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

A COLD FALL DAY AT THE LAKE WITHOUT MY GLOVES

The grey spectrum sky is traced with jet-lines,

giving backdrop to a lone mallard

persistently fighting the fall breeze

that dances patterns along the lake’s surface.

In the distance, car traffic is reduced to ants,

clogging the street’s arteries to their own demise

of fuming faces, flipping fingers, and honking horns.

A fading forest rises from the opposite shoreline,

shedding leaves eagerly in an assumed quest

to resemble the three stoic towers

which elevate equilaterally to catch and release

radio tunes and broadcast news buffoons.

Sparse sunrays are a welcome sight,

which are violently stripped of their warmth

by the blasphemous breeze that has defeated

the lone mallard, the jet-lines, and me.

ART OPENING WITH PIGEONS

artwork by: NTG

My hats’ brim, tipped to its’ tightest angle,

is no match for the crowds’ tide,

waxing encroachment into my social hideaway. 

This sea of gab-noised stranger friends

threatens to engulf me,

so I must tread diligently.

I feel one with the caged pigeons

pictured on the wall in front of me,

longing to fly free, feathers to the wind.

I navigate anxiously through this Sargasso Sea of souls,

with waves of foreign personalities

grating across my barnacled stern,

coercing me from my escape. 

The sweet smell of city-street

guides me beyond the threshold

of my personal shackles

that tether me to this awkward situation.

As I step to freedom,

my emptied space quickly fills in,

instantly erasing me from its communal memory. 

My evasion fades towards excursion  

as I sink over the horizon,

like the sun escapes into the West.

Swiftly, I stoop to recover a loose pigeon feather,

placing it in my cap in honor of fellow comrades flying free,

far from the clutches of the swallowing sea.

THUNDER AND LIGHTNING

As the clouds drifted slowly in paths opposing,
the marshy reeds revealed you to me.  
Your slow cautious crawl, belly to the ground,
one with the earth, you were not to be seen.  
Thunder suddenly delivers a beastly shape.  
The flying shag, snout, and claw, soaked you in fear, 
transforming your cloaked stealth to a frenzied flight. 
As the bellowing beast spits and growls below, 
you regroup in your haven. 
 When snout, shag, and claw, becomes bored and distracted, 
you'll be free to slink again. 
Although, remain steadfast my friend, 
for when the thunder rolls, 
somewhere the lightning has struck

SUNSET OF CHILD

Sunshine shimmering, gold and glistening

Eagered listening, the twilight is nigh.

Warm whitened rays fade into haze,

The break of the waves, memories well in the eyes.

Breeze blows air, ruffled blond hair,

No longer without a care, the inner-child cries.

Stone scattered ground, salty sea-smells abound

Emotionally drowned, the silly boy dies.

Feeling far older, knuckles grow colder,

No longer bolder, let the hardened man arise.

MACHINES AND DREAMS

google image composite

As dusk dawns upon my conscience in true tsunami form,

wrought iron pikes persist like metallic maniacs,

searing hot as they penetrate my brain.
A glowing golden illumination grows.

White hot heat breathes life into red hot thoughts,

heavy eyelids melt into a blanket of darkness

Gently driving away the deaths of the day.
Slipping in between  realities, automation seizes me.
Blood turns to steam, whistling condensation at every orifice.
Hydraulic hoses align nearby my spine,

regulating proper fluids to the rhythm of the aortic chamber.
Drifting instinctively into a robotic state,
my half consciousness contemplates the
relationships between a mechanical dream
and the ascension of the Midwestern fiend.

Metallic moments seize like a disease,

warping like waves, convulsive groans last for days.

As corrosive components overtake my galvanization,

plasma progressively oozes throughout existence,
conveying toxic impurities towards  inner oblivion,
towards electric death by reflection… they shall go.
Blood grown bones, convert to iron honeycombs
wrapped in wire, humming with defiant overtones.
As steel encircles, I free fall into robotic rigidity,
dreaming and slithering into magnetic mysteries.
Computers create code controls to carry on my continuity,
while my spirit escapes the internments of this prison,
temporarily touching the lights of truthful reality,
low double D-cells recharge in a sulfuric hell.

The space between hunter and hunted

Today, I came into your home,
enduring brush, bush, and twig terrain,
to stumble upon your earthen front door.  
I arrived uninvited, but how could I have been invited?  
You did not fathom my existence until this day. 

One step through you wide open front doors
and your residence splayed itself out in front of me.
It was laid out much like an urban studio flat,
with each room melting into the next. 
Your home is infinitely bigger, yet not big enough.

 I feel electric tension spike when we first engage one another. 

Suddenly, the stench of anger, fear, and sorrow
carries itself upon the breeze between you and I.  
Impending doom divides us instantly,
from perfect strangers, to the intimate closeness
of the hunter and the hunted.

With crosshairs sweeping towards you,
I pray you can sense my respect and thankfulness
for your life that I am about to take.  
As physics and mechanics collide,
thunder rips the air between us,
hurtling death in the form of a single lead slug.  
The nanoseconds pass like split seconds
and the split seconds play out
like an overcast October sky.

As the gun smoke clouds my vision,
I sort of hope you escaped unscathed,
without the taint of malice or trauma.  
Although when the smoke clears,
there you lie, quickly dying as I had intended.

            
I come in close enough to share the same air
that fills your last breath to pay my respects.  
You have passed into forever sleep.
“Thank you”, I whisper,
laying my palm upon your peaceful face,
Quietly closing the space between the hunter and the hunted.