Saturday, July 23, 2011

Untitled, 1.

I originally wrote this as a descriptive narrative essay for my college English class.

Conversations always started like this: boring, uneducated, longing, all in guesses and moments to gain some insight on our future. She walked up to my front door like it was a mile long, slow paces, and in my mind I could hear each footstep crunch and crack as if one foot were lightning and the other, thunder. Crack, boom. Crack, boom. Maybe it was the stones…or maybe it was the sunset we were about to watch together at the end of the town, standing on a bridge that cascaded over the highway like a fragile noose to hold us up above the roar of traffic; the cars like demons, the concrete, hell.
Her blonde hair looked like fire, made brighter and flickering with highlights in the sun. The heat was rising from the pavement, distorting things on the other side of the street as if there were some invisible field blanketing the earth that was now clearly able to be seen. I remember she looked like a flame walking toward me, that hair, the way she moved through the haze.
When she took my hand, it was somehow ice-cold even though the day was burning because it was July and anyone insane enough to come outside would find themselves sweating within minutes. The heat of the sun, that awful stinging heat you can almost feel through your skin; it ignites a fire that turns you red as you continue to burn and itch day and night until you can’t stand it anymore.
People around here all come out of their comfort zones at that point for some reason. I guess the heat goes to their brain, screwing up their mental functions and natural inclinations to stay home in the comfort of air conditioning. They feel the need to talk to each other.
But her hand was cold as she took mine, even in my perception. We could have blasted the air at temperatures lower than zero in the house and still her hand would have felt cold. After a few seconds of us standing in utter silence, it began the return to normal. This was almost funny to me, a brief observation in the song of her that so captivated me, but I couldn’t laugh. I think the heat infected me that day the moment I opened the door to stand on the step, and I began to think of all the things in my life that were wrong and what was to come.
The heat makes you itch, makes you irritable, like there’s so much wrong with the world that you can feel it crawling beneath your skin. The sun wants you to feel it, wants you to consider how mundane life is, what purpose you serve, whether anything you do makes a difference.
It’s funny I felt that way, because it was all too soon to be summed up in the question that she would ask me. We made our way down the sidewalk, cracking a couple leaves along the way and dragging our shoes like sandpaper on the ground. This is what wears us down.
Then there it was, the sound of her sweet voice that somehow made me breathe easier, though the air was ragged. Her voice was like a cool waterfall to dispel the aggravation and dryness of the day, yet the question came just as blunt; a knife to cut through any other worlds I might have disappeared to and bring me back to her reality.
“Where do you think we’ll be in ten years?”
I felt like it was a thought that had subconsciously sprung from my mind into hers and was now given a voice. Nevertheless, it eluded me. For a few seconds I stared down the hill and noticed it was breathing. Yeah…breathing with the distortion of heat like a heart we were somehow walking on. Looking to the ground, I saw cracks and weeds adorning the sidewalk as if they were veins, pumping and throbbing to the beat of our footsteps as we connected, still subconsciously. Another gracious world was smashed out of existence as she tore through and asked the question again.
“Devon…where do you think we’ll be in ten years?”
I should have told her I didn’t know, as that would have been more accurate to the truth. I looked to the houses up on that hill we’d just descended, a classic image meant to demean the lower class of society by sticking the nose of the wealthy in the air. I could almost smell the fresh paint and smooth wood, feel the soft carpeting. No one believes me, but those houses talk. For a moment, I felt so far beneath my class.
“Living under a bridge, maybe?”
She laughed, which felt like a taunting gesture. I was serious. When she looked at me again, her smile disappeared and the flame I had seen earlier was snuffed out. Then again, it could have just been the shadows of the trees we were passing by. I could never be quite certain on days like this. We remained silent for the longest time until we passed the middle class homes, their dying gardens and slightly stained exteriors, the humble stature of the architecture.
“It’s like they’re praying and we’re flaunting our power.”
Everyone wants stability in their lives, yet it’s the most difficult factor to control. Not everyone is built on the strongest ground. That day, I believe there was beauty in noticing the humble, in leaving the tree of wealth and fatality for the winds of uncertainty and potential in the chaos. We jumped and danced like flames at random moments. We walked with no particular direction but somehow arrived at a common destination.
You have to understand, we were burning. Sometimes you shine and sometimes the spotlight buries you. That day, we experienced both ends of the spectrum. We were so alive, we could have been brighter than the sun. She would twirl around, I would laugh. At the same time, her makeup was melting off her face like wax and it was funny because usually she cares about that sort of thing. But sure enough, she just wiped it on her sleeve like a streak of mud, a bit of blue glitter catching my eye with the sun’s reflection that blinded me for a moment. She really was so beautiful.
When I opened my eyes I noticed the overpass, beaten up and weathered down by acid rain and the many years of elements. It was one of those small types where you’re lucky if you see a car driving over it within ten minutes. And maybe a lot more passed than usual on that particular day, because the heat was getting everywhere; there could have been one car, there could have been a thousand. In all seriousness, I don’t think it would have mattered. Destiny would still have led us both here.
She walked to the fence almost as slowly as she had walked to my doorstep with the same crack, boom, crack, boom. Like thunder and lightning, the perfect complement to one another. She raised her hands, grasping the wires and letting her head rest against it.
“Come here and look.”
I took the same position, falling against that fence. It felt like we were gazing into the highway as if it were a crystal ball, still asking the same questions to ourselves, still looking for some answers about the future. This moment was paradise like none other. Maybe it was that I was sweating too much, maybe it was the distortion, but the colors, the heat…everything gradually seemed saturated and brighter. My mind felt clearer as we continued to dream and talk. I had failed to notice this before.
The heat was getting to me and I could feel my body sweltering as if swollen from the sunburn I had gotten two days before. I took off my shirt and she made some remark about being sexy that I couldn’t make out over the roar of the highway. I laughed as I thought of my answer to her question again.
“This is the bridge we’re going to live under!” I shouted. I thought she was going to die when she started laughing. She grabbed her stomach and fell to the ground. When I glanced upwards, it suddenly stopped. Time slowed down almost to a standstill, and I saw a red car drive by. It was on fire, or maybe it was painted that way. Between her laughing and the skeletal man driving the car, the roaring and screeching of demons underneath us on the hot cement and concrete, the smoke and those damn distortions, the hot coals of that man’s eyes…maybe this truly was hell.
I willingly fell forward with outstretched arms over top of her, and time returned. My head was on her chest, and I could feel her heart beating like that big hill we had traversed the long way down, the one that felt like her chest did now, rising and falling like a wave. She was the real thing; all the passion of fire, her eyes, her hair, that heart beating throughout the hell of the day. She embraced my head in her arms.
“This isn’t really happening, is it? Us connecting?”
“Everything seems so clear though…it’s manic like a flame and yet relaxed. The day is dying.”
“So are we…we’re nothing permanent. Everyone will vanish, the sun takes it all, and even our little rich houses will turn old.”
“It doesn’t matter where we go, Kate. People don’t always change. We still have each other, always.”
“Always? Even after today? We’re in hell, you know.”
“Well at least I’m with you.”

She kissed me, and I tasted several different fruits from the gum she had been chewing in little bursts like new colors of the sun I’d realized just moments before. Banana, strawberry, citrus, orange. My eyes were closed and I could see us standing in a field full of flowers with a cool and gentle breeze blowing over us. This moment lasted forever, until an unpredictable short gust of wind suddenly hit us. It was hot air, but a bit cooler than usual. We opened our eyes and Kate looked to the horizon as we both sat up.
“The sunset,” she sighed.
It was the most beautiful thing I saw that day besides her face. The purple was her eye shadow, the last golden rays were her hair, and the clouds were the mascara that was now beginning to run as her tears fell in adoration of this natural masterpiece. I held her as we gasped, still waiting forever for the sun to set, the heat to end, and the day to be done.
It looked like a finger painting we had done once in the third grade. Some of those purple spots were rather haphazardly placed, like God’s fingerprints were reaching out to show us who we were, the reflections in the clouds made it look like a candle, and of course that distortion made it jump. Or maybe it looked like water, and just maybe we were standing on a “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, that song I used to hum to her.
And maybe it’d kind of funny that there’s a homeless man walking over the barrier ten feet away from us and my mind is still clouded. Maybe it hasn’t happened at all, and perhaps this was just a beautiful dream I can’t take my mind off. But I feel confident now, so much stronger. The sunset was a painting for us, I knew that much. It was like eating a Starburst, like tasting the leftover flavors of her gum, like feeling burnt, like shining in the spotlight.
That whole image was one giant summation of our day spent together and hopefully many more to come. Love is something we didn’t discuss; maybe that was the red, or maybe the red from that passing car. And maybe we weren’t supposed to talk about it anyway.
We embraced, and I took her hand in mine. It was still cold as ice as the sun went down. Maybe the red was blood. I remember her mascara running, her tears falling, the cars falling out of all manner of view and vision. The screaming of demons, the laughter from far below; it wasn’t just a question, but an expiration date. She always told me about her dreams of burning in hell, particularly on those same burning, hot-as-hell days when she wanted to talk to me. Her hand is still cold as ice.
I flash back: her funeral, the smell of beautiful flowers, the taste of…no. I woke up in a cold sweat one night in my bed, my body sweltering with the heat of…and I took my shirt off. Somewhere in the distance is laughter, unless it’s my imagination. Somewhere in the distance, I can see the sunset and somewhere on my wall is the finger painting we did in third grade.
I don’t remember her dying at all, which is funny. She still comes to my doorstep sometimes, but it’s not her. She has a different face, different eyes, those things are black as coals. Shall we talk about love? Why not, Kate?
“It really is all candy-coated lies and sweet tastes, anyway.”
That’s what she would say. She always told me she hated people who were married and couldn’t stand the thought of spending her life with someone. Then again, this was years ago.
And here I am, crying down the hill and still stepping a rhythm in time, gazing at the veins of the sidewalk and praying that each stomp, each clap of thunder and crack of lightning might defibrillate your dead heart and bring you back to me. I’m still standing on the bridge over hell because it’s the sweetest memory I’ll ever have of you, staring at a stupid old finger painting because it’s all we really did together as kids.
Here I am, my beautiful girl, waiting for you until the waking dawn to show me your sunrise, to smell the sweet scents of your flowers, taste the fruits of your kiss, and dream of the love we still share, ten years later.
“Take me home, please…”
I vow to stay here until the heat gives me some damn good courage to jump the fence, or if I’m lucky, maybe the veins of this cement will explode and the bridge will carry me down to hell. Either way…
I think I’ll still be here in another ten years.

Thursday, July 21, 2011


I promise to wake you
When your suffering ends
As I all but slam the door of my heart shut
In the faces of my many suitors.

It is best I leave this room for you
To do with as you please
To repaint the walls
That all memory of my last stand
Should be gone from the casing
Which erodes away my mighty resolve.

Acid has melted my greatest dreams into nightmares;
I can no longer stand nor keep my wits about me.
Books have burned, the pages that once kept me alive
Have been written over, scribbled out in malice and hatred.

You entered in determination
Ripped off the hinges and drew a window
To replace the door as something shut
And through it, I beheld the faces
Before they arrived.

As now you have forced your company upon me,
I have seen fit
Am compelled
To make you stay, that you might be the only face
I allow to dwell in the deepest room of my heart.

Perhaps the doorframe was not truly a door,
But a mirror, for I beheld my reflection in one
Who is not me.

What makes us beings so reckless?

You walked to the window and I see one
Who is not welcome to show his face
And there you stand, captivated by
A figure in the night
So far removed from you
I am plagued by the beating
The ground beneath me shudders
As these four walls break to crush
My only strength into fragile, harsh seas.

You easily claim all the remains of me.

I beg you to shut the door and repaint these walls
Before we crack under the pressure of one.

I promise to wake you, love.
Your eyes are as mirrors I promise to open.

So tie him up, board up the windows. And may you paint your heart with the song of me.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Crumbling Streets.

I once heard a song called Silence, and I don’t remember much about it besides that it sounded beautiful. I once calculated my steps into numbers: one, two, three. The only number I suppose I forgot was zero. Zero was the pause before track one, zero was Silence. Zero started with the falling of raindrops as I meandered across the cracked, rusty concrete bridge walking home one day up to Second Street.

I remember counting each cold drop that fell on my head, and I remember it making a familiar sound. The scents of foggy, cool air filled my nostrils with the decay of the rotting streets ahead and the raging river below. Counting my slow and lazy steps, each breath I took, the inhale and exhale of smoky air, the hard raindrops that fell on my head, and each beat my sunken heart made. I felt like the tough ground on which I walked, I felt like a steamboat chugging away, losing fuel until maybe I could sink gracefully into the harbor.

I was trying so hard, it was painful. I was trying for no reason at all, only because the world demanded it of me that I keep counting everything. They told me to keep track or I might lose something. My ears began analyzing every sound byte like a computer and my brain kept working with a tick tock, tick tock. Listen to the metronome of the clock. A clock never stops, the numbers constantly switch, and if its digital the lines switch left to right instantly depending on the number, just like my footsteps.

And like a ticking clock, anything can change in a moment. Simply because a person’s heart might stop doesn’t mean the clock will. The human brain is now a computer, your nerves are the copper-filled circuitry and electric wires that make you work. If you’re grounded properly, you can receive transmissions from the airwaves high above, the swaying power lines that float over my head reminding me we are all but human in this technological age.

I stopped by the first tree in the park for a moment and sat down with knees drawn up a bit and my backpack on the right side of me and my CD player in my left hand. I looked directly up, ninety degrees, and noticed a spider descending from its web of tiny silk…or maybe it was a copper wire, I’m not completely sure. A spider has eight legs. Funny this one only had seven; it was missing one on its left side. This spider was not symmetrical, and for some reason that made me scratch my head with the index and middle finger of my right hand; two fingers.

Then the craziest thing came like a flash of lightning, SHOCK, it struck me so hard I forgot everything I had been counting that day, on the second day of the third month of…screw it. The spider defied all logic, unraveled everything apart within my mind like the copper and plastic wires which bound it.

I remember later I walked down that beaten road to the rusted bridge and saw a ship sinking slowly in the distance, its hull torn open spilling black blood oil into the river. That ship was flaming like so many red, green, and blue fireworks that day, but it doesn’t matter. My breathing got heavier and I may have blacked out.

The spider was no longer a spider, but a spark. It was a pulse moving faster down the spiral, blinking some Morse code signal like I had never seen before, bright white light. The radio towers used to do it when all other electricity ceased one night in our town several years ago (and I don’t remember what year).

What I do know is that all computers in the world at some point were flung into oceans, dropped like dead flies. Just like that, and the water became electrified somehow. We had to re-learn everything we had known starting from scratch. The old wooden counting racks with tiny beads: one, two, three, four, five. Fingers, you have five on each hand, ears, you have two unless you live in the Zone. Eyes, you have two unless you were blinded by the World Government for certain crimes.

I don’t remember much about that certain rainy day spent in Silence, but I find it evermore ironic that we have nothing better to do but keep counting. Soon it could be the volume in decibels, how sharp the brightness and contrast of your vision is. Hell, they already ask you “one or two?” for that. I’ve been told my vision is at least two points off in all sectors, but they could always be wrong.

When did man ever feed himself into a machine? We are told we have no ancestors, no one birthed us. So far it has been this way for three generations. We live in this crippled, tiny city with downed power lines stretching their wooden trunks across some streets and blocking traffic. Kids carve obscenities in them sometimes to remind the Government that there will always be rebellion, but no one dare go against the agents. Maybe they feel like its cutting into skin, but wood doesn’t bleed. Not like that ship I watched sinking, and not red. But the lighter color underneath reminds me of the sun, anyway.

Almost every window of the buildings surrounding the square are broken, the pieces left on the sidewalk and never cleaned up. Some people have fled to the beautiful, green open country because they’re too scared to live in this city. I can’t say I blame them with how strict things are.

I looked over the bridge, the ship was sinking. It took ten minutes and four seconds for it to go under completely, hissing and fizzing foam everywhere like some rabid dogs. I cannot help but think that perhaps we’re no different: we count our breaths and we die. It’s really that simple…sometimes.

But when I close my eyes anymore, I don’t see the black darkness. You can’t hide if your restless eyes are always wide open and you can’t go crazy if you don’t count. There are no real machines to download ourselves into anymore. All we have are the simple things, cars and guns. Our hate for each other is beyond resolve, and we are savages.

Even if I forget everything else, I’ll never forget that pulse at the end of some copper wire I saw descending from a mechanical web. Maybe we think so much we are becoming the machines: our blood vessels the wires, our brains the circuit boards, our memories, files. We are only zeros and ones.

Back to zero. I am de-evolved, forgetting everything. All memories like a flood are washing away the sunken ship of who I was, the water cascading and electrifying me as a signal to WAKE UP. The alarm clock is Silence, and the rain I can actually feel. It was never about the numbers, only the feeling, and if nothing else, we are human for that reason. No matter how much the world changes…we are still here.

I was bitten by a spider yesterday…and it was the most real thing I’ve ever felt in quite awhile.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Last Time You Called...

I was asleep. I was asleep because I didn’t care. Maybe I didn’t want to care, maybe it was too hard to try.

I felt alone. It was dark and I wrapped my sheets around me tight and lay there expecting to die. Because no matter how many times you call me, no matter how many times you try to right the wrongs, it doesn’t make it hurt any less. I would just as soon hang up on you anyways.

Glisten. Shine. Feel vindicated as those tears spread the warmth of your logic down your face. Embrace the magic. Erase the pain.

Because honestly, I never could. Because honesty was overrated for you. Living lies. Deathly cries. The forced departure of meaning is like a delayed flight from L.A. to NYC, or missing the A-train a billion times over. You don’t quite wanna make it. It’s improbable but not impossible.

And if you took the equation of us and multiplied my pain by 5, your anger by 6, and our relationship times 10…you’d have the equivalent of another Hiroshima.

Your call instills that fear within me. That if I pick up the phone, I’m dead. My hair will stand on end, lungs will burn, and my eyes will melt out of their sockets.

This time I won’t be so stupid. The powder becomes the rock. The rock will be weathered but not petrified. So maybe we are all just frozen solid, waiting for someone to come shatter us like a kid would smash an intricate ice sculpture.

This time, I won’t be your aftermath. This time, I will not be your disaster.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Hymn of the Aftermath.

The circus is closing and my face is still painted in ashes from the skyline of fallout painted by jet planes.

Do you like the feeling you lost, do you long for it so?

I remember when we were 12 and I fell in love with your performance and how graceful you were on the stage, I fell in love and I fell for the song of whistles and propellers that shattered the blue and left me screaming for more.

I whispered in the wind, one word in your precious ear: Love.

And let this be known as I walk away from the wreckage of a fallen Ferris Wheel that I spun the clock back another age and let the car crash into trees that were all too eager to tell our story.

And the earth, she is still our Mother, the mountains our brothers and the tides are our cousins and the stars are our Father who art in Heaven and hallowed be His name and blessed are the meek for we shall inherit the earth, our Mother.

And as she spun more tales of rapture and essence in the wake of her demise, the sun drew upon us to lend meaning to it all, that our days are not numbered lest we count.

But my heart it still flutters and mayday is still upon us and guns will blaze and fires will burn and hearts will yearn for the closeness we shared in one performance as Mother Earth quaked her last.

This isn’t an end. This is a final send-off where we take to the stars and our souls embark on the journey, a flightpath of angels and love and truth and beauty.

For so long as we sing, tell these old tales, and allow ourselves the freedom that only caged birds can bring…

We shall ascend.



I Exist Between.

I was born in the sky, but the sea will bury me between tides of uncertainty and waves of adventure. So long as I walk the dry ground, I am a living testament to those who have gone before me and those yet to come. In this manner, I will never die, for I exist between every beat of the heart of God, be it the rolling waves of oceans or the orbit of planets high. Have you breathed yet today?

Saturday, July 16, 2011

When you feel like saving the world that has abandoned you...

And you’ve abandoned yourself, and they’ve abandoned all reason.

I just want to exist somewhere peaceful, where there’s no loud noise, no pressure, no anxiety, no urges to scream or yell or throw things. Where I don’t have to be fearful of the moods or actions of others simply because I ask a question.

Where I don’t have to wake up until I want to, where I don’t have to move too quickly for my tastes and therefore fail in the eyes of others, where I don’t need to do something I hate just to pay for living, where my mere existence is value enough to warrant my clothes, shelter, electricity, power, and sustainability.

I want to exist where people are of saner mind than the industrial, mechanical world. Where humans are not born with irregular heartbeats and predisposed to diseases both acquired and inherited, where I don’t have to fear my own mutation and infection.

I want to exist apart from all sense of what they call “self” and abandon my false definitions placed upon me by society. To be the voice of rationality left standing when all around me become angry, hateful, hollow, depressive beings who cannot see the light of which I speak.

I want to exist apart because everything man has taught me is man-made and that which I am forced to do is something that generations before me have already done, died for, and failed to do. We swim in a sea of text book insanity that is proclaimed to be our only founding truth. We walk through a jungle of silicon chips and cell-sized hard drives that record our every move and broadcast it on loop endlessly like a distorted anorexic reflection back to the greedy, skeletal beings who created it all.

And so it is that I stand in the presence of you, waiting for an answer from what God created, and still only getting back the choppy bits as your umbilical from the holy Source is cut clean by the scissors of your creation.

I think you wave goodbye, but I can no longer see. I think I cut out my eyes long ago, and so you see we now are more content with sacrificing our own living parts and matter for that which we created that is in itself so unjustifiable.

MAchine, DArk, BROken and SISters who held the faith, we are removed far from our own humanity.

So when you have abandoned me, I will abandon reason. After all, you taught me…this is the sanest choice.


Friday, July 15, 2011

The Theatricality of Promise.


The curtains open up to an empty stadium in full view of the audience of one.

My pants fall down as the first voice whispers from below, and I’m dancing a dance that can only be danced by a one-man show. Rhythmic tapping, short humming that cascades throughout my body as I try to remember my lines.

The lines I’m crossing.

Then sounds the applause, and with a snap of my fingers, the audience grows silent. Stage lights fake heat that emanates from my sweating body. I’m so nervous because it’s my first time performing. The judges show no mercy, I will be asked so many questions just like the rest.

Tied by tongues as whispers echo incoherently throughout the halls, all eyes on me, waiting for the first move. And I begin to sing. Stratosphere.

“In the air, he screams
To bring the lust of lovers
And I will sing the anthem
Of my heart for all of you…
That you might be crowned
King of it all
My clouds point to the stratosphere…
Empty notions, empty fears…

And I will sing…
I will sing…
And won’t you feel me, precious
Special angel move your strings
Play the harp of the gods
As you awake, singing of absent rings…

And I will sing…
Yes, my dear, I will sing…”


Your promise stays with me like the memory of a certain wedding I attended years ago. He never showed, and I was left standing at the altar, singing. Singing that song. Familiar tune, annoying. But you promise to listen until I’m finished.

But I’m not yet finished…

I won’t stop until I hear your breath again. I want to choke you on it all. I want this audience of one to adore me, because it feels like he does. But I won’t let him speak of it, no. I want to keep this feeling forever.

My voice will sink into your ears like an ocean, and the part of me that’s had the worst is a side you’ll never see. Backstage. I can hear him laughing now, my knees begin to buckle not from nervousness, but from the thought of what he did to me.

Still I keep dancing. Still I keep singing. Singing for who?

The eager mouth which swallows my misspent words that coarse through my body like a foreign dish he cannot help but devour.

And I sink into the play once again. I put on an act for my many fans and lovers like this. I lie back, exposed, the highlight of my monologue permeating every facet of their being.

I, the captive stealer of souls.

Of course I let down inhibitions once I’m far enough in. The pounding starts. My heart is ready to explode in a vigorous outpouring of emotion. I need this like I need air, though I can barely breathe.

Cigarette ashes gently fall on my face, followed by the exhaling wind that brushes them away.

Short of breath now.

You promised to let me walk with you through the fields of our dreams together. You promised never to let me fall, you sat and cried with me even if I should trip.

I skinned my knee once, crying like a child. The same skinned knees which now buckle under the weight of your BREAKING.

But still. I sing, and I dance. This man does not know me, but I venture. I reach out for his touch just to feel something of life again within me, and yet without is the feeling I shall leave him with. This poor man was never a soul, just a body. We don’t have souls, you see.

And when the curtain falls, he shall be a man broken. A man destroyed. A man with so many separate pieces that to rejoin them would take several billion years that echo forth from our dying sun.

When the curtain falls, he will no longer be remembered as a man. I took him from you like he took me. Not him, but the one before.

What does it matter.

The shadows that now dance across your face are reflective of the ones I always see as I gaze into a body of water. Lights gather and tell stories of the sad departure of royalty, and I dare say that once, I was a king.

I had you all. All of you.

But let what I say, my friends, bear little meaning to your existence, for there once was a man who indeed spirited away my soul as well.

I am merely a body of all the dreams that never existed within me once he took my breath away without my consent.

We go on making promises, and we go on breaking them. If there ever was a promise in this world that was true, it is that many have hated me. Many will still hate me once this monologue to you is finished.

My vindication comes with the knowledge that I may perform for you at all.

All that matters is that I’ve told you this story.

The spotlight is fading, and my soul becomes another shadow in the dark to take you away, screaming in your sleep, awoken violently from your nightmares that I may feed. I may feed you your desires, I may talk as a lover does, I may even sing for you as sweetly as the rain pours down upon your windows…

But despite all this, you do not care. My voice echoes through this hall to call on the birds you keep caged deep in the recesses of your minds. My knees are buckling at the thought of your treachery!

Semper tyrannus!

So cries the assassin. But I am not him. I am here to save you, you see. Your mouth is still open and I’m still feeding you my lust as the curtain starts to tear.

Those who have ears, let them hear.

“He spoke to me once…
He said it oh so true…
That we would walk through gardens
And meet God halfway,
In the child,
In the child who crosses our path
She sang, she sang
And I’m still singing her sweet little tune…”

Never do we know ourselves until we are at play.

And this play is mine. Are you ready to hear another monologue?

The audience of one is choking on the tears that spew forth from my body like a plague. Rotten, dirty tears. Tears of infection. Tears that equate to my passion for the one before him, tears that need not be shed, for then the truth would become him inside my newest lover.

Tears that soon shall make amends.

This man chokes on my words. He absorbs my truth knowing he doesn’t have to, he listens knowing that at any point in time, he is permitted to take leave of me. But he doesn’t leave, he won’t stop.

I rather like it this way.

Pants down, knees buckled. Fake love.

Fake sweats that break out on my face like a rash to show the poison within me, the heat from the stage lights becomes too much to bear.

And I crash. I crash because I loved you, because you promised me so much more that was never given much more than a fleeting consideration…or the chance hearing of a few uttered, meaningless words which tell you little of my acting ability to play the part of your greatest friend and lover.

So now I sing…and I will sing myself to sleep. Tears no longer present, and I sink into a new void that you surely must have created again to entrap me within myself forever.

This, my love, was the theatricality of your promise.

Enter, thunderous applause.

Curtains falling. I shatter.


Thursday, July 14, 2011

A Starved Nation.

The weight of truth is bearing down its unmistakable cry as gasps herald the end. This is no way to die, this is no way to bend.

The unbreakable one sits high on a thrown of centuries unjust, for the food on which he gorges himself is no longer fit for the starving animals beneath. He is a stale being, and I will scrape him hollow.

Where these truths are self-evident, they are unrecognizable. Democracy never flourished so like a withered flower held up in hope to a dim light. And so they starve, we all fall and let them eat cake.

This was our last mistake.

The secrets beneath our sun are dying, falling from grace like a forgotten orbit of a lost planet somewhere out there in the cold.

And frostbitten, we rip out our tongues so that we should be silenced by self-evident lies. The curtain tears in two, a covenant bond is made. But how far that covenant reaches, and it will destroy everything like a virus whose environmental heat is just enough to thrive.

We tear down under animals from the pressure of the banquet, gorge ourselves like the king who lost his way.

But he told me a truth once, and that was that he still had some manner of faith.

Where we are permitted to decry our most stripped parts from the scraps of digested wisdom, we cut out the hypocrisy to breathe air of a freshly-buried secret. So many generations inherit this, the kingdom of sin.

But nothing is original, and so I borrow my tears from the wellspring of malice set down centuries before.

Where has the faith ever gotten us but regurgitated joy in a false existence?

At least aged wine tastes good, though bitter. And it is in that creation that we fall drunk to the truth.

For in some well-meaning state of mind, at least we care enough not to upset our stomachs.

When the sickness does pass, and pass it will…I will not be so quick to eat of the forbidden life.

For such was a lie the serpent told, and such is our humanity. Yet the floodgates will open. I will pour out my mouth and stomach, and you will see within me this:

A hollow being who is so capable of love that you will not hesitate to cut me down.

Drunk you all are, and in your inebriance drowned.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Hell Crossing.

City lights blurry
Streaks shining white
Red rain stop signs
Clear windows
And concrete walls
Merge like a fading mural

Blood runs thin like a sin
Through empty streets
Dead and proud
Graffiti tunnels
Pounding traffic above
Radio screams
Second inning

So far away
This is only the beginning…


I met you in the fall, skin like silk. Your breath drew me in as the secrets I had yet to hear bridged a gap between us.

We kissed. Change covered the leaves in colors you cannot show. I don’t resist, and you tempt me soft and sweetly. The wind grows colder, I pull danger closer, for though I may deny it…I wish to die in this way.

All I ever wanted was to be warm.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Thoughts After Sex.

There is a slight glaze upon my lips
That won’t wash off
And I can still smell the
Burning heat of passion
Stinking up the room.

The taste of her
Caught in my mouth
The pungent aroma a sweet fix
So pleasing to my pallet,
And I still lick my lips to remember.

Her tired eyes gaze upon me
As I lie next to her in silent adoration
Puffing away on a cigarette
Humming the beautiful notes
Of kisses I placed upon her soft, tender body
Only moments ago.

There she lies
My Rose
My Venus of Urbino
And as she smiles in saffron
Hinted by the light of the candle
I close my eyes to dream
Of a future that will never be.

She brings forth hope
The New Renaissance
Reincarnated before me
In such vision I cannot describe.

I inhale poison to exhale purity,
A concept I once thought destroyed.

Even after the deed is done,
She still smells like roses
Auburn hair wild and tantric
Like laying in a field of exotic flowers.

Perfume like this could kill me.

Curious, how I once thought myself so much better
And here I stand, arisen yet overwhelmed.

She gets up and pours me a glass of wine,
A toast to hope and my dreams.

What of my dreams?
Shall we progress beyond this room?

A brief walk to the window heralds
A myriad of stars in which I point out
Our constellations beyond
The stifling city lights.

I’m afraid of what I can’t see
What the world blinds me from
In these shadows so eager to destroy.

A hand upon my shoulder
Another upon my back
Tells me otherwise.

For the first time, I am not ashamed
As I turn back to face her glowing smile.

Tears entrench my once vacant eyes,
Pleading my grasp upon her.

There is still a slight glaze upon my lips
That won’t wash off
A scent and a taste
I cannot forget.

Somehow, I don’t really mind.

Monday, July 11, 2011

King of Hearts.

Beside me lies the heart who has everything, the pieces of me crash and shatter through his mind. If this were any other world I’d choose the bullet over blinds to chip away and make sure the last thing he ever found was the glory of me and mine.

The silence breaks when I discover little things I hate, and this is not me anymore, something seems too wrong, splitting into crazy 8’s and whores and memories gone too long. But I can’t say a word as I lay beside him, I am silenced, like a baby with a pacifier sucking up compliance…and I won’t say a word, ‘cause you have everything, everything and the pieces of me, he has everything, fate and future. Don’t you see it’s so unpleasant, but I must know my place, for he is the king and I am the peasant, he has everything…

And I’m left with nothing but the fate of the world.

Just like a King of Hearts riding out into victory after battles, he is loved, but my stomach is empty while he sits there collecting cattle, the baby shakes Death’s rattle, and I know it’s time to break him off the saddle.

How is the comfort of cold love upon your skin? Tell me how it feels to let yourself be so far-gone within. If I love once more I’ll be the distant breeze, they won’t have anything left to cherish since I gave all my gold to him and sold every cent of me.

He has everything…he has everything but the speck he doesn’t see…strips off the clothes so easily, lowering in the bath to deny his wrath of me. Washing clean the wounds, so it would seem infection is no risk, he’s so very wrong, but I know I could be his protection with a kiss…if only to suck out the venom and take back the anything, nothing, everything of me.

I am poisonous, you see. But he has everything.

I lay beside him, eyes flash open, the good king is awake. And soon again come the words for me to break / crash / crumble / fall / stumble back into my place.

I’m lying here again without a face…and dreams are only dreams when he still has everything…

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Drift 3.

It is difficult to remember a time
When all the seasons were
Constant, unchanging
The winds were relaxed
There was little talk of war
Aside from that which was already
Fading into history
All hushed, the children did not cry
And the whole world stood still
For just one moment.

Strangers no longer stop in the street
Spoken words are a wasteful deterrent
From energy that may be diverted
Into the machine of economic gluttony
For time is no longer cherished
They have killed her
And raped their patriotism until
She cries out in terror when all at once
The nation falls to its knees
Before the most inept of leaders
Ordained by the same God who has already
Lent this country over to thieves
Who prey on our exhausted conscience.

I have admired the simplest of pleasures
Forgotten by time and overwritten by treasures
Of old conquests, lands conquered by a new democracy
I cannot understand.

I have seen the stars
I have felt the rage of winds untamed
I have stood up against such forces
Of brutal nature
The whirling traffic
The transit world
I have heard the cries of innocence stolen
And ran to comfort her side.

Beauty I beheld, filthy wretched beauty,
And I have wept at her desecration.

There is no morality or doctrines thereof
By which a man can live or die
Pressure is all they know
Fast pace easier by which to perish,
And so they perish in vain.


I was an aching fool just the same,
I was just as insignificant
Nameless and forgotten as they
Who toil in defense of all these men know.

Wealth! Power! Wealth!
And individualism falls,
We are far too content
To stand together in misery
Than to cherish the poor,
For like insurgents, we drive them out
There is no room for competition,
God forbid the ego is challenged.

I cannot boast, I was just as heartless…

I used to lack understanding, the wisdom that comes with age.
I would place my faith in lies, if only you would leave me be!

I am comfortable in this, you see
In my life of redundance
Fueled by drunkenness and debauchery
Tainted with a distant need for love and compassion,
THIS cocktail is quite a trip, you ought to try it!

I am lonely, so you call out for sick satisfaction.

“Fuck me
Because life is far too short
And we’re all too familiar with stress, you know,
This sad life we’ve all built for ourselves,
I had an old friend who killed himself just the other day,
I guess it was all too much
The pressure got to him
And well…
I don’t want to live like that, I mean
This world is going to hell as it is
So before we all die, we might as well
Go out like heroes, you know,
For the process to death is glamorous
But screw dying, let’s be immortal
While we still can…”

And though I knew what would happen,
I would accepts offers like this
Smearing on makeup
Spraying the scents of harlot boys
Perfecting my hair
All the while wishing that I may someday
Possess the courage to no longer care
About these indoctrinated routines
Or society’s age-old problems regarding
Wealth and body image.

I never could bring myself to go all the way,
That first time was petrifying last year.

But fuck it, right?
Ignorance is bliss!

I longed for some form of comfort,
A way to kill off the sorrow of loneliness
A warm embrace
A simply touch, if only to slow life down
For but a second, perhaps to have time enough
To figure out what had gone so horribly wrong.

I lined the cracks with poison,
A disease that spread quickly once again
To engulf me in failure,
I swore I could change
Yet why should I stop?

The world never stopped for me…

And the only thing that really slows time
Is death, but God knows we’re all so fearful
Of that.

What is more fearsome to me
Is that life seems to have lost meaning
Stress and work are now a slow suicide
To alienate one from that which matters most
As speed takes over every viable aspect
Of human existence
And so we tear ourselves to shreds because
We are far too unwilling to live in a world
Not governed by numbers and figures.

It is the obsession that forever drives us,
And in the end, many are destined to die alone.
In this place, death is the only liberation.
Said sadly, it is the only thing
Which draws our nation together.

I no longer fear death.

I know I have been loved,
And that is quite enough for me.

Still, I sought its comfort with rabid ferocity,
Maybe one older than I may understand
So simple a concept as commitment and sacrifice?
He had an enviable appreciation for life,
I thought this man worthy.

His eyes spoke as a veteran of transitory hell,
And it seemed he had conquered it.
I was so young, pitiful, and foolish.
I wanted a savior,
A human god who bled true as any other.

Ego, then, is disappointment’s greatest denial.

When I needed to be healed
By understanding’s quiet grace,
He banished the leper
And the pain of self-sacrifice’s failure
Left me with a cold feeling of regret
To lament the days when I was still
So innocent.
Time breaks some and hardens others.

I rather envy those who live by the ticking clock
Of heartbeats, be they loved or unloved.

But wealth disgusts me.

Long have I drifted, only to realize
That admiration is gone, beauty is false,
And love has turned to lust beneath my
Weakened feet
(Or rather, the ground upon which I walk
Perhaps has turned to dust.)


If only New York would sink into the sea
And rid the world of her gluttonous belly
Bursting of power and propaganda!

There is no freedom,
Only slaves and savagery
In a conceited culture
Of non-preservation and
Industrial recklessness.

The ikons of deadening past
Are no longer remembered
Ideals have been destroyed
With no one left to uphold
Their sacred power.

And as strength wanes,
So do the meek.

I wish that I were stronger,
Perhaps I could inherit the earth
Were I not descended from
Ancient nobility turned weak
From forgotten wars and founding fathers
So staunchly conservative,
Who attempted change
But now cry from their
Misplaced graves
At the stolen power
We use to fuel corruption.

A call to arms is in order my friends,
Rise up and take back the freedom
That is rightfully yours!

Death to dishonor,
Shame to the deserter!
Our cause is just, holy,

Our passion is our freedom!

For France, for Germany,
And the Hessians,
For those native-born
And all who wish to escape
From tyranny!

For God’s America!

Oh, if only in some way
I might bring honor and justice
To my ancestors who weep endlessly
From the tombs of oppression.

But I have been unworthy,
I am a drunken fool of wasted talents,
My money is no good in your colony!

Forgive me, my Fathers!

I have proven myself no better
Than a Loyalist or those damned British!

Fuck the temptations bred on impulse,
Lust is truly the downfall of man!

Morality has ceased,
Our dream of a Christian nation eradicated,
We are no better than the Babylonians
And I am among the children
Of this country’s whore!

Motherless indeed!
And if only I had HER passion,
HER strength against the odds.

Instead and without nurturing,
The droves of faggots in their
Pointless, forgotten cause have taken me
As their own, I am their prisoner,
They are like the Aztecs,
Just as barbaric!

My God, save me!


And since God in all His centuries of reinvention has died,
I am forced to save myself from this sad state
Of sinful immorality.

Truly, the just cause perished long ago.

Father, Mother, and ancestors forgive me.
One day, I shall make you proud.

For that would indeed be the path to honor!

- Excerpted from The Great Ascension

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Drift 1.

I found myself in a daze somewhere
Another first month of the new year
Descended as a flash upon me
And all at once, I no longer cared to define
The rampant nature of temptation
As a hindering presence to destroy me.

I was young and eager back then
A selfish god
An invincible creature for whom the law held no regard
The sun held not a sway upon me
For all I knew was desire
Aching in my cracking bones so generously infused
With the marrow of what is too often called
The sins of the father, the wisdom I possess,
Yet chose so blatantly to ignore out of defiance.

I held a certain fondness for music played
Upon my tender heart strings
And a song to bind me, gag me
And drag me deep into the being of the one performing
In a place where I would be held captive
At the whims of a wrathful incubus
Among a pitch black room
Where the only sound I could behold
From un-mercied ears was weeping and thrashing
In sadistic, torturous pleasure until such time
That I would beg him to stop.

This angel once played strings for me,
And so I was swept away.

I am the prisoner of a young man
Dangerous but all too tempting
He lacks understanding
He lacks my fear
But somehow I am complacent
For he approaches unto me
With lustful eyes, and his heart
(What a heart!)
Entrenched in a fire of passion’s reach
To fulfill our senseless desires.

The newly-christened creature
Bites rabidly into my tender neck
Arousing forbiddence into my body
As that music again becomes a venom
To tear me down from the tree
And down upon the ground
He has struck my Achilles heel
And the serpent will rise to strike him back!

We are festered deep in the knowledge
Of sin and well-versed in classic moves
As overplayed as any century has seen before
Like a rehearsed ceremony of dogma
Moaning disgusting intent,
Though we each claim devotion
To a creator somewhere up in the sky
Too clouded to see
With our vision so tainted by ritualistic cleansing
And the dispersal of seed down our curious throats.

I was soon enough scolded like a child
When erratic rebuttals
Chewed their way through my ears
And soon I began to drift away
Through the broken wake of yet another year
Crossed in peril, the bitter fate encapsulated
By greedy lust, all too damning a testimony
To the effigy of what already was.

I set out to experience the life
I never chose to live
Friends who could pass through
In only one night
So consumed with the bottled poison was I
To draw two others of inebriated, false joy
Into an old fantasy barbaric
And carefully crafted to herald
A brief demise of sorts which I soon came
To regret.

I was afraid to love you see,
For I had seen such downfalls
In its contradicting name.

I wandered lost among the blackness
Of a sweet nothing with no comforting tune
To carry me along the road of perdition,
Awakening each day only to fall asleep again
With the expectation of dying in my dreams.
So like a walking plague did I become,
Adamant in my ways and set on the path
I was led to travel, alone and angered by the unknown.

Sickness could take me,
I would not have cared
For still I was a stubborn child
Who viewed death as a welcome liberation
From the bitter reality I refused to live in,
A place that perhaps I still have yet
To fully capture and comprehend.

Some days I feel it is still asserting itself upon me.

The twitching of my sex,
The generous laughing of the devil’s minions
Inside me, crawling beneath flesh
As if entrapped in a mortal prison
Wishing to be set free from the dormant
And deepest fissures of my cavity-ridden chest.

Like a bad, cheating lover
He forsakes commitment
For fear of rejection
And feels too content in worshiping
The body with all his blatant refusals and
Denials of weakened faith
Only to plead his repentance in confusion
Where beauty ends.
How far doth the soul reach?

Life is none more than the BODY,
That’s all the truly matters,
We have plenty of time to love the soul
(If indeed there is an afterlife!)

Oh shut up!
Here and now…
What is “here” and what is “now”?

The passing of life itself is lacking
In definition,
Rationality a perplexing concept
And who cares to try anyway,
What significance is there
When we have all of eternity…

Perhaps life is floating,
Just an ocean and nothing more,
Yet in whose deepest depths
We may find ourselves.

It’s shit, you understand!
“Forgive you for what,
You trampled the rose to
Come back again?”

I cry at the doorstep
Of hopeless pity
And say such vain prayers
By which to summon love,
Save my body from
Sick, lustful damnation
But tomorrow I shall just as easily
Give myself over in surrender to
Strong bodies and betraying fools!

Were I not so swayed by the moon,
I may yet learn to forsake man’s nature
And the tasteless tricks of the mind from whence
I dance and dazzle seduction
In tender hearts and vacant eyes
Searching for truth or meaning
When all I may provide is
The destruction of natural heartbeats
To blind downcast lovers and lions
Into gentle submission,
I will shut their mouths.

But being in the dark,
What assurance have I
Here, now, upon this very night?

With the coming of the next sun,
I find myself torn limb from limb
As the crows upon their perches
Laugh down at me and spit
The rotting flesh back in my face.

The quicksand catches,
For though I run
I sink like a stone as they cry out
“Oh ye of little faith!”
Shouldn’t have looked, boy. Shouldn’t have looked.

- Excerpted from my poetry series The Great Ascension.

Friday, July 8, 2011

Mother Muse.

White curved mother,
Bend low to play the harp of your son
Pluck the heartstrings of my world
Sing my song so I can grow strong again
And touch the colors of my feathers once more
To bloom back into the quiet grace
Of a rain-stricken evening
Move me, let us dance
Before your memory fades again
Back into the mists of my clouded imagination
Let me step back
To trace your outline
One more time
Before you’re lost in the scribbles of the pen
Before your lines become my shadow
Before the light touches us,
Permit me to breathe,
Inhaling the canvas of your presence
In this infinite moment of forever…

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Royal Order.

Expand these castle walls beyond all understanding
Crooked hearts turning locks
To open doors of spiked knowledge
Marriage of falsehood scratched
Into the cosmos of filtered shutters
The light touches my fissures
Exposing my negative thoughts
The image of broken men
A history of fibers ripped clean from
Woven tapestries
Incorporate solid lines
Defying zero
Masking cloth and curtains
Where I drown into the colors of a dawn speculation
I open the windows to let in the sun
Only to be met by waves of intolerance
A cruel world
A sick innocence
And this is the weeping room
This is the crying message
Addressed to a king with no crown
I fall, begging
Bow down
As my walls collide, sweeping in
I realize
This geography is cracked
But if I rework my boundaries enough
I may just win the war
And the man in the iron mask will laugh
Because he saw it all
He saw it all coming
Paint chipped
I slip
We fall, we crawl
And the one in shackles is me.

Weeping room, sweeping sea
Bride and groom
The strewn tides set free,
And this is how
I expand my geography.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Writing should not feel like a chore.

Though I’m sure we all reach that point sometimes. I’m suddenly reminded of an old monologue I was once assigned in my high school theater class about a writer struggling with writer’s block. I don’t think the teacher even knew I was a writer, and it was the most ironic thing.

At the end of the monologue, he finds his muse again. I’m tempted to go look for that monologue, since I’m sure I saved it somewhere.

But writing…it just feels like a chore lately. Not poetry, mind you; that usually comes easiest to me.

And with this second vampire novel in the balance, I feel like I have to fight myself to make it the best that it possibly can be. It has to surpass the first, and every next book has to surpass the one before it. I’m on a mission to evoke a world within my writing, and that’s perhaps the single most difficult feat of any author.

The most intimidating part of this is that the only person I’m in competition with is myself. I’m not trying to be “the greatest” or greater than any other author. I’m trying to be greater than myself, and maybe that’s why this seems so difficult.

I’m not letting it flow naturally. It all just feels forced, like there’s no heart to any of it, and that’s what bothers me most of all. The first part is golden. I swept through that prologue and first couple chapters like I was the vampire who just woke up and fed and felt extremely refreshed with literary vigor. Nigel’s narrative voice changed from that of a sad, solemn creature at the end of the first book to someone on the verge of discovering that which he had been seeking for the last decade. I was even amazed at his power.

Then he delves back into the past, a subject he doesn’t want to discuss, until he finds the right person…which he does. Then it turned sour as I slammed into Part I like it was a Nazi blockade on the outskirts of Le Havre and suddenly, the group of Orphans could go no further.

Why? What happened? It was the exact same spot I’d originally planned on continuing from in the first book, before the first book became way too long and I decided to cut it short so it wouldn’t be the length of a dictionary. The drawback, however, is that I ended up adding a whole shit ton of other elements and characters into the second book to keep it interesting.

I feel overwhelmed. I have way too much that goes into this book. A lot happens, perhaps too much. And then there’s my outline. What happens between the lines of that? I plot all these scenes, but I have no clue how to get from point A to point B right now without making it sound really cheesy. Or at least it sounds cheesy to me.

I keep on wondering how on earth I ever conceived of this idea. I wish I knew. I wish it could write itself sometimes. This series is too big, too epic. Maybe I’ll just start writing paragraphs when I feel inspired and join them together later. At least that way, I’ll be doing something for this story instead of letting it rot away in the dark corners of my mind.

Oh Purgatory Road. I’ll finish you sometime. I have to.

PS: I'm pushing back The Orphaned Ones for a possible August release. It's going to be in paperback form only at first, but when I have it up on Kindle, I'm going to give it away free for the first 2 months or so. I'm not sure exactly how long, but I really REALLY want to get my work out there, so I'll have a freebie of some sort for everyone, just so people are more likely to check it out.

And if they really like it, then they can always buy the paperback, which I'm going to price at $12 simply because I put a lot more work and some small illustrations into it.