Sunday, December 23, 2012

Deeper into the well we go.

  Ah yes
Here are
Down a well
How deep, how far
Does this pit go?
Don't know, can't say.
Seems the hole gets twenty yards deeper
Every single day.
I'd say
That it looks man made
Hand crafted
But why?
If I'd wager a guess
Judging from the sounding mess
The perpetrator
The architect
Dug this hole himself
Why I wonder
Why indeed
Most would have no need
No use for
The pit of pathetic
Self made
Self doubt
Built from the finest bits of leftover selfesteme
Painstakingly hollowed out, to no end
No rock bottom to hit
Just dive in and fall
Wake to the sun, dried up on the ground
Pit to your right
Feeling down, champ?
Jump back in.


I recall the first
Discovered in my youth
Stuck in the house
Fog so thick your eyes chocked
I saw him on the screen
Red cape, blue tights
Faster then a train, leapt tall heights
Mezmorized, I watched him battle
Men of evil, corrupt wrong doers, vicious monsters
Other pantheons appeared
A pride of catmen and women, crusading against
The Everliving
A man discovering
Through great tragety 
The power of responsibality
A league of Gods
Masquarading as men
Showing us the power of the human
Defeating the dregs of the inhuman 
I saw the future, some alternate for good
Some bad, some obtomistic fantasies
Others half-empty nightmares
In all of this gospel, be it composes on the TV screen
Or crafted in trade paperback
The end result 
A bible, tailor made for my wonders
Inspiring me, day to day
Still I see them

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Nostalgic Cocktails

Woke up drubk on nostalgia of days long gone.
My dreams sreved the drinks.
First  Shot
A cold day
we're bundeled up
smiling at each other
a joke leads to a kiss, leads to sweet sleep.
Second Shot
mix with a hit of bitter remorse
we argue, fight, reconcile, fight again
you cut yourself off
I wonder when i'll see you again
I walk the the long cobbled halls of regret
Wondering when i'll see you again
Wondering what went wrong
Then my luck changes
I find you locked up in my car
half awake, my cheeks perk
ears get warm
eyes ache, throat fills
I could cry, but I wanna stay cool
keep my mask up
so I jump in the driver side
we reconcile over dinner
Third shot
you in a bikini
forth shot
we share a room, impossibly hot
Fifth shot
reprisal of the former
Sixth shot
reprise again
Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, Tenth shots
Hands through hair, clawed backs, fangs in necks
eleventh shot
we ride, through some town I can't recall
on some night I half remember
you turn to me, I kiss you on the head
morning comes
Hangover for breakfast.

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Moonlit Canvis

Coming through
the pages of
my piecemeal memory
I see shapely hips
captivating me
subliminally  winding
and binding and twisting
the fibers of my desires
drips of sweat dance around
our newfound embrace
passions perspire, as I
or rather as we
see one another
through the fileter of
the silver slivers of sight
and kiss goodnight.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012

A moment to think

Wondering, if given the motivation
if allowed by way of self
if time had degradated the will
corroded the support beams
the pillars of the soul, holding, desprately
My image of myself above muddy waters
Could I make my down the lonely road?
Would I steal off into the night, late in the spring
Play a song and bellow and wale at the oppertune moments
and drive myself into the rives, casting off the mortal coril?
Perhaps too Dramatic, lets take a more mellow apporach.
Knife in hand, hatred of the man in the mirror ovewhelming
I've seen this scene before.
Start at the eyes, cut curves down to my neck
dance the blade over my stomach and follow the trails
down past my navil and end at side of my legs.
This method perhapse to painfull, coweradace would impede progress
Or, maybe, insted of all the sitting and pondering and wondering
I will take the initiative, get out of this chair
and try to find a sunset.


Seated off somewhere just out my grasp
there you are, 
bending the light around you
absorbing the colors into yourself
molding and twisting and turning
forming, contorting, the space in my mind
filling it with your image, painting the walls
hanging the draips and lighing the candels
of my waking hours, you seap, like water
through the cracks of my mind, winding your way
tips of
my hands, the edges of my fingers
wherein your presence lings
filling the very being of myself with
the idea of your delights
until, of course
my hands stop and eyes open.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

Showcase: Capsule

Once upon a time
when I stared into the
crippling conundrum
confusing circumstances
complex conundrums
and compounding complications
that I call my day to dusk
hour on holiday
 minute to moment
section to sequence of events
Staring the 20 year vet
Marcus Antonius "Azriel" Cox
Now playing, see your local browser and get a peak
a view into the machinations of a man
lost in what appears to be pools of self
so pitiable
yet the words scrawled on his walls see to show
display and represent a boy
still and some other three letter emotion expressing disappointment
the images of which boils in the back of his head
burning a hole in any engine of esteem
but, fret not
Sifting throughout the waters he finds a bottle
white with labels
take a pill
and soon the room filled with muddy waters
dissipates and evaporates into a dry collection of images
the past and hazy screen of the future
the boy closes his eyes
Dreaming of the man he wants to be.

The Voice

Lets set the scene.
It's dark. Not a cloud in the sky
Check the rear view
no cops tailing,
no other auto-motive assault waiting.
Excellent. Steep on the gas, see this metal fly
The wind sweeps by in streaks
grass blurs into a single stroke of green
The engine, reaving and roaring
like a man possessed, a hungry dog, a caged animal
propelling myself towards a voice
the source, not heard from or seen sight of
since times, long passed
so I asked
what made you call? The reply:
Thinking, wondering and possible fantasizing about
paused breaths
Where, I asked, are you, sweet thing
The place in the hills, far far out of sight and mind
But you if you'll recall you've been before, one occasion
by my invitation, on the day of personal celebration
Ah yes, I'll make my way you
See you soon, said the sensual tones coated with moans
My arrival, subtle
ridding down a road cobbled together out of gravel
Exited the vehicle, pensive, was this the right house
right place for me to be, what if
I though smelling my doubts, this venture proved to be
at least for me
a wasted opportunity
squandered time
then I saw the source of the voice
the my doubts went quite
Trailing out of the small home
extra long shirt on
brown skin illuminated in the glow of my headlights
We exchanged greeting, huggs
then I was presented with a surprise
the voice wore no single cloth more
this settled the score
The voice, not purring at the look on my face
pulled my down and
at my direction
Began to Sing

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

The Chapel

We begin, start at the bridge formed from
 a substance that is, in fact at both times the
most formidable of minerals my blood allows
resolute, indeed, in the evenings and much so
hearty and firm and bold in the quiet mornings
the bridge is the link, the line, the path between
myself and the esteemed chapel of Matrons
 as such it is the attachment and connecting
the bonding, joining, linking structure that
gives the chapel and myself the privilege of 
each others efforts and wants and requirements
I, the owner, captain, lord and master of the bridge
who by my will it is given purpose to rise and now
enhance it's efforts and prolong its structure in a brazen 
show of strength of not only character, but of indeed
the very essence of what makes is the post pure of 
the male for that I reside and take the greatest efforts
to embellish with every waking breath that I am allowed
And so, at the base of the trestle
extending over a massive chasm
of perhaps of fabric waters or maybe
arid overpasses that give way to
the pure majesty that is the gate
indeed so, for the tip of the bridge
bulging in comparison to the rest of its formidable length
extending outward to the warm, damp interior of the esteemed 
chapel that is made to house the inner most precious of thoughts
housing a number of idols, so crafted from a first hand knowledge of 
the figurers that they were made to represent and be made in the likeness
of, its is this that the bridge, the tip of which pulses into the gates, with
a measured, paced cadence, the likes of which flows
a material the is both vital to the self of mine
reflecting my pride, but also invigorating the
inner most corners and crevasses of the
this chapel so precious, yes this
material is most addicting to
us both the chapel and 
to the owner of
this bridge
Connects into and is gives warmth and purpose by what is the most delighful of wonders in the world
the wonder, so ripe and wonderful, so raw and bare, so much nesseary to the beating of my heart it is
untill my dieying breath the epacenter of my exisistance, the end of a pligramage that begins
with the courting of paticular soul, entrancing by way of the eyes and alluring by sounds of
the lips, the lips florid in color, reaching pitches of high heights, the melody of which leads me
to scowering the frabic seas of, toilings the grasseslands through, voyaging and scouring past
the worlds lands capes and villages and towns, all in the hopes of passage and admission
for it is admission into, admittance inside of, and access to that give me most pride that
I, am worth enough, known of great enough renown for, comforting in presence
so great to the master of the gate that I, a humble man, can be granted permission
to bury myself inside the dignified, decorated and distinguished hall of
a place that inspires me to acts that I consider molded of passion
passion that filled me from toes to eyes with an energy that if
I could but harness at will I could curse myself with perpetual
continual states of, never leaving, for indeed when I am in the
Chapel of Matrons, it is my greatest fear to be removed from such a sacred place
It is, a place that I dream of, spend hours of my days fantasizing about,  I have
in the twilight of my morning, afternoons, night, evening and all moments in
between, wanted nothing more then to drown myself in the depths of this chapel
in perpetuates my mind and causes me pains to leave
I can see it in my mind and as I ponder I can
smell the walls and the intoxicating air
I can feel the damp floors
sense the heat coming
from the
tip of
 the top

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Mania: Rollercoaster

Start low
dead in mind
sense of self none existent
my hands covered in sours
limp and useless
teeth so grimy
 may as well be toothless
Here it is!
The feeling rushes
crushes down the dark tower
feel it,
This is the hour
jump out the bed
shake the rage out of my head
move down, feel flow
here we go
this how it should be
my heart feels bliss
that quante emotion known as happy
ecstatic elated jovial gay galant galavanting grandiose great I feel great this is I can hold this if I just hold
and it never does.
Familiar territory. Here we are, the past in my hands draining through the crack
I could close them, but no no
the cracks stay
the past falls
the filter keeps the stains
all the doubt the grief the shame the pity the jealousy the anger at my self why why why do I do this
Night Time Now
Sleep comes easy
but the next hit of joy has to be scraped off the crust

Mania: Cut it Out

Grey matter
brain storm
take notes, this is rare form
Prime is my profession, optimal
drink the words in
this gourmet, format optical
I feel it in my veins
blood pumping with the pains
rains through to
the tips of my hands
dance on the keys
beacuse words are now out in the wild
Inspiring source?
Love-Hate duality
Complex equivalence
Stuck like in the brain like Excalibur
Now I wana take a .50 caliber
Shove it in my brain
slice it open like a halbert
Rip out the hate
and keep the love
but no
the old love, sweet dove

Saturday, November 24, 2012

The Leopard

Exercises in recollection are tasks best done with care and patience. Forcing memories often leads to the wrong pieces being brought to the puzzle. One such puzzle that I have solved involves a leopard I once knew. Our relationship began simply enough, introduction at the behest of a mutual friend, conversations about past adventures ect. Then, when it became apparent that in the back of both of our eyes were glimmers of attraction, the course of this ship changed. It started when he made mention of his current arrangement with another fellow. I kept my disappointment to myself, but given his charm I should not have been surprised. Fortunately for me this was not an obstacle. 
My fasanation for him was obvious, so when he brings to light the idea of us become more aquatinted with one another, I of course lept at this opportunity like the grey eyed animal I was and devoured it oh so greedily.
And so I found myself waiting through the day like a turtle slogging through the sand. The time between us getting into my car and back to my house seeming to take the better half of eternity. The knuckles on my hands turned a particular shade of cocaine white as I waited for his arrival, then he appears.
In the waves of the croud i see him
His stride is like a Leopard moving through the forest
he owns the area,
 he loping with a confidence that inspires feelings in my heart long repressed
We drive to my home,
barely make it to my room and fall into my bed
He stars at me like a lion eyeing a fresh jucy zebra
hands are moves up and down legs
pants are unzipped.
The feeling is relieving in a way. I let myself go.
I feel years of lonely weight fall of my soul like leaves from a tree. 
Bare and naked in body and soul. 
The new feeling of freedom and openess that sprouts like a rose fully formed. 
I bask in this new from, the glow of his affection my ever nurturing sun.
Naked and at his full command, he lays down and tells me to take out his manhood.
It was glorious.
It felt like one of the best things I ever had the chance to put into my mouth.
I would nurtue it in my tounge, I would pamper it with my lips. It was addicting. I didn't matter where we were. I would willingly worship at the statue of his masculine pride.
But such passions end, and faiths fall
The echoes exist in memory and I
from time to time
Indulge in them like a snake drunk on honey.

Friday, November 23, 2012


The dream goes like this:
I'm at a desperate point in my life
Stagnate, loss of motivation, low on funds
I look around at my peers and feel hopeless
I see smiling faces
Relationships full of appended
Memories preserved in near eternal formats
Then the panic sets in and I go somewhere
Maybe I'm in a library and I run frantically out into the street
Sometimes I'm driving and I crash
Off a cliff
Into the river
Down a steep tree infested hill
Sometimes that ends the scenario
I wake up
Sweat dreanched
Eyes dry
Treming with the shock of the astral selfs demise
But each time though
 I have a bag in my hands
The book has notes, hundreds of them
The notes are written for a specific person
Each note having a different name
I recognize the names
Some more importent then others
But each significant
I offen wonder if these words are those notes made manifest

Thursday, November 22, 2012


I am blessed
For the complex cunudrum of sight
The lights of the world, the visual deserts
flashing pastries, neon candies
Filled the belly of my lenses with sweet sugar
For the gift of the body
Muscles giving me strength
Exerting my will in the physical canvis of reality
Painting it with my stride
Leaving marks on the great masterpiece
For the mind
It is my greatest treasure
Explorer of a space seemingly complex to infinity
The range of waters
So deep with knowledge
Vast with secrets
Waiting to be taken in by the gills
And fins and scales
Of the terrifying shark that I call a mind
I am thankful of my gifts
The times I take them for granted
But I am thankful

Tuesday, November 20, 2012


Not today
Or tomorrow
Or the next few weeks from now,
but soon.
When I least expect it
When the corners and crevices are dulled
When I have been quite
And alone
vacent of yellow delights and additional auras
The ocean of my mind will run over
Levees broken and turned over
Eyes rushing 
Muscles tense
It will be the stalling of the self
The collapse of my temple
How to fight this tide
I wonder

Monday, November 19, 2012


Consider for a moment
If you will entertain me so
On a question
Buring in my subconscious
Flowing through the cracks
Filling the holes
of well that I call my mind
When does obsession end?
Is it when the desire stops lighting your eyes?
when at night
alone once again in the covers
I stop thinking of it
No longer see it
hear it
Feel it when I dream
Maybe the obsession ends
When the dreams stop
But I dream now vividly
Wonder so passionately
Perhapse my obsession ends
When the heart stops, and no dreams flow


I feel as if this is it
This is rock bottom
Buried under an old blanket
Clutching a pillow as I would a log in a storm
I feel my mind rotting away
The value of self drowning in a vile mess
The room is empty
Bit of trash strewn about
The only things left serve to remind me of losses
I fall into the collection of memories
this room
and I let my mind replay a better time
If possible I do not wish to wake from this dream

Sunday, November 18, 2012


I see you in my mind
I see you as you were
In moments of passion
Pangs of guilt
Tears infested with pain
Smile riddled with joy
I have dreams of Us
I wake, some several monts ago
Before my tagities
My failures
And sometimes youre there next to me
Other times I'm ahead of the disaster
I cry with a soul overwhealmed with happiness
I run to find you
Drive my car as fast as it can go for you
Take you in my arms and kiss you like it is my last act of heroism
But then, in the midst of this dream so real
Fantasy so dear
Imagination so dire
I'm thrust into the waking day
The middle of actual afternoon
The cold autum night
The nold room we shared
Hidden trinkets of yours inside
Holding them drives me to dark corners
Deep oceans of pity
I cann see the sun above
And I can swim to the top
Should I choose
But for now I will drown


I drown in it
Inhale all of it
Sweat down to my legs
I'm down in dregs
Of this "feeling"
In my chest
The mist is healing
the center of my breast
wrapped in a widows grasp
clutched to my hair the fingers clasp
and I gasp
The fog has me
in my bedfellows eyes I see what we
could be
should be
Need to be
Hope to flee
from the pale blue permafrost
Escape to the mist
No matter what the cost
Hold the smoke tight
Don't slip
Please hold on to my grip
Can't survive out of the mist
with the sweat dripping bliss I'm lost.


I could carve them in
Sections of my form made canvis
The curves of my arms made jagged
Muscles on my legs defined
My chest clawed with parallel lines
I would have to hide them
Each detail masked
Errors filled with ointments
The passage of time editing my work
Concerned looks garnering unwanted questions
I would see them as a marker
The lines and edeges marking a moment in time
Mistakes and moments segmented from my flesh
Penance overflowing from the admittions to the ground
They will heal
and I would wear them as reminder of myself.

Tuesday, November 13, 2012


It is there when I sleep
Taunting me with moments of bliss
Past lives of union
Squandered extacy
When I wake it is there
A face I cannot bare to see
A face I would give the world to touch
Give the wold to hold
It's is in the mirror
Full of judgments
All unfair, but just
All irrational, yet grounded in truth
Or perhapse ground in doubt
Self Made and distributed to the temple of the mind
But it is there and it will not leave
And I fear I will carry it to the end of my days.

Monday, November 12, 2012


Sunny days
No cares or concerns
Snowy evenings
Hours spent playing in the watery cocain
Distant futures
A family, nice house, big yard, maybe a dog
But those only come sometimes
The majority is spent is a state more unbalanced
I can't recall most of them
They end to fade as my eyes regain focus
The ones that stick are like honey on a Afro
a carpet stained with red wine
Blood on a suit
A small piece of corn in your teeth
Their in for the long hall
Rummaging around in my mind when I rest
Parading through my waking hours
They are as vivid as life itself
And they make
But sometimes they make not want to ever wake up.

Saturday, November 10, 2012


I have an enemy
This foes does not know of their transgression
at least not from my perspective
the are unaware of my motives
oblivious to my reasoning
in the dark of my bittet light
They have stolen something
not irreplaceable
but very unforgettable
this impecable
the things its made me do
made me feel
see and say
to this day
It taunts me
It shines without me
It's sun covered by the clouds
of my enemy
the cold chill of a warm day
The waves of my calm seas
Makes me think
could my enemy
be my friend
be a source
by the power vested in
the Sun would illuminate the world
and I would see
along with my former enemy
the joy of the sun shared
but I suspect, no I know
to the center of the clouds I will no go
for my wings are coated
in bits of jade
my armor made of emerald
It weights me down,
its color bright in my mind
a blinding, burning glare in my dreams
but its allure is intoxicating
and my heart wants the enemy to choke


I think about it in my quit hours
speculate on fictional futures
wonder on withered worlds
ponder on particular pasts
looking in the mirror I see
the most brilliant reflection
stained with cracks so permanent
so harsh, I often wonder
could the cracks be beauty
maybe they could be painted on
smoothed out
filled with diamond shavings
maybe then I'd stop craving yesterday
or perhaps yesterday is just a dream
a mist that now I come through
mind and body all new
See the mirror and see new purpose
look back and hold the tears
the breaks in the mirror won't change,
but perspective does
so look back and
Remember the cracks
Love the mirror

Monday, November 5, 2012


It starts with an action
The wrong words said here
The improper deed done there
Then I fester on it
Nurture the insult
To let it wast in the wind it to denigh feeling
I could wash the poison away with clear waters
Mental purity curing the rusted bit of thought
But the joy comes in devowering the toxin
One grievance, small or large, becomes two a eight and six
You mix with one half wistful reflection
One half demented fascination
A quarter of self justification
And mix in a bowl of passion
The batch sits for days
Months if your angry
Years if your obsessed
But the tast never goes away
You can wash parts of it out
You can find the source and return your anger
(you may or may not receive a refund)
You can try and over come the spiritual vomiting
But the bitterness
The green repetition
The fogs of doubt
And the horrid fantasies
They stay when you drink the mixture
And it is addicting

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Reminisce: The Late Nights

Sleep called
I cancled my subscription
Reminice with silver light in my eyes
My old passions addiction
In the emitions of my dreams machine
The figure is obscured
but the voice is clear
Old pains pray in vain to be cured
New inspirations come and go
To and frow
Tried to let go
Fell back to dreams of that face
That laughter
That's what I'm after
Visions of old flames
And old names
Old games
More of the same
But what can I do?
Try something new
Meet up, joke around, play the clown or fool
Remember the past and ask why
Why here, why not, why the new thing, why not the old
Am I not bold enough
The riches of new ventures not gold enough
Sometimes yes
Somestimes no
And so
I find myself looking in mirror
Of the mind and see
Behind me and I wonder

Wednesday, October 31, 2012


I often wonder how to characterize myself
I wonder for far I'll go(fall) in my allotted time in life
Perhaps I will(won't) be able to meet the (low) standards I set for myself
The difficulties of life sometimes give me cause(greif) enough to think this is an (un) reasonable prospect.
Indeed, perhaps I should stop comparing(stressing) about the perceived accomplishments of my peers
I should(can't) see that my victory do not depend of the lives of other, they are mine to achieve(fail).
I (don't) think I can do this. I (don't) believe that the (brittle) temperance I'm building for my self will achieve something.
Being (un)able to learn from the past and (un)willing to apply myself to any venture is(n't)
It must (not) be worth it in the long run I (can't) feel it
The ringing in my ears tells me that my efforts must (won't) be for something good.
Voices in my dreams demand that I (don't) do something with the gift of my life
My (lack of) motivation is key
Do (don't) make something of yourself, my code of conduct
I can (not) overcome.


I'll wake up early in the morning, still restless, still exhausted
My teeth will feel like rust and my bones like wet bricks
The amnesia will be temporary, long enough to feel like my home is foreign
but bref enough to snap me back into reality
I'll get off the bed with brisk, learned speed and make my way to the bathroom.
The prepping starts in the mirror
I'll look at my sleep ravaged face with disappointment
and weep with insecurities before washing them off with water
burning myself with cleansing streams
the face I see will be the truth
it will not suffice
ineffective at keeping questions at bay
my face attracts accusations and queries like so many ants to waterfalls of sugar
no questions need be asked
causes for concern need not be mentioned
insight into the mental factory is not mandatory and your press pass in not present
this face must go, but not through knife or scruple or fire or writhing from my hands
this face must be concealed
So, I take my hand, motion my palm down my face and edit the truth
Oh, hello! Pleasure to see you.
the facade stains me, remove it
back to the shallow waters
the reality is too bitter, cover it
Ah! Good morning, how have you been?
the clever ruse falls off
the sagging man behind the curtain revealed
I pause for breath, repeat the process
No exaggeration, stillness in my disguise
It fits.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

The Factory

The Screens catalog visual history
        First trip to camp
        Second week of school
        all the time spent with a video game controller in hand
Conveyor belts sort out mental consideration
       Feeling on things I should have said
       didn't say
       regretted saying
Over in the corner is a computer filled with plan and orders
       Future goals and accomplishments 
       Dreams to be acted out and fulfilled
In front of me are a collectons of levers
all neatly labeled, all clearly controlling the complex machinery
My emotional cortex distilled into warhouse efficiency
I view the neural workshop from the vantage point of a simple desk
Looking over the factory's work, observing it's proces for a long as I have
the detailed records and the catalog moments
all presented with excruciating clarity
I consider
every minute of everyday
every cold winter and sunless morning
each rainy day and stale night
what would happen if the factory stopped?
        To what end would it be if I smashed the screens
        purged the ghastly images from record
what ease it would be to stall and break the belts
        forget my words and their worries
        what would meaning would shutting down all my plans, however grand or bland or unreal
But, looking down at my desk, placed right within my grasp
is a simple switch
and with a simple motion of the hand I could shut my factory down
I consider placing a hand on the switch
just to see how it feel
Just to see if I would

Monday, October 29, 2012

The Traverse

I wake with the suns mercy
Whatever pain physical numbed by tragedy spiritual
Abandoned in the waters
A large plank my only means of survival
I contemplate letting go, let the waters take me
Drifting comes easy, no need to move, not cause for daring action
close my eyes and let the waves rock me to sleep
I spend the nights watching other sails
other boats
I could cry out to them, beg and plead
some see me, moving close before changing course
Others make their way through the waters, their glow reflected in the clear nights sky
In my defeated rest, I hear the waves part
a familiar sound not witnessed in ages
Another ship, much closer,this one a mix of dark and light colors
 it could notice me
Curved to glorious form, sails shaping the winds into curls
My passages is negotiated and granted
The time aboard is conflicting
Some days the winds fair well and the seas are open for exploration
Other days the air is dead, and I sit, breathless
waiting of a tomorrow more favorable
I wait at the boats edge, old thoughts of the cold waters come to pass
Motivation settles in, rumbles of fire ignite in my chest
I cast off thoughts of failure
When high winds rock the seems of my new ship
I adapt
When the sky demands a dual and blades of blinding light rend the sea
I dodge with the grace of dolphins
I brace myself at the endless rolls of clouds, daring them, scoring them
I traverse this worlds fury, the majesty of ship inspiring me to heroism
Inspiring my dreams, my thoughts.
I wonder, after my fever dream ends
after the might of the world has proven too much
after I lift myself up from the sands of the beach
bested by the winds and wails of the earth.
I wonder if the ship out in the distance is mine.


This post has been featured at: Poetry Blogs.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Soul Trader

You don't come to his(her) door by accident.
There are no walk in visites. You know someone and they make an appointment for you.

When an appointment is made you're given directions, and (s)he always just so happens to live close to you, you'll come to a purple door. Maybe the door whats always there, maybe it will be gone tomorrow. Maybe the door is in a small building or maybe it's in the back of a restaurant. The door is always ice cold to the touch. When you open the door you are greeted to room that is as (un)pleasant as you want it to be. (S)he is always sitting in a purple throne.

When the Soul Trader talks, and (s)he will move you with speech after speech, you will feel compeled to take his(her) offer. You'll know full well the consequences  you may have even dreamt of them the night before, but you will, sure enough, take the deal.

This deal will, at the time, seem like a bargain. The feeling of warmth as you shake his(her) hand will stay with you as you leave the room. Whatever your terms were will be fulfilled to the very last letter. Your eyes will be filled with most golden of suns and the moon will shine it's heavy rainbow halo's on your bed as you sleep. But, soon. Not the first year, or the second, or maybe not the first ten years, but one day, and you will know the day. The Soul Trader will find you. Every door you see will be the same etherial purple. Every road will lead in circles. You will be called, you will come back to his(her) room and you will fulfill your end of the bargain.

Unless you can recommend someone more substancial.


                                                                                Agitated,annoyed, aggravated
                                                              Groggy, Ghastly


The Weight starts off light
easy to care, easy to bear
the waters rest comfortably at my toes 
I start to walk
Briskly at first
no cares or concerns, the path is clear and the weight light
soon the waters are at my calfs
I ignore it, I shrug as my stride slows
then waters come to my knees
I stop, pause and observe the lands
the change of course makes the burden grow
but the waters sink
my sighs ease my brow
the waters become calming
my mind grows complacent
my next step sinks me
I let myself fall
the weight is of no consequence
my decent ends at sands depths
I collaps at the sudden surge of mass
the waters clean
encompassing ocean become bitter desert
steams singes my skin
the air boils the bones
but I struggle
arise from the sand
My steps rhythmic
The Weight rattles in my ear

Saturday, October 27, 2012

No Time to Lose

I recall a dream I had several weeks ago. I somehow gained immortality and lived out several life times in the span of 10 hours of uninterrupted sleep. To the best of my recollection, it went something like this.
The 1st Year:
Nothing of any relevance, life goes on as it always has. Days come and go, nights linger.

Years 3-5: Standard of living improved, but the mood has taken a somber road. Depression? Perhaps  but why and for what?

Years 6-10: Several changes in appearance, once long hair now completely bald. Peak of physical condition. The complements are daily and consistent. Finally make progress with carrear.

Years 10-20:
Several old friends died. Natural causes. Questions about youthful appearance hand waved with speeches about dieting and positive outlooks on life. Old Romances sought, rekindled, devolved, and reconciled.

Years 21-45: Relocated. New country, new language, new customs. Regrew my old hair. Every time I run my hands through it my spine tingles with nostalgia.

Years 46-88: I have developed a routine. Travel to a new place. Change my name, gather new friends, grow with then for several years, then move on. Keeping contact with certain people is tricky, but in time they pass. I watch lovers blossom into their golden years, friends reach new succeses, old enemies rot. It entertains, but all to soon does the somber feeling creep back into mind.

Years 89-133: I have seen the extent of the modern world. Sights, historic events well documented. Tragedies witnessed passionately, but one day I wake and find myself in a melancholily depression. This pitiful stupor ends, thousands of miles away from my home is some city. The waves of the beach wake me and my adventure ends where it begane. The daze of morning ending my immortality.

Reminisce: The Early Mornings

The night hums its end song
low light, mechanical air fills the room
the sheets are stale, used and worked
the smell glows in the back of my mind
it lights it way through the days dark halls
bends the corners of months gone by
lights yesterdays candles
blows out tomorrows lanterns
last months stage lights come on
the old arena opens up
repressed feelings gather in
they hold up pictures of last month
last year
last time
the next morning
the next moment
the declaration of separation
treaties of evection
manifests of omission
They cry for recognition
pleas of readmission
the sun denies them admission

Friday, October 26, 2012

Sleep, a warehouse full of thoughts

Start in a factory
In the back are memories
each labeled
sorted according to relevance, mood, desire
Over in the left corner are desires.
Check for "big dreams"
damaged packages go to QA for processing
The front of the building contains lingering thoughts
We'll be having a meeting about the past week
Reflect, review and contemplate yourself
Our revenue of the Self is fluctuating
Turn out the lights when your eyes gets heavy

Skyline: Blue

The breeze is surprising
my skin is indecisive
Waking was painful
The flesh feels felt pitiful
absent of resolve, devoid of ambition
fractured by todays older brother
the hours turned pained flesh into numb constructs
Warm cup in hand
Clean breeze outside
My skin relaxes

The Pit

I jump into the Pit
Dust, bits of brown
pieces of plastic
specks of dirt
The dance between my eyes like snow in december
The first box is easy
the second is hard
the third harder
and harder
and harder still
my breath rasps
beads of sweat taunt my face
I lift
hold the box close
set it down
watch it roll down, bump on the rails, out of the pit
Legs jittering
I remove the floor panels
More Boxes

The Purpose of these words, dreamed and relayed.

One of the greatest discoveries about myself is that I have a love of writing. Creative writing to be specific. It's a means of escape and a mechanism of reflection. The goals of my words is to paint a picture for the mind, cook a meal for the soul and make music for the heart and it is all based on a dream.

The dream starts in the middle
Hair unkempt
eyes caked
blood shot eyes half baked
rosted in the heat of summer
left to simmer and fester
goals burn to a fine crisp
dreams boiled into vapor
I walk the day in sweat
dreaming with shame
perpetrating with disappointment
In my hands in the last record
last testament
Will and legacy
I wait under shade
hidden from the judging sun
The records are a dedication
for my friends and lovers.