Sing to me ohh misery and tell me something new
Spread your word like the bird that's chirping till it's blue
Serve a Serpent's hate and capitulate to all they're selling you
Buy the brand and then demand that we all wear it too

Sell a story of love and glory then turn it into hate
Push the herd and Contort the word that wise men often state
Come sing it from the pulpit come dance and devastate
After all it's our own damn fault, too easy to manipulate

So sing to me ohh misery a drink, a dance Devine
Spread your filth across my floor until it's suppertime
I'll bow my head, repeat what's said and toe the fucking line
Sing to me ohh misery perhaps... another... time.

Don't read this... It's not for you!

"Rings and other jewels are not gifts but apologies for gifts.  The only gift is a portion of thyself... Therefore the poet brings his poem."

One of my favorite writers, a man named Emerson, wrote that.  He would go on to explain how cold and lifeless it is to go to a shop to purchase an object that tells of another persons talents.  Don't be fooled by the material, look instead to beauty of the soul that molds it, that nourishes it and gives it willingly to the world. Surround yourself with those whose value extends beyond accumulation of monetary gain and you will forever be rich beyond your own imagination.

Please take these opals as an apology, they are not my gift to you, this is...




I give to you, the two I knew, before you knew yourself,
A promise in a poem that I'll share with no one else.
These words are yours should you choose to share
They belong to you and have been scribed with care.

I give to you the sky of blue and all the earth beneath its view
The trees and stars, from here to Mars and the breeze that's blowing through.
A touch, a step, a secret kept, and the wondrous world awaiting too
This though, is just the start of the gift I give to you.

A tender kiss from wave to shore, a chance to breath and to explore.
A glance that's shared with passerby, a conversation for you to try
In foreign tongue, a myth undone and a mountain range so high.
This gift I give is knowing that life's limits leap beyond the sky.

No house or car or movies star will hold it's value long
No, the treasures sought by many will not prove to prolong
What's real is yours and mine, every bit Devine, and heard in every song.
The gift I give is knowing the best things in life, to you, already belong.

Jump from the platform of regret.  Live the life you deserve to love. Love the life you live.
How well do you know yourself?  Knowledge that doesn't die comes from the whispering of the soul. Propped up by the confines of sinking, stopping.

Dwell on yesterday and it will unravel the thread of your mind.  Live for tomorrow and it will never come.  A single moment only comes once in a lifetime yet it is where we spend eternity.  Swirling singing soft snow settles soothingly upon our shoulders.  The globe that confines is made of glass.  What a clever prison we reside in that gives the appearance of absolute freedom.  Make a man a slave and resistance is bound to ensue, convince him he is free and you will have a slave for life.
Passed by plastic princesses, dancing delighted at the beauty of their own globe.  Force applied to fingers, furiously finding freedom.  The act of shattering that globe, terrifying. We've been warmed for years by the fluid.  Seeking something beyond submerged security is scary.  



Movement is life.  Not even the water in the ocean can stay there forever.  We too must ascend to the heavens and be spread to the earth.  However, before we go, it's not a bad idea to wash up on a distant shore from time to time.

A stroll through the brightest parts of madness

Only by allowing the chaos of the world to enter the expansive landscape of the mind will we ever know the endless beauty it contains.  Fire parts the mountain and divides the bitter solitude of forever.




Tired is that mind that controls the legs that stand for nothing.

The greatest communicators in history have been misunderstood or overlooked by over 95% of the world.  If your voice causes just 5% of people passing by to feel your music or allow your art to touch them you have succeeded beyond measure.  If that moment sparks the creation, the inspiration or the causation of another's art, then you will be forever alive, immortalized in an endless chain of human experience.  Concern yourself not with the 95 percent.  Rather find strength in expression, find oil on canvas. 

Bobbing motionless in a sea of sharks.  Unseen by the busy eyes and frantic step of a generation on autopilot.  A minute, an hour, seems to drift.  Only two of a thousand drop coin in the cup of those in need.  

When we cease to halt and enjoy the art in front of us, when we refuse to help our fellow man our humanity dissapates.  We are once again the animal. 

After two hours 1 person stopped to view the art.  As soon as they did, three others followed suit.

Is it fear that keeps us from looking up? When one does it gives permission to others to follow. A species of followers, like fish in a flock. We buy certain brands in an effort to show others our originality.  We wear them while stepping in stride with the rest of the world.  Everyday we buy things we don't need with money we don't have to impress people that don't actually care.  There is one truth in life and many things that matter, none of which being the name on your blue jeans the cost of your car.  The less you want the more you have.

I sat for hours attempting to construct the perfect sentence.  All that came to mind was the vast expansive beauty of her eyes, galactic in innocent shine and size.... Perhaps I will try again tomorrow.

Tired is that mind that controls the legs that stand for nothing.

Trust

I felt the sound of the world and smelled the heat of the sun
Reached my hands to the stars and seized the life from one
I used a lariat to harness the body of an idea
then took a breath and with it exhaled out all my fear.

I found in truth that there is wine, a shifting paradigm
A loosed tongue, a life undone and lost a love Devine
I met my mistress Minerva toward the ending of a circle
She reassured me that nothing rhymes with circle

Snowball fights in August.
They happen now and then
They bring you clean and clear the soul of all the pain that it may know
While Bending the branch of time again.
Snowball fights in August
Not as uncommon as you may think
You've got to go a-ways, I know, but the feeling is distinct
Of taking shot from friend or foe
Of a snowball thrown in August and the place you'll grow to know
Cause for a snowball fight in August the highest mountains you must go
Or find yourself flipped upside down in a land that's down below
A snowball fight in August is a thing you otta try
Cast away those shackles and live before you die.

What if where you're going is where you've always been
What if all your about to be's are really your remember when's
What if you could see a bit of hope in me
What if money's not the end

How can I open my world up to you
How can you start to trust me too
How can we start to be free
How can you speak out while she's holding me

Loved and lost and loved again
It's true I drank away my only friend
I can't begin to see the hurt I've caused
Because of you I stop and pause

We'll breathe a breath again one day
We'll watch the children laugh and play
We'll sit and sing the song
Of all the right and the wrong we have done.

We get so few

I met a moment
She touched my world
I let her go
She stole the cold of my soul
But I let her go

I made a memory
As Water molds the stone
I let her go
Never felt at home
When She let me go

I missed my mark
An arrow crests the wall
I found her here
A drop spark on fire falls
I let her go

Thoughts in a van

The moon and stars,
A muse for hours.
A lite that lingers
loving like an artists finger's.

This place, still wild...like the heart of a child.
A dance, a day, a night to play.
A chill so real it's hard not to feel
So cold
and alone.


Never stop embracing that child from within.
Sing a song, write a poem, do a cartwheel in a park far away from home!
Live for today, tomorrow is a myth.  The who we are not the what we have becomes our greatest gift.
We have this moment to achieve a better version of ourselves, to rise and fall, to do it all, to place our fears upon the shelf.
Feel the sun grabbing at your naked skin, run and play throughout the day and never grow old again.
And never stop embracing that child from within.



I wrote a poem today and said most of what I wished to say.
Though It became a challenge toward the end ...
to make it live, to make it fly, to watch the words ascend.
It wasn't till I stopped trying that the words they came to me.
A lovely lesson learned in letting life's mind live free.



I want simply to sit here all day long and write a song that proves that we are not gone.  That we remain the same, no less humane, not just avoiding but removing all our pain. The people who I speak with have many things to say, some are good and some are bad but most have forgotten about today.  They gather for tomorrow like a squirrel in an autumn chill, people have forgotten that this moment is all that is real.  The size of your TV or the name that's on that degree mean nothing to me.  You see, these are the things that keep us from being truly free.

How Far I've Come

If you only knew how far I've come since the day you walked away.
If you only knew the hardship in being cast astray.
If you only had the heart to stay,
You'd see how far I've come, since the day you walked away.

The who I am, the what I know continued every day to grow
Every part of me better than the one you used to know
For all the times I waited, and when you didn't show
The who I am, the what I know is from the pain I pushed below

If you could see how far I've come would you still have left me then?
Would you know that my potential had not yet begun to begin
When I think of the strength your leaving's left me, I just have to grin
If you only knew how far I've come maybe we could start again.

But the who I am and the what I know now belongs to someone else
Their faith in me has summoned something surpassing worldly wealth
The day you walked away was the one I moved toward health
The who I am and how far I've come belongs entirely to myself

life is single handedly the most painful, beautiful, horrible, amazing, gut wrenching experience.  Like you, I have one.  I have one chance to be a better version of myself each day.  I have one moment that is in no way encapsulated.  I have one moment to scream that I love her, I have one moment to be the best of myself and not judge those that have fallen below that same line.
I often miss the mark.  I often come off too strong or not strong enough but I can say that never, not once, did I give less than my everything.  This is our chance to inhale, to breath the viscous, stinking hell that is life. Somehow we have been given autonomy.  We are our own anathema, we are the plauge that scars the face presented to seas of waves that could no better support us than they could a leaf adrift.
This life cuts small, cuts small adrift in a sea of sharks.  Life is in no way our demise.

the novelty exists in those poor souls who have little more to offer than a pretty face.  a flash of flame that has little hope of greater contribution.  longevity is in no way a product of random occurrence.  character runs deeper than the shallow depths of ones hair, it transcends the trivial curves of taunt skin.  money, prowess, sex and deception are the coins that seem to trade hands.

I'll walk until my feet are bleeding

I've seen things, man. I've seen 14 countries in the last two weeks. I've seen a women do things with a Ping pong ball that defies every college anatomy class I ever attended. I've seen the inside of burning buildings and barrel waves alike. I've seen two wars and all the hell they bring. I've saved lives and taken them. I've seen the apex of human kindness and cruelty existing in my own heart as well as in others. I've seen the finish line of several Ironman races and the inside of an octagon. I've seen seen a women selling weed brownies at sunset on a beach in Costa Rica while doing a yoga class with half a dozen Scandinavian women, yes I bought a round for the group and indulged. I've seen a Beautiful blonde Russian women invite me for a naked midnight swim off the shores of Thailand. I've seen strangers open their homes and their hearts to a homeless, unemployed veteran. I've seen the inside of a jail cell and broke bread with heads of state. I've been kicked out of bars, universities and countries. I've stowed away on trains and jumped from planes. I've loved and lost and loved again. I've lived enough for a hundred men. The life we get, we get only one. I refuse to stop living till the living is done. We get one chance to cast away, the dirtiest word you can ever say. In your life only one thing can stop the go, it's your fear of living and that foul word, no. If hope is a thing with feathers that perches in the soul, the only way to keep it flying is to answer all invitations with an enthusiastic, "Let's roll!"

I don't want to loose your hold on me

People speak of talent.  There is no such thing as talent. Quite simply there is a person that worked harder than you.  People use the word talent the way they use the concept of divinity.  Talent is an explanation for how someone could be better than I am.  God must have done that.  God didn't do that, the collective hard work and experience of an dedicated person did that.
People call Mark Ziya "talented" every time he picks up a guitar.  I know better.  That man has no talent.  That man sat angry in front of a Johnson Millennium amp, guitar in hand, until his fingers bled.  He doesn't have talent, he has something to prove.  Stop giving credit to talent, start giving credit to agony, start giving credit to being the smallest kid on the bus, start giving credit to the part of you that would rather die than come in second.  You are talent, you are capable, you are your own hero!

I gave my everything

truth is a spurious devil.  

Truth tells our febel mind that it is correct.  A sinister whisper falling on the footsteps of an


What color are your leaves.  Is it your autumn or your fall.  In what particular circumstance and fleeting attitude are you embracing this day , this season?  Your truth is no more relevant than the color of ink on this virtual screen.  What you possess is the greatest farce of the human race.  Lucid is the dream that you are in, real is the play unfolding before your delicate, feeble mind.  Your truth is no more or less collective reality than that of Hitler's.


How much do I know?  I know all that I have lived.  I know all that has been told to me through a perpetually jaded filter of a life lived by those with regrets.  I have a lifetime of tainted and otherwise corrupt memories salting the streets of my feeble mind.  I have little more than a drowning chance of knowing what truth is than any mislead creaton which exposed themselves to the realities of humanity as any other.  I know no truth.  I know only what has been feed to me.  I know only one more thing than most, I know that I know no truth.

On this, the stone

 On this, the stone....
On this the stone we carve ourselves.  We grind our delicate cylindrical shape into a jagged edge.  We use that edge to cut those that would challenge our belief.  Reasoning, when in line with our own, goes unchallenged and applauded.  A freedom to speak out, a freedom to oppose and make fervent against is the very spark which stone to surface omitted.  Why then is there anything but gratitude when one uses that spark?
Dissension is the highest honor that a citizen can bestow upon a soldier.  To blindly give thanks to a series of actions is more insult than compliment.  Human emotion prevents the course of logic more often than it lends favor to it.  To see the inanimate object for which one fought desecrated somehow supersedes the simultaneous preservation of ideology for which both that object stands and the underlying reason for which it was fought for to begin with.

through the Evergreen park

In its origins this was to be a place free from the judgement of audience.  In its infancy the intention was to serve as equal parts journal and creative outlet.  As all things in life should do, there has been an organic evolution of ARTV.  It is still unclear to me where this thing is going.  I am not sure if this place is a necessity the way it once was.  The vernacular that I once whispered to myself in the safe dark confines of my tiny basement apartment is now read, recognized and appreciated by more people than I can count.  This platform has, for sometime, acted as an unintentional whetstone.
There is still a long way to go before I am a great writer but for the first time I recognize that that is the direction I am headed.  Does a polymath set out to be such?  Or is a similar condition in which I have found myself entangled in?  Often I wonder what it would be like to be the very best at something but it has never been a pursuit that has interested me enough to follow.  Through more endeavors than I care to discuss I have achieved a reasonable level of success and moved on to another, completely abandoning the previous.  From the earliest age I have found passion in things.  Those things become all consuming until the point in which I know that I have mastered them and then I become uninterested.  The same can be said of many of my relationships.  There have been only three women that I have loved in such a way that they could cause me pain.  My belief is that was because they remained illusive and unconquerable.
One of my only fears is that this idiosyncrasy will leave me forever alone, never having mastered any aspect of life.  For now I will write.  I will do so until the entire world knows me for being a great writer, when that happens I will grow tired of writing and evolve once again to the foothill of another seemingly unconquerable peak.  In time I will summit all that life will present to me, all the while truly and forever alone.

this bell tolls for an old man by the sea

"Writing isn't hard, you just sit at the keyboard and bleed."


Have you ever been called a coward?  Have you ever had a random person that you have never and will never meet sling an atrocious tittle in your direction via a keyboard?  I have been called everything by humans in more countries than I can count.  I have allowed the better thoughts from the last four years find their escape through my fingers and the best of those have been apprehensively presented for public consumption.  Never, not once did it feel painful or exposing to write those words.  Maybe Hemingway was right, maybe writing is little more than a hemorrhage, something we are all capable of.  Bleeding, however, doesn't hurt.  There is only one thing that hurts more than an uneducated, ignorant retch of a human being attempts to belittle you in a public forum because of what you have written.  That is when no one says a thing.

and by opposing end them?

Hate


Hate is a word that I try to avoid using.  There is so much more power in that word than the amount of gravity that it is given.  The word cunt seems to be atrocious.  Saying the word nigger in certain company will get you killed.  Yet the word that gives power to each of those arrows is tossed around with obnoxious frequency.  I reserve its use because the significance that it carries.  To hate something is beyond loathing, it is beyond reasoning, it is beyond comprehension.  It is pure, unadulterated emotion at the opposite spectrum from love.  No, I don't use that word lightly.

I hate myself.  I hate myself more than I could ever hate anything or anyone.  There are certain things that disgust me.  Intolerance disgusts me, prejudice disgusts me, ignorance disgusts me, yet as bad as those things are I still don't hate them.  No, I reserve that designation for the worst offenders, I reserve that for myself.

I hate that I am the reason why I am constantly in pain.  It is not my choice to feel every pin prick with the magnitude of a dagger.  It is not my will to be an open reciprocal for the purging of life's overflow.  Yet for some reason I feel things that I believe others do not.  In short, I am an emotional lighting rod and I hate myself for it.  Its not that I cry when a kitten dies, I don't even like cats.  I'm just not wired the same as those I share a crowded bar with.  In them there is a chase, a pursuit.  In me there is a struggle, a battle.  I don't even want to be here, I want to be with her yet the women here are calling my name.  I am their celebrity and I hate myself for it.  Above all else I hate myself for, once again, for wanting her more than she wants me.  I hate myself for finally caring for a person in the way that I swore I never would again.  I hate myself for exposing my naked chest to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Tall truths topple taller tales.

.
Entirely Dictated by Life is life. That every thing we do, every decision That we make, every word we utter is the by-product of a previous interaction or experience. Tastes and intolerance is molded by the joys and pains Which seared Themselves into our deepest crevices. Phrases uttered by an unnecessary impact on illustrious idol makes idiom.
We learn to love the setting sun, the demise of a day and all the hope that its predecessor brings.  We adapt approach to prevent the repeated torment of our central pump.  Like a wild animal once kicked we flee from any potentially aggressive boot.  Even the slightest shuffle can create a stampede in the opposite direction.
We are a ransom note strewn together from the pieces cut from others.  The truest version of ourself is not our our title, our cover or even our pages.  Who we are is the shifting of the eyes of those who read our words.  We are a letter cut free from a magazine in an effort to construct someone else's sentence. 
When the letters used to construct our sentences are abrasive we do not do well to comfort the eyes of our readers.  If, by chance, your misfortune is that of having struggled though similar symbols to those of a new note it is natural to remove yourself from such a circumstance.  Life is easier lived when mistakes are not repeated.  

In trust we survive

Infidelity is a choice that we must trust another not to make.  We lend our lives to others in hopes they tred lightly.  No pain could be greater than betrayal at the hands of our own heart.  No human emotion can so closely compare to sheer and utter lunacy as that of love.  Truly a condition worthy of incarceration for its absolute form is unadulterated madness.  To give yourself completely to another in hopes of remaining unscathed is asking a star not to fall.  It may come maliciously or without intent but at some point the ones we love hurt us, they are the only ones that can. ....



It is a dangerous trail we tred when committing to the condition of love.
A scary rail we ride when placing another so far above.
A light, a flash and wave to crash.  A beach, a shore you've never wanted more.
A touch, a taste, a feeling you can't replace.
A pain so real, one you long to feel.  A helplessness in absence.  A relief in embrace.
This pain somehow alleviates the pain of living.






..... That pain is unique.

HIM

I would not call myself a pious man.  In fact I have, on several occasions, contested the notion of a higher power.  However, a very simple connection occurred to me as my feet carried me closer to home this evening.  What of love?  True unconditional love.  Quite simply, the extent of loves power is such that it exceeds the parameters of what can be constructed by man.  Such a divine thing must be the creation of a divine being.  This is not speculation as love has been discussed by the great thinkers of every generation.  It is widely accepted as having an empirical value.  Many have attempted to create definition, in verse and in prose.  No one who has felt it will even begin to deny the totality of its effect.  The things that love will make you do are a testament to its undying unwavering force.  The magnitude of your devotion to it displays how humble a servant we are all capable of being.  Its force fills every pore in your body. Man has neither the understanding nor capacity to even replicate let alone create an energy of that intense complexity.  Such a thing is the advent of an architect higher in thought and deeper in emotion than we as humans have the ability to fathom.  Love, therefore, is proof that God exists.

 Ergo she is the greatest proof that there is a God. 

Notch on a Wall

There is no place for humanity in war, there is no place for war in humanity.  If, as a nation or dictator, you have a requirement that a war be fought by any human in your kingdom, without you yourself engaging in the very perils of said conflict, all rights to prescribe morality ergo are omitted.  War is not for man it is for the cannibals.  When the victor of the game played is decided by which side brings more death upon the other we create an existence outside of the parameters of civilization.  To affix rules to such a scenario is contemptuous and often only done so by those who themselves would never dare engage in such acts as the intentional mutilation of another human being.  There is no civilized way to remove the soul from a thinking, feeling, living, loving, breathing thing regardless how strict the rules of engagement.  

Cast away the pretentious nature of so called civilities and send those cannibals to feast, cease with the spurious concept of a noble conflict or take direct opposition to its very existence.  But do not tell the killing man how to kill, for he is the one who swims in the ocean of those decisions while stones cast from those upon the shore.  Beyond all else it is well known at this stage in history that when you make a cannibal of man he will never again return to the fruit of the earth for sustenance.  Externally and internally cast out to roam among the others whose disposition is taboo to discuss.  The act of or assignment of the killing of one man for the sake of anything other than direct personal protection is, as such, the homicide of all of humanity.  If we are marked to fight let us shed the constraints of such rules and let the battle commence.  If we are to mitigate the act of mutilation let us be done with war and all the hell it creates. 

Warrior

The last time that I had my nose broken was in an MMA bout in Alabama.  After securing a very deep triangle hold on my competitor he stacked me up and released one final last ditch effort to get me to release his neck from between my legs.   The back of my head was the only part of my body in contact with the mat as he came down on the center of my face with his 4oz glove.  It was the kind of hit you take from a mule if you have the misfortune of startling them from behind.  I felt my nose explode and the coup contrecoup action occurred as my brain bounced to the back of my skull.  It occurred to me with startling clarity that if I release this man he would repeat that violent action toward me and I was not sure in that moment if I would survive another shot such as that.   A wave of relief washed over me as his hand tapped my leg three times.

As quickly as the fight began it was over.  I stood victorious in front of the crowd.  My coaches, teammates and friends all erupted in jubilee.  Back in the dressing room my hands shook uncontrollably as the professional tape job was cut away.  Andy, the gentlemen who just moments before shattered my money maker stepped into my warm up area looking pretty unscathed and extends his hand.  He congratulated me on my victory and we exchanged pleasantries about training until a friend handed me a frosty cold adult libation.  I didn't pay for a drink all night after that. 

During my third combat deployment as a Ranger I have to estimate that our platoon did somewhere close to 100 direct action raids.  It wasn't abnormal to hit two or three objectives in a single night.  One evening that was no different from the rest, I recall a very large Iraqi man charging at the squad that I was attached to as we entered the front door.  According to the rules of engagement we could have shot him but no one did.  Although the man presented himself as a threat he didn't have a weapon in his hand.  I struck that man once, hard, right in the middle of his face.  My friends unceremoniously flowed passed him as if he was as inanimate as a coffee table.  The threat had been controlled.  Those same exact men that erupted in celebration just months before when they were watching me in that cage stepped over the bleeding man to gain access to the back room of the house in case their happened to be additional threats. 

I was sitting at a football game a week ago when these two distinct memories came to surface.  Someone described one of the players as a "Warrior” and I couldn't help but find that designation inaccurate.  While I respect the athleticism and sacrifice of football players, and professional athletes in general, these individuals are not warriors.  Their intent is crowd appeal and approval.  They are entertainers.  They are idolized for their feats and are rewarded with fame, accolades and Escalades.  They sacrifice themselves for self gain.   These men are gladiators.  These men occupy arenas for the purposes of entertaining the masses.  I myself have occupied those arenas, sacrificing myself for the entertainment of those in attendance.  Yet even in the most tumultuous of athletic pursuits and endeavors I had not earned the title of "Warrior"

A Warrior is a quite professional, one that also sacrifices his body, his youth and his mental health but not for applause or recognition.  He commits himself to his craft and dedicates his life to a cause that few will ever understand and even fewer still will ever see.  He walks until his feet are bloody stumps hoping those dear to him will never experience the noose of tyranny. He voluntarily deploys himself to the most austere environments in the world and repeatedly does the dirty work of his nation.  Decisions that would take most weeks to make he decisively executes before his next inhalation.  He holds the life of those around him in the distal phalanges of a single finger.  He flows silently into the homes of the world’s most dangerous men with the autonomy to take their lives.  He has no concern of who feeds upon his cost, and his victories will never be celebrated in a packed stadium.   And after the battle is over and the smell of war has left his nares the memories of his actions will be carried like cinder blocks upon his back.  He will continue to shoulder more than his share of the task, without ceremony.  This man is a warrior.  This man is the reason we can sit and enjoy the displays of the gladiator
.

The lion

To state it simply, there are few lions. There are many sheep, fewer wolves and even fewer sheep dogs yet the lion has become an endangered species. The value of the once revered hunter in the times of ancient Greece has corroded and dissipated under the guise of our so-called civilized nature. The lion does not guard the sheep and should not be thanked for doing so. The sad state of our society is one that has not the ability to distinguish between a sheep dog and a lion. The lion does not watch over those poor timid souls who cannot protect themselves, he hunts for the sake of hunting. Under the cover of darkness, he brings violence to the den of the wolf. He does so because that is his nature, he does so because to do anything else would make him something that he is not.

The sheep cares not which creature protects it as long as it stays safe, and when safety is ensured the need for those who have provided it is cast to cage. An arbitrary thank you may be a welcome exchange to the sheep dog but to the lion it is a thing held in disdain. The lion’s concern is not of the gratitude of the sheep, rather the eradication of the wolf. As long as there are sheep to consume, the wolf will attempt to navigate around the protection of the sheep dog. As long as the lion is allowed to roam free, the wolf will exist in a state of unparalleled torment. Sadly, being the minority means that the lion is somehow at the whim of the sheep. Since the sheep is simultaneously ignorant of the lion’s role and fears its overwhelming power, it will maintain its value at a diminished worth until the time when the wolf is a threat once more.

So when you cast gaze upon my tattoos and scars from behind the bars of my cage, do not approach me with gratitude for you are a sheep and I am not a sheep dog. I am merely awaiting the time when killing the wolf is once again permitted.

the devolution of consciousness

Have I ever, in a single day, had this much to say?  Have I ever, in a day, had this much rum to consume?  The Jesus turned that water to wine, I turned the wine to whiskey, the egregious import tax turned the whiskey to rum.  I would murder a hundred babies for some bacon right now.  Ohhh the return!  The return of a place of no concern.  My mind’s playground and a child without supervision.   This place, where the lunatic in me resides.  He exists in all of us this I am sure of.  The difference between my lil Charlie Manson and the rest of the twats on this planet is that I bought mine a gun and told him to run free.  To cage that animal is a recipe for disaster.  I saw the new planet of the apes, sure it was awful but you would do well to be kind to a smart monkey.  Let that fucker run, don’t collar that primate, let it out!  Feed it well and watch in childlike wonder as the feces speckles the walls of your Victorian home.  Sometimes I wonder if the only talent that God saw fit to bestow upon me was the ability to not only except but to embrace that crazy little primate in me.

...

I get fucking weird sometimes!  Like really strange.  I pace the corridors of my loft looking back and forth as though the greatest minds in history are sitting about my apartment conversing with one another.  These voices are not in my head, they are in my living room.  I hear their thoughts and think how platitudinous they are, a pretentious little cunt I truly am.  Only in my own head though.  I swirl the contents of the glass that provides the final piece to the tetrahedron.  Sappy acoustic songs and a longing for a flame so far away and a lack of television provide the rest of the algorithm.  I sit on the 15^th of 27 steps and challenge the voice of every person that has ever lived, myself included.   I ponder and record.  The words dancing on my screen like a stripper at amateur night begging for Benjamins are the exact ones that smash themselves against the walls of my cognition.  I have so many words.  They won’t stop.  My life is being narrated by some stoic poet yet I have the mind of a child, incapable of truly understanding the gravity of the words he is using to describe my life, my interactions, my observations.  I’m just here listing while these smart men banter back and forth in my living room, spilling their wine on my couch.  It’s obnoxious, they never clean up after themselves. 

white light

And like that the once dark room is alive with light.  Where have you been hiding my creative gnome?  My brilliant little bastard that dances about my mind with the grace of a jack hammer.  Perchance the rub that does you silent is the one that is known by many as happiness.  I was thinking today that she could never be in my shadow for she is the essence of my light.  One push will require two pulls as a kind word seems to be the act of petting a turtle.  The sanctity of a shell is really not much different than the brown blanket that surrounds the ice in my glass.  The fire that we start is meant to warm us yet we are the greatest bastard when attempting to control its wild flicker.  There is as much success in owning a flame as there is in owning the wild mustang that tramples the softest parts of your heart.  Sure, you may contain it for a moment but that does not make its essence yours.  Some say that to warm your cold hands before turning to the tenebrous chill of the night is the proper course of action, that the saddle is no accessory for this majestic.   Previously the tactic had been to set myself ablaze in hopes of matching the ferocity of the flame, a tactic that no doubt left me charred with regret.  I believe my only recourse is to sit close to the wild swirl of orange and blue, provide it with the fuel that it needs to not only sustain its burn but to grow and enjoy every bit of heat that it provides. 

To drink whiskey while others whine

Let us all bathe in mediocrity until the stench of our potential greatness has been washed clean and our condition no longer threatens the hearts of the weak.  Let us dim our own light so as not to blind those who are unwilling to commit to illuminating their own brilliance.  Let us dull the blade of our vernacular so that the childish center of man need not worry himself with the dangers of its incision.  After all it is not fair that some men should have to sit second to another despite being born of equal opportunity.  Drench yourself with gallons of the finest cologne so as not to send scent of your true character.  Sit high upon a thrown of the finest jewels that those in your presence will mistake their shine for that of your quality.  Let the women that we do these things for forever be blind by the faux greatness that is created in our own image.  Too great an emphasis devoted to the pursuit of self-expansion, to growth internal, analogous to that of a wild oak should be reprimanded with the incessant beat of any dubstep track.   Better to be small minded and looked upon in a big way than the antithesis for there truly is fewer fates worse than that of obscurity.  Anonymity is a disease that we all devote copious resources to cure.  In doing so we become the mirror image of those we surround ourselves with and gladly take the role as the most unique sheep In a heard of seemingly unique sheep. 

To drink whiskey while others, wine.  That is Divine.  

isolation and the conversations that occur

How can I say this but to say that I am filled with hate?  Boiling over with disdain for every other creature that walks about on its two feet.  Stark raving mad with the waste and the filth that I am no doubt the cause of.  I am the human race, my unbridled antipathy belongs to me for I am the belly of that beast.  The color, the custom is different.  The words, the worth diminished.  How easy it is to affix blame on one that you have shed all likeness of internally.  Despite having the same message their book holds a different title and in turn is of a lower faculty than the one that you would also kill for. 

The hypocrisy of the race to witch I belong bludgeons my senses.  That race is the human race and I am the guiltiest soul alive.  The indifference of all those that would abandon the cause should hang heads heavy with the weight of shame and regret, is it not the responsibility of a weak man to be strong? Or is the responsibility of the strong man to carry those who cannot carry themselves?  Those who stay strong do so in the fray.  Isolation does nothing for the condemnation of injustice, there is no refuge in hiding.  If fact there is no purpose in it since we are all humanity.  You cannot remove yourself from yourself.  Every person capable of reading and deciphering these very words is as responsible to the person at their beside to do right by them as I or any other.  To say that you hate those in humanity is to place blame upon yourself for not correcting those qualities that would lead you to such feelings. 

Magnanimity has been lost along with the virtues of altruism and understanding.  But is it really the livers fault when the lungs do not function at their whole?  Is it the responsibility of the toes to do the job of the fingers?  The fact is if the hands have become ill it would behoove the feet to take their place ergo the body will starve and they too will perish.  In this, there is no responsibility in our organism that is not ours.  Hunger, hate and half-truths are the cancer that every cell in our race must make mission to vanquish.  If not you and I both will undoubtedly fall ill to their accord.

You are the problem.  You are the solution.  I am you.  I am humanity.  Let us not venture from the knowledge of this. 

On nerves

I'm not sure if this avenue was ever a colloquial one, if it was we can call this the return, if even for a moment.  The greatest poet, after all, was not born as such.  It was a craft that had to be honed as with the carpenter and sculptor.  A life spent observing is no more effective than a life void of senses.  When we do not apply the result of our observations they are of little use to us.  To balance our days examining our surrounds with testing ourselves against those contemplation is a more true expression of what a life should be.  Our impact on the world is only one if we impose it.

She said to me that she was nervous and my hands made haste to respond before the battery on my Apple product dissipated into darkness.  Perhaps I was trying to say that the greatest things in life are the ones that create an almost overwhelming sensation of nervousness in us. There is something comforting when life becomes a song that you can sing along with but what joy is there if we never challenge our ear with the divine dissonance of a sound unheard.  There is a melody in everything.

When my message could not be sent my heart grew momentarily dark. Alas the darkness would not last.  This was the moment that I needed, this became a time for reflection on all the nerves that have recently pinged my senses to question my every step, the danger in discomfort the the unease of the unknown.  The single most terrifying moment of my life occurred just a few weeks ago.  It was a perfect storm, the culmination of so many events.  Following the purge of all but a pack of my earthly possessions I stood gasping at the airport preparing to abandon a life that was no longer working for me.  After the decision to leave all that I had built to venture south to a nation whose language I did not speak, whose citizens I did not know, I met her.  I became entangled in the one entity that it pained me to leave.  This is the game that life plays with us.  A flawless plan interrupted by a perfect possibility.
For the first time ever I stood completely unsure of the next step that I would take.  Finding my isle seat and settling in was supposed to be the release that I had waited so long for yet the electrical impulses firing from head to toe where made apparent by the physical manifestation of my trembling hands. I could leave my business, my friends, my home, my possessions, my life but could I leave her?  It was the second impossible flight in as many weeks.  I managed to survive the first, I can live through this one.
The wheels touch down and I am completely alone.  There is no one in this entire country that knows me, I know no one.  I step into the heat of the early morning in Central America with out the ability to request a cab or buy an apple.  I had hundreds of miles to go to make it to my destination.  Alone.  Completely.  Ten minutes of pacing leads me to sit upon a concrete slab and breath.  The world becomes easy in these moments.  I am alive.  I have no master, no deadline, no responsibilities.  The ever mounting uncertainty mimics the release of a volcano and as though the molten ash had been settled for generations, a soothing serenity washes over me.
My mind finds this transition as the exchange occurs, a colorful bill for a single beer from the shop by the beach leads to making long slow steps to its sandy greeting.  The repetitive beat of the music resonating from club speakers gives way to the push and crash of a rhythmic wave repeating it's caress of the shore.  For a lifetime this moment consumes.  Every salty inhale fills a chest with hope.  Just days ago there was such uncertainty, there was a consumption by nerves that the act of standing was arduous.  That moment elevated an expectation, it made every moment of unease that may present itself in the coming days as effortless as what to have for breakfast on Friday.
Was her nervousness different from that which I felt?  The feelings, I assure you, are ones that we both have yet there is not a glimmer of activity between these myelin sheaths.  For the fear of redundancy I must state that the reason for the lack of shimmer was not the result of a lack of emotion, this has in fact been all consuming of late.  There is no fear, however.  There is no question or lack of confidence, no apprehension or concern in this case.  There is no need to take a moment to sit and ponder the ramifications of all previous and potential actions.  This decision is simple for it's not a decision at all.  No warrior who commits his belly to a grenade considers it's consequence, he acts out of unwavering love, out of instinct and having previously been in situations where sacrifice was expected.  If this blast is to be the end of everything I once knew I more than welcome it.  I long for it to penetrate and consume all that it can.
To put it as simply as I can, to love her is not a choice and in turn produces no apprehension.  Breathing is not a choice, it does not warrant nervousness.

Oodles of doodles

A million eyes dance upon me
Their sweet soft serenade sings me to sleep
awake I am when alive in your arms, I am here
A breeze that pushes me to step
A scent familiar, superfluous longing
Pressed forward by the black river
Life lives in motion
To resist leaves heart and limb exhausted
Breath the stone, navigate it or rest upon it
Bathe in the twist and turn of intentional surrender
Do not care to care not, care to flow.





What walk is worth wanting
Vial venomous vituperations
Unanimous utopian euphoria
Tumultuous tyrants taunt tenebrous teens
Sediment settles
Redundant ridicule replaced by ridiculous reincarnation
Quite quiet quills
Preposterous porcupines pondering platitudinous plans
Obstreperous ossification overdone

The first

Concealed by the cover of night and tucked from sight
If open to enter, yet this eve my heart doth surrender
Too many hours spent resisting, the images of all I've been missing
Dance atop my thought and are emboldened by the last whiskey bought
The anticipation it's killing me, one more lean will set us free
Distance disappears until my pulse cheers
Rapid in step
Lips connect in jubilee when pressed to those of my dear Jenna Leigh.

Cash

I'll be your Cash if you be my Carter
You be the vest and I'll be the martyr
I'll be your gasoline just keep being my fire
You be the wheel baby, I'll be the tire
We'll go round and round this world together
I'll be the breeze, you be the feather
I'll be your urge if you be my desire
You be the art that I love to admire
You're already the lesson that makes me feel smarter
So I'll be your Cash if you'll be my Carter

A footprint in sand

Burning bridges with borrowed lighters.
Beyond bridges, a world ablaze.
Pitch black in the center of the flames
Bending time for the sake a rhyme.
living, dying, laughing, crying.


Burning bridges with borrowed lighters.
Procuring punches from professional fighters.
Running rampant with regret filled sorrow
Turing attention to today's tomorrow.


Place your stones upon my shoulders, I will carry them
Place your burdens a top those boulders let me grow weary with them.
Give me your fears and doubts and I will bury them.

The deadly breeze

That faint crackling of facia when pulled from flesh
That white connective tissue does well to adhere the skin to the meat
That is the sound my heart makes when I am made to separate from you
You are my skin.

Tito's gone

                His dusty boots stepped off of the back of the C17 cargo plane and made contact with American soil for the first time in six months.  In his left hand he clenched his M4 assault rifle, it was the only part of him that was free of the dirt of the war zone that he had just left.  He knew that it was his life line, the only thing that stood between him and the devil during so many of those midnight excursions that he had just executed.  He was a seasoned operator by this point in his carrier.  Hundreds of combat missions had left his gaze as hard and sharp as the knife he carried.  Over his right shoulder was a small pack slung with ease and filled with two bottles of water, some jerky and every letter that she had written to him during his time away from her.  The hard lines of his jaw were hidden behind a fierce beard that was needed to blend in with the indigenous population during so many ardous low profile missions.

                He pauses for a brief moment on the airfield to allow his lungs to fill with the scent of his homeland.  It is something that so many people take for granted, he thinks to himself, that simple smell of home and all that it means.  The smell of war was still fresh in his mind and this moment was the first easy one that he has had in some time.  His brothers passed by him under the cover of night on the way to the old white school bus that was picking them up at the airfield.   Each of them with their perfectly cleaned weapon and pack that looked small in comparison to their broad shoulders. There was no parade, no cheering crowd, no confetti, just a pitch black tarmac and the cloak of darkness that they had all grown so accustom to. 

                Most of the men joked and sang on the bus ride back to the compound, songs that would appall the most seasoned construction worker.  Their humor was hardened by the life style that they had volunteered for.  They were warriors and made no apologies about it.  As another verse began James quietly reached into his bag and pulled from it the stack of letters bound by an old piece of 5-50 cord.  As inconspicuously as possible he lowered his head slightly and took in another long, deliberate breath.  They still smelled like her.  Would she be there when he returned?  He hadn’t been able to reach her for the past week, even if he had he wouldn’t have been able to tell her that he was coming home.  That was the nature of his job.

                James had met Jenna in Las Vegas just over a year before.  She was a rare beauty that seemed to make the air thick and difficult to breath.  James was instantly impressed by her wit and ability to speak on everything that he found important in life.  Her playful brown hair bounced and flowed in such a way that would make any scarlet of the 1940’s jealous.  When James saw her eyes he swore that he saw a set of peals amongst the stars.  Her smile was so deliberate yet so uninhibited that it easily made the otherwise powerful man weak at the knees. She flowed with a charisma that, in all of his travels, he had never before seen. 

                The two danced carelessly and took shot after shot together, something that caused their careless dancing to increase significantly.  After several hours James went to get another round of drinks for the two of them but when he turned, to his terror, she was gone.  He hadn’t even gotten her name.  Here she was the most angelic thing he had ever laid eyes upon and she had just vanished like a modern day Cinderella.  Fate had a much different ending to their story than a brief encounter of a few dances.  They came to find each other online within hours of returning home.  The physical distance between them was of little consequence.  They messaged each other multiple times a day.  James would wait with anticipation for Jenna to respond to a funny text message.  Several times he found himself in the back room at a crowded party, deep in conversation with a girl two states away whom he had only met once.  On paper it didn’t make scenes but in his heart it was the only logical thing to do.   She quickly became his oxygen.

                Every chance they could they travelled to see one another until the time when James had to deploy again.  He needed someone to watch his home and take care of his dog while he was away.  His dog was a scruffy pound mutt that he rescued two years earlier that he had ironically named, Son.  She was tired of the grind of her job and wanted a fresh start.  In a move that was very untypical of her Jenna agreed to stay in James’ condo while he was away.  His place screamed of a military bachelor with a two thousand dollar flat screen on the wall and a hundred dollar couch.  There was nothing on the walls when she moved in and the plates may as well have been made of Styrofoam.  She didn’t mind though.  There was something about James that was so unique and magnetic that she had a childlike curiosity when it came to him.  She was drawn to him immediately and while she would never admit it she would do anything for him. 

                It was 1am when that old white bus came rumbling up to the 8 foot brown fence adorn with razor wire.  The men excitedly piled out one by one and made their way to the armory.  It was a familiar dance, turn in your weapon and night vision, get full accountability on sensitive items, and get a couple of shots from Doc and hope that the higher ups would let you go before the sun comes up.   During the process one of the snipers rolls out a keg and the men begin to sing as the cups get passed around.  James takes advantage of their distraction to move to the head of the shot line.  He has one thing on his mind and it isn’t Bud Light.  By 3am they boys are given the green light to go home.  By this point some are so drunk that they end up staying in the company area and sleeping on the concrete floor.  Not James, he ducks out to the parking lot to find his old Dodge pickup right where he left it six months ago.  As he pulls out of the gates the same old George Strait song starts playing in his CD player, it’s the one that reminds him of her, the one that he tortured himself with on the drive to the compound a half a year ago.  He had endured the most austere environments in the world but leaving her was single handedly the most difficult thing he ever had to do. 

                Every light was off as he pulled into the driveway.  His heart raced.  For the first time he allowed himself to think of all the danger and violence that he had embraced so that he could get back to her.  More than once over the past six months he was faced with a decision, take another man’s life or risk never seeing Jenna again.  It wasn’t something that he gave a second thought to in the moment.  Nothing would keep him from her.  Here he was now though, only a dozen meters from her and he realized how much he truly loved her.  She made him weak and strong all at the same time.  James quietly exits his truck and makes his way to the front door being careful to open it slowly because he knows that the hinge squeaks. Out of habit he kicks his dusty combat boots on the floor as his shaggy old dog, Son, comes to great him.  He smelled different though, he smelled clean.  As James’ eyes adjusted to the low light he noticed a few things.  There was paintings on the walls and a coffee table. 

                He flowed quietly through the house instinctually, an instinct created by hundreds of night time raids, flawlessly navigating around every warped floor board.  As he slowly pushes open the door to the bedroom he realizes that not only does Jenna sleep with a pistol, she is a very good shot.  The humor of surviving dozens of gun fights and coming home to be shot dead by the women you love is too much to not make James smile.  He takes his chances and pushes forward into the dim room.  After a time that feels like a longer than man has stood upright, he finally lays eyes on her.  The moonlight has traveled tens of thousands of miles to sneak through that window and fall perfectly on her cheek.  A trip that light would admit was well worth it.  The light grey blanket slowly rises and falls with her breath and James is paralyzed.  Nothing, in all of his travels, ever stopped him like that moment did.   He stood motionless for twenty minutes.  He felt a warm salty single tear roll down the right side of his face and into his beard.  The gaze that was once as hard and sharp as his knife melted into the sincerest look of admiration and love.  He took the final few steps to her bedside and kneeled beside her.  Gently James brushed Jenna’s brown hair behind ear touching her softly down the neck in the process.  She let out a faint moan and quietly said his name.  It was a sound that filled his heart with jubilee.  Jenna’s eyes slowly blinked open and looked up at the man who she had waited all this time for.  Even through his thick beard his smile was easy to see.  It shined through his eyes.  In the sleepy voice of a child Jenna, half asleep, asked, “James, are you home?”  As if she was dreaming.  A dream that she no doubt had every night for the last six month. 

                With his hand still on her neck he leaned closer and pressed his lips to hers.  Jenna’s  eyes opened as though she just received a shot of adrenaline when she realized that this was no dream.  Her hands moved up and found James’ body.  His ribs expanded when she touched him as though he was flung into freezing water.  He inhaled all of her in that moment.  As he did, she let out an intense moan pulling him on top of her.  While one hand pulled him into her the other moved to his head.  Her fingers flowed through his hair until she found enough to grab.  Her lower lip was clasped between his teeth with just enough pressure to not draw blood.  As his right hand clenched her hair his left hand slid down and felt her naked body beneath the sheet, trembling in ecstasy.  He traced the lines of her body as far down as his arm would allow him without parting ways with her divine lips.  No force on earth could keep their souls from each other in this moment.  She immediately found the collar of his top and removed it as though it was on fire.  Her hands danced on his unkempt chest.  There is a new scar laid a top the powerful muscle that she had come to know.  As he realizes her concern James grabs Jenna’s hand and moves it to his hip.  It doesn’t take long for that hand to find his belt.  Within a breath the belt and pants hit the lamp shade on the other side of the room.  The moonlight is all that separates the two lovers.  James’ muscular body hovers inches from Jenna’s.  With the head of his throbbing cock he can feel how wet Jenna has become in a matter of seconds.  He pauses, for what seems like an eternity, he pauses.  She can feel his heat as breathing becomes shallow.  Lips quiver in anticipation.  A mutual audible inhalation occurs as James slides every inch of himself deep into her.  Both are overcome with pleasure.  Jenna’s hands grasp his firm naked ass and pulls him into her again and again.  His left arm wraps firmly around the small of her back so that he can generate even more power.  His right arm clasps the back of her neck as his mouth moves to her neck.  In as stark of a contrast that can exist he gently and tenderly kisses the space just behind her ear as he violently thrusts himself deeper into her.   Jenna’s head tilts back as her back arches and her beautiful breasts are perfectly illuminated by the light of the moon.  Her thighs begin to tremble as she as breaths in deeply.  “Ohh my God!” she proclaims, “I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” 

                This was James’ favorite part, he genuinely enjoyed her ecstasy.  He lived for it.  Jenna’s entire body shook as her nails embedded themselves into James’ back.  He welcomed the feeling as he realized that he could no longer contain himself.  His coil becomes like an anaconda as James reaches climax.  He tries to pull out but she pulls him in deeper.  She wanted every bit of him in that moment.  As he took her ear in the clench of his teeth he cam with such force that Jenna’s nails sunk deeper into his back drawing blood.

                The adrenaline surging through his veins was tenfold what he had ever experienced in any fire fight.  No battle could compare to this.  Nothing could compare to her.  He felt himself shaking, their two bodies glistening with sweat and pleasure.  For an eternity they gazed into one another’s eyes, both realizing that there could never be a future without the other.  This was the moment that they both wished to echo throughout the remainder of eternity.  They would spend the next 24 hours exploring every inch of the other.  Not hunger or thirst or fatigue could part them.  They were completely perfect in that moment and would continue to be as long as one held the other. 

I'll take one for the other and work my way through this machine

the tongue swells and cracks in the short absence of hydration.  Three days, three years, it's all the same for the cells constructed of simplicity.  Two parts this, one part that, the language of our being mimics that of our soul.  Paradise a prison.  Humanity exists beyond the formalities of hello, goodbye and otherwise.  The complexity of exchanging pleasantries does as much to quench the thirst of a mind on fire as a cup of sea water does for amelioration of drought.



It's not starvation that brings a strong man to his knees, rather removal from the most basic of necessity.  Life breads life.  Exile, be it self induced or otherwise, results in a cognitive thirst without relief.  We must be cautious when building a cabin.  We must understand that replenishing one's cup is not a process ideal in isolation.  We must reach out our root regardless the distance between contact.  The drop of rain that falls upon our leaves is exciting not quenching.  For that patients is paramount.  Denying impulse, delaying gratification, allowing that drop to roll from our parched leaves into the soil so far away is the only sure way that it will touch our out stretched root.

perfección a través del silencio

"I'm writing again, these letters to you, not much I know.  But I'm not sleeping and you're not here, the thought stops my heart."

My day started with its typical grumble but as soon as my eyes pealed open a relief came over me until my arm stretched out in search of your body and when it wasn't there I realized that this cannot be paradise.  Utopia can exist only in your embrace.
Last night I experienced my greatest culture shock to date.  Not speaking the language, knowing the customs or shifting climates were all of little impact compared to the faces that I observe.  A hundred people in an open air bar, not more than 200m from the vastness of the ocean; there was something very odd to me about their expression.  Following 23oz of Imperial it came to me.  It hit me the way a breath of mountain air hits your lungs the first time you roll down the window on a long road trip.   100 faces and none had a digital glow.  Every human was engaged in the moment.  Silver pony tails and sun stained shoulders danced and sang as uninhibited as a nine year old let loose on the collected aftermath of a long rain storm.
My observations continue as another libation is delivered to my outstretched hand.  My initial count had this crowd at a hundred people which I now notice is not correct.   He was with her and her with him.  Those two dancing, those two singing, those two making eyes at each other in the corner and holding hands.  Body language reminiscent of a estranged lovers finally reunited after a fissure of time and distance.  No doubt a lifetime spent passing like ships in the night, seldom taking the time to appreciate their amalgamation so many years ago.
This moment is the greatest one in all of history, it is the only one that we control, it is the only one we feel, everything else is but a hope or memory.  We must take control of this blink for when the lid meets the cheek this moment is gone forever.  We posses a limited number of these blinks.  I  beseech thee, allow your gaze to fall upon those whom you hold in the highest regard before time steals your vision.  The greatest human experience is only as good as the souls you share it with; it's only a life if we live it.

LJJL

Certainty of life is that we will forever be changed by it, by those in it.
Those souls we touch, touch us.
When two souls touch
an illumination seen from space
When two souls touch  
an unacceptable separation is measured in meters.
When two souls touch
a world waits in whist
When two souls touch
an amalgamation of minds, a comfort found in reading aloud
When two souls touch
sustenance sustained sans snacks
When two souls touch
the deepest despair is distance
When two souls touch
a new life, a new light, a new love
When two souls touch.

An in-house Alchemy

A forked tongue tickles a miasmic atmosphere.  Sense of sight succumbs solemnly.  A necessary evolution where the serpent surpasses it's own strangling skin, a moment of molting.  Where it was once clear this world is now clouded.  An important stock to take note of in the face of vicissitude, No permutation is permanent.  We evolve beyond even our own skin growing and amalgamating into and beyond others.  Running from our problems will ensure that we remain asphyxiated by them.  Moving toward a solution is a far better race to run than flying from plight.  
There is necessity in the the act of dissolving of decaying and allowing the cycle of life to coagulate us once more.  I new version of our self constructed of all of its previous pieces and parts.  An ability suddenly presents itself to abandon the segments that have for some time caused a dissatisfying dissidence. In our reformation we are free to become all what we desire and shed all that shames.  We remove the scars of old skin and show the world our most brilliant scales.  A vibrant vehemence, visually vivacious and violently vituperous reincarnation of mind, body and soul.  This is the natural order of life.  Those who fight it are doomed to remain in the state of pre molting blindness, slaves to their own apprehension, prisoners to their own skin.














 


Does the caterpillar know it's destiny, does it know that flight is in it's future?

Taking flight,

Arms extend and receive the sun.  The warmth and everlasting light of such an embrace fills my cup.  Lips part and eyes narrow.  The fearful nervous anticipation dissipates as conversation flows without seam.  Intersecting interstates of tangled limbs display a road map of an interaction previously unincountered.  Minutes are months yet the clock mocks.  A painful knowledge that this perfect thing would have to end hangs like a shadow.  As we move it follows and reminds us that time is not ours, we do not own it we simply borrow it.

Finding ourselves in parking lots.  The limits we will take, the birth of an emotion.
A wonderful world it is where we are free to experience all that compels us.  Confined only to the limits of our own unnecessary timid tendencies.  Free to move free to feel.  Free to hurt and free to heal.  This dance is about more than stumbling through encounters, the purpose, to feel every bit of our most painful moments.  Without them we are safe yet lost.

We would do well to take example from those finned creatures that despite their lack of wings take attempt at flight.  Breaking free from the barrier of their own world if only for a brief moment.  When a life is spent immersed in an ocean the salt of a single tear is of no consequence but that single moment in the sun is divine.  It s why we leap.

With all the surgical sterility and accuracy of a butcher hacking the limb of next weeks special an abdominal incision is made.  An eviceration of unparalleled violence.  When the end trails are removed and replaced with a shovel load of hot coals, a new burning emptiness replaces appetite.  Wounds cauterized so as to not be fatal yet burn in such a way that death would be a welcomed event. In your absence I bite through my own tongue.  The bright red blood still lacks taste.  Life lacks levity. The vastness of the Rocky Mountains have never appeared so hideous.  Nothing feels like this... This sinking falling crashing boiling burning empty mess.

In the order of things a single embrace of such magnitude is worth a lifetime of this consequence.

My Pearl of the Stars

I saw today a vastness in a pair of pearls.  A galaxy existing between lashes.  A birth and life and death occurring between the shutter of a blink. If I could bring arbitration with death I would plead to drown in a single tear produced by the lucid truth of those windows.  In this my demise would be my finest hour.  A dimness unknown and a depth unimaginable.  As if there was a secret hidden lucent luminous lustrous light lingering upon the lowest levels of the depths of the deepest darkest sea.
Hope oh hopeful hope.  We reside within you, a world unknown. The solace of solitude severed for a certain salvation secured.  Angelic elevations of a breath unknown and a world unseen.  Perfection may be birthed in naiveté but its growth resides in expansive understanding and mutual stride.
Does intrepidity insist on isolation or can we call on collaboration from confidants?

It's time for life and living it.  It's time to take the bat from your shoulder and swing wildly into the night.  The time has come to deliver yourself from a preconceived notion of inadequacy and plow through the walls of self doubt that have formed your prison internal.  We are all  imperfect but it is in those imperfections that true beauty resides.  The complexity of life can only be eclipsed by the sheer inspirational beauty that it presents.  We have one life, one chance, one opportunity to drain the tank and show the world our resolve.  Now is the dawn of our tomorrow and it is your responsibility to embrace every painful, joyful, despicable, wonderful moment of it.  The sting of coming up short is felt only by those who took the leap, who challenged their own boundaries and in doing so created new self expectations.  This is a process, it doesn't happen all at once but for those willing to travel beyond their own comfort zone there is a reward the sheltered will never know.  This is the day of our provocation, this is our revival. 

It's late and I'm tired yet willingly I would stay awake for days just to not miss a single smile.  It's a magic glowing thing when engaged in my direction.  This tight rope that I'm on seems less of a challenge and more of a crux with each reckless step and I'd dive head first if I knew which direction was up.  There are so many things that I can never hope to understand, so many pieces of the puzzle that may never fit and forcing them will leave you sitting back admiring a work void of meaning.  Life may exist beyond the gentle stroking of these keys but that is where it is contained to at this moment.