A Raven Wing Memory

Raven's wing hair, complexion as un-muddied snow, thin as a willow branch - Renee was my life and love. Sure, we were just Sophomores in High School. Sure, we didn't know anything about how the real world worked - having lived on military bases for most of our lives; but we knew that we were in love. Renee was quiet, she kept to herself and her books mostly, but when she was with her friends, what few friends there were, her laugh was infectious and full of life and mirth - a surprise coming from one looking like she.

We first met on the steps of the lobby of the high school, our eyes meeting across the long hall before our feet carried us towards each other. Our friends knew each other, so it was only natural that we should meet as we did. Standing next to her I looked dumpy and rotund. Her voice when she first spoke was that of church bells on a quiet winter night - clear, musical, and perfect. Our friends could instantly see that we were meant for each other, even if we couldn't, so they made sure we were together often.

I guess it was only natural that with our taking to each other, we began dating pretty soon. Our first date was a really sappy romantic drama - but before I got to hold her hand under the cover of dark within the movie theater, I had to deal with the great bear of a man that her father was. I sat in the living room with him, waiting on Renee to finish up in her room with her mother - fretting to be just so for her and my first date. I remember trying not to say something stupid, let alone look idiotic. After a lifetime-filled few minutes, she was ready and we left. The walk to the theater was but a few minutes, but that seemed to go by in a lightning flash - both of us walking on clouds nine through thirteen. We got into the theater, and as the lights dimmed for the previews, our hands met, sparks began to dance between the micro-spaces between our fingers, and true love was finally settling in. It was only when she kissed me half-way through the film that I knew that I was in love.

It was a couple weeks after our first date that I realized not all was right in the world. Wars, famine, and destruction of humankind was happening outside my bubble, but within the tremors of domestic abuse began to rise to the surface. The odd bruise, random scratches. Renee would pass it off as clumsiness and play-fighting with her younger brother. I bought and ate every word, never once questioning Paradise. As the bruises and scratches began appearing, she began distancing herself from me and from her friends. She rarely spoke or messaged her friends, and just barely talked with me. Renee cloistered herself into herself - making the smallest sighting from a tight smile or a longing look. Being how old I was, I figured it had to be something other than depression - it had to be school, stress, family, anything other than internal pain...

We made it work for a whole school year, but at the end, we didn't know each other anymore. Renee had taken herself out of school and began homeschooling. She no longer talked to me or any of her other friends. After we split up, I saw her once again a couple months later, leaving the on-base library very early in the morning. When I went to follow her to talk to her, she seemed to just disappear into thin air. A ghost that once held my very heart and soul.

Then one day during the spring semester, I got a call during class. It went straight to voice mail. Then I got a text message from Renee:

"Today is my last. Goodbye."

Fearing the worst I ran. I busted out of school, busted off of the base into the great foreign world, and ran to her house a few miles away. Out of breath, tired, sore, muscles screaming in pain; I knocked on her door. No answer. Parents were out at work, and the younger brother was at school. Knocked again. Rang the doorbell. Heard the bell echo throughout the apartment but no answer. Another message:

"Bye."

It was highly illegal, but nothing stopped me when I broke down the door to the apartment. Silence greeted me; eerie listless silence hanging dead in the air. I shouted Renee's name at the top of my lungs, begging for a response. The sound of water dripping from the bathroom was my only response - so I went to investigate. What I saw, my ghost was just that...

She lay in the tub, even paler than before, her whole body being drained of color, her raven's wing hair wet and clinging to her lifeless body. Two deep cuts from which her life bled away were on her wrists, having cut a major vein. The bathtub, having started with water, now held more blood than water within it - a deep passion and anger filled red diluting slowly throughout the tub. I cried out and held her close - her body cold, the life drained out of her. My tears fell against her skin, my cries fell against silent ears, her eyes closed in a look of respite and final peace.

The neighbors heard the door being broken down, and my calls for her. They, fearing a burglary, called the military police, with which they responded in time perfectly. The came in, found us in the bathroom, and did their job. I was put in the back of the squad car and eventually released when her death was ruled as a suicide minutes later. The medics came and took her body away. Her parents arrived shortly after. Her mother crying out for her dead daughter, her younger brother crying out in confusion and loss. Her father came up to me - I began steeling myself in case his anger and sadness finally broke and he would hit me - but instead he embraced me and held me close, his tears fell heavy as they landed on my shoulder. Her mother and younger brother came over and held me as well - but no tears came to me, no sadness or anger erupting out of me.

When I held Renee in my arms, held her body close, all of my tears fell. All of my anger, my sadness, my confusion, and loss poured from me - mixing with the blood and bathwater. But then, being held by her family, I was nothing more than block of emotionless stone - a flesh and blood emotional anchor for everyone else, when I was lost in an ocean of emotions.

I went to therapists, to wise and holy men and women. To grief counselors, to fellow members of society who had lost friends and loved ones to suicide. I went and saw anyone possible for answers, and all answers were conflicting - it was selfish, it was wrong, it was humane, it was the only possible thing she could do. Nothing made sense anymore, with every self-depreciating question attacking me everyday - What if I had run a little faster? What if I had gotten there sooner? What if I loved her a little more? What if I saw the signs of abuse and depression?

So here I am now, a grown man in college. I've learned to pick myself up and move on. I've learned to not let my past be my destruction - but there are days where the memories of Renee knock the wind out of me, knock me onto my ass, take me off my feet by surprise. So, when those days come, I've learned to write a little faster, drink a little more, and pray a little harder that one day I'll realize that no matter how fast I ran, no matter when I got there, no matter how much I loved her; there wasn't anything I could do, because when I did, was when I was supposed to get there. There is no changing it. Renee made a decision and it wasn't my decision to make for her. She loved me enough to tell me and talk to me one last time. It could have been any one in the world, but I was the only person in her world worth telling.

I miss Renee, I don't bear any fault or grudges or wrong-doing against her. I know others will say that her solution was a permanent fix to a temporary problem, but for her, there was no other option, no other way to end the pain, no way to be free. I don't blame her - I just miss her. I miss my raven's wing haired, snow white complexion, willow branch thin love.

I'll see her eventually, I just needs to get through today, tomorrow, and the rest of my life until I see her again.

Slaying the Beast of Our Pasts (collaboration with Felicia Quinn)

She said I was her knight in shining armor,

       I said the armor is a little beat-up, 

       rusty, and kinda worn, 

       and she said that's the best kind around.

       

I said she was my lady so gentle,

       she said that she swore so hard;

       Satan and sailors were taking notes

       on pen and pad;

       and I said that's the best kind possible.

       

We saw the maleficent beast of our pasts,

       it said we would never make it work;

       that our hearts were too shattered,

       maimed and destroyed;

       so we slew the beast with our love.

It's Time (For Me To Be Me)

Who knew that time would be running out for us,
that our lives were not what we wanted them to be,
now you're Superman and I'm your kryptonite,
now you're on the pedestal and I'm holding you high.

But it's time,
It's time to change myself,
to skip to a new track,
to beat out a new beat on my drum,
it's time for a fresh remix,

Who say that the mighty have fallen,
Who saw that your plan backfired,
Your heart was the one that got broken,
No longer am I under your spell,
My dreams with you were really nightmares,
No longer am I in love with you.

But it's time,
It's time to change myself,
To skip to a new track,
To beat out a new beat on my drum,
It's time for a fresh remix,

Who lost it all that night,
Was it you or was it I?
You're walking with your head high
And I'm ready to erupt into flames.
You picked yourself up, and you carried on,
I'm barely getting up, barely hanging on,

But it's time,
It's time to change myself for the better,
To rise out of the ashes of these flames,
To beat this death creeping in,
It's time for me to let go of boyish things,
It's time for me to become a man.

It's time,
It's time,
It's time,
It's time for the bells to ring out,
It's time for drums to beat,
It's time for the choir to sing,
It's time for me to be me,
For me to be me.

But it's time,
It's time to change myself,
To skip to a new track,
To beat our a new beat on my drum,
It's time for a fresh remix.

Internal/External Adversity

I could feel it in my bones,

a sadness through the marrow,

reaching deeper than thought before,

reaching into my soul, my core.

So I picked up my pen,

I wrote down my life,

I wrote down my triumphs,

first friend, first kiss, first time with a girl,

my graduation,

first time with a guy,

finding friends who love me no matter who I am,

and then I wrote down my failures,

my pains, my hardships,

my heartbreaks and losses.

I poured onto the page my every last memory,

my every last thought,

my every last wish,

my every last regret, promise, and plan.

My wrists bleed blue and black ink,

my skin marked with my words,

my tongue wrapped around a phrase I'll spit,

my heart filtering out my mind's pain.

You snap and applaud,

while I rip open my rib cage

and unleash the beast, the monster from within -

I set it free every time I speak or write a line,

I set it loose when life gets to be too much.

Forgive me if my rhyme is off or gone,

forgive me if my words don't make any sense anymore,

forgive me if you don't like what you read or hear,

but I didn't write this for you,

these are the words that I write to build my palace,

my place of sanctuary from the outside lies,

and the more you negate my life, my words, my lines,

the less I want you here.

With a growl the sadness retreated,

with a roar it fled in fear,

now only vitality courses through these veins,

only life remains.

Exit - Stage Left

Lords, protect me,
this woman knows not what she's done to me,
she's pushed and pushed and provoked me -
she's sent me mixed messages,
from wanting tender love,
to want to tie me down.

What am I supposed to do,
excuse me for not wanting
anything to do with you,
especially not since you drove me
to almost insanity.

I'm sorry my dear, wait,
no, I'm not.
I've swallowed paint thinner
and fire for too long now,
it's been too long to begin
to think about letting you
back into my life -

Don't you hear the exit music,
can't you hear the orchestra swell,
don't you see the door -
I suggest you walk out now,
be civil,
before security shows you out.

Our love was an apocalypse.

One shot, two shots, three shots down,
here I lie with a mango rum crown.
Fall asleep in the bathtub tonight,
who knew that my soul wasn't alright.

Three shots, two shots, one shot up,
alcohol and tears mixed in my paper cup.
Waking up with your name on my lips,
who knew that our love was an apocalypse.

One day, two weeks, three years gone,
it looks like we have both lived and moved on.
Maybe "us" wasn't for our best,
now it's time for our love to be at rest.

Farewell Blessings

Don't cry Mother,
I see your tears in the leaves
as they fall.

You have to go, don't you -
I can see your trees
standing tired & bare,

You're growing old, from a
young spring to this
beautiful golden red
and orange autumnal
krone.

What was once an aire
so sweet with cherry &
lilac and lavender,
now so rich and beautiful,
a loamy ground now covered
in the quilt of colors you
make every year for Samhain.

Dear Mother, Sweet Goddess Mother,
you've come so far, from
waxing love, to full life,
and now to weaning age,
it is only normal; sweet Mother...

Soon, you too will die, your
trees will grow cold and quiet,
your petals closed and unflowered,
the lang covered in white cleansing
snow,
the sun will go a little cold -

But fret not, sweet beautiful Mother,
all hope is surely not lost -
even as your death saddens us,
we know how soon a new breath
of life will be breathed into you;

We know how soon you will be
young and sensual, and
fruitful you will be
again...

Sweet Mother, dear Goddess Mother,
it's nigh time for you to die,
oh Mother, Autumnal Mother,
I now breathe this year's
goodbye.

Diving off Writer's Block into Poet's Madness

You asked me if you should leave,

if you're distracting me from writing, 

if I need to take time to think -

No. Nooo! 

I need the opposite actually.

Keep talking to me, at me, with me, towards me -

distract me! 

Make me think about other things, weird things,

nonsensical phantasmagoria things -

throw cats at my window carrying kettles,

make me teach turtles to juggle giant seagulls -

anything other than leave me alone to sit here

and play patty cake with my writer's block - why?

It cheats, horribly you see,

it knows my every next move, 

a patty cake grand master, 

grand hamster, 

grand honey ham, 

mango honey fruit,

paint-stripping mango rum - 

stop staring, I'm letting my mind run with it!

You look at me, incredulous and palming a 

pepper spray in case I foam at the mouth -

Everyone is different, you say, I didn't know.

It's alright m'love,

when I see a writer's block, I have to inspect it,

analyze it, kick it, taste it, lick it, maybe sit on it to

think, think, think.

I know I'm a loony, I know I'm a mad hatter,

but I can't help it, when the block won't move - 

it stares at me and doesn't give a fuck.

How selcouth, you vulgar common plebeian of a man"

oh shush, you old crone! You're as bad as the rest in here - 

you stifle his mind, you bend him to your will, why don't 

you let him run a little wild among the trees - it won't harm

anyone else, no one lives in here except me, you, and old Mephistopheles.

You look at me incredulous, grinning,

"My dear" you expectorate, "I do believe you're mad,"

"Which is good, because that's just what the block doesn't want."

My eyes open, a cacophony of sounds and images,

of maids in roller skates going through Escher paintings,

of tea cups swallowing sugar cubes and spoons,

of a baby grand piano with hamsters for wheels -

oh, my mind is open again...

"You, my dear, are an antique, 

nostalgic,

mephistophelean old gypsy soul

that I've been searching for for all

my life."

No wonder we're so connected - 

we're mad just the same.

A Lesser Prize of Fantasy

The night came fast and loose,
how was a man, that man,
the slaughtered man to see that he was

To become part of the nightly news?

Charles Oliver never wanted anything more in life than to
just retire and open up his shop, an antique shop on the
corners of High Avenue and LeRaye Boulevard.

True to how Fate plays the game of Life,
the rules were changed,
the reward switched to a lesser prize of fantasy
and recognition among the watchers of the 8 o'clock
news.

Last night a man died, no one knew this man, no one
knew what was to become of him before his death,
no one sure how he died. Last night a man died
in the dark and quiet of night in his own home,
no force or entry present, no place or spot blemished
with fingerprints other than Charles Oliver's.

With night fast approaching, there was no where for anyone
to go but to go to bed, to wish that night would end soon,
that morning would come fast and loose, lost among
the sea of others on the streets of the big city.

The night came fast and loose,
how was a man, that man, the slaughtered man to see
that he was now to become part of the city lights, the
city nights, part of the city itself,
with his death.

Kleine Vogel - Little Bird

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
warum weinen Sie?

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
warum willst du nicht fliegen?

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
breite deine Flügel und fliegt weg,
in ein Land der Sonne und
klaren Himmel!

Kleine Vogel, kleine Vogel,
komm zurück zu mir bald, schöne Vogel,
und Erzählen Sie mir Ihre
Märchen!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Little bird, little bird
why are you crying?

Little bird, little bird,
why won't you fly?

Little bird, little bird,
spread your wings and fly away,
to a land of sun and clear sky!

Little bird, little bird,
come back to me soon,
beautiful bird,
and tell me your fairy tales!

Unter die Sterne / Under the Stars

Unter die Sterne, ich lag und warte.
Meine Liebe ist weit weg.
Wie soll ich so lieben,
wenn meine Liebe lebt unter den Göttern,
und Kosmos?

Unter der Himmel, ich bleibe und zu bete.
Jeder Tag ist harter als die letzte.
Mit jedem Atemzug meine Liebe nähert nah,
bald werde ich in einer traumhaft sein
umarmen unserer himmlischen Leidenschaft.

Unter der Sterne, wir laien und leben,
beiden Liebenden umschlungen,
teilen eine Seele zwischen
zwei personen - eine Liebe,
ein Wesen, eine Seele.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Under the stars, I lay and wait.
My love is far away.
How am I supposed to love,
if my love lives among the gods,
and the cosmos?

Under the sky, I stay and pray.
Every day is harder than the last.
With every breath my love close approaches,
soon I'm going to be fantastic in a
embrace of our heavenly passion.

Under the stars, we lay and live,
two lovers entwined,
share a soul between
two persons - one love,
a being, a soul.

Neferus

Neferus looks at the piece of steel in his hand, the jewel-encrusted saber hilt covered in the blood of slain children, the blade clean and thin - waiting again for more, to prove itself one more to the striker.

"What...what have I done?" Neferus drops the sword and backed away, staring intently at his now blood covered hands, "I, I don't remember...how did I...what happened?"

Yells begin to build from down the corridor as the flicker of torches dance against the shadows on the walls as the guards rush to the sounds of babes' now-silenced screams.

Neferus held himself in the crack in the wall, barely breathing as the guards knelt by those slain only a few feet near him. He held his face towards the shadows, letting his raven hair block the light, allowing him to blend in amongst the darkness. Only did Neferus breath freely once the guards ran past him, down further into the darkness of the underground corridor beneath the cities.

"I need to know what happened, I need to know who they were, and who's sword that was..." Neferus went to the slain and picked up the richly-decorated sword off the ground.

The light off of the torches hung every few meters began dancing off of the smooth blade, catching on the jewels on the hilt and creating visual melodies on the corridor walls.

"I need to know, so then I can trade my soul for those I killed. I need to know..."

Never learned, Always known.

A language - never learned,
always known,
spoken by lovers
and attempted translations by artists.
Generations get close -
but the language always adapts -
speakers always a few phrases
ahead of the word works.

Love - a language
never learned but
always known -
crafted artificially by blacksmith poets,
re-imagined by acid-tripped painters,
fantasized by heart-strung musicians.

Love - a first language,
a mother tongue to the unfamiliar,
spoken by many -
understood by all.

Love - a language
yearned for, striven towards,
spoken and heard, impossible to
translate -
yet internalized by all,
externalized by few.

Love - never learned,
always known.

Memories thicker than Blood...

I close my eyes,
I can feel the early-fall crisp breeze,
I can see the colors of the music blowing through
the young birch tree in my backyard.

It's no surprise that my soul yearns for the outside,
it comes at such a high cost - to leave these walls,
How my soul yearns for the outside,
how my mind craves the law of the society inside.

I see and I must have -
every smell must be known,
every taste must be had,
every sight seen,
and every sound heard.
I need it all - without it,
my being would be lesser than
another's soul.

I open my eye,
I no longer feel a breeze -
just stopped time,
the colors have paused, the music on a hold-note,
the birch paused in growth and flourish,
I close my eye,
and the world breathes again.

Musical Apostolization

The beat-up '96 Honda pulled in behind me,
playing hymns of legendary gods;
Zeppelin, Clapton, Who, Tull,
a symphony of musicians so amazing,
weaving spells of unbridled passions against suffering,
against wars, for love,
for creativity and for humanity -
spells born out of madness of musicians
fantasies carved out of imaginations
realities reaching out to you and me -

"Ugh, that music sucks," like arrows in my side,
I turn and see a Hummer yell out obscenities,
"Turn that shit off hippie!"
The beat-up '76 Honda pulled-in behind me,
turns up the hymns of cosmic brilliance,
only to the quickly building vitriol of the teen.

Red light changes to green,
Hummer takes off never to be seen (again),
the vintage '76 Honda pulls up beside me,
a Gramps teachin' his grand-babies the truth,
of what music was and what it still can be.

Philosophy Lecture #1

The philosopher stands in front of the class
buzzing, droning, annoying the students
to death...
A teen so fed up with the injustice of death
by annoyance -
thinks herself out of existence.
Socrates is himself bored, Plato has
begun to hit on younger men -
Glaucon has passed out and Thrasymachus left for war.

The philosopher stands in front of his class - his
class willing to replace the lemmings,
the lemmings already dead.

United States of Awful

It's not easy to breathe -
this suffocating hot-dog & apple pie
down through the throat -
it's everywhere;
shops, churches,
schools, hallways,
bedrooms & bathrooms.

I'm choking on Uncle Sam's cock;
forced to swallow a load
of bullshit jingoism -
I used to love you America,
but we've changed -
I've moved on and met other people;
better people -

So while you call me up & ask if I want to
go out on a date,
Know that I'm banging Europe -
and they've rung my
Independence bell.

A Night at the Bar

Loud pulsing club music,

within a post-modern, 

no fish-and-chips,

Irish pub specializing in the typical daiquiri,

a snake bite, a nine-euro watered-down Long Island Iced Tea,

and a mixed fruit Jameson.

New friends mix with the old -

all drinking by themselves next to others -

all yelling over the  music about work,

about failed and triumphant affairs,

about fresh geopolitical conflicts -

   which none truly know the answer for,

and that hot new neighbor who moved in next door...

All for the conversational dominance that

loud club music - which no one dances to -

even can afford...

The fresh faced fly in,

the downtrodden drunks dribble out,

the taste of silky Guinness coaxes the mind

into finding silence a midst the chaos -

only for a breath and a gulp,

as the bass beats it all away.

Bartenders with glassy and bored eyes fill,

refill, relinquish alcohol for the slam of a five

on the table, the counter, the bar -

one down, six up,

more to drink for an exuberant price.

"One more in, one more down,

one more cheer for shot-ing the Crown,

one more drunk, one more stud,

one more to get out of the rud..."

Eulogy for Robin Williams

"O'Captain my Captain..."
you brought tears to my eyes,
I'm standing on my desk, can't you see,
you've gone, and now our laughter's replaced by cries...

O'Robin, our Robin,
we will remember you so,
your laugh, and mirth,
your comedic worth,
now, we lay the funniest man
on earth, into the dirt.

My friend, long-lost brother,
you brought me out of pain,
you made me laugh out in the rain,
dear, sweet Robin, you've flown away;

Away, funny Robin, fly away to Heaven,
and there, our Robin, is your final place to
stay.

Grasping Dreams

"Are you ready?
You must be so excited!"
This is another new step -
a new journey, a new page in my book,
a new leaf flourishing on my tree.

I smile, and nod,
and realize that I've grown older and up,
that I'm no longer a child,
that I'm almost out of my teens,
my Peter Pan story now fully flawed.

The thought of growing older scares me,
the idea of staying young is only worse,
I'm sick of hearing life steam by,
of seeing it disappear faster than I can grasp on,
of wasting half away before I can get my degree!

Time, though, has a way of slowing down,
of resting on a pin's head,
of breathing in between the heart beats,
Time has a way of pulling us back in,
just before life flings it back around.

I'm tired of being nervous and quick to excite,
of counting down the days,
and waiting near the door for it to arrive,
I'm tired of being patient for it to come to me,
I'd rather pounce on it in delight.

I'm no longer going to stand idly by,
I'm going to enjoy my flourishing tree,
enjoy my own evolving story,
of grasping onto fleeting dreams;
so my life can soar and fly.

A Warning from the Angels of Mons

The Angels of Mons visited me last night,
four bowmen made of light and crystal and quartz -
oh what a voluptuous panic and wonder seized me.

Standing in between the four brethren was a figure,
clad in battle-tested armor made from the scales of a dragon -
a flaming ring, a seraphic crown above his head
burned perfervidly against the dark within my dreams.

My voice would not respond to my surprise,
my throat having been silenced -
a single look from the Angels commanding reverence.

In the silence between we celestial and mortal beings,
the seraphic being spoke softly yet earnestly -
a tone of a young heart with the years of a learned soul.

"Be still, find comfort in me,
know that your mind is not deceiving you,
I am here before you. I bring grave news,
a warning against your brethren,
a lesson for your children."

"Only a hundred years ago, your past ancestors
gave war in the most destructive and inhumane of ways -
Young children left without fathers or mothers,
mothers left without their sons,
wives left without their husbands.
Terrible machinery - made by the cruelest hands of man,
sought to maim and destroy their own kind.
And only when the hunger from the
creature of Death was satiated, then
open war was silenced."

"We were called out into the open,
and we have been called again.
You maim, you destroy, you kill -
all in the name of your God;
your savior, your creator. You kill
in the name of your dollar, your land,
your benefactors. You kill with more
vile machinery made by your hands,
you destroy all the beauty which was made
by you and the world. You seek to create
and placate a world of only yourselves as
ruler - to eradicate all others unlike you.
You do such horrible things in the name of goodness,
that your own souls have been tainted by the
creature of Death, reborn and regaining of
its strength with every bomb, every bullet,
every death of every man, woman, and child."

"Quiver, dear one, for only until Death has
become satiated once again, life will seem
bleak and uncontrollable. You will learn
what it is your brethren are made of,
what fresh hellish clay your skin contains,
what impure water your veins flow.
Tremble, man, for the world will grow
dark before it sees the light again."

"Your children will learn of your own
brethren' mistakes, will learn of
injustices in the name of kings,
of gods, of wealth, of power.
Your children will learn from the memories
held deep within your eyes,
what horrors haunt your soul from experiencing
the pain of watching your own brethren die
by brethren's hand."

"Sleep, now, and awake with a passion of life,
with a rekindling of humanity's intolerance of evil,
awake from a slumber of oppression and injustice,
breathe new aires of compassion and love;
only when you awaken, and your brethren awaken
from their deep slumber of death-filled dreams,
will your world reawaken from it's slumber through
the night - to see fresh morning where peace rules
hand in hand with equality and humanity."

The Angels of Mons appeared before me last night,
five celestial and seraphic beings from another place -
a dark night lit up by a warning and a lesson.

A Fresh Mind - A Birthplace of Wonder

There is this joy -

this perverse glee every time
I feel a pen, pencil, charcoal touch a page -

when memories and fantasies 

flood fresh tabula rasas, 

when hearts bleed inky reds, blues, and blacks, 

when whole universes, worlds, dimensions, and beings

explode into existence

with a single stroke of a pen.

When the deep sea valley truths

give rise to mountainous emotions - 

the volcanic passions threaten 

to overtake and destroy all traces of realism - 

only to give life to further creations of the

mind and soul.

Only is it when every space, ever crevice

of the tabula rasa filled, is the

tabula plenus born but yet,

not realized.

The Soul Behind The Register

I met him in the winter just before Christmas, my coworker named Alva Turstell, yet I only truly began to learn who he was - what journeys his life afforded him, just before I left in the late summer for college.

He was 68 and quiet and kept to himself mostly, occasionally remarking to customers and associates whenever a question was asked his way. He was slow to action; his stroke and a battle with skin cancer, along with his time through life's journey left him more measured and tired in step. While he wasn't the most outgoing of my coworkers in the store, his attention to detail was his skill; whether it was stocking the medicines or putting new arrivals of candy on the shelves or even taking basic inventory of the sodas. Yet, while his retail cashiering skills are commendable in their own right, it was the small details of his life that he would mention in passing that drew me in, in those last two weeks of working with him.

Hearing quips and short tales of living in Heidelberg and China for many years at a time, of attending both Georgia Tech as well as Duke, of traveling through Italy for weeks on end - I began to believe that after the many years of his life, the autumnal years began to breathe truth into fisherman's tales within his mind.

While stocking energy drinks, his tired demeanor would disappear, his eyes brighten, and his stories of college life at Georgia Tech or at Duke would unfold, occasionally his mind switching the colleges without his lips knowing. From art history and art criticism lectures, to studying mathematics and mechanics - course after course, his memories allowed him to relive his past.

But even when things were going well for him, working in retail did throw unfortunate occurrences - unapologetic, impatient customers who demanded instant gratification from a man who's speed was not set to the notch eleven. The only thing worse than the intolerant customers, were the intolerant customers vocalizing their rather crude remarks - however not directly to him, instead to other cashiers where he was in earshot. He never retorted in any fashion, never shot back - instead he continued on, acting as if nothing was said. But oh, when the face remains calm and stone-like, how the eyes betray the soul within - the pain and anger visible, only to be drowned within sadness and the feeling of being used to such comments.

He wasn't as fast as us young summer-hire cashiers, wasn't as sprightly or as flexible as us, but he was more mature and calm than us; not only in action, but also in speech - for when he was silent in the fray of busied conversations and ringing up customers, his mind ran laps around us all; catching minute details whilst we young bucks tried to appease every customer who walked in the store.

That summer I met a man who has lived more than I have, who has seen more, and done more, and loved more than I have. He has seen oppression and joy in everyday moments, has seen love and warmth, and hate and despair. His movements were slowed down compared to us, but his mind was miles ahead of us. He was quiet and docile but his memories exuded noise and life. That was the summer I truly learned what a well lived and traveled human soul looked like - and I've yet to encounter another one.

Hermetical Forerunning of Life

Heat...everywhere. Blinding heat, raging and rolling from every angle. Heat within the stars has no comparison to the heat
against my every side, scorching my every branch and leaf and bud.

Oh my friends, my lovers, my family - how they fell a midst the flames and fire - dark billowing smoke from the slowly perishing
young; slow gray smoke out of the fallen old. Why did you go - here I stand alone, the single oak a midst the graves of children
and friends.

Lo, even the critters, the furry friends who used to run amok through my feet of branches, burrowed and found shelter under my skin - where too have you gone? Away, you have, away from me - a hermit standing tall but singed, beaten and battered against
the storm of winds and flame.

No longer do I hear the songs of the breeze through family's hair - no longer the soft trill of the 'jays and the hovering drum beats of the hummingbirds - now just silence, endless echoes of nothingness. No home left to protect against stray storm or
lightning strike; here I stand, a monument to what once was.

Even now, laid deep beneath the smoke and ash, deeper still beneath my roots, I can feel it. The soft hum of you - my kin. I hear your soft earthly echo, no longer in screams and cries of pain but now; now in hymns of rebirth, now in love songs of the
spring.

I hear your once thought dead seedlings emerge from the dark soot emptiness. I hear the long-out calls of the 'jays. I hear you returning to me, returning home,
returning to where you belong.

No longer am I a hermit, a solitary monument to what was and will never be, a lonely reminder of past destruction; now,
now I am forerunner -
with my buds and fruit; they shall return anew and grown. Because of me, kin and friends shall return - the songs of the past are now the songs of the future; the drumming of the hummingbird, the trill of the 'jays and their young, the soft scratching from within as new small residents take up shelter within me.

Now, there shall be life - born beating back against the oppression of flames and fiery tyranny. Now there shall be life - singing hymns of past and future alike. Now there shall be life - so that when I too pass, others will take my place a midst the forest of songs and memories, the forest of what was and will be -

the forest of life.

Her

It's not true,
at least not partially in the sense of your definition of joyless truth -
while I did find fantasy and beauty written in her skin,
I never found this evilness within our love that you call sin.

It wasn't her cheeks or her lips that stopped me from believing,
it was swimming amongst the dreams and stars and Naiads in her eyes -
it made me awake from a hell I was tired of carrying in my pockets -

I felt release, sweet blissful freedom within her arms
as our demons mingled within our hearts -
neither of us loving our own,
but raising our minds in anarchy
for the other's soul.

As teeth graze lips,
as hair is brushed by fingertips,
as eyes are closed tight,
my soul melds with yours;

as I feel your words still warm from your lips,
as you curl into my tender palms,
as we embrace into one life,
our beings are born abreath with new purpose;

to reach a new level of addiction -
to the other's taste, smile, and laugh,
to live more fully within each other's day and night,
to love together;
to let our demons thrive in peace,
to breathe each day in universal harmony,
to enjoy our silence and our mirth,
to just be.

Ad Consolatio Herbam

Take this sprig of fresh grass, this scepter of nature's creation, this abundant bed from which man will lay in at the end.

This lone blade, this wee-whistle calling all fairies and pixies abound.

This grasslet, this green tuft of Gaea's hair that we caress and massage - giving salon makeovers with push to industrial clippers when Gaea needs a new look for the new season.

Take this single stalk of grass, hold and admire the virescent pastoral being in your hands. The smell lingers - softly, hung with patience and unaged grace.

Notice the viridescent color slowly with time, for every second and moment of man becomes a last breath, a last aeon for this single inhabitant of its homely meadow-land veld.

"Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, 'Grow, grow.'" - The Talmud

The Spell of Love

It must definitely be something in the air,
this wave after wave of emotional sensation -
the flickering lights of the candles in the summer night breeze,
the slow rise of smiles across my face as I see you each time,
the realization that I'm falling madly in love with you.

You caught my heart off guard,
slipped through my defenses and shined some light on my life,
made me realize that you felled my walls with a single kiss,
now I can't stop thinking about us.

The passion in your eyes has me spell-bonded,
the witchcraft in your lips keeps me alive,
the love in our lives has us intertwined,
so tight that we dream that we can fly.

There's something in the air,
it's got us in love with each other,
it might be the feel of our skin pressed together,
or the slow rise and fall of our chests as we breathe in time,
but all I know is that I've fallen deeply in love with the thought of you and I.

Casa de Amore

The usual evening dinner chatter filled the restaurant. Waiters moved about the room; taking orders from recently-seated parties of two or more, reciting the wine list from memory, recommending the guinea filet with wild mushroom sauce alongside a selection of cluttered fresh asparagus wrapped in prosciutto with a hint of crème fraiche.

A pair of waiters were cleaning off a couple tables after a party of six had finished dining. The waiters talked amongst themselves, both young, twenty-something males still doe-eyed amongst the world – their only knowledge of the outside world coming from the half-nights with college co-eds in smokey piano jazz bars and steamy hashish lounges until drink and smoke coalesce with their teenybopper senses.

The sounds from the kitchen only further ennobled the men and women in there – head chef calling out dish names, busboys dodging verbal lashings from worked up sous chefs. Each dish plated with repetitive accuracy – lamb shanks a la bourgeoisie, steamed mussels with long cut seasoned potato skins, fennel salad with grilled chicken marinated in ginger root, orange zest, and hoisin sauce.

A bartender flips a vodka bottle through the air twice, catching it and pouring three fingers worth in a shaker already containing some grenadine, a little lemon juice, some lime and orange zest, and a cherry. Shaking the drink for a few seconds to allow the contents to hurl themselves together creating alcoholic glory within a gleaming metal bullet, the bartender pours the fresh drink into a martini glass, handing it off to a clean-pressed-waisted waitress who delivers it to it's rightful drinker.

The hostess seats yet another couple for the night, this time sitting them next to the window overlooking the rainy water-colored streets lit up by fading flickering yellow street lamps in the old city. Menus are handed over to the couple as mentions of a waitress being right with them are given. The hostess finds herself at her command station, looking over her map of the restaurant as a commander overlooking her troops and formations – finding open territory for each new brigade upon arrival to the feast of war and food.

The arrival of the waitress in front of me heralded the end of my leisurely visual stroll through the restaurant. After taking my drink order, she disappeared towards the bar, flirting with the bartender while simultaneously ordering my glass of  red wine. I closed my eyes and massaged the worn bridge between the eyes who had seen love born, stoked, grown, rekindled in the cold of winter, only for love to roar again. The eyes have seen love, yes, but they had also seen death young and sporadically as they aged. Opening my eyes, the sight of the wine was welcoming indeed. Taking but a small drink, I held the small jeweler's box in my hand, opening it slowly, smiling as the ring echoed the freedom call as hope escaped into my world with each catch of the restaurant lighting. Warmth from the wine slowly coursed through my body, massaging every tension and fear out of me. Another sip wouldn't be out of place. Placing the box back into my pocket, I set the glass down. The wine was definitely warming my body, teeth to toes, as final apprehensions wore away. Sultry silky smooth peace ebbed and flowed over and through my body, the alcohol relaxing me further as the sounds of the kitchen lulled me into another stroll through the restaurant.

As my eyes meandered around the restaurant again, passing and admiring dish and patron alike, the sound of the hostess called the eyes back home. Looking over in her general direction, every fiber, every muscle gained a slight tension of nervousness from desertion.

She walked in the room. The forest green-eyed woman with short brunette hair in a silky cream dining gown walked in the room and smiled as her eyes found and met the welcoming if not yearning sight of mine. With each step, the heartbeats began to rise, not out of fear or nervousness now, but from excitement and love and holding a secret in my pocket. She gets to my table and I rise, holding her seat out for her and letting her in. She smiles as she sits. Her eyes embrace mine, reading every pool within the iris for emotional tea leaves, emotional tells for what lay hiding near my breast. Her eyes widen with shock as I get to one knee, procuring the box from its hiding place.

I look down at the box and up into her eyes. Shock, fear, apprehension, nervousness, excitement, love, joy, fear some more – all of it mixing and hiding in the forests of green within her eyes. As I let the hope escape from within the box and run rampant into her world; I grin, the words spoken normally but feeling as if they tumbled, stumbled on the restaurant carpet, and only just before falling flat on their faces did they adjust themselves and become a single coherent thought that knelt before her with box in hand and ring within the box;

“Will you marry me?”

In My Arms & Mind

Spring sky blue and cloud white rush by my window
as her voice fills my mind,
echoes reverberating off
past to future and back.

How still life seems with each
moment of her near me -
her scent lingering as dew against my soul windowing upon my heart,
her thin lips so full of magick and awe,
her forest green eyes full of lightning to match
the thunder within her heart and soul.

How lucky we are,
our whispers full of love drown out the cathedral choir,
our embraces veined with passion to triumph
over the faults of other's earthquakes.

Sky black and moon bright,
peace lingering in the night air as her voice fills my mind,
our bodies intertwined,
in tune to the echoes off past and future.

The Typewriter

Click-click. Click-click-clack-click. Pthump. Pthump. Pshht. Click-click. Click-click-ding-pshht.

Ophelia massaged the worn bridge between her weathered-by-life eyes. Click-click-clack-click. This piece was like the others; unfulfilling, not worth her time or talent, and less than a quick buck. Ding-pshht.

Click-click. Pthump. Click-click-click-click-clack-click. Pthump.

She remembered when she was sought after by the New Yorker, the Wall Street Journal, the International New York Times. She would bounce from paper to paper, delivering award-winning stories and reports with her sardonic wit, rhythm, and her remarkable capability to capture the reality of everyday transgressions happening around her and the city. Ding-pshht.

Click. Pause. Inhale from a homemade cigarette filled with Moroccan tobacco. Slow, savory exhale filled with the taste of warm vanilla bean, jasmine, and sandy memories of far off lands. Click. Pthump. Click-pshht. Ding.

Ophelia glanced up from her article, breathing in the smells New York City offered and folding into the sounds of sweet Harlem jazz. Click-click-click-clack. Pthump. Click-pshht-ding.

Click-click. Click-clack-click-click. Pthump. Click-click-clack-click-pthump-pthump. Click-clack-click. Ding-pshht.

Ophelia pulled the paper off the wheel – this would do for the penny papers. She'd make enough for another round of coffee at the jazz joint which she lived above. On the weekends she'd go down and listen to the sounds of young up-and-comers, young peoples just barely old enough to drink the cheap Italian red. The smooth flowing legato off the upright bass created a bed for the sultry trumpet to play and lay upon, bouncing from staccato to legato and back again, building and rising with every crescendo until the trumpet would play it's secret soul-sound of the white-hot noise that resided deep within the young musician's souls.

Ophelia sighed, took another slow inhale from her memory-filled smoke-stick. She might take that bassist up on his offer for a night of slow passionate love; the sounds from downstairs creating the atmosphere for the two one-night lovers as the shared vino fueled every kiss and stroke and fondle.

Ophelia exhaled, rubbing the bridge between her eyes. She'd take him up on his offer, but she had to finish another crummy story for another penny paper before she could enjoy herself. She put another piece of paper on the wheel.

Click-click. Click-click-clack-click. Pthump. Pthump. Pshht. Click-click. Click-click-ding-pshht. 

On top of Mountains & Underneath Skies

I feel the fire breathe within my mountain,
I can see your blue & green heavenly lights dance high in the sky,
darling, we'll bask in the glow of our love's flame -
       burn blue-red and deep,
  catching embers within ablaze,
  oh how it will grow & smoke,
this love within the mountains & sky.

Watch as the spring nights clear - rain & cloudy sun free for
  our forest green & blood moon - love.
Oh how our skies will cry tears of ice & fiery shooting stars,
Our love billed in shimmering lights amongst eternal heavenly flames.

Do you feel your fire breathe within your lungs,
       do you see the beauty of your being in the mirrors in the sky?
Do you feel the feel of our heat upon our earths skin,
       do you see the flames on the mountain,
       do you feel the night breeze on your skin,
Do you know our love in the night?

This Place

No, this isn't the country of new adventures, this
old country isn't the land of listlessness -
this is the country of peace,
of Quiet. of Silence.

This is the country of the flat flatlands - only
to be disturbed by fresh hills of rooted
vegetables of potatoes.

This is the country of backyard country-home
seances with the spirits of nature and relaxation.

This place is tuned to the hum of the tractor at
three in the afternoon.

This place is tuned to the hymn of the sun-birds
chirping in defiance of the night.

This place is the sunset at 6:37 in the afternoon
as the sun is beginning the orange-red fiery
descent of the stairs of the sky into the moon and
stars strewn-blanket of night.

This is the breath of enjoyment as the spring
breeze and the chill in the air nip at my fingers
under the shade of the spruce and pine trees.

No, this place, this country is not my birth
place, nor is it my final home, but this place,
this 6:37-in-the-afternoon-place, this is where

I've grown up.

Beauty in the Breakdown

There's beauty in the breakdown -
the spiraling-out of the human
condition as outside influences push
the single-breath trigger of the thump thump
heartbeat born human psyche - the
human condition collapsing under the
weight of imposed faiths, morals &
virtues - blowing out the walls of cards
and scattering the foundation of salt & sand.

Then, only then, does the fat & skin
& blood of the human condition peel
and melt away - leaving the bones
and sinew of raw humanity - scurrying
and cautious - aware of our place in
everything - realizing trivialities as just
that - scattered seeds in the wind-blown
life - only to land amongst the thorns
of complicity & crowds.

There truly is beauty in the breakdown
-for without it, how would we ever
see who we truly are without the
facades of our conditions,
faiths and egos?

Retribution

There was no harvest last year -
I buried my Hope into your thorny soil-
When it was but young,
it's life you stole.

I vowed to trust -
oh no more -
Hope's death was slow
and my heart tore;

I let go and I swore-
never again burned
by your candle's
fiery aire.

You saw I was in pain -
you cackled and brought on more,
you begged for your return &
I believed even more,
you killed me,
I was no longer alright.

As you left into the night,
I was over come by fright,
fearing your return by midnight.

I rebuilt myself - the ash warrior,
with a heart of dread -
how I feared and cried,
when you would return &
steal my life and watch me die.

But the voice within cried -
no more, I say, no more,
my voice broken of all bonds -
no more, I cry, no more,
no longer afraid to be alive -
No More, No Fear, No More.

You walked back in the night,
expecting my shadow and I to
cry out in fright,
you weren't expecting me,
bathed in new light -
you disappeared then -
I finally won my fight.

Tattered and broken -
I rebuilt anew -
so in love with the stars,
no longer afraid of the night -
or of

you.

Phoenix Reborn

Terrified, you cried
and told us the news -
the lumps weren't imaginary boogie men
the nightmare was real.

Surgery, it seemed,
went by quickly.
They went in,
poked, prodded,
groped and mauled,
and cleaned you out -
no more lumps,
no more nightmares
no more being afraid.

Hours, days,
weeks went by -
time seemed to slow
as we lay in wait -
the tests, they said,
will come back as soon as they're
done -
we all know that
we aged with each day -
trying to hold it together,
facing a potential grim reality-
is it back? did it go away?
chemo? no chemo?
will she lose her mom?
will I lose my grandma?

Phoenix,
how you destroyed yourself so
violently,
only to be reborn
within the ashes of your
own death.

A call.
Hushed whispers.
Chaos around me,
life whizzing by,
passers pushing through,
you called.

After all that work,
after all that stress,
after all the worry and wait,
after the poking and prodding,
you called the game -
the home team won.

Survivor,
you outwitted,
outplayed,
outlasted
those veritable lumps
of nightmarish cancer-flesh -
no longer afraid of your shadow
or of the dark -

Phoenix reborn,
you stood up to the stars
and conquered the darkest night -
Phoenix Reborn,
it's time to summit
the sun

rise.

Life's Veritable Heirloom

The old, weathered minds

watch the young hearts

die

unlit and passionless -

small babes cry tears

seasoned

by over-moroseness and inner salt lakes -

salt lake beds bleeding into youthful

rolling streams carving faithful deltas

on psyches and snap-dragon skins.

While pulling back to throw your

stones,

view the meager handfuls of

dirt

thrown on your autumnal

silken bed -

remember that as you judge

so too will you be judged -

not with what you have done

or earned -

but with the inner coil strength

of your potential

maleficent being.

Lament and lacrimosa,

requiem for not what was

but for the what could

have been.

Death, acting as time's

greatest traitor -

defiler of the oceans of

innocence within the eyes

of our young -

the silence of the bell-snuff

against the low-orange

flame of the

autumnal.

Quiet & contemplative & absent -

death and life -

boisterous & rambunctious & present -

old and young -

yesterday & tomorrow.

Greek Goddess Lolinolixia

While I know that this isn't exactly poetry, it is for my Greek Mythology class, and I figured I'd put it on here for your enjoyment!

Lolinolixia

or

The Goddess of the Internet

as translated by Michael West III

from the

Lol Tablets

“Oh, sweet Muse, tell me, your heaven-bid scribe, upon the great Goddess known as Lolinolixia. Grant me the wisdom of prosperity upon hearing your utterance of the sweet mistress of the Internet.”

- Ancient ritual poem from the Lol cult of Lolinolixia

Lolinolixia, born of Athena and Hermes, is the Goddess of the Internet or also known, by the Lol cult, as the “sweet mistress” of the Internet. Lolinolixia, bearing divinity over cats, the Internet, and online pirating, bears chaotic goodness upon the world. Holding a sigil and emblem of the wondrous Grumpy Cat, Lolinolixia is attended by the Internet nymphs Wikia and Wi-fios, and can be seen riding her powerful steed named Lan.

Lolinolixia's birth is recorded in the Lol Tablets;

“Finding the world of post-Cold War peace, the Gods and Goddesses of Olympus decided to get fussed up and primped and proper, and hold a gathering, with Dionysus providing veritable wines from his vineyards and Pan headlining as DJ for the get-together. As the hours of the party continued to float away, the deities found themselves in groups or pairs, conversing and generally getting along. Many found themselves coupling up, trysting off in various corners of Zeus' newest heavenly renovated palace. One such heavenly Olympic couple found themselves with enough of Dionysus' wine in them that habitations and clothes left. Both, waking after a night of Pompeian passion, found themselves at loss of words and holding a basket, within it a bundle of cloth with the Sweet Mistress of the Internet laying within....”

The offspring of Lolinolixia as made known in the Lol Tablets;

“Lolinolixia, seeing the Internet as a yet un-proven and un-tilled soil of beauty, gave birth to a daughter, which she gave the sight of knowledge and the vast reaches of humanity's knowledge. Upon seeing that her creation was a beauty, gave her the name of Google. Her sons Piratebaya and Wikileakxio, sprang up, created by the Sweet Mistress in times of humanity's wickedness.”

A challenge to the young Lolinolixia and the Internet, as read in the Lol Tablets;

“As the realm of the Internet was still but young in life, there was a man, a powerful vice-consul of a once-great nation, who was named Algorix. Algorix led a campaign through-out the capital city to gain favor and support in the next assembly vote for consul – as the previous consuls had come of age of retirement and leisured assisted living. Algorix, sensing his powerful allies within the senatorial assembly were finding favor with Algorix' opponents in the consul-vote, as man named Dubbja. Algorix, then decided to thumb his nose towards favor and fate of the Gods upon Olympus and make his own destiny – even if it led to his demise.

Standing below his counterparts, on the assembly floor, Algorix began to regale a tale of creation and wonder – of building a vast and beautiful network, that which being far superior to that of Lolinolixia. All those gathered, upon hearing his heretical speech, fell silent in awe of Algorix' heathendom towards the domain of Lolinolixia.

The Sweet Mistress, upon hearing Algorix' blasphemous heresy, walked upon the Earth as a mere woman-child, barely over the age of first-blood. Standing next to Algorix, the Sweet Mistress bade Algorix to recant his tale, or else be doomed to failure and unending ridicule. Algorix, finding his ego to have inflated over his control, bade no recantation and only merely challenged the woman-child to silence herself. While temporarily blinding the assembly, Lolinolixia came upon Algorix in her true Olympic form, causing Algorix to burn in a Vulcan-powered heat, completely destroying and killing Algorix upon the spot...”

The story of a once-great nation and Lolinolixia's favored hero of humanity;

“Finding the human world to be up to no good, Lolinolixia found favor upon the young hero known as Edward Snowden – taking him and sending him upon the perilous journey of disclosing various political and governmental discrepancies created by a once-great nation. With Lolinolixia's guidance and strength, Snowden successfully completed his journey and adventure to open the eyes of the world to how dark and previously-unknown the then-great-nation had become. For his greatness and bravery in the face of innumerable and objectionable enemies and obstacles, Lolinolixia rewarded her favored hero Edward Snowden with the gift of Sanctuary within the country of Putinland, then known as the ancient country of Russia....”

Thus concludes the inscriptions found upon the Lol Tablet, as the rest of the Tablet was damaged with no remaining fragments found, as of late.