This angry night our dreams may fly

The Night tree in the Valley of Shadow

Tonight the darkness boils with anger

swallowing the light and souls nearby.

It leaves a void that is hollow and bleak

a darkness so dense and pungent

it can be tasted upon the tongue.

All sound gathers into tumbleweeds

that lie still underneath the couch,

prayers fall flat as they escape the lips

and silently shatter as they hit the ground

spiders mirth in such fodder as this.

The lunar coward hides behind the tides,

preoccupied with the busywork of crabs

and by the way the waves pause

a split second just before they break,

just like a jumper on the cusp of flight

from the teetering edge of skyscraper death.

How easy it would be for the moon to

shine a single ray of silver light

to penetrate this choking nothingness,

but there will be no bravery tonight.

Stars become shy and shoot away

to escape the consuming dark

where they can twinkle for other eyes

and be wished upon by those

who still know what it feels like

to feel the shining sun upon your skin.

This eternal blindness is going to be icy,

cold and sharp like the ice man’s dick.

Our only solace is to sit in the blank

and see If our dreams can grow wings,

then we will teach them to fly

and it will comfort us to know,

that though we may not survive,

at least our dreams will escape

the clutches of perpetual boredom

that is this boiling, angry night.

The life of sand

A grain of sand

grows into a mountain,

only to be reduced

back to a grain

by the weathers of life.

Templates in the modern world

All the templates of modern life

lay heavily worn in a corner

of perpetual boredom.

They are easily downloaded

to match our daily mood

pirated and bastardized from

the original revolution

that created them

as an original expression

into a hip, lifeless carcass.

These revolutions get no royalties,

they get only increasingly enfeebled followers

who do not even know the war cries

or the anthems that spread the

new ideas and energy to the warriors

who fought and rallied for a purpose.

Not like the photocopied soldiers of today,

who become more and more faded,

as each beloved idea is echoed

throughout the canyons of this world,

slowly fading in volume

until its’ cries can no longer be heard

Bears and the grief of Winter

J. Rajcich 2011

Winter is the period of grief

after watching the world

slowly fade around you

into a beautiful death.

The flourish of autumn

is the moment of clarity

just before the world dies.

The bears seem wise

to hibernate winter away.

Never being there

for the final breath,

the last words,

or the death rattle.

Bears never see

the grey blanket

drawn over the vibrant

face of Mother Earth

as her soul leaches

from her body into

the groundwater below.

I do not envy the bears though.

They do not feel the pain

or Struggle with the loss.

They only sleep

all winter long

awakening in spring

only to experience

the mundane repetition

of the same old shit.

After a winter of strife

we get the joy of rebirth

coming full circle

from the dark of Morgoth

to the violins of Vivaldi

as that first splash of color

delivers a touch of splendor

back into this harsh world.

November Crush

The November crush

Grips the inner ghoul

And blackens the heartbeat

which slows to a sluggish pace.

Each beat slow to absorb

Every last ounce of summer blood

Hemorrhaging off the oaks

Spilling to the ground

For the dark season’s ferment.

Broken ghost emotions

Haunting the minds

Of those hunkered down

Away from the bone chill

Clinging to the last time

That they remember feeling

Fuzzy on the inside.

Frozen breezes strike

Those with smiling teeth

Like a dentist’s drill

Killing the friendly gestures

Into a tight lipped grimace.

A holy sweater covered face

Moist with the breath of

A turtle-neck Jesus is

Converting the Masses

To the snug scripture,

While the chicken soup Beelzebub

Tempts the weary spirits away

From the light and into the den

Of baked breads and unforgiveable sin.

Yet this eternal struggle

Between the heavens and hells

Can put itself on hold

Until winter slips away

And returns our imprisoned souls

From solitary confinement

Where they have been stored

Since the November crush began

And there will once again

Be a few souls worth fighting over.

Sunday is bittersweet

Sunday is bittersweet,

 in its' hangover

 of weekend freedom

 being slowly digested

 into impending minor chords

 of breaking waves

 onto the interstate ocean. 

Friday night bedazzling

 in its’ vast opportunities,

 until Sunday corrals the spirit

 back into the credit induced

 gray security blankets

of Monday morning blech.

GLORIOUS TRAMP

Google image composite

Glorious tramp,
stomping daisies,

in battle boots,

living this life,

in-between ruts,

gutter to gutter,

sipping the wines,

of discord and strife.

Surfing the breeze,

into each moment.

Just one haircut away,

from becoming pretty.

A fortune cookie prophecy

gives you hope,

but we both know,

hope is a luxury,

that you cannot afford.

So, onward you stomp,

beyond the daisies,

into the blue-bells.

The death of beauty

is the only way

you keep yourself

from feeling all alone.

Something once beautiful,

now destroyed,

you create an army

of kindred down trodden.

Full of pain and wine,

you all share war stories

until the breeze drifts in

and carries you away,

into the next moment.

THE YEAR'S END

Feeling fuzzy

We held our schedules and lesson plans

for the annual year’s end tradition.

Innocent beginnings and small-talk commenced.

Strangers afoot, and comrades handy,         

a table of nosh in-between to equalize .

We loosed the booze and let it swell.

Words and memories passed with the minutes,

two ales an hour was our pace.

Our sideline seats soon were overrun

by uncomfortable conversations,

that we moonwalked away from gracefully.

The camera flashed as we made this moment immortal,

silly-faced grace and bizzarr-o alter egos

adorned the compact camera lens.

A sudden moment of panic to rally the troops,

one final minute to acquire some bubbly.

Auld Lang Syne on the wind and we hum along.

It’s the end of the beginning,

and the beginning of the end.

Chinese liquor and whiskey suddenly appear,

haunting the wellbeing of all in the room.

Our chance to depart the sinking ship appears,

we fill the life raft with hugs and happy new year’s.

One child left behind in a miserable condition,

the lovey-dovey was too good to be true,

square knots and Kanye was our vigil to you.

Today may give way to the newest year,

but today is a new day and so is tomorrow.

The moment is now and it just passed us by,

each day can be the beginning of something good,

each day is a good time for a positive change.

The Gods' dance

The God swells up inside me as I struggle to find a connection.

I’m awaiting thunder to reveal when the lightening will come,

so that I may dip a finger into its’ fantastic current,

feeling its’ flow channel through my spirit and back out to the night,

recharging the beautiful soul that has long been dim.

With no storms on the horizon, my journey continues,

to an alley in the boondocks free from the taints

of modernity’s brilliant skills that are keeping me lulled.

I spy one swatch of deep red on the concrete wall,

momentarily igniting a spark of the connection I seek

but becomes fleeting when the flame does not catch.

I place one foot in front of the other indefinitely,

resigning to contentment of monotony,

Until war cries and wild howls break my stride.

In front of my gaze is a poor man with a rich smile,

engaged in his best improvisational dance routine

to a song that is carried upon the wind

and accompanied by the birds and electric buzz

of the streetlights that are prepping for the oncoming eve.

His eyes are illuminated with a bright radiance

and I realize he is connected to the source I seek.

I join his dance and we can only smile gigantic,

language aches to profess this moment of creation.

A wayward passer-by veers toward us inquisitively,

unable to fight the magnetism of our dance duo.

Overcome with dance, the passer-by is now three and our light is brilliant.

More wanderers and seekers begin to descend into the trio,

quickly growing our numbers and quietly converting lives

from the darkness of singularity to the beauty of unity.

Our Gods dance, we dance, in this moment, all as one.

EMBRACER OR DESTROYER?

google image composite

Discarded into the trenches of American family values,

I taste mustard gas moralities on the breeze and it stings.

Weaponized bible-bombs explode unholy notions,

impaling the innocent and guilty equally

with shards of hate and the shrapnel of panic.

We that God created equal are now somehow different.

Our colored skins, figure shapes, mystic visions, and location, location, location

separate us siblings into rivals by our trivial factions.

Even as the bayonet bleeds the enemies dry,

the rivers of blood remain unnoticed by all.

No one seeing that each rivulet of death flows together

and in its' bloody delta, creates an identical sea of red.

Until death do us part, as we all are dying alone,

right here, right now, on this battlefield of life,

our brothers and our sisters, realizing at the end

that each of us was a treasure to be adored.

We realize, that each who slip away at the hands of the wrathful,

the survivors become weakened in the heart and in the soul.

We realize, that these arms were not meant to destroy,

they were meant to reach out and embrace each other.

And finally, we realize that in the reflection of each other’s eye

we are able to see ourselves staring back.

When you see yourself in my eyes,

will you be the embracer or will you be the destroyer?

ON THE MARCH

google image  composite

None were glad about
the stretching of omission,
the stretching of her skirt,
she started for the door.
What was she doing?
They were a procession of specters,
gasping to catch their breath,
the young men to train,
they will see you,
after watching awhile.
We had never seen so many people,
forked by this winter's prophecy.
Straddling the arms and legs
are the needle sharp fangs,
so you will be at the mercy of the flow.
It will be light soon,
the two images will converge.
Trying to escape the encroaching haze,
a building hoard sweeps discreetly
to start a war,
to break the truce.
The things she knew,
what he had told her to wear...
she sighed to herself,
stuffing the blanket into the corner.
You are all children.
We are all soldiers.
Everyday, led by the collar,
before we have a chance
to reach the walls.

RANDOM GENERATION #1

Google image photo compilation

(The below piece was creating using random numbers generated and applied systematically to find the words within the book "Stone of Tears" by Terry Goodkind)


I won't, for this.
Been people and males, hit that
right determination side
touched without numbered ascension
as before.
You clothe rage...
You, at the coming,
at the above.
She wouldn't.
The yes up touch,
if that in,
ready I am.
We chair footprint.
I, if death to credit weapons,
magic to the protecting know
exchanged of temper,
was not to bring the dead