a little in
his pants. When he was laughing, he must have
farted and some came out."
I laugh, not because it's funny,
but because we just sidestepped
a particularly bad Disneyland outing.
Five minutes go by and I ask, "Do you
think he's alright?"
My wife goes in and checks. When she
comes out, she says, "He's still going."
After another five minutes, she checks on him
again. "Still going."
"How much can he have in there?" I ask,
"He's not even three feet tall!"
"You see how much he eats, right?"
Earlier, he had taken out three
pieces of chicken and some
chocolate milk.
I nod. "Yeah," I say.
"Just give him some time," she says.
Another five minutes or so and
Tristan comes out with
a grin so big you can actually see
the empty spot the poop left
behind.
In a flash, the boy's gone, navigating
trails,
and generally roughhousing with
his brother.
My wife and I are left there
to inspect the fallout
left behind.
It looks like a small war
had been fought and won
in that women's room,
a war only a three foot tall
boy could insight
with the help of three pieces of
chicken and some
chocolate milk.

again from the start

i want
i'm running
the air is thin
so far down here

over us
is under, beneath us forever
between the ether
we're drowning 
         so far down here

shallow
       it hurts inside
crawling
       in under
to end up so high

come here and dream
       of perfect beings
   the art of needing
what we already have

        welcome to the journey neverending
welcome to the end, the start of a new beginning

giving in

does it make you wet,
the way it moves,
how it soothes
the beast
inside of you?

the broken flower
that meant so much,
who was in touch,
but it was never
quite enough.

someone
who craved for
something more
to adore
when the nighttime
bore down
upon the trembling
ground
and forced
an incredible sound
from the core
like a war
waged within,
battling for something
more
than simply sin.

it was easy when
life didn't seem
so troubled
before the heat
in you doubled
and the warm wet
of you bubbled
and frothed
before you felt
so lost.
and you decided at
any cost
you would
find those lines
you've crossed
and toss
caution to the wind
and embrace the sin
you have craved
like a white flag
waved in the face
of desire
when you finally
gave in
to the temptation
within.

but now
that feeling is gone
and you wonder
if you were wrong
for singing the song
of love lost for so long.

there is a throbbing
in your heart
from where it all
fell apart,
but you know
you can start
anew.