"with words like machetes; they cut to the marrow."

and everything became clear once more. the sky, the sun, the moon, the desert. all became lucid as the day after a hard rain. i sat on the bench near the park, tossing bread scraps to passing geese, and lifted myself above the mountains, beyond the trees and the woods and the passing birds, high above the clouds that sat, single-file, in the azure, as if nothing held them from becoming one with the hovering space above. i kept climbing, beyond the stars, the coal-colored midnight, past the shooting suns and the motionless mountains of the brightest planets. i came upon the peak of olympus mons and stopped cold in the tracks i'd created. black, black, comets too cold. their tails, they whip and dissolve. and the shining divides, they cast side to side, forfeit patterns of beauty and flair.i stood there, steady and collected, wondering how i'd transcended what i'd believed to be all that was. volcanoes erupted and pyramids rose from the red rock ground all at once. stifle that conscience, bearer of ill-will, make the case for silence. egotism will outshine the sun in the fiercest of battles. cynical cynic. master of minds and mirrors. you have not the slightest idea of what you discuss. farcical. idealistic/idolatry/infidel. a terrible speaker and the children know it, and smell it, seeps off of you like warm sap. technicoloristic and unable to hide it/disguise it. and your rhythm is far-off.

"You've got malaria"

"Yep," the doctor continued, "that's definitely malaria. You can tell, of course, by looking at your red blood cells underneath this magnifying thing right here." The doctor motions to a microscope sitting on the table next to the patient. 

"You mean a 'microscope'?" the patient asked, skeptic of the doctor.

"Is that what you call that thing?" he responded curiously. "Huh," he said, accepting the patients statement as fact, "I always just thought it was kind of a, I don't know, novelty item, you know? Like one of those electricity orbs where you put your hands on them and your hair stands up."

"No," the patient began, "it's nothing like that."

"Well, I always thought it was. Any who, oh yeah, about that malaria," the doctor said, placing a sample underneath the microscope. "See right there? Yeah, you got it pretty bad. Like on a scale of 1 to 10 I would say it's about an 8 and a half. Oh man, look at that one right there. That blood cell looks like it's about to explode. Like John Goodman at Kentucky Fried Chicken or something."

The patient became more worried. Not so much at the fact that he just found out that he has malaria, but more-so at the idea that this 'doctor' could even pass whatever test they make doctors pass to become legitimate physicians. 

"Where did you say you went to school?" the patient asked, "I have a son who wants to become a doctor."

"Oh, I didn't," the doctor responded. "Now, about my fee."

Gideon and the Star

I don't know yet what this will become...

A silver flask sits at the edge of a nightstand in a stylish, high-end hotel near the west side of town. Gideon Nebuls tries to relax in a brown chair on his balcony. His room is on the 4th floor. It's late afternoon and the sun has just begun its nighttime routine while the rain continues to fall from the mottled sky. Gideon listens to droplets beat away at the balcony overhang as he watches the people below move about like ants in a farm. 
He tries to relax.
The phone rings from across the room. Gideon, legs full of anxiety, gets up out of his chair to answer it. It rings two more times before he finally picks up the receiver.
"Good evening, Mr. Nebuls," says the concierge at the 1st floor front-desk, "I hope you're enjoying your stay."
"I am, Yes. Thank you." Gideon replies. His voice is low and coarse.
"Very good, sir. I just wanted to check in. There is a Mr. Conners on the line. Shall I put him through?"
Gideon thought for a moment. Mr. Conners? He couldn't recall the name. He was never one to take a call of someone whose name or number he didn't recognize and, yet, at the same time he always hated when people left voice messages. But what did it matter? It was, after all, his last night on Earth.
"Go ahead. Put him through." He told the concierge. 
"Very good, sir. Have a good night." There was a brief pause while the line switched between the front desk and Mr. Conners line.
"Hello?" Gideon asked. His tone had now shifted from tired to curious.
"Mr. Nebuls? Hello. My name is Mr. Conners. You don't know me and we've never met, but I know that in approximately 12 hours from now you will be boarding a ship that you will be a passenger on for the next 4 years. I know that to you, however, it will only seem like mere minutes. Mr. Nebuls I am calling to tell you that terrible things are about to happen. Things that have been building and building behind the scenes, behind what you call your world and within everything you see and feel. Things, Mr. Nebuls, things are going to get very bad. I'm calling to warn you, Mr. Nebuls, that the mission you have signed up for, the mission you've been preparing for the past year, is not going to succeed. You will not reach your destination and your entire crew will die. Do you understand this, Mr. Nebuls?"
Gideon tries to adjust himself to the words he's hearing, 
"Is this a joke?" he responds, uneasily. 
"I can assure you, Mr. Nebuls, that this is no joke. I need you to comprehend what I'm saying. I know this is difficult for you but you need to listen to me. Terrible things will happen whether you're on this planet or not."
"This plane- How do you know this?! I don-" The phone goes to dial tone before he can finish. Gideon looks at the phone, at the receiver, and back again. He hangs up the phone and picks it back up to dial the front desk. The concierge comes across the phone.
"Hi. This is Gideon Nebuls," he began, tense and excited, "I'm in room 1138. Listen, I just received a call from a Mr. Conners. I don't know who this person is but is there any way you can trace that call? You know, find the number he was on?" 
The concierge was taken aback. "Um, I'm sorry, sir?" he asked back.
"Can you find the number that just called me?!" Gideon became more heated.
There was a pause. Only the sound of Gideon's breathing came over the phone. "Mr. Nebuls," the concierge began, "Sir I'm looking at your phone records and the last call you received was two nights ago. There have been no new calls today."

A Revisiting (Part VIII) "111307"

this came about from a dream, actually...

"...i want to be an astronaut. i want to go into space for a year and live on the space station up there with the other astronauts. we would do experiments like seeing if fungus could grow in outer space or if plants could survive or things like that. i don't really know yet. i would sleep right-side up in a bean bag like you see them do in the movies. and after a year was over i would come back down to earth and tell all of my friends about what it was like living in outer space and they would all be amazed by it. and maybe after i got settled back in i could go and give speeches to school children about being an astronaut and how fun it is. maybe i would marry an astronaut woman and maybe we could get married in space! but that would probably be impossible to get married in space. and then when i got even older i could go back into space one more time. not for a year like before but maybe just to see the earth again from above. it could be like my, my duck-duck music. song."
"do you mean 'swan song'?"
"yeah. my 'swan song'. that's what it could be like."
"where did you hear that?"
"i don't know. i think my dad said it once when i was younger. back when he was still around. does it make sense, the way i used it?"
"yes. i suppose it does."

"The silver Swan, who living had no Note,
when Death approached, unlocked her silent throat.
Leaning her breast upon the reedy shore,
thus sang her first and last, and sang no more:
'Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close mine eyes!
'More Geese than Swans now live, more Fools than Wise.'"

-Orlando Gibbon's madrigal "The Silver Swan"

A Revisiting (Part VII) "110807"

glass of wine/tin-can telephone/clouds never really follow me around/a sunset illusion

"So...what are you doing again?" He asked curiously.
"I'm writing a story, asshole. How many times do I have to tell you?" The other replied.
"Shit i'm sorry, it's just, I dunno, you NEVER write stories. Or anything for that matter. In fact the only time i've actually seen you pick up a writing device that wasn't directly related with taking a test or bubbling in what ethnicity you are was when you drew a ballsac on that one guy's face with permanent marker when he fell asleep on "Pirate's of the Caribbean."
"Well excuse me for wanting to be a little creative. Can't a guy just once try to express himself creatively without his asshole friend pouncing on him like he were a cheap hooker. 'Cheap Hooker'. That's a good one." The man puts his clever choice of dialogue to the paper. He started writing earlier today. Its been about three hours since. He's got about three or four pages done. It's true though, what his friend said about him. He never writes. Never.

what day is it? morning. is is morning? god it must be. the clock at his bedside flashes 11:38. fuck. did the power go out? it had to of. oh fuck. fuck. please let it be morning. i can't miss it again. harvey, his dog, whines in the hallway. oh shit the dog! i don't have time for you man! i'm sorry. i have to go. fuck. i'm done now.

two people sit at a bench in the park. it's half past ten in the morning. winter time. the sun just finished shaking off the sleep. it's brisk, chilly, but comfortable. the two talk about this and that. a family of ducks play on the shore of the lake.
"So, God, has it really been that long?" The man asks of the woman, trying to find his memories.
"Yeah, three years. Three and a half if you count the months I spent in Glasgow." She replies in a warm tone.
"Well, I don't, but I suppose it does help put things in perspective."
they share a quiet moment as the ducks begin crossing the pond.
"I should get going," the woman begins, "I really can't be away from the office too long."
"Oh, um, yeah okay. Well...so will I see you around?" He asks.
"Sure. I'm always around."

A Revisiting (Part VI) "103107"

counting backwards from ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...

the heat permeates through the entire structure like lighting strikes. nonstop, failure after failure attack the systems, the controls succumb to the pressure, the flames pour into the circuitry, empty you bottles of wine, they flow like a river of the gods, pressure and fire throughout the entire level. this is it. this is the beginning of the end. trapped in this death case high above the floating sphere, looking down upon the end of the world and he can't escape it. though he can't imagine what is going on below. might as well have it easy.

"i permit the high council to have this report reviewed and analyzed to the most direct effect, scrutinized to the last period. i believe you will come to realize that my findings on the matter are far more severe than we had first imagined. they, as we had first disputed, had it correct the entire time. throughout the research that went into this study they knew all along the outcome of this debacle. what fools they must think of us now and, as you will see, fools are nothing but what we have come to be. i pray that this information finds you in the deepest regard of your being and that you take any and every step needed to rectify the situation thusly. good day, gentlemen"

five minutes from now two men will walk into the convenience store in the southern part of newark and ask for two bottles of vodka and a pack of cigarettes. one man will be wearing a long coat and sandals. the other a tye dye shirt and gym shorts. ten minutes from now they will exit the convenience store, purchases in hand, and continue to the automobile of one of the men. twenty-three seconds ago a fire began in the caspian sea. it spread like wildfire to the outlying borders. a fisherman and his son were killed in the inferno. eleven minutes into the future a bomb goes off. the moon weeps and the sun sets and no one is heard from again.

have you figured it out yet?

A Revisiting (Part V) "102207"

hunger of a thousand suns

Go. Now. Pack up your bags. Put away your things. Take what you need. Take everything you need. Take only things you need. Take that which you will need. Pack them all away. Remove the posters from the walls of your room. Put away those books on your shelf. Take down the clothes hanging in your closet. Take off the sheets on your bed. Fold them and put them away. Everything that is you: put it away. Your new life begins with the next step you take.

"Faster, God damnit!! I said drive faster! We're never gonna make it in time unless you hit that mother fucking gas!" He floored the car as the bridge continued to shake. The earthquake had come out of no where, and they we stuck in the middle of this bridge. A mile out from solid ground mother earth dangled them above the icy water like a marionette. They were hard pressed for luck and the sun had just begun setting.

A solar flare occurs in the west side of the galaxy while two stars collide in the east. below them a woman gives birth to a newborn prophet and weeps at the sight of her. 200 million light years away i'm getting high on celestial cloud dust and wondering why the lights don't go out at night. near me two kittens toy with a tiny mouse. they tease it with freedom. on this level i can smell the terror on the poor thing. sitting on a piece of asteroid i watch as aliens invade machu picchu. they tear it apart and leave within a matter of minutes although, on this level, it may have been seconds.

"what? what did you say?" one paced back and forth between sunken cities while the other rested his head against the remains of vladimir lenin. "this isn't a game. you know that right?" he speaks over a makeshift radio. its range spans for decades. his receiver is unknown. "tell me again why you're so confident in this. because i keep forgetting." his movements become more hurried. someone really should tell him...

why are you still reading this? it is coming.

A Revisiting (Part IV) "101707"

i dreamed of blackened sky. i saw reality for what it truly is. i only wished for the best.

breathe! breathe, god dammit! don't you fucking die! don't do it! i swear to god if you fucking die.. the veins on his hands pulse and shake like the wand of a seismograph. he can't believe it. after all these years this is what is has come to. a fucking joke. that's what it is. it's all one big fucking joke.

"no. tell them no. they won't get that from me. i've got half a dozen mouths to feed and they want me to sell for how much?! you can tell them to go straight to hell because they ain't never gettin' that outta me!"

it twitches. like embers in a fire. twitches and twitches. mother earth can see it coming. she's felt it for months now. they time has come. has already come. she knows it. they, however, do not. can one postpone the apocalypse?

"see, here's the thing," he said, "you can't have one without the other. it's simply impossible. for example: there can be no good without the evil. a contradiction must occur. one must balance out the other. only the other leads to the evolution of chaos. things start and begin in order and end in destruction. thermodynamics." he took a moment to reflect on what he had said. "we're all doomed."

they didn't fight as much as they did before. the city was at its end. they all knew it. as if one catastrophic event for one species meant peace and understanding for another. though things like that never last for long...

A revisiting (Part III) "101507"

quetzecoatl dances in the fourth sun of teotihuacan

as the earth quakes beneath rampant paws the python slithers in the tall grass of abandoned thought. and upon tainted hopes earth rises above the beating sun and python sinks to black marble beneath the ocean floor. tall grass stands now next to future events and sways within warm winds of the plumed serpant's feathers. adastra waits in the sunken sky, puffing the smoke of lost souls, sitting as watchman to the changing landscape of mother earth. there is pain there and when new worlds extract themselves from her flesh those cries do not go unheard. 

star child in reverberation, call to yourself, to your kin, let yourself be heard, let yourself be known. ascend, star child, to the tenth level, transcend supernatural thought. unlock yourself, your mind. let flow free the currents of inagination through synaptic gaps of dampened concious thought. you are in the hour of the moon, star child, and the hour is yours.

a lizard passes across the ground near to his feet. he strikes quickly with his one good hand and captures the reptile in it. i'm trapped. this desert. this fucking desert. i'm going to die out here. i'm never going to survive this. why the desert? he pins the lizard to the hot ground. rocks are strewn all around him. he picks one up and brings up up over his head and down upon the head of his captive. it won't be much but it should help him survive for at least one more day.

"i'll tell you one thing," one chimp said to the other, "this isn't the end. far from it. it's only been three days. three days! if they think they're going to pull this off, one. two. three. they're wrong. damn wrong."
"yeah, they won't even see it coming."

an ocean vast sits in the middle of a dying city. its waters rise and fall along the banks, teasing its demise, waiting to flood the streets of a once great land. the animals know it's coming. the dolphins often discuss what it will be like once the metropolis finally succumbs to its disease and falls to the ocean floor. they talk of how great it will be when man no longer rules the ground they so took for granted. the sharks, well, they could care less. they know once it happens there will be plenty of food to go around.

A revisiting (Part II) "a beginning with no end"

Stars collide in the midnight sky

And form matter transcended from dust.

I could not discern between fabrics of time

And space befitting of us.

Though suns when they shine may be bright for some time

They play on illusion of sight.

When bodies black out they leave us to doubt

With old photographs of light.

The moon hangs low beneath blankets of black

Sprinkled softly with points of white.

And I think to myself while the stars still implode

How I could ever reach such heights.

 

 

Sleep could not have come sooner for him, although he wished at once that it had kept its distance from him. In his dreams, his nightmares, he found himself frightened the most. Even when the days dragged on and his body gave way to fatigue he would wish for protection from the unconscious state that worried him so. It was both savior and sacrifice at the same time. Sleep. The sandman's realm. The place where anything can become real and false all together. Imagination meets fear and curiosity in the chambers of slumber. For the man, however, it was more a prison, a punishment if you will, than it was a relief. And when he closes his eyes the terror grips at him even more.

 

Space is vast. You can tell just by gazing into the night sky. It contains billions upon billions of stars within billions of galaxies. Particles and molecules of dust and matter, hydrogen gas forming together with specks of cosmic material forging itself to newborn nebulas in the white hot genesis of the universe. The cosmos has existed for billions of years. We have existed from merely a handful of years. And in his conscience he is existing within seconds of himself and finding within what no man should ever see.

 

Awake. Suddenly. Alert. Floating. Through the blackness and the vacuum of space he floated there. It must have been days now, weeks even. The concept of time was lost to him lost to an environment where every hour, every minute, is darkness save for the faint glimmer of a distant star. No, time does not exist out here. Only the memory of time. Time lost and never regained. He mourns time, mourns the absence, the map it creates through the sharp and vague, the net it weaves through the firsts and lasts, the people he once knew and those he will never meet. The loves. The losses. Charting the ups and downs like a master cartographer. He mourns those now. For when you exist in total darkness, and a complete void, what purpose does time continue to serve?

 

 

I had dreamed once, long ago, before the darkness came to be. To remember it is a sweet release from the blackness I have come to know to well. I think of it often. In this dream, hard as it may be to believe, I am engaged in a most epic conflict with the sun itself! But I suppose that is what makes dreams, the unbelievable. 

A revisiting (Part I)

i had written this for a girl, months ago, though we don't talk much anymore.

I was taken by a dream in my sleep the other night. I slipped into a

deep slumber, remembering only the photograph on the mantle near the bed before collapsing into a total dreamscape. In this dream I am me,

and I am reading a book. The book is no regular title and I cannot recall

the name of it either, but it is a story about a girl who lives in a

garden, a beautiful, green garden where the sun is always shining and

the flowers never die. Dandelions, roses, daffodils and the like, all

grow with a vitality that warrants mentioning. In this garden she is

surrounded by countless butterflies. They could carry her away at any

moment but in the garden with her they are peaceful.

 

Now while I am reading this book a strange thing begins to occur. The

lights around me start to dim and the room becomes extremely small. I

find that my arms are pressed directly against the walls now and I

start to fear that I may be crushed alive. In an instant an escape

reveals itself to me and I dive directly into the pages of the book.

I am suddenly swimming in a black lake that was once the letter "M".

It is very cold and dark. I try to find some sort of mark in the

distance, something to position myself by but only darkness returns

my gaze.

 

That is when I begin to sink. All around like mud the lake becomes

murky and thick, something of what I imagine a tar pit to feel like.

and I am sinking, terrified, an uncontrollable fear envelops me as I

battle with all of my might to stay above the suffocating liquid.

Struggling. Battling. Fighting to stay alive. Then black. Like a

chalk board wiped clean. Everything disappears. Am I dead? I cannot

possibly be of the deceased. I can still breathe, talk, and think. But all

I see is a sheet of black. Then, like a freight train at full speed

everything hits me and I see where I am.

 

I am alive. In a meadow or field of some sort. Never once in my life

have I been so happy to see the sun in the sky. An overwhelming

relief flows through me. This place is almost heaven, yet just a

field. It is not until I began to explore my newfound environment that

I realize where I am. This is the garden. I can see the white fence

surrounding the assortment of flowers, all rising above the fence

line as if to greet me. This beautiful scene that I was only reading

about what seemed like a lifetime ago. I approach the fence where a

gate is attached and opens it. I enter the garden and become instantly

engulfed by butterflies. What a feeling it was. Hundreds, thousands,

too many too count floating by like clouds. They abstract my vision

briefly and just briefly I flash back to the terrible place I had

just been. Briefly, and then, like a rainbow parting cloudy skies, I

see her.

 

Never before has a sight literally taken my breath away. I begin to

imagine all the sights, all the wonders of this world, and I think to

myself if any of those things could cause me to react in this way and

almost as quick as I think that thought I answer it. No. This girl,

this beautiful piece of creation could never be rivaled by anything

else this world might offer. She just stood there, her hair dancing

in the wind, with a gaze locked so tight on my own that the Gods themselves

could not break it. And still she just stands there like a goddess

and I feel as if I am cheating the rest of the world by looking upon

her. Those gorgeous, blue eyes, like something of the purest skies. I

would fly into them to live forever if given the chance. Peace and

love is in those eyes.

 

So I start to approach her. Every-step I take is emphasized by tiny

butterflies rising up from the ground. And as I pass the row of

orchids I come right up to her. I pause for a moment and we share a

look as if two lost souls finally finding the other. I try to compose

myself, try to find the right words, but before I can utter a

syllable this woman leans her head over to my ear and softly whispers

the words, "never forget my voice."

 

And then, like a knife to the heart, I am awake. In the land of the

living. those words still ringing in my head, vaguely reminding me of

something that once was. I can never forget her now. the most vivid

dream ever dreamt. The woman from my book and of my dream. If we

could only dream forever...

A Revisiting (Part N)

"The Murk"

“Come with me, sinner, saint” said the Leader of Dusk,
“Follow fast to the Land of the Sun.
Where changes divide,
Patterns forming from light,
Where perception and life blend to one.”

I stood in the Murk, raising eyes to the sky,
A decision at hand to be made.
But the Land of the Sun
Is a place that you come
To dispatch all your worldly brigades.

“Don’t you see,” he explained with a grin ear to ear,
“Can you not see the chance you’ve received?
Call it one in a mil,
Such a prospect to fill,
Is it really so hard to believe?”

But was that the truth, as I thought to myself,
Staring viciously into his soul.
I debate his invite
Back and forth in my mind,
And I wonder what it could behold.

“My boy!” he declared, “my curious child,
I can see the interest in your eyes!
It is only mistake
Shall you fail to take
This opportunity at present time.

“Please, good sir,” I requested at once,
“Can you leave me, just once, to my thoughts?
What is easy for some,
For me it has come
With feelings of being distraught.

“Very well then, young man, you can take all your time,
You can ponder as long as you wish.
But to stay in the Murk,
Reject the Land of the Sun,
Is not something I’d want to live with.”

And so on that note, his final caveat,
The Leader of Dusk disappeared.
And I stood alone,
With the Murk as my home,
Left to wonder which life I should lead.

A friend once said...

...that i wrote quite well. Well, here's to that friend...