Wonderment

Of stoic oceans and raging seas

A lived lifetime or perhaps, seventy-three

As the sway in the trees 

The darkest moon I’ve even seen

And starlight covering these

Silver shines the past and future for me

The blustery gale murmurs into a breeze

How can this be?

I sense it, just as the princess and the pea

I am never alone, because of thee

Of frigid oceans and calm seas

All the stars guiding the trees

You are never alone, because of me

One Of Them

You came up to me After your dance with a man I saw that look in your eyes You were one of them. You grazed my hand I told you to apologize You said you didn't have to I decided to make you. In a swift motion I turned around And bashed your head Onto the ground. I leapt onto your body Your screams echoing uselessly As I grabbed a nearby chair And bashed it into your head. Once Twice And then the blood came It splattered out warmly onto me. Sweat in my eye As I stepped from you I ran my hand across my chest And prayed to God. "I saved this heathen from Hell My lord After all He's one of them."

Hope On The Floor

I feel so dirty, so lost in time. The lies I said just hours ago, melted into fake acts that are marred to my skin. I've lost count of how many times—five or so—that I let my heart die so my sin can be released. As always, I lie on the floor. I stare at the ceiling and pray that this won't be the day that I die of my own treacherous blood. But I've broken so many pacts; so many rules . . . I think it would be deserving to let my soul wither and die as the tears leave my tainted eyes. And this is how it goes. "Let me survive, God. I'll never do it again," I mutter as I struggle to move. I know he won't listen, I've weaseled my way out of my promises before; but still, I cling to flashes of hope. I wonder if when I move from this filthy floor, will my hope be left with the crying ghost of my innocence?

Moon

There's an old man walking the streets. He waves at all, regardless of the season. His face is weathered and gray, as is his beard. Only, his eyes remain bright—like the vibrant moon hiding behind clouds of white. I don't know his name, I'm not sure if anyone did. But he'd wave with a hearty hand in the air and you'd wave back, not certain if you should be as chipper. Thing is, I only saw him on certain days, and absolutely not on a full moon. Once, I asked someone about him. "I don't know," they said. Either this man was guarded or visible only to those that wanted to see him. One day, I leapt from my truck as I saw his familiar red, plaid shirt. I ran through the orange and brown autumn leaves, because I had to know his secrets, to know his name. I approached him cautiously, but when he smiled at me and his eyes lit up like fire on a winter's night, I held out my hand. "I don't think we've met." My smile was earnest and my hand rigid. But the old man just stared at me. Not a cold stare, but just a stare. He smiled as my grin faltered. Did I offend him? I don't know how it happened, but I left my town and the old man. I didn't come back until many years. I asked around for the curious old man, but none even knew what I was talking about. He has vanished from their thoughts, either out of ignorance or selfishness. The orange and brown leaves were all familiar as I solemnly marched the sidewalk like I did years ago. I was home for Christmas, so the decorations were comforting; albeit a bit lonely without snow. It was then when I looked up. My breath escaped from my lungs in quick bursts of white puffs as the clear sky held the full moon. It was bright, vibrant and kind. It was then I realized, I knew the man. I knew his secret. I smiled from ear to ear as my face warmed to the blue light of the moon. He still walked the streets and he still waved at people, regardless of the season, just in a different way. I raised my hand and gave a hearty wave as a burst of wind whipped around me. In it, leaves tickled my face. The old man wasn't gone, he was always there and always will be, I just had to look in the right place.

Winter Möbius

The scene was dry, even though snow covered the land. Specks of white matter glowed in bright flashes, signaling my mission. Like the filament of a light bulb, this person's life flared hot until it died upon the snow. So here I am, to clean it up. I scratched a wet spot on my head, the snow was falling very hard this evening. Under the fresh snow—as if hiding his deeds—callous stars of red liquid poked out glaringly. A black object, most likely a pistol, fell at his head opposite the stars. I quickly played the scene out in my head. The man walked out into this field of white crystals as a gun tapped his leg. I know the pistol was cold in his hands, after all, that always happens. I imagine a tear left his eyes as he saw the fading remains of lights in the distance become devoured by the growing mist of gray fog. Soon after, his trembling fingers commanded the gun to his head and then— BANG! I winced as the sharp sound of frustrated dreams temporarily deafened my right ear. Instinctually, I raised my hand to my ear and felt cool liquid on my fingertips. "The snow's melting already?" I mouthed as my fingers demanded my utmost attention. In the falling snow, I stared at my fingers—dark matter smeared across their minute ridges. I stared as a snowflake tried to rest on my warm palm. Only, it didn't. It continued to fall through my hand as the fading lights in the distance bounced off its exterior like a warm lover losing his love. I curiously watched the snowflake mingle with its frozen brethren as I realized I would slowly become one with the land of dry snow.

Fade Away

There are moments where one feels a deep connection with the world; like nature whispering the totality of knowledge in rapid staccato. It's a strange event, like we can see the future and taste the past, but it's also disturbing. Emotions start to build like lava in a volcano and then they just erupt—smiting everything in its path until only the hollow volcano is left. I'm of the mind that this connection is because one has met a soul that is like theirs and when the two resonate, something happens that transcends what is corporeal; what is reality. The greatest sorrow in the world is the splitting of love, of bonds. Like the splitting of an atom, this intrusion upon purity is met with a tear. Life is a delicious concoction of violence and generosity, joy and fear, singing and dread. Dancing with tears in your eyes is more than a song title; it's a complete state of existence. The wars in our hearts over sanity is complex, beautiful and completely tragic. A single moment never shapes us nor does the screaming echo of repeated failure. All we are are the culmination of memories; tactile experiences. You're the product of falling off a bike and getting back on the road. Of waking up in the morning next to someone you don't love. Of cradling the dead because we can't bear to be alone in this emotionally devoid world. We rage. We cry. We feel everything. Despite living through similar ordeals we never know what to so say to one another. It's all new when it's not our own. In unison, we are alone. When a connection is severed it's hard to feel anything but betrayal. An aching despair just devouring everything pure and decent in the world. The earth is bloodthirsty, you see. We die, we leak the very fluid that keeps organic beings alive only for the planet to gobble us back up. Life is cruel, it is savage and it is uncaring about our whims. Everything we do must be in respect to this and in fact, in response to this. We take photographs to remember those who are free from this darkness only to have the sun bleach the artifacts of happiness. Memories are stolen from our minds by disease and trauma. Time doesn't heal all wounds. They simply fade away.

Cup Of Memories

The coffee pot beeps off and I know it's been hours since I've seen you. My cup is still full. Catching up after 10 years seemed impossible but we did it in a span of a Saturday morning. The sun brushed against the fall leaves. Sometimes, i wonder if we'll be torn completely apart. Then I stare at the steam from my cup. It rises to become one with the air . . . never truly gone. Escaping into something larger than itself. The brisk wind jostled the trees like you did my heart. I lean back and my chair creaks. Groaning under the weight of lost thoughts and evaporated days. Never gone. We get older and I still see your smile as we sat the bank of the ditch; your bright eyes crinkled into adolescent joy. The clock above my sink ticked. You had to leave early to pick up your daughter. I met her once but that was when she was still in diapers. I knew her before English was a concept to her and still, I said "I love you" when the time called for it. I shrugged at the changing weather outside my home. Here, I sit. Tapping at a table where we once laughed around. The remaining chairs are empty and it's just me and my coffee. I stare at my cup of memories. It's still full.

Continuum

Mists of storm clouds hovered above the mountains, swimming ever faster over my head. I walked faster. I supposed you would have too. The wind curled around my neck and I felt the chill of something more heading my way. I wonder if that's what it feels like? Can you tell me? Can anyone help me? I raised the crimson hood around my frozen ears. It dulled the strengthening gale. My hands were sluggish from the cold but I didn't care as I popped my knuckles unknowingly. crack Witnesses mentioned that sound. It wasn't a sickening crunch or a moist slap. Just a crack. A bit like lightning. My eyes popped to the sky. crack I shook the stiffness from my hands and approached the street corner. Left, right. Since the storms came, people lingered less in the streets. Since the event, I linger ever more. Puffs of steam billowed from my mouth as I soldiered on. Did you wake up today feeling something besides the rush of air in your lungs? The call of the bathroom or the blubbering of the coffee pot? It must be an imperative, then. You weren't ever foolhardy. Never unkind. Never uncouth. My hood raised up from the wind and my increasing pace. It reminded me of how a dog's ears will prick when something is in the air. I stepped on a twig. crack Did it whisper to you to leave your home? To enter that road at that exact moment? I stopped at another corner. Through quickening afternoon mist, flashing lights in the distance pierced through the haze like moonlight off a satellite. An ambulance sped past me as cars veered out of its way. At the corner, I stopped and peered back to see how far they went. My brow furrowed. In the distance, a small crowd gathered around the now stopped ambulance. My hand was still. On the ground, was a person wearing something dark. Something red. Without thinking, I took a step off that corner and heard a crack.

Brave

It's the advent of destruction that tests character. The eve of pain and misery is rife with crows, banshees and other things that go bump in the night. But bump they will, for their incessant howls and jowls will never cease, never tire. And they want to devour you whole. The snow will flurry and cover all, murdering nature and leaving trees barren. Warmth will be hollowed out with nothing left but puffs of oxygen by those who brave the cold. Those with fortitude to stand tall and face the arctic wind head on, even with tears freezing your smile. It's not the pain that powers our perpetual motion machines known as "the heart". It's the desire to keep living. To beckon the past and reflect on the future. Time is not linear, reality is not a line. it's an ouroboros, never sating its appetite for its own hatred and grief. Our simple mortal shells live in a state not unlike the mobius strip: never ending, always circling. In this circle, it's the desire to bargain with the powers that be to regain sanity. This is contingent on this act being egalitarian, as if the one with the power will budge. As if the bargainer has any leverage. And that's what it is. That we are more than what we are. We cry. We love. We sleep. We eat. A day unchanging happens to be the most important piece of eternity in the universe of self. The ocean of time is crossed not with pirate ship, but with a raft floating along with nothing but the power of hope. Peel away the layers of the crying onion to find the place of destiny. The layer of truth so exact and glittering with verisimilitude that all will silence. Each carapace molting into another fragment of history. Tear to the center searching for the way to return to safety. Find the quiet inside to survive. Listen to the world murmur into nothing and watch the trees cover your aching body. Feel the pulse of humanity which binds us all, yet leaves us alone. Most of all, depend on love to nurture the lost pathways. Be brave, heart. Be brave.

Dusk

Mountains are blanketed with a graying haze. An airy quilt to warm their noses. The setting sun slices through treetops. My vision is blurred. I raise my hand, a cover. The light fades stronger yet, quicker now. Yellow to silver. The air chills. My heart stills. The sun wraps the haze over its head. Hiding monsters away, so far away. Moon is revealed. Yellow to silver. The hurting day shudders for reprieve The moon watches, the stars cackle. I am patient. Ever so patient. Steadfast, I guard the embers of light. Across my eyes, the vestiges flicker. Yellow to silver.

Only Human

In the dreams of men digging in the dirt for sustenance lived a world of wondrous things. Their waking hours knew nothing, yet the potential of humanity coursed through them just as sure as blood in a vein. Through slain beasts, conquered physics and broken barriers the impossible has been not only achieved, but created. One constant has remained: the fear of darkness.

Speaking contemporarily, we still dig in the earth searching for sustenance of a different source. We no longer fear the night, but gaze upon it studiously. Comets fly above and we watch their beautiful lives and we still know nothing. Sleeping machinations conjuring forgotten worlds powers our generation, forging an unknown future. Our shadows will darken the past.

We've extended our hearts, broadened our vision and strengthened our hearing. Metallic Frankensteins roam the planets in orbit digging through the dirt. These shells belong to us and none other. Satellites are launched and data is gathered. We piece together all we can. We raid planets and leave our shadows on other lifeforms.

The solitary mind sees nothing but potential: dark and light. The sun blinds all around it; the moon hides most of its life. Staring into the heart of humanity will tear a soul apart. In this duality, there is solace. In the breeze of an autumnal day, peace is achieved. In the snow of winter, calm is discovered. In the heat of life, joy is brandished.

What is most revealing, however, is darkness. Sit and listen to the owls. Hear the crickets fiddle their lonely songs. Feel the night air cover like a shawl. Stare into the sky and see the moon slice through the black. Count the stars in its wake. Count the cries you hear. A howl, a moan, a bellow.

The wolf raises its head toward the sky not in reverence but in search. We all howl for others. We search for solace and beg for peace. Through the night, the men who hid for cover and cowered at the unknown revealed their true selves. Potential is nothing without the embrace of safety.

When the moon wanes and lurks behind trees cresting a dark mountaintop, we fear the totality of darkness. We fear being alone. We fear the same things. But, if we are patient. If we wait and hold steadfast, we will raise our eyes to the sky. We will see glittering stars. Shimmering pieces of light that are comets, asteroids, fancy space dust. We will see our true selves. Golems of beings long ago held together by a galaxy of emotions and experience.

We are star-stuff.

Resolve

Some days, I'm struck with an aching sadness that permeates all. It feels like the entire world is unknown to me and I am merely a foreigner. An alien in my own skin. The clothes won't fit and neither will a fake smile. So I stay inside. It's not always like that. More often than not, I'm prancing around making memories worth savoring. Pretentiousness vanishes on these days. These good days. These days where I throw open a window and hear life. But, then I remember. That summer when it went away. That summer when I felt life torn from me as I lay crumpled on the floor like filthy laundry: wet from the day and stinking from the indiscretions. Things sound differently. A bit more hollow. A thousand times I told myself the story. A thousand times it ends the same way. Somberly. The sun was bright that day but inside I was dark. I was tainted. I was without worth. Days like today, I fight that urge to stay inside. To lock the door, cover the windows and cry huddled in the corner of a bed. At this point, I know the tears are reactionary. Back then, they were survival. Some nights, I wake and stare into the blue abyss. I hear cars. I see the dark trees scrape across the stars. And I feel nothing. I hurt to feel nothing. Those moments, I am weak. I am nothing. I am but vacuity. I don't mean the freshness of open thought but the encircling void of good, the lack of all that is life. That's when I have to shut my eyes and hope for sleep, because if another minute in that state passes. . . . And I wake to the same scene. Those days aren't as often as they used to be. Time doesn't heal all wounds and rarely does darkness lighten with chronological passage. To put it lightly, it's erosion of the soul that occurs. Outside has weathered so much that the inner core is strong; it's age, it's hope, it's survival. Events such as these aren't tests, they're shit luck. So I ground myself whispering, "I'm fine", until it becomes reality. And I rise to a day which is a little less brighter than the last. I see a smile that's a little less strong than my teenage grin. I feel a piece of me lost for eternity. It will never return and I have to live with this. I have to live. I have to.

Purgatory

His voice echoed through the hall. She listens, absentmindedly. Forks clinked against cheap dinnerware from Bi-Mart as a light breeze brushed across the table cloth. The flower in the vase sways lightly. It was another bright afternoon. The morning was spent cooking for lunch, so many delicious things! Now, their taste mirrored the empty white walls. A silver chair leg shimmers as it scooted toward the light. He gesticulates; he the teacher, his fork the pointer, she the student. Her eyes narrowed. Her fork darted across the plate. It scraped. The windows were open but it was silent outside. Nothing but the light washing over the room. She paused to sip from her glass. She contemplated assurances. He bemoaned political correctness. As she set the glass down, a figured darted a corner, toward the door. It was dark. The walls whispered to her. She excused herself and he continued speechifying. Continued to stuff food into his face. The fork begged for air. Her white clothes billowed around her light frame as she followed the dark figure. The breeze pushed her as easily as it had the flower. The hallway continued. As did she.

A Boy And His Death

I've always liked this character and he's part of a much larger story. This isn't even part of the story in question but was a fun thought exercise. A dry, July breeze lumbered through the cracked window. The maroon curtain knocked against the sill and let beams of sunlight stretch across his desk. He sat on the bed, arms limp and back curved toward the closed door. His sheets were damp and his thoughts were heavy. On the floor, a trail of blood led the way to him and to the box cutter near his feet. Splatters of drying red began to flake off his naked skin. He didn't time it like he used to. He had stopped doing that years ago. His thumb ached from where the box cutter had slipped from his wrist after the first cut and clattered to the hardwood floor. Slithering lines of blood began to harden. "Fuck". He muttered as the deepening line on his wrist began to burn. it's always after when he feels it, when the adrenaline wears after every intent, every violent thrust of the now jagged blade. His back cracked as he lowered his arm to pick up the cutter, to etch yet another failed attempt into his headboard of darkness. Because, it wasn't the attempt that failed; it was the staying dead part.

Time's Distillation

Early August night. Clouds are red from encroaching autumn. The sky is gray, the color of indecision. I breathe. Headlights in the distance round a corner, onto my straight road. Exhalation. Trees rustle against the sky, the apathetic heavens. Grass crunches under the paws of running dogs. Once green, now yellowing from heat. Rhythm. I close my eyes. The red clouds melt into blackness. A moon sees everything.

Silence

I didn't know how to approach it. Played it over so many times, it was as trite as that very phrase. I explained as best I could, hands trembling. Fingers threaded against each other. It's hard to explain apathy . . . the lethargic sense of nothing that stems from deep despair. But, I did the best I could. I mentioned that I planned it so someone could take care of the dog, even filled the bowl full of more food than necessary. Just in case. I didn't know what to expect when I put the sheet around my neck. As I turned against the dark thoughts, I felt closer than ever to something that was neither peace nor torment. It was a second of rushing clarity. I saw the past for what it was and the future that never would. My heart pounded in my ears louder than ever possible. I still turned. Both realities crumbled, inching closer to the nothing that I sprung from and would hope to enter sooner than later. I remarked that hope in these situations is . . . ironic at best. I don't know when I stopped. For all I knew, this was all there was. Afterlife was more of the same. Wouldn't that just be the worst? Is it the worst? How does one define "worst?" Others certainly had it worse than I ever will. Does that diminish myself? Am I lesser in a self-fulfilling prophecy? What kind of tenuous bullshit would that be. No can know the feelings of wishing for it every night. Every day. Every second. It's like thirst only completely different as well. All this, I explained. And more. Far more than necessary. I took a drink. Caught my breath. And waited for a response. I exhaled and the scene before me fogged like a autumnal morning. My reflection smiled and I knew. I knew what the reaction was. Nothing at all explains everything.

Drive

I drove last night. Doesn't matter where, how long or even why. It wasn't the journey. Certainly not the destination. It was experience. To see the shadows. Witness to the the dancing lights and creatures of darkness. The snow began to fall and I saw a sign: "stop" And I did. I Stepped out on the lonely midnight road. Crunched in the fresh cold. I held out my hand made out the snowflakes falling and melting in my warm palm. It was surreal to think that something so warm would destroy something so beautiful. The snow continued to fall and I peered at the dots in the distance. Porchlights. Beacons of life. Pinpricks of headlights. I turned to switch off the truck, its hum far too loud. In the noiseless void that followed I waited. I heard the heartbeat of eternity in the dark hour. For once in my life, I listened.

Mourning Broke

The moon skittered from the encroaching sun as stars melted into the gray five am morning. Lights flickered in houses unknown, their occupants readying their day. Streetlights began to sleep for the day. Morning was breaking and so was I. I don't know when the cold started. Or the sleepless nights. Or the yearning need to stare into existence, hoping to will meaning from nothing. Part and parcel, one would dare say. I shivered. Even though summer was young, I no longer was. The dewey mornings had a chill and I steadied my shaking body to adjust the beanie on my head. I buttoned the top of my jean jacket. I was dressed like a transient. But I wasn't going anywhere. A car roared to life in the distance. I saw headlights create a quick shadow across a stray dog. My deck croaked as I shifted my weight again, this time to see the sun cresting the mountains. My eyes lit with fire from the awakening day. So many things found it easy to be alive. And I felt nothing. The dark sky washed into a pale blue. I wanted to feel something, but that's very difficult when one has been stripped of peace. Nothing could calm me. When the depression started, I slept more than enough. I couldn't even do that properly anymore. When I tried, I would see . . . see everything. And it was a horrifying abyss of emptiness. It was existential, it was a crisis, it was nothing. I didn't want to die, I didn't want to l live, I didn't want anything. But I was growing. Today, I stepped outside. Today, I wanted something. My hand cradled the cup of coffee I had purchased from the gas station barely an hour ago. It was lukewarm. Like this very morning. I wanted warmth, physically and spiritually. I ached to find meaning again. To have a night where I didn't gaze into the very nothingness of our planet. It was small, but I was analyzing a fragment of anything. As the last star in the sky fell into a blue stupor, I realized that we are nothing and it was glorious. Specks of light in the sky could be from a dying star. Could the light from my eyes be from a dying soul, an essence gone supernova? How brilliant! To shine just before expiration! And it was in this, I smiled. I sipped my coffee. It was bitter but very sweet. One day, my mourning will break.

Conversation

"I know you care." I smiled and brushed the blanket off my shoulder. The cool spring melted into a hot summer and the evenings no longer required a blanket, but I still liked having it for comfort. "But, those are just words." Shrugging, I turned and stared out the window. The 10 o'clock full moon shone brightly across the hay field. Freshly cut, it smelled of sweet labor and musty earth. The complete opposite of the watermelon smell of just cut grass. A light breeze trickled through the screen and I closed my eyes. It was cool. It was needed. "It's always words with you." I turned and faced my reflection. The mirror was silver in the moonlight. My reflection smiled back, silently miming every word.