When the festivals are over and the roar of celebrations wind down,
I turn myself upon the road that leads out of town.
I venture unto my door, but just before,
I turn my face to the world and beg it to stop changing.
It laughs its usual joyless laugh and then empties a brown bag of spiders onto my doorknob.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
I place my hand upon the doorknob,
But it does not twist.
Disheartened,
I peer through the peep-hole in the door.
I cannot discern whether the darkness clouding my sight is from the abyss
Or from the shadow cast by God standing just on the other side of the door.
Regardless,
I once again turn my back to the door
And rejoin the conversation of what awaits us in the Hereafter.
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
Snow blankets the hills and contrasts with the pond.
Birds sing in ancient Avian and wave in flight.
The fish bump their heads against frozen waters, mouth-agape.
I hum hymns.
Snow crunches under hoof.
Trees stand tall, though ****
I whistle.
But all of the melodies have been taken.
I try to offer up some original melody for my God-king.
All falls shorts.
Surely He smiles upon my efforts.
I press on.
I follow the river as it bends this way and that.
The deer sees me and pays no mind.
I am walking in the path of eternal light.
And darkness eeks out it's existence in the shadow of rocks.
I find comfort in the frozen sands of December.
A Wesleyan whisper from ages ago crosses my ear.
It speaks of Heaven.
Rushing waters pay no mind to change or tradition.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 10:38 PM UTC
Grind me with the stone of life;
If I come back,
I come back with understanding.
If not then I am but defeated dust.
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 7:48 AM UTC
I was dead in the morning and gone by the evening.
The vultures feasted.
I laid for hours not knowing I was a ghost.
Haunted features.
Ghost town thrift stores and surf guitars,
These are my delights.
Black deserts and high mountains,
Vaquero of the night.
Sun tanned bones and what have you.
Deep in the heart of Texas.
A lonesome ghost in the South
With nothing but a peyote dream.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
I have made sounds that were foreign to my ears
And have laid in strange places.
But as long as the fire remained lit at home,
No matter how dim,
All was well.
I have found myself in places a Christian ought not be
And have friended with those even the devil would shun.
But everloving did the fire burn
Deep in the heart of my home.
The night came when the fire was put out
And there was no one to go home to.
At midnight I was in a drunken stupor.
At dawn I was as pathetic as a newborn babe.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
I could not read the music
And so I stood bewildered in the concert hall.
And I do not know why my fiddle mourns a sadly lament.
My guitar sings out danciful tunes
And my banjo beckons all to rejoice.
My mandolin calls with the air of easiness
And my tin whistle whispers with an angel's voice.
But my fiddle,
My poor, lonesome fiddle.
It is full of minor keys
And wrong notes.
Painful melodies
And sorrowful tones.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
I killed myself today.
It was too much.
The debt,
The expectations,
The hippies,
The stonefaced
Unsympathetic Vietnam vets asking me if I was a *****
To tell you the truth, Gus,
You've got to be pretty **** ******** to slit that throat,
To pull that trigger,
To hang that corpse from a rafter high.
But I did it classy.
Yeah.
I died like a Roman who had plotted against great Caesar.
I went home,
Slipped into the tub wearing a suit I pieced together from Uptown Thrift.
As the scorching water flowed,
I sipped wine and read the bible.
King James Version only, mind you.
As the water approached my neck I shut it off.
I laughed at the hypocrisy:
A suicide scene with a bible strewn about.
I muttered,
Then took the knife and opened up my veins.
I bled out.
My thoughts drifted to depressing things:
My 2 year old brother working a night shift at Walmart holding back his tears while being yelled at by a balding middle aged man who never did anything with his life,
A dog corpse ***** and mutilated by some *******
A banker smoking a cigarette and laughing in an infant's face,
And the world turning on.
As it always does.
As it always will.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
Somewhere a clock is ticking
And your brother has passed.
His last words were your name.
He was afraid and in the dark
So he pulled the covers over his head,
Just to get away.
Somewhere a clock is ticking
And your father is gone.
He fought demons and diseases.
He lived in a hellhole for years
While you sought a bottle
Just to get away.
Somewhere a clock is ticking
But you'll never see them again.
It ticks off the years
And the grey in your hair,
It tells you to give in
Just to get away.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
They speak loudly and in generalities.
In truth, had they been born 10,000 years earlier,
Neither one would have given the other fire.
A forehead like a Neanderthal's
And a spine full of steel walk into a bar.
"I'll have a Guinness and a mop," sayeth the spine.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC