and no direction, too...

Driving down through the desiccated coast I feel the heat rising off the sunburned ground through the tiny fibers in the indigo canopy. My mind been a wanderin' as I'm passin' this scene like some ephemeratic picture on a moving screen, telling me to keep on movin', they don't stop for no one. Why should you? Beggars and thieves, through and through, mind you. They stop for no one. Why should you? I'm a God-fearin' man, like the lot of these mates, who sit here and sit there and talk of these things and those, and make sense of what's not to make sense of. Reasonable, God-fearin' men, through and through. Comin' through the pass, mountain escort to the end of the road, keepin' myself awake on the Lord's golden brew, a slap in the face here and there, and an assortment of pills that'd make the Easter Bunny cream. Where's your voice, man? Whaddya say 'bout that? Makin' no sense's what you're doin', been fixin' to do, all these days. It's always the same thing. Outta your mind, you've conjured yourself, in the worst possible way. just keep talkin', brotha'. you'll be there soon enough, so says i.

expletive deleted

down by the river where the sun stays out and the moon waits by the window a black haired man washes his face. knees bent at the shore he looks into the water and sees what he used to be. "where were you when she walked away?" the man in the water asks him. "where were you then?" and he thinks to himself like he does every day at dawn and tries to find the answer to the question. "i don't have the answer to that. not today." he responds. and a breeze picks up, kicking rocks at his self. the water ripples and the man disappears and the black haired one thinks to himself like he does every day at dawn. another voice from the distance, riding the winds like a paper airplane. "where are you going with that heart of yours so dangerously exposed like that?" he says. the man turns and looks for the source but fails to locate it. and he thinks to himself like he does every day at dawn that maybe he thinks too much.

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 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.