You could never picture me in the pockets of my West Coast.
I flew out of your story and into another, and then
Even into another, always the phoenix.

No longer yours, but his.
No longer his, but mine.
Perhaps I suffered these little deaths to forge a heaven with him.

A king, he’d follow me to the ends of the earth, thrice over.
His queen I’m still too shy to let shine through,
A star stubbornly obscured by cloud.

Though before I complained of rain,
On the Island it never bothered me.
Even in the dead of winter it kept the grass emerald-green.

An emerald city:
Ivy shrouded trees; moss fluorescent.
Our castles were those green giants.

Siamese blue to denim blue.
Betwixt the Spit & Seabroom.
It was all I dreamed and ever wanted.

The only thing missing was the garden, the garden,
Sheltered by walls made of cob.
Or a whole house, the air inside delectable.

Tendril of dream,
Is a cinder girl deserving of bees,
Turning honey into mead, of wild things?

No. Exiled to a foreign land,
A barren land; the ghetto forest.
Those halcyon years now only a memory.

Ridiculous to expect the bald
Rocks to yield to a surfer’s paradise, of
Blue-green ocean. Long hairs cannot thrive under puritans’ eyes.

Green things tremble for sun.
For all the rain, I remember the sun,
Filtering down through the forest canopy,

Upheld by the cathedral’s true pillars
Rather than these thrifty spindles. In reverence of true
Beauty, all is quiet & hushed.

The birth of a princess may bring us back.
Pioneers, we’re still in search of our happy ending,
To live lush in nature’s majesty.

I know the Pacific is still out there
Roaring somewhere,
Crashing itself onto stony beaches.

Mists wreath those mountains.
The drums beat.
That muted boom, my thud of heart.

Golden coin gleaming in hand.
All his hopes took refuge in that vestige of conjured worth.
The man with no name would buy his name this day...

The empire's burgeoning halls pressed in around him as he strode.
They would devour him in this moment if they had not done so already.
Yet, why the empire? There are more docile things to tame.
Everything is the same for the man with no name.

"People would apologize for stepping on me, but they knew not what to call me, so they went somnolently on their way."
I try to imagine these are the things he'd say,
instead these are the words of those I know,
those that I can hear, see, smell, touch... taste.
The man with no name's words are a waste.
He leaves no footprints wherever he may go.

The steps to the Hand of the Empire are steep.
Some will climb it, some will weep.
Yet, the man with no name will not turn back this day;
he takes a moment to fill and a moment to pray.

His memories are so vibrant, so full of clarity,
like crystals in the light, banishing insanity;
his tales will evoke the highest majesty,
entrance the gluttonous, deprave with vanity,
they'll bite the snake and poison its legacy,
they'll quietly rake the fields of the mind,
yet each soul is weary, cold and blind,
when he is gone, they pay no mind.

His steps are strong, hard, fast
throughout the night, will he last?
This is no simple, boring task,
the steps to the Hand do more than ask.
They take from you and more than due,
they make you fight,
they run through you.
When the night is cold and breezy,
you'll find the steps are dark and creepy...

Of course, the man with no name bears on.
What has he to fear, you can't hunt what you don't want,
for the hunt is a thrill, and trash is pleasureless.
The steps are perilous,
they hunger for blood,
his steps are thunderous,
nailing thud after thud.

Dawn peeks over the distant horizon,
and what a sight to see: the man is still rising.
In tandem the sky and he play their parts,
so does the Empire, putting bodies in carts,
for the night brings the dead, so many have tried,
to climb up the steps and in doing so, died.

The man with no name treads a feat all his own,
but see? A trembling hand. The ache of bone.
For the man with no name is tiring, tiring,
even in the face of his glory aspiring.

He would tend to the sick and defend the weak,
danger and challenge and evil he'd seek,
to vanquish the rotten
and save the damsel,
but he's always forgotten,
that he couldn't handle.

So this lead him to this fateful day,
to this fateful place.

Just look at the sweat cascading his face.
Look at his knees, how they groan and slow pace,
his legs seem to jostle and wobble out of place.
Where is his strong stride? It almost seems funny.
Many would do this sort of thing for money.
Yet, he does this for his own pride,
and that grim determination, from his face,
seems to slide.

He collapses and the jut of a step knocks his face,
for the steps are at his throat,
trying to crush his ebbing life.

I've known better men
to have fared far worse,
but this man looks on his life,
not as gift,
as curse.

Who is more deserving?
More than he?
Cowards! Be gone!
Pretenders, flee!

What's this?
He props himself up with ease,
the fire in his eyes would startle a lion.
The steps tremble with fury,
they quiver with disgust,
they lust for his end,
he must die, he must!

"No."
He speaks!
"Not today."
The gall!
Don't tempt these steps,
the Empire's nigh trekable wall!
"What I want more than anything,
is to be myself,
whoever I am,
so let me pass, you glorified shelf!"

How strange it would be, to be there that day,
for the steps let him pass, without delay.

He stood in the face of the Hand of the Empire.
Glistening in his palm, the token to buy his face:
his full life's earnings, polished, just in case.

He sighed, "All I've ever wanted is to be respected."
At the cusp of his one goal, the man defected.

One day, he told me this tale.
This he said, into my conscience: burned.
"If you fight death for a name,
you'll lose all you've earned."

There's a penny for every sob story,
and a dime for every winner.
A dollar for the tax collector,
and Benjamin pays himself.

But you, my friend, are forgiven,
forget toil and bore;
where you lounge on laurels,
others hunger for more.

There's nonsense in fiction,
truth in law.
But law guarding fiction:
the beast's toothy maw.

You write the laws, my friend,
you are the fiction and truth,
you are the red hand,
you are the beast's jagged tooth.

On and on, the mercy rolls
Are you winning?
Check the polls!
Is it fiction?
No one knows,
but the crown drapes from your head,
to your toes.

Life worms its way into your moth holes...
99 problems; 101 dalmations: you do the math.
You plug the holes with your fingers;
end up with no hands to stop the flood.
That empty feeling lingers,
so does the blood.

Everything's shot to cheese,
but the truth isn't cheesy.
You beg for no mercy,
but you don't say please.

In the end, there's no mention
of how you were spared.
Dare to infract again,
only devils have dared.

Poison
Poison, dripping on the tongue
soaking in the flesh
crawling through the veins
possessing the body
reaping the soul
waiting inside...
waiting to be caught red-handed.

Hate,
a poison I know too well,
gripping my heart
sacking my defenses
and throwing them into the river.

Hate ignites my passion
turns lover to monster
turns monster to lover
and all the while
I drink in the crude oil.
This raw token of evil.
Its malice is like
the claws of a lion
hidden
waiting
like poison
suddenly they thrash!
Peace is cut to pieces.

I once had an appetite for lovers.
Now, I only appetize the monsters.

Are you patiently persistent, or persistently patient?
You are encouraged to be both when under the pavement.
Yet, in the world of the living, everyone's rushing.
When you blow jobs from the government, blushing.
When you smoke cars at the dealer, pushing.
Ideas laced over one another like a hero in addiction.
Pleasure locked in fervent battle like out her space friction.

I need a place to die where love is infinite.
Hostess: "Another cup of gin?"
Me: "That's it, I quit!"
Hostess: "You don't even work here, Jim?"
Me: It's weird, I know, but this moment isn't working for me,
I've got to split..."

We need to live in a place where you can't get addicted off of spit!
I don't want to buy pleasure, don't you ever make it an option,
do you like broken souls, so broken that the empty's rotten?
I've lost my nerve with this, so I can't feel a thing,
Reality: "Sir, we've been calling you for years!"
Me: "Oh, couldn't hear the ring... from where I dropped it!"

I'm divorced from this insanity, reality? Travesty?
I show up at bars, saying, "Let me out!" Bars of steel!
It's a hard sell to be sober. I'm sober, man. "For real?"
Everyone wants the pleasure: a jolly good time!
When someone's sober, well, it's almost a crime... (it might be)
Beer? No. Poker? No. Swear word? No. *******? Ummm...
:)
Maybe...
>:-)
No.
:'-(

What a land. What a hopeless, marching masquerade of: huh?

The crow will crow
and all will know
the good will go
praise status quo.

The blow will blow
destruct the foe
went toe to toe
with status quo.

Mountains bow in the twilight
seas will shriek in that hell
beasts will bray at the bite
broken dreams' bruises swell.

Might was right
give up the fight
in fading light
under status quo.

There is no more
after settled score
when at the core
the ***** is adored
beware the door
of status quo.

My heart aches, to beat with the flow of time eternal. Not to count the seconds, but to know the passing. Death is only the beginning; life is only the moment. Pain unites them both. Pain severs, connects and furthermore brings balance to the lack of such. Heaven, a transcendent paradise above our placid river of life. Hell, the fire below our feet, churning the sands; boiling the water; raising the winds.

The earth aches, for at its core burns a love deeper than all the vast pools of knowledge itself. We overcome fear, to wade into the waters; to see beyond depth and know once again that time is master. Patience is key. Servitude is silence.

Rebellion is wrath. War is wrought from age. Age, an agent of time. Slowly stripping away all we are, until the flesh we know, is nothing but food for the ages to come. Time feeds on the worrier. War feeds on the warrior. Death feeds upon the devoted; ignorant of time and its tick, ******* the happiness out of the unknown. Positive presence is a blessing. Negative nihilism is a weight.

Be free of it. Be free of greed for gold and bottomless wonder.
Time, are the steps we make between seasons. Agents of peace.
The silence of space can never break its chains. Life is the same.