Broken Winged

(Somewhere in the Country, 2009)

Take a walk, fall apart and start it all up again.

From arrow tips and to deadly ends,

Poison darts to rough starts.

False beginnings and unpaved roads.

Unsettled waves and underground flows.

All of the above and a few who knows,

Counter balance who you were (for who you be),

For the future of prophecies and the most personal of legacies.

Like cookie crumble,

Jumble to be bumble, and ramble of the old ways.

For future days, rest for peace,

At least it ain't done.

Until winding suns, crossed-fades, and hey-days of hades.

A life time of maybes, the or to the yes and the no,

To be an outsider and to be in-the-know.

In-between the forest and the machine,

The manchete in the hand,

A strike for a stand,

To fall again,

True value is in getting back up.

Step up, broken heel to a limp,

Blood moist, damp, then vent.

Now saying what,

Now saying this.

Twenty-four years is this,

Too many years of that.

It's more than matter,

And it's more than a fact.

Each step, each break,

It takes more, and with each a shade, a split of core.

It gets harder, harsh, and tarnished.

Prism of shattered light vanish.

Into the thin and thinning,

Losing, taking, breaking, and fading.

Apart from this,

And apart from that.

Each a stroke, a failure, a joke, and a chance of fat.

Of mine, of yours, separate, equal, divided as we fall.

Knockle and skull,

For all and all.

Like a stranger and a friend,

We do this over (again and again).

Fragmented this, of bliss, of creation.

Phased out and phasing,

A peak in it's raising.

Soar like eagle,

Taunt like metal.

How I wonder how it all...

Now saying what,

Now saying this.

Twenty-four years is this,

Too many years of that.

It's more than matter,

And it's more than a fact.

For Other Things (i can't help)

(Aurora, 2009)

I try too hard (but if I didn't try hard enough then I feel didn't really deserve it). But that's not the world we live in, it's me trying.

I'll keep at it. With everyday. And soon it will be something else I try at. Because in the end, all that effort can be rewarded with either success or failure, and most of the time I feel like I had no say in the results (they just happen).

So I'll continue trying, if you don't mind, because if I didn't I'll just be sitting around with my hands in my pocket, kicking pebbles off the road.

The Forest Where Trees Fall (but no one's around to hear them fall)

(Triangle, 2009)

1) My uncle Gaaaa once told me, "A fart in your room when no one's around is a fart that is no fun."

2) I used to roll around in a human ball on my carpet until I rolled over my sister's mouse.

3) Billy and I used to make fires down by the ravine until I heard my neighbor's fence burnt down.

4) I kissed Mary when she was sleeping, I thought she was faking it, but she wasn't.

5) I use the walls of my closet to write naughty words, but they're more sad than naughty.

6) When I grow up I want to be architect so I can build homes that aren't falling apart.

7) I wish I could close my eyes and disappear.

8) If I could have any ability, besides from flying, I want to be able to talk to anyone, in any language, and understand them.

9) I think there should be an encyclopedia of every scar there ever was.

10) I hope I don't get old and forget where I put things.

and 11) If I could fly I could never tell anyone about it.

Smoke, Mist, and SFXs

(Just. Like. That. (in sexy night mode), from Reminiscence, 2008-2010)

I keep telling myself, one of these days (with rolling fist). I think I just might be full of love, and once in a while it might just be too much for me. I am overwhelmed, I hit the ground, and that's probably how I really bum'd my knee. There's some songs that come into my ear, bypass my brain, and make their way to my heart. Your name, your face, your memory do that to me with some much force I almost poop myself. I'm sorry if that is crude of me to say, if it is naughty and nasty, I am a disgusting person, a pervert and a loner. But if I were to die today, please tell me you'd remember be as an honest person (I think its the only thing I really try hard at it).

Sing me a song, let me sleep in your arms, and let me steal some more of your time.

I wish I could just be a little voice for you. I wish I could be that voice from behind the curtain. I want to be all mist and special effects, in full echo and intensity. Because once you're behind, once you see my face, I'll be a smaller man who doesn't fit the part. Kinda like hearing your favorite book was written by a serial murder of kittens, I sometimes like just knowing someone by their words.

That's all I have to say.

-b

b.o.n.e.r.s (which you give)

(I Wish You Were Here, from Reminiscence, 2008-2010)

Like all good things we had to put an end to this. Sorry to be said, without you I'd be dead. Set to stone, farewell you drone, now let's kick the road and go ...home. Bury me with a ton of trees, but not from ones which haven't fallen. Pick these (points to some dead trees), and if there's a house to be built, build it instead. For real, this time and the next, there's better use for waste, better taste for your haste, and sugary toothpaste (it hurts to tell you this).

I was never good at any of this, you know it better than me. I'm just, a just a little bit; a tweed and tot, havenot and forgot. I am history to me, and to you I am a past which is hidden by your shadow. For me, and to you, for I am growth that happens beyond your eye, like fungus, mushroom bloom and dances in your childhood room. Never to say what I am about to say, again, yes, with reverb and hiss, a little off the top, and always off the topic. I wish, you pray, one day, we, will, be this, transform to that, and grow like roots, digging toes into a sinking sands of a tide-washed beach. 1 and 2, a 3, a four, and a 1, 2, 3, FOUR, you know the score, let's do this to the fullest (let's do it hardcore).

Again my friend, you know the drill, with matching vannypacks and bootstraps. Panty hoes and low-blows. Oh! if anyone knows how this goes, it just has to be you, I know it is you, all blue, all red, all yellow, and all black (& white). For your delight, at your disposal, my face, your western front, and we're getting all quiet, before our storm.

Come on baby, hit me (just once, and again, one more time).

...

Repeat!

2bYNG-AGN

(Kawaki & Lawrence and the rock the brings the luck, Halawa Valley, Molokai, HI, 2009)

I am so awful. Awfully shy, awfully awkward, and awfully strange; the only place I feel like I fit is when I fail to fit in.

When I asked my mother if I will ever stop being so darn confused about everything, my mother told me: probably never, but that's a good thing. You just get older, and things get more complicated, but it's all the same (really), just in adult-size. But this time I don't get a little toy at the end of this meal; a meal I had to pay for; a money I had to earn; and a wallet I had to steal (not really, that just sounded nicer).

THIS GETTING OLDER BUSINESS NEVER REALLY GETS ANY BETTER (at least I don't think it does, but if it did, that would be nice (even for just a day)).

I started biking a lot recently, even when I'm not on a moving bike (stationary), and when I'm really going at it, I mean, like going the distance, and I'm passing everyone on the street, or I'm seeing people come in to ride beside me, and see them look at the miles I got on my display, and they look tired, and then leave; I feel young again. Not a young that is found when feeling old, because I'm not that old, but a young that is found in childhood. I remember that kid, he was the fastest runner around. All the kids would look fat and unhealthy to this (points to his chest with the only pride he has) kid. Because back then; back in the day, it was all about that. It wasn't about how much you can bench, or how many holes you dug; it was about how fast you can run, how long you can hold your breath (I'm no good at that), and having the best ghost stories around (I'm still pretty good at that, I did live in a haunted house after all).

I'm talking that youth, that kid, and those times; in these times, with these faces, and all that I have as a human. THIS AIN'T NO BOOK, THIS AIN'T NO MOVIE WITH A CLEVER NAME, THIS IS LIFE ("AND IT IS ALL HAPPENING RIGHT NOW")

So check it out now, because THIS funk is your brother!

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt.12

(My mother swims with a diver's weight belt and a knife, 2009)

W.D.Y.W.F.M?

What happens when the thing that once made you happy makes you sad? How do you deal with seeing their face, hearing their voice, and all of their gestures and imperfection that make them, them? Is it the contrast of who you once were, in a memory with them, in comparison with who you are today?

It hurts to know I used to dream more, that I saw a world with more possibilities, and had more enthusiasm. It is the before and after that gets to you, the knowing that the world was once greater and fuller of promise, and now all you have are memories with no real insurance of the future (oh, uncertainty). But what is left once all the cookies are crumbs? The answers aren't here today, and sure there is something to be learned from our past, but what I'm getting at here is that the future is where's it at. For shiny stars and futuristic landscape, where deer roam the field with robot-version deer, and where we picture ourselves happy again. Let yourself dream again, and escape this reality of today for another in future-tense. See the future as not something as far-fetch but as something that seems far-gone because it is that much different from today. And ultimately, see it as the opposite of how you see your past, and all your favorite memories to your detached present; letting the contrast fill you with hope.

Because it could happen, it could be true, and it isn't as ridiculous as wild as your imagination could be, or how your dreams see fit, because once we're there, in the future, it will no longer be the steps before us, and that once contrast will be the difference between yesterday and today. Once we're there, once we're happy again, and everyday starts with a burst of unknown excitement, we'll know we earned each and every moment of this and that, and everything; with each tear, and each fight, we earned the rite to be happy, to let our faces smile on their own.

Let the good times roll on.

Outreach Program

(October 17th, The Wedding of Lawrence and Eva, 2009)

I used to do this thing where I have someone stand before and I reach my arm as far as it could go. My closed hand would hover an inch away from their face, and I'd tell them to be as still as possible. I'd throw my fist at them over and over and miss them perfectly. Never once have I punched someone in the face from this act.

I have a cigar, a gift from Cuba from a friend, that I have been sitting on for a while now. I keep it hidden in a fake cigar box (McSweeney's 19th issue) for a time of celebration. The fact it still rests in that box, with the odor of Cuban tobacco seeping into the pages that fill the box, I wonder when such a time for cigar victory will be mine. When will I grasp the day, and call it my own. When will I look at my past with a grin knowing little of the harder times, the sadder times, the nothing-really-going-on times? When will I forget this little person I am today, when will I leave this plane of existence for another? When will evolution be not a thought or idea, but a means of living?

I see a face or two a day, that brings me to thoughts of possibilities. I ask myself if I am strong enough, if my foundation is still well held, and if my soul has enough calcium. I want to be that person who is a double figure before me, with all my thoughts as a separate vessel. I want that image to float before me, as I carry on, trying to reach what is there.

And where quotes are said,

"I'd rather chase an illusion than my own shadow."

Last Minute Valentine

Hello,

you,

stranger or friend,

or perhaps relative.

Today, at 1pm, I'll be doing a reading of one of my short stories. It will be one for the occasion of Valentines, and I hope to see you there. There are many others doing their thing there too, and they're a whole lot more lovelier and grander, so please see them too!

Holy Oaks,
1241 Bloor Street West,
Toronto, ON

And here's a list of the others, Amanda Rataj, Matthew E. Duffy, Thom Gill, Adam Harnest, Devon Sioui, Nathan Cyprys, Yuula Benivolski, Felicity Williams, Brooke Manning, Maya Postepski, Sabarah Pilon, Elaine Kelly, Elise Victoria Louise, Angela Sweeting, Taiha Peron, Stefan Berg, Allie Hughes, Andie Clifford, and Craig Currie.

(Hand in Memory, 2010)

Flood the basement where I dwell. Fill my ears with cotton. I say, you say, I write, you read. Stop in your steps, sink your feet into your shoes like feet on a beach the tide eats away. Remember when things were good, remember memories so far and so foreign. I call you, flutter and fall, dusty and wore, a face of the times; of times long gone. I linger on a song; a feeling, a goose pimple on a flat rough surface. I examine my skin, you once were smooth, a baby before the scratches. Time after time, all is the same, new faces come, old faces they turn, and what is fresh is fragments and gestures of historical figures, cave-drawings, doodles and Rorschach. Tie down for now, and a moment is made, a memory is filled, and is lost. Flutter, fly, dusty wings of a house fill with memories.

Learning To Love Yourself (More) pt. 11

(School's Out (for summer), something of Bottomless, 2009)

If Only All Your Faces Were Pies, I'd Eat Them All Up

There is something absolutely beautiful in all of us. A character that makes us individuals, and in our time together learn the traits of others; with some we keep and others we leave behind. Over and over we become something closer to our history. Of all those we have known, their surfaces have scratched ours, and we have scratched theirs. They have rocked our very core, they have danced with our feet, taught us how to smile, and showed us how to live, and perhaps even to love. We are only examples of each other, picked and studied; fragments of everything and everyone, and what comes from all of this human wine-tasting is who we are.

Let's get back to who we are.

Try to pace your walk with a stranger, try to keep ahead of them by a step or two (as not to look like a creep that follows from closely behind), and keep them close. Slowly let them catch up to you, and walk with them for a while. Look around you ever so slightly and look at the faces of everyone in your sight; see them seeing you and your stranger as one, as something, and then look down to your feet, and look at the feet next to yours, and see if you are hitting the ground at the same time as them. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right (repeat).

Get Your Head (Outta of Your Ass)

(My Father's Hand, 2009)

I can't wrap myself around this, the field is bare, and the summer is long gone. Pity is a fool I forgot to call friend, and sequels are making their comeback this time of the year. I called her Josephine, she called me Waitz, and how I know of her name is a ringing of something that truly once was. I'm the dog that knows where his past is buried, but chooses not to go digging for that hole. There's a shimmer of who I am, who I once thought I was, and who was known as Waitz, and today; I sit on the fat of my belly, sick to tell a tale of forgotten love.
She asks me if he still lives, if I've seen him around, and I tell her, as cool as sharks playing a game of fortune, no. Don't get too close, I have teeth you know.

What Falls Apart

(untitled working image, 2010)

Tear it apart, take the splintered limbs, fragments in your hands, and walk down this path. The river man calls the ferry over, and we take a ride with him. For a while it is peaceful, as sky turns to dusk, we speak of the passing night and rehearse our stories together. To be on the river until you fall asleep in my arms. I whisper to your ear that this is where we belong. You heal the cuts on my arms; the scars disappear like the stars above. I ask to a nameless god of what creature we are, and how cruelty is as natural as caring for each other. The river man looks at us, and then stares into my eyes for a moment. He knows.
The current picks up, a grunt or two wake you as our guild fights his control. Soon our vessel will run wild, our screams will be heard from both banks, and no one will come. The falls are just before us, and I doubt we'll reach the eastern bank on time. Our cargo, our burden, will be thrown, and our hands will fight the hissing waters. I can hear the roar of falling water, and it is grand, it is great, and much much larger than me, or all of us together. There is a silence in the air, and just before we can wish of another life; one to be taken from our past and reversed in our ways, and just like that we float off.
Of baby trees, of fertile grounds; rich with mineral and life, of spitting rain on the surface of bare flesh, and such laughter that follows. I cried, your smile as grand as monuments, drunk in a moment, fireworks explode unexpectedly, and I carry you away in my arms like newly weds without a future, without a home, and nomadic like the barbarians.
The surge stops, the thundering sound of water disappears, and I see your face, lifeless and dull, eyes screaming to winged creatures, asking to carry us away from this. I swear I see your soul leave you. In my arms you feel weightless, and I hold on for as long as I could. I can't remember the rest, I can't remember what happened. All I know is we are here, somewhere in the milk of dreams, of legend, and of the past, and that we can no longer change beyond what has been done. Those who spoken, tell of our stories, but know not of what follows, for nor do we speak of such moments. We reached something grand, beyond our memory, and who we were could not have spoken for such times, so we left who we were behind. Something has changed, our flesh as the shells of what once was, but to us, now forgotten, for future is in our feet. Each step is new life, each breathe our own, together.

Give A Little (Take A Little)

(faye, pine, and mel camino, January 20th, 2010)

I'll meet you halfway, where the getting gets tough, and we'll have to use our life jackets for fire wood. I'll turn my bed into a boat, and we could live there for a while (an evening). We'll throw records on the player, I'll pull the pulleys and put the needle on right; a drop as quiet as a mouse fart. With each rotation, with each hiss, crackle, and pop we'll melt before the lamp and a dancing flame. Remember this time, remember that time, and let it all come back. Before we were, after we weren't, and what we are now, who you are, and who I transformed into, with awkward shoulders and naked in a broken miniature house. I'll operate on your hand, I'll pick away at it until all the splinters are gone. I'll hold them before your giant eyes, and you'll lick them clean off, and swallow whole the history of everything that once was.
A broken tree is cut down; the sons of farmers turned to a lifetime of being lumbermen, a tree grows alone in a forest, and over hundreds of years it has made millions of friends. A son loses his arm but gains a family. The axe is put on a plank and raised to live over the family couch where it collects the dust of a daughter, of a son, of a father, and of a mother for what would be a decades and a half before the son of a son is old enough to fit his father's shoes on.
Outside, just feet from the house; upon the first strike the son's arm withholds a quake that rocks his shoulders and jolt the roots his teeth. The axe drops and the son of a son never holds an axe again in his life. Through the window a mother looks to her one-armed spouse who cuts wood humbly off only few feet from his offspring. The father sees his son walk away from his fallen axe, and looks down to the axe and see visions of blood and bone, and a tear forms in the crest of his eye; this one is for my dead arm his wet eye says (drop). The father comes around, grabs his old axe for the first time since his accident, holds it firm in his good hand, his only hand, and takes a swing at that tree with a cat scratch from the previous axe attack, and strikes not once, but a second, third, fourth, and etcetera until the tree has lost the fight. With a sudden release the tree falls, crushes the man, and runs a line to destroy everything this man loves. The house falls, the son, fresh from his attempt at his father's shoes, cries in his room before the ceiling gives. From her kitchen window, the mother witnesses her spouse be destroy and decides to watch her demise as well. And of the daughter, we don't know, she was off in the woods too far from this narrator's eyes.

Years pass.

More years pass.

...

The house falls to legend, and told over campfire for years to come, but those days are no longer. The house has been taken by trees, and until a year ago hasn't see a human in what could be ages of Aquarius', and all the discoverers see is a lone oak that is cut perfectly and ready to be processed. The discoverers call their truck over, use rope to secure their bounty, and off they go to a plant where the tree will undergo a complex system of formatting only to be put into separate trucks and delivered to several lumber yards (four to be exact).

Where we bring you back into this story is when you are walking through a warehouse and spot a piece of wood that, in your eyes, is perfect. The piece is taken into your hands, and it's curse is cooled to your touch. In the next few days, what you end up doing to that piece of wood is rather graphic, so I'll omit the details, leaving you with splinters, and those splinters I end up having to pull from your hands, under a magnifying glass, the same glass I used on my father's splinters, and now your hands bring me joy in the act I call smoothing your hands once more.
The licked and consumed splinters travel through your body, and eventually they are disposed in means I would like to not mention, and that your unmentionables travel through a complex system of plumbing before they end up in some plant where they are filtered, and another complex system occurs, and a few more vastly interesting and complex things happen before we end up at the conclusion to this story.
Three, four splinters after what-could-be-the-worst-way-go-to, are reunited with the earth again. They make sweet-sweet love to the earth and as a result for their act, they form life, and this narrator comes to his conclusion by quoting Elton John.

From the day we arrive on the planet
And blinking, step into the sun 
There's more to see than can ever be seen 
More to do than can ever be done 
There's far too much to take in here 
More to find than can ever be found 
But the sun rolling high 
Through the sapphire sky 
Keeps great and small on the endless round

It's the Circle of Life 
And it moves us all 
Through despair and hope 
Through faith and love 
Till we find our place 
On the path unwinding 
In the Circle 
The Circle of Life

RE: Questions Dealing With People

(The White Knight, 2007)

Open Letter In Response to:

Open Dialogue: Questions Dealing With People by Christopher Heller

Dear Mr. Heller,

(How do I say this without sounding like I am delivering advice)

As humans, we are given too much choice, even for how we breathe. We can choose to fill our lungs through the mouth, or through the nose, and recently, I have been noticing when walking down the street of how my face would appear to strangers around me when my lips are slightly parted when gently breathing via my mouth. I have since switched to breathing from the nose, in the same sense of eating with my mouth closed, something I have grown accustom to since childhood. I ponder the act of being closed-mouth, and ask of you, how different being physically closed-mouth on a daily basis, whether in eating or breathing, from being closed-mouth in the sense of being reserved of opinion and verbal response.
In terms of appearance, the modern human has come a long way from the cavepeople lion cloth, or ropes of Paganism, but what does the modern human trend to wear? Falling into category, the choice is what feels best, and what is best is often socially adapted. On some days I'll put something on, take it off, and put something else on, and sometimes even further, I'll lift my flesh from the muscle and replace it with another, until I find the right appearance to embrace the day. But I ask why; why must I carry out these laborious measures to please viewers of I? Does my demographic determines who I am, and what social grouping I feel like I belong to.
Can we scratch off all this sociology and just talk lamesman for a moment? I am adequate to say I am an honest person. For example I correct myself, I tell others of my own corrections to their ways, or at least advocate it. And more often than not, I experience awkward and frustration from my honesty to myself and to others. But as I talk of self-benefit in a complex matter, I see open-honesty as a challenge; to say what you mean, and to stand by your words. I guess we all have our goals and admiration, and to be honest, to be well-spoken, even to the point where you reveal your flaws to perfect strangers, is something I see as the only way to live with myself. I mean, we're all in the same boat here, we're adrift, and as those sad and lonely existentialists would say, we're all lost causes (or perhaps I got the wrong message out of Existentialist 101). I guess what I am trying to get at here, after all the bullshit has been spoken for is, you. are. not. alone. and. we. are. all. in. the. dung. together. getting. dirty. being dirty. and some are having fun, and others not, but what's the difference really. There is no reward in living, only in surviving. At the end of the day, it's all about living with yourself, are you satisfied (I hope not, because if you aren't satisfied that means you're still thirsty, you still got fight, you still got kick, and goshdarnit, people like you)?
For some humans, freedom of speech is the climax on the tit (pronounced in this case as, teet, for the sake of rhyme), for others is about simply say what is, and that's about it.

"I'M FINISHED IT!"

Sincerely,

-b

[original letter from Christopher Heller]

Why can't I look at someone and smile at them? Why can't I tell someone, "I like looking at you. I wonder how you spend the day"?

While walking down the stairs commenting on another man's shoe, why do I feel so judged? Why can't I say what I want? Tell jokes that I want? Tell people, in my humble opinion, what the right thing to do is? How come I have to try so hard to be seen as an all-right dude? Will people have the temerity to say what they feel? Or do we not have a clue as to what to feel about another person? How come I can't cum on someone's tits?

How come people don't give a shit about giving a shit? Well if not, does it really matter to all of us to be among one of us?

How in the hell can you tell me what it means to be me? Maybe I have too good a sense of who I am and not a suspicion as to who you are, is that what I'm all about? Figuring out who you are? Or am I lost completely?

I hear too often the phrase, "All I want to do is..." This limiting, narrowing, simplifying statement tries to get at the meaning of what makes us happy absurdly sacrificing the complexities of happiness. I am thrilled to ask socially noxious questions as long as their grounded from a firm stance as to who I am and what makes me happy. Why should we hesitate about getting on together? It's all within our little windows of communication to share who we are with other people. Isn't that expressive? Shouldn't it be rewarding? But really, how come I cant cum on someone's tits because who really is the embarrassed one in that scenario? Do whatever makes you happy but please, lets be happy together.

from the Ontario College of Art & Design (University) publication, CadMium (in illegible font, the title that is).

The Right To Be Wrong

(December 4th, Wake, from Nocturne, 2009)

When I was richer, I used to take my son out on long walks through the forest that surrounds my estate. The forest would eventually gave way, opening the view to a vast field of all the shades of green, I would tell my son that this is all I have to my name. Of course, he was probably too young to realize the double meaning in my words, and only I hope he still remembers moments like that, especially since I am no longer by his side.
Memories of battleships and the first submersibles, my company had made for the war efforts, flash by as I cruised down the country road. My first wife is buried somewhere out there, her ghost rides passenger for the first five miles and vanishes before my house. She knows I have a new life; our time has passed, and I haven't visited her grave since the last century. I whisper her name over the whiskey and under the stone she fades beneath.
Josephine is my last attempt at a second son, my wife could not bare another. Elisabeth cries alone, takes trips down to the lake, and imagines drowning some day in those murky waters. I hold her hand, I tell her she is all I ever needed, and then I start by kissing her; the rest follows suit in my will, and her duty as my wife, to me, to me I say. I am not fit for such decency, I have taken something once beautiful and turned it plaid and ordinary.
In the garden, my son and daughter discovery the world of insects and of small and fancy plants, unnatural to the environment. My wife reads them Darwin, and I listen from behind my pipe, the sun is swallowed by the clouds today. Timothy, seven years old, to take care of his younger sister now, as I watch from miles away. Across the ocean, in a field of stars.
Elisabeth, you have grow with our children, you have taken my body, and sank it in that lake. I wonder if you imagined my body as yours, with each scar as your own, my eyes looked to the skies above, my body limp to the touch; sinking with stones tied to both hands and feet. What fitting words should be said to a man who profited from the restless arms of war, who showed his love in abstract ways, and carried the weight of his guilt before the weight of others.
To my son, to my daughter, to my wife, and to the one from another life: the sea wakes, the storm surges; beyond this port to the field of white crests, let the world fall to your toes, and may the landscape before you now fade to your discovery of new lands.

Look upon my banks, I'll be here for a while.

Through The Night Softly

(Bastard Image from Nocturne, 2009)

March 14^th, 1988

We hit the wall. We have fallen from the grace we once knew and loved; now it was tension and between us both existed too many words unspoken. The guilt in my gut, the words on the edge of my tongue were too much. I was going to drown her as soon as I started with, “It’s the way you, it’s what you do, to me”. The night fell silent, we slept like sheep, drunk from a night on the town, I was tired and in her arms like a broken bird. The feeling of flesh knew of the words I wanted to say, and she was there, absorbing them like acid. What dreams did she have that night, again, I thought of the tiny universe that existed just beyond my touch. Tonight we’ll be one, sucked, rubbed, burnt, and toasted, moaning utter nonsense; a language of lovers.

*Excerpt from The Way You Make Me Feel (of Coyote Blues)

I'm Not There Yet

(Panorama from Nocturne, 2009)

Jeffrey said it was silly to believe Thomas was still alive. It had been four days out in Washington, so far and so deep that our compass serve as digging tools at most, and fail to even do the task well. Jeffrey was looking pretty good to eat, but I held on to the last of my will to survive with the both of us intact.
The passing crows seem to be waiting for one of us to fall to call the rest of their flock for a feast, but our bones still supported our weakened states. The spit in my mouth grew to an acid and thinned to drool from the side. I tried daydreaming, bikinis and surf, mounds of food, stupid with grease and excessive flavor. Jeffrey hated me, and would tell me this every time I gave him the look of hungry for fellow. I hated him because he hated me. Perhaps Thomas' body would've united us both in relief, but now it was too late, we had no hope.
There was a time when I could say I was a brave man; a sensible and reasonable person, but those times were tested, and the walls to my strength have been breached. Fallen to a dreary state just before zombie, I call my fellow, and tell him a story all so close in resemblance to our scenario.

John and Walter found the Greenberg river that runs for a thousand of miles from Washington to Southern California. Their recognition usually ends there, but what they endeared was every 1409 miles of that river with pain, and unbearable weight upon their shoulders. What was forgotten to history was that their horses and ox were eaten for their own fuel, and they had become savages as wild as coyote, feasting on raw flesh, and berries. With their clothes ripped and half nude, and their eyes sunk to their skulls, what kept them as outsiders to the beast was their journey. John and Walter, close to insanity, without a human outside their pack for six months carried out their passion of discovering the start and end of Greenberg. And perhaps today their fleet doesn't strike amazement but the cities that were settled on the Greenberg would not be, and those families and businesses would be nonexistent without their efforts.
I would like to think that John and Walter, without hope, had something that could be even beyond the shimmer of hope, they had their drive, their passion, and their strength to broaden their spirits and wills to survive and conquer. Today, I feel the spirit of such explorers in my attempt to survive, without hope, with just my hands and my feet, and my friend.
An eagle pierces the sky and catches a young crow midair, the sounds of struggle carry off beyond the treeline, and I can hear the sound of running water, and for a moment there I feel free. Free.

Untitled

(Untitled, Return to the Abandoned Island, 2009)

*sometimes it's the lack of words that speak more than if anything was spoken at all.

New State of Mind

(I Wish I Could Take Your Sadness Away, from Reminiscence, 2008-2009)

You're tired, and I'm restless. You're a tomato and I'm a tomato pronounced the other way. When thrown: we'll hit the wall, or we'll hit the floor, we'll roll, we'll splatter, and what we won't do is turn sun-dried. We were made to last long, but we won't because it is better to smash a new vessel with a full and unopened bottle than an empty one. We'll become the fade to black that romantics fancy over sideburns and bitter bastards. Call a road, home, I'll fit the stick with all I'll need in a tied bandana (red and white checkers). Smoke, drink, fight, and lose everything we made only to learn once we lost it all we have each other. Blow smoke in my face and you'll get slapped, pour beer on your pants and I'll get punched, break your heart and you'll break the bottle in half, and fit me with the rest.
We have made our terms, we're blind-sighted, and marching. To an endless step, and in the high noon. Pistol wiped, pussy wiped, crazy and alone, each other, and desperatos, eat the dirt, and I'll drink the worm. Crazed; the smell of your breath in my mouth; the quicksands of your eyes, and how is it you're suppose to survive again? To give up, my body to your science, my cause for your affect, and the rest we can forget until we meet again. We're on a fifth time going, and I'm all for sequels, Sidekick.

How To Say Goodbye

(Daniel Before the Ocean, 2004)

It's an end of something. Something stops. No longer able to change and what is sadder to fade away in memory or to fade before you? So many moments frozen, at a standstill, and I wait almost to expect to see you again. Perhaps I still don't believe, with all the evidence before me, I feel like I'm being fooled. I don't know how to address death, and I'll never put your face on it. To me, you're still alive, you're still living a life, and more than ever, you're living a life at its fullest. We'll receive postcards in the mail from all the locations you've been to, with excerpts from the stories you have created with strangers along your travels. Paris will never look so beautiful, Tokyo filled with shimmering bulbs of a city that never sleeps, you'll share it all, but for now, you're gone, away, on some adventure. Where to next, Daniel.

Rest with the most peace you can ever find, you'll always be a Shananaganger.

Shadows on Parade

(October 28th, First Sighting, from Nocturne, 2009)

There's that feeling when listening to a new song, a beautiful song, for the first time or whenever you listen to it afterwards; a feeling of intense emotion, unplaced, and now, without a face. Yes, this feeling was once you, but now, I don't know, it is just a feeling, and I am alone on it. I can imagine you up, I can create you from every love of my life. I'll scrap away and cut the fat right off the best of times, the best of yous.
Placed in wooden boxes, burned black, and smokey cigar smell, I left you here for too long. The ground beneath my feet hurts, and I jump to a moon-less sky only to never return to where I came from. I have forgotten, I have been misplaced. Hidden in the grass, sunken to the depths of an absent Hades, it isn't much warmer here, but there's no wind. The forest grows in my empty shoes, the animals piss on my clothes, and I grow fur from back to toes. Creature I am, craving the flesh of deer and the backs of coyotes. Oh, this tree is right for my body, so I'll take it apart and form one branch to another until I am lost in what I have done. What have I done?
Half-off the bed, half-awake, slipping over just before I fall back to dreamy beaches, glistened and nameless, to each I have called some sort of paradise. To each useless now as my dumb eyes see skies of dark and shitty, I say I really hate this city. Take me away, to cabins lost in forelock tails and fallen trees. Quiet be a name to call this place, dark-dark with shotgunth sky, let's just sleep here for a while, arms for whatever, dead and heavy, light and floating.
Before I change my mind, before I turn stubborn, and wonder off with thumb in suckle and boy blue. With a cowboy voice, I say here we go, rumble in the gut, I say it once more, and that's that. So are ya with me, or against me, terror. scare, or fear not, for we can have each other, for however long this song last.

Afternoon Delight

(A Ghost Is Born, 2009)

In times of sunken ships and sailors looking for land to call home. In times of desperate need, and for friendship that can last a life time; the storm will take you, the storm will take me. To the depth it will, I say, but we'll be together on it. In turning seas and death kisses on the brow or on the cheek, we will survive (just about anything). Plunge, plunder, and pulverize until pieces are made, until dust is all that remains. Take what is left and send it by sea, or by air, to all those we have known. Let our bodies be that reminder of ventures too dangerous for most folk, and let our particles be freaks of frightening things for even Ridley could not believe.
Away under palm-shaded skies, sipping a lifetime of paradise amongst the crashing waves that hiss and thunder in the most beautiful ways, we live, we survive, I with a beard, you with a bikini. Pinky swearing of our stay, pinky swearing for the rest of our days. To never leave, to never be discovered, this is just about the just of it; the best of it, and I don't think we could ever get sick of it. We'll build monuments, I'll dedicate mine to you, and to your everything, and you'll build what you build, and I will be taken, and inspired through the eyes of bending light, of new wave and avant, of each of your impressions to mark a stone and to carve a branch. What grace have you here, I am small, hidden under your belly, and yet you make my likeness in truth, I never saw a reflection so dearing. Once we are done with our hands, we will destroy what we have created, we will burn it all down only to do better tomorrow. Let's just say tomorrow together, right now, really, the story ends here.

T O M O R R O W.

So Much For Words

(Living as Twins, 2009)

So much can be said, but silence can be even more spoken than words themselves.

Boston, New Zealand

(Welcome To The Jungle, 2009)

I'm a really bad liar. I'm also really bad at this. Picking up the shards of my favorite cup, I wonder if someone had just died. My pocket vibrates and it's my mother, this is too weird. I let the phone pulsate in my hand until my palm is numb.

Hello.

It seems that life is random, and my broken cup, my favorite cup, is a lost cause, and not a cause at all since it has nothing to do with anything. I once tripped and fell over, broken my pen in my favorite pants, and soiled my pocket with ink. When I looked to see what had caused this accident, there was nothing, when I questioned the stability of my legs, they looked fine, they felt fine (besides from a slow-forming bruise above my right knee(the bad one)). I looked around me to see if anyone had seen my embarrassing moment, and a young woman smiled at me as she towered above. She came closer, and just tripping over my fallen body, she stepped over me, and left. Two years later, I would meet her again, and upon our reunion, I would say, and she would say, and then I would ask, and she would say, yes, we heard it all before, it was fate!

The date went well, and we would continue seeing each other for a few months, and then I moved away, and the letters we promised each other would dissolve, and soon we were reduced to commenting on each other's internet pictures, and then just "liking" them, and finally, the once a year (twice a year for both ways) there were the happy birthday messages, and a how-are-you-doing,-it's-been-a-while.

I think back on the day I fell for no reason, and where I once put a red string, a string of destiny, I now put a solid piece of dark matter. I stopped writing love songs, and I started to write about the stars and black holes. I could be found quoting Hawkin's, and I do I really mean impression of his computer voice. People will laugh, and eventually they will sigh since they all, including myself, hope for his health.

A rock once fell from the sky, fell a foot before me, and I realized that if I didn't stop smoking cigarettes the day before, then I would've been stroked by that falling rock from the sky (the sky is falling?). I stopped all my bad habits from that day on, and slowly over the months, I regained most of them, including a few extra pounds. The next day, the woman I had left, appeared at my door, and she said in a whisper to my ear, "surprise".

...

How do I hold on to these things, how do I call you friend, before an enemy, how do I know to step foot into my fading future before me, and when shall the sea decide to not roll back? When will the greatest monuments fall, and when shall we forget each others names? Only when you think of me again, that random, that fateful occurrence, o'eureka, m.i.ss.i.ss.i.pp.i, and (one) one-thousand, for one is the lonely number since five, four, three, two, one...

Zero.