A man spoke the truth,
and had his tongue removed.
His hands were left intact,
so he started to write the facts.
The men that articulate falsehoods,
came back to take his hands.
They searched far and wide,
including foreign lands.
He sat with pen and paper,
locked away on his own accord.
The men took his hands,
hoping thoughts could reach The Lord.
But this did not deter him,
because he lived for the truth.
And as long as he lived,
he would continue like in his youth.
But without a tongue he couldn't say:
You'll have to **** me to get your way.

An old friend invited me to his lake house, surely to get away he mentioned.
A dock leading to a pristine lake, not a ripple in sight. He left spare keys on an island table. Said he would be back in a few hours, apologized, and instructed me not to go into the boathouse, something or other about it being repaired. His headlights hit the home and by the lake until it hit the gravel ahead. I walk to the pier to get a better view of the lake. To smell whatever it is that you smell at times like these. The pier is maybe fifty feet. The boathouse is at the end towards the left, not exactly hidden by shrubbery, at least not maintained in a few years. Surprisingly the door opens easily. Light is scarce. Water is beneath. I'm not country nor wealthy enough to know that not all floors are solid.
A switch is to my right. It enluminates a workbench. Tools are absent, besides some rope to tie boats, I suppose. Instead it is covered with pictures. All of a boy. Possibly seven. I'm intrigued, delighted being a lie or an embellishment. Many photos are taken at this location. On the pier or besides the house, as others are taken at places I'm not familiar with. There's a photo with a boat, the boy is sitting and smiling, saying cheese with as much force as a wave. Under the workbench is that very boat. Flipped over, but still kept. I stand still for what seems like minutes. I'm walking toward the house pulling the door shut behind me. I make my way to the kitchen. Married couples always have notepad and dry erase boards hanging around. They did.

*I decided to head back to the city. The air here is too clean for me. Also, I went against your wishes and went into the boathouse. I'm sorry for your son. Your loss. I haven't touched a thing in my boy's room for six years. I keep the door shut. I'm afraid I'll drive myself crazy, ya know, just sitting on his bed and he runs in to grab and go. It's completely irrational, but so is burying a child. I know that I won't be all smiles when you return, possibly you as well after reading this, but I felt compelled to act and explain. Call me if you want to talk, I'm not sure I can give guidance on how to cope, but sharing stories is always good for the heart. All the best

Tile floor on my face and knees to my chest, I call for my mother, who happens to be in the same position on a bed. This dependent relationship started out being as easy as asking the man for a piece of his roast because you wield a fork and knife. Since the era that brought Y2K we were doomed. At thirteen you may carry some wits about you, but without a mentor there is a tendency for anger. A rant and a rave, or some wit coupled with rage.

Two planes crashed into two buildings.
New York City was in disarray. I'm buying a video game the day before I start high school. Thankfully I caught the news before the game was powered on. People jumping from buildings. A mayor covered in dust, turning sharply at the corner of each city block, being inquired by reporters and journalists. But a man that is as surprised as his city can only keep walking. Four years later people still grieved. Some never boarded a flight again. By that time I left school.

Seventeen was drugs. That led until twenty-one. Those are lost years, or ones I wish to not account for. The years that came back felt like before Y2K, a recession that was only going to become worse, and depending on which side won the battle would there be more bodies falling from buildings. Ignorant to an economy that was already set to topple over, I went to school with partial loans. Not as bad as iron shackles, but with interest rates that ensure the need for a second industrial revolution.
People can speculate.
Oh, what you know is ignorance!

There aren't many outcomes to this predicament...
Old bankers can be sealed in their vaults. An older generation can retire without worry. And the "Millennials" will inherit the workload of two previous generations.
No.
That is the last thread holding embellished dreams. Before the ignorant generation is attacked, let's say that what credit was in the nineties to our parents and scheming developers is what a full glass of champagne was before the Great Depression. But this intelligent, idealistic, young generation that is crippled from the start will not succumb to rationed goods and bread lines.

Department of Defense says you're going to die. That Government is too big to fail. And they're wrong. On more than one front. Their military is for us, but the corporations are exclaiming, "Charge!" How easily you can become a mannequin to a department store. How quickly a baton can break your forearm.

They say that the Statue of Liberty was once copper. They say over time copper turns green, from weather, and I suppose time. Yes, it's scientifically explained, but imagine a statue with only tarnish by the eyes. That might be the symbolism we need, but no, a woman made of copper does not cry.

So, thirty is approaching. Not within the next few Sun rotations, but soon enough. Many people my age want change. More than pocket change. We were raised on accountability and morals. Now being adults this isn't a "Do what I say, not what I do" argument. These are lives. This about saying, "Sliced bread isn't the best thing!" It's standing up for your dignity and integrity. Something that isn't found at a computer screen.
Maybe at one time it was.
Now the truths you speak are chastised. Capitalist societies adopted Martin Luther's Catholic Church. Now a notice on a door is sent to a screen.

Laying on this tile floor is tiresome. And working two jobs gets in the way. The hardest part is ignoring the demon involving work. Knees to your chest may be safe behind a closed door. But the outside world is monitored. You can only get up, kiss your mother on her forehead, hoping hers knees descend, and hope that finishing your work happens in time for you to create your art.
Hopefully that is something that can never be taken away.

The firewood kept beside the fence post was soggy, surly was the evening weather, and Mother Nature was redefining the word torrential
A drop to the eye, rendering it senseless. On one side of the spectrum, a crystal or a rock comes from dirt. Although that other side, the side of the spectrum that enlightens by color. A yellow or a blue or a red are useful.
So by that exploitation will become the
puzzle pieces of which the artist creates. Imagine having a thought cross and be ignored. Saying that, maybe the Earth isn't flat, and maybe a Christmas card is not as commercial as it is ceremonial. Perception is one side to say, but the gentleman pouring gasoline on a fire is far from the man asking for a drink shaken, not stirred.
When the fire becomes everlasting, water will not quench a thirst for destruction, and that is because there has never been an accident that could ever be everlasting. The man that knows that does not exit the house with a helmet. He simply raises the proverbial glass and swallows what is in front of him. At times the end brings a sweetness. The only other times are consumed with a bitterness. One that an artist knows as he takes his shot of whiskey, but not of the man that is readily available to set himself on fire. That is a drop of rain on your tongue. At the beginning it is too fragile to become a warning, but at the end it is what separates lands and lives. That is why saltwater and tears aren't that much different.

The handle
to the front door won't budge,
but it can still be locked
from the inside.
The overgrowth is five years
in the making, vines took over
this home of once improvement.
I don't believe we ever
owned a gas can.
A boarded up pool.
The one in which the dog died.
His body was as bloated as my eyes. The puppy in the pictures still hung in the basement beside the kicked in window.
Leaves and insects rest
on the linoleum floor, a cohabitation that was formed out of vacancy.
A long dresser left ajar from wood paneling, insects crawling around,
not that one would know how they
got there. Old paperwork and letters survived. The assumption is that the moths never arrived to join the spiders nestled in their leaves.
Both longhand and typed sentences that spoke of longing, love (young love), happiness, direction, and lastly evaluation. Broken glass fixed against the dresser, a reflection shows.
The dirt and grime is of a
subconscious level.
One that exceeds the proximities
of the appropriate metaphor.
So what is seen is loss.
And although this occurrence
comes as a new beginning, the best solution at the given moment may perhaps be a broom and a dustpan.

It was raining.
On this damp May evening, my mother turned to my sister and asked her to refrain from speaking to me.
Pensive is the word she used.
My sister heard the word "pencil" and thought I was sick with lead poisoning.
I remember her checking the room for different writing utensils, she was looking to hide them as you do the knives when the depressed family member comes for a visit. Such a sweet girl to take the graphite and leave the eraser. I'm sure it was a subconscious gesture, or made with complete disregard, but nevertheless I was smiling.

The first time I fell in love, I was standing up straight, head over heels. A web browser was open before me, asking the difference between love and anxiety. Later did I come to find that the former and latter are more similar than most know or care to know. One night while looking at her lips and glancing at her eyes, she told me I was adaptable. That was the first time I questioned love for lust.

My grandfather started crying.
His hands, those of a carpenter, were holding his face. There I sat across from him, hairs on my neck standing, praying for him to speak first. He always spoke first. He would also tell me to stop him if I've heard the story he was going to tell, although I never did. But the story happening before me was one I wanted to stop but couldn't. Never have I seen this man cry, and that would be the only time I ever would. Two years later he had passed on peacefully.
By then it was my turn to cry.

Some remember the words they've spoken. Others the words they've heard. But I can recall all of the times I've sat in silence. The moments and memories I hold in the company of the ones I love or have had love for are some of the more quiet times in my life. The only quiet which can rival that told above are the times that I've spent putting word to paper. And those are the quiet times I can't remember offhand, but I can always revist. Those quiet times are kept in the walnut filing cabinet.
Right beside the
photograph of the cabinet maker.

You can't date a writer.
For lack of a better term, or phrase,
or whatever the writer will have you
believe. He will introduce you to
many artists, some like him, others not,
and that will ultimately build intrigue.
By his side, you will feel as if you're
the apple of his eye, but when alone together
his eye will be fixated on blank pages
or ones filled with the right words.
Don't fret, by the second
month you will know which
words are right and which ones
are wrong. He will tell you to
mind the binding on the books you borrow.
And you will, until the first fight happens.
You'll think that the fight is over,
but don't think that the words shouted at each other
weren't written down.
The day you find these words, the oh-so-familiar
words will start the next fight.
And be prepared to tighten up once more,
because this next fight will be just as embellished as the first.
Before the third fight he will buy you a journal,
possibly lend you a pen,
lend being the keyword,
because he will expect it back.

He will ask to read what you've written,
as he saves his work on his laptop and closes
the top, because it locks right away.
If and when you open his laptop it will bring
you to a home screen.
If you're lucky your name will appear under his,
if not you have his permission to log on as a guest.
This will eventually become the pebble
that rolls down the mountain,
albeit those pebbles don't necessarily
mean that an avalanche is on its way.
Only time will tell.
Or breaking into his laptop might.
But right now his eyes are on you,
because he would like to read...you.

And isn't that the reason you wanted
him to begin with?
To read you like one of his books?
Or maybe it's your fascination with artists,
because who doesn't want to be
drawn like a French girl.