Losing my breath, heart is cannon thunder as tall Pines scream by leaving Arkansas in their wake.
The machine roars over the red earth like some other lonely planet's surface. Slightest touch is death or at minimum a really bad day.  Still the sound of my older brother's coffee and cigarette laughter makes it hard to focus as I push harder in the wheel. It doesn't matter now I can see the road we lost up ahead and I bring my foot up slowly from the last slide, I needed this or some part of me did, to tempt fate's scarred and timeless hand, " the channel locks are in my bag." He reminds me for the 29th time today, but I am braking now, leaving the rallied road behind. I will never in my living days let this moment slip my mind. My heart slows as the muddy wheels glide effortlessly onto the asphalt once more. Oh my brother knows everything about black top too, let me tell ya.

Guttural screams and the ****** beating churns all the more.
Walking west into the dying light, shadows linger about waiting to seize the Earth in their pseudo claws.
Twenty three miles to the next roadside solace, oasis of vending machine illumination,
the sickly sweet scent of ***** and pine trees, tall in the valley.
A symphony of dusk plays all around, echoes drive the wanderer ever forward, beyond the thin fabric of the known,
just outside the small town, big city, back yard chaos.
Letting the cards fall, jack of spades pops out his proud visage, lays in waiting to slay the king of diamonds and run with his rusted red crown. These are the dreams that stalk his mind, the arrowhead of onyx stone, seeking out the stag's flesh...
Awakes beneath a jagged tin roof on a bed of dead brown needles, damp from the night's war...
shadows are losing their grip as new life rises, standing with creaking joints, sore eyes.
Healing blisters in his worn down dime store boots that cling once more to the asphalt ,cool with the morn's wet kiss.
Nicotine courses through the veins alongside interstate twenty, as the faint remains of ash float over the lips to open air.
Once more the chatter falls silent, the invisible waves of a billion words gone as the road stretches out, mountains rise in the distance and there God sits, waiting...

Curious is youth’s passion darting and flitting in and out of the spring rains.
Runs the chase down by the willows where a small brook
whispers sweet sonnets to the lovers lying juxtapose.
Skin to skin, pulse on pulse, as trembling hands touch with
shy smiles, and no regard for time, only this.
Only to know each others eyes, as they recite their lines on a stage of sighs,
and fumble through their roles in adolescent euphoria. Finally sweat drips cold from smooth brows
laying spent in the soft embrace of the night’s breeze. Celestial onlookers tread invisible to gaze
and ponder these sleeping mortals cleaving in the tall summer grass.
Chests rise and fall in the pale light of Luna, rise and
fall, as Venus begins to stir in the east, rise and fall
full of the vineyard’s sweetest press, waking to drink deep again before dawn.

Black cats waltzing under ladders…
The mind tends to jest this way.
Left a choice, not today.
We twist through our dreams
like silk worms weaving.
No stars grace our
dead zone sky there?
Do you ponder the life
inside a rain drop?
Do you sweat in the
Nightmare of your soul’s Shylock
“Never the same! Never the same!”
cries the old man atop his
scrap yard shanty, with broken voice.
Time in it’s callus hands presses
86’400 times from sun to sun.
“I can’t find the moon anymore.”
She cried, for a lover gone
before the river dock
was dried of the salt tears.
What you see is human.
What is seen beyond these
feeble orbs, refracting bits of adulterated light,
those who dance in the storm’s finest hour, and
laugh at the days gone by,
as the stage spins quietly on it’s axis.

Mountainous billowing towers of ivory spill over the upside down ocean, swirling black in the far west.

The emerald sky pulses with life, still the shifting shapes dance in perfect fluid motion unaware, of the ants marching.

Push and pull, light and dark collide in ecstasy, Hephaestus’ hammer falls, as fire flies to the woods above, burning the sky.

Some have graced the lowest tips of the stone their forms broken in it’s jagged granite hands or swallowed by cavernous mouths.

As dusk draws them into the dark and breaking horizon; we will rise in the east and dance again from one end of the blue to another.

Breeding new colors in our ranks at each beginning, the star rages beneath us.

We weep, our tears pulled to the sky, blanket the valley heights and return to us like breath.

All of this by the Maker’s hand was designed, even the life of a cloud.

I want to feel, like the wind rushing through a canyon bed feels, like I am unbroken.

Yearning for freedom, the kind worth death, as I spill pains and dreams upon the floor.
Where is the garden gate, and will it be locked if ever I come there?
Locked to the stiff necked, sad song liars, the painted ones whose color seeps onyx stain.
Rain saturates the screaming earth, and in the drowning soil, exposes the true roots.
We are woven likewise, we who grip at the core, the ever seeking, same as saplings crying to the sky, with branch of arm stretching and clawing upward.
Then came the roar of floodwater we call Truth sweeping away every hope we had made in the muddy ground full of soft caresses.
When you were a child did you see with wide eyes the world downtown, parading with stainless steel insides and confetti eyes?
Now I long to see once more with wild wonder, to pawn this knowledge and buy back my unknowing days,
to run once more with flushed red cheeks in the deep drifts of the Colorado Winter...
and know nothing of the war...
with eyes of a dream you never fall in...
mirrors to purity..
to see pure. .

Scarlet clothes the dauntless titans in rippling pools of glory.
So many idle dream of such a prize as man has made of his
spectacles since first bone on bone struck, still the unsung
war on, as Jacob with his angel, waiting for blessing. Gaining
a new name for the struggle, the wave of voices crashing over
the only two in this world of the ever turning tempest
each hoping to last the storm, only to steer his ship back
in for for the sake of another story, another tale that might
make his name live a day longer. Every man in his own
battle falls, triumphs, weeps in joy and shame, but this
trial is of the unseen beyond this frail flesh doomed to dust
Here one sees the war of truth.