Borderline, borderlands
Of shifting, whipping, changing sands
Around the ankles, grain by grain
You're buried once, then twice again.
The grains are hot, the earth is cold
Your failing stance will never hold
The North wind blows, then South returns
The nights are freezing, Sunshine burns.

A mile forth, and rain will fall
A suffocating summer squall
Another mile, and the snow
Will freeze you solid, keep you cold.

(Jenny's Granny's house. Ayr.)

Where seasonal root veg soup
Warmly journeyed our throats
Granny Jean, skin translucent as glass,
Sheer, showing tendril veins beneath
Crinkled cliff-edge lips at Jenny's budding womanhood
She knew hers lay as barren
As insignificant as the pale Mojave borderlands.

Brazen-cheeked dolls and pastel bears
Audienced my transition from slip to sundress
Back in the lucid haze of the pensioner's kitchen
Where dust particles hived like antique film grain
Sat Jenny; painted lips like crisp apple skin
Freckled cheeks hollowing atop
Her milkshake's flimsy plastic straw

Raspy, bubbly ***** filled
The kitchen; appliances groped
By the pious smite of the sun
The kind of light they say never to walk towards
Then, a weathered cough and the stiff moan of a rocking chair
Just to jest fate
Was none of our business yet; I was taken by the hand

We pass many exhibits
On the austere lilac fridge:
"Mr. & Mrs Richard D. Barclay, wed on 11th of Oct 1961"
And crayoned from her own hand, aged 10; "Me and Granny B"
A waxy glyph on lemon sugar-paper not always in memoriam
But among the moth-wing wallpaper lilies
For now

Dust dunes like mattress ghosts
Collect in mushroom clouds above Jenny's sudden weight
While I feed myself to the mirror
My frock, flesh, hair all seep
Into the totalitarian whiteness of our room
And I am happy if this is my course through life
I know I'm no one

I try on, as I shake goodbye,
Jean's hands; fire-crafted leather baseball gloves
They do not fit just yet but
When my hands no longer sheen in the virtuous sun
When I feel citrus hand soap grate into each wrinkled chasm
I promise you, gran, I will remember
Even the Mojave desert will see rainfall.

/////SPEED OF LIGHT
HAS RECEIVED
EPIPHANIES FROM
THE DISLOCATED
ARK.

MULTIPLE LAUNCHING ROCKET SYSTEM IS DESCENDING IN 3.
2.
1.

And so I hail
from the borderlands.
I am a
disenchanted
Malice in Borderlands
with wounds
from daggers of
w o r d s.

And I have
imagined a
darkness in the
hands of the
disciple of the
n i g h t.

I think we
are all born
as heroes but
only very few
of us aspire to
be heroes.

Striving through
blunt indignations,
it's a
c u r s e.

Through the children's eyes,
heroes turn human
in front of them
when they
grow
up.

The winds
from today are
not as erratic
as they usually are
most of the
days.

I shouted at
the famine crows
deep in the
darkest scope.
WE STRIKE HARD.
R E A L HARD.//

One day,
a group of
conservative adults
asked me
who my heroes are,
I answered a
lot of people ranging from
Voltaire to Che Guevara
to Dave Grohl;
but deep inside
my real hero is
only my
bright past self
before all of these
happened.

I think we
are all ****** up
in our own ways.
We're all reprobate
creatures of misadventures
that live through
weaknesses.
WE STRIKE HARD,
AGAIN,
STRIKE HARD.

[Do I fight for geniality?]
No. I don't. I never cross through the paradigms of those who appear indignant.

I seem to
have mastered
the art of
deception.
That's why I deeply
treasure people
who told me that
I'm not good at lying
whenever I told them
things are
safe and
steady.

A few things I learned:
1 If I keep being who I am and I don't change into someone else, I'll always be stranded forlornly with malicious wolves wherever I go.
2. I was a real Alice in Wonderland when I was younger but I took things too personally and let them aggravate me so I became Malice in Borderlands.
3. With this personality, I'll never understand what people want. I'm just incapable of it.
That's why I
S T R I K E
******* I N G
H A R D.

This one time,

12. or 13, when me
And a bunch of other kids
From a different neighborhood
Played. Outside. From about sunup
To 9:00 at night. I dimly remember
(This light-bulb memory is the barest bit of energy
In an ancient filament of thought:)

It was a nightmare come to life.
There was this one kid across the River
(Rock Island)
They found him naked and dead,
In a discarded pile of coal.
His life brutally taken from him.
But that was the only time
I'd ever heard of something so horrible. Happening.
It was as commonplace as school shootings.
Which is to say, it didn’t happen in the
World that was ‘As Far As I Knew’.
Outside, everywhere, as far as I knew;
Was just where you went. No matter what.
It’s just what we did. And we did a LOT.

We played. On a job application, I would have
Written that. “Player”. As in: “Hey, I’m a kid.
I mess around. I’m unhygienic and smelly and
My hair is long and arms sunburned and sweaty
And tired and about as happy as any kid
Could be in 1975.

This one time,
I go in this dumpster and grab a
Sandwich the Mgr. of the 7-11 mistakenly threw out
It smelled. Badly. I pretended to take a gigantic
Bite out of it. My buddies weren’t ROTFL.
That stupid phrase was pre-born.
They laughed so hard they fell off their bikes.
Probably painfully so.
I worshiped this praise. Ate it like
Seinfeld eats applause.
They were rolling
On hot Iowa summer pavement, laughing fit to split.
On top of that dumpster, that day, in that single moment,
I was the King of Whatever

The manager heard some kind of ruckus.
The sandwich was in my hand, a cheesy spoiled grenade.
Which I promptly threw at him. ‘Cause he was the Adult
And I obviously wasn't Victor Mature.
He waddled back inside and called the Cops.
Not amazingly,
They were literally right around the corner.
My buddies took off like scalded dogs
I got on my homemade trail bike, laughing so
Hard I pedaled into a sticker-tree.

I didn't know what "irony" was back then.
Back then, I was so inherently goofy, that funny
Hilarious crap was somehow attracted to me.
Ironically, when I tried being funny on purpose...
Fill in the blank. There's a lesson in there somewhere.
I'm pretty sure.

We met at that French word I still can't spell.
Ron Day View.
Cackling like
Loony loons. We laughed out little butts off.

And we rode bikes EVERYWHERE.
Through the trails. There were bike
Trails trailing everywhere, short-cuts from point
Hay to Tree. And oh yeah, I climbed trees.
Constantly. And ate apples and plums from
That mean lady’s yard. She stood in her
Kitchen and glared through cat-eyed glasses,
Daring us. Daring me.
GO AHEAD. PICK JUST ONE SINGLE PLUM.
THEN I'LL CALL YOUR MOTHER!
(Interestingly, we didn't hang out with the
plums which didn't fall too far from Mrs. Tree)

Ate whatever was edible. Wild clover.
Yeah. Grass. And
Crab-apples that held the promise of
Painful bowel movements squirting out of
Your ****. Not ‘***’ because cussing wasn’t
All that big of a deal. You heard it in R movies.
But it hadn’t permeated the marrow of
Our entire culture. Not yet. It wasn’t all over
TV after, say, 8:45.

Nothing about ***. Absolutely Nuttin' Honey.
'Cause I'd be making stuff up in 1975,
When I was 12. Kissing was just...
You know.

We messed around, got into and out of trouble.
We laughed. The future hung over us like
Those mean-sounding thunderclouds,
Miles away, but moving from the North-East,
Because severe weather in Iowa always came
In the same direction.

It’s what we did. It’s just about
All we did as kids. Man, we were crazy, and had
Crazy fun.

We built bikes out of spare parts. They were low-
Slung and cool. Mine was always breaking.
I did a lot of stupid things, and somehow,
Somehow I got away with doing a lot of
Stupid things.

I believe in God. Now.
Way back then, I was Catholic. I don’t
Know if that sufficiently explains it
Or not. We ate fishsticks on Fridays during
Lent. We went to church sometimes
On Wednesday nights, the Guitar Mass,
And on Sundays. The Mass felt like it
Lasted 93 minutes, like our services do
Now. But it seemed to go on forever.
It as about 45 minutes, and we would always
“Leave Early” which meant, we’d take
Our Communion, solemnly, eyes
Downcast and humble, but I would slow,
Then stop, lost in the visage:
I looked up at the Man on the Cross and
Wondered when the Priest would ever
Get around to explaining why He
Died for my sins.
Someone would wake me from my
Reverie, and whisper, “Please move ahead.”
Shamefaced, I would say, truthfully,
“I’m sorry, Ma’am.” Because, in 1975,
When I was 12, I really was.
Sorry.

Then an hour
Later I was dressed in
Salvation Army rags (today)
And I would jump in the creek with my
Jean-shorts and off-color shirt on.
Sometimes, the bikes weren’t in the picture.
So we hiked. Never ‘walked’ but “hiked” which
Was moving with a greater purpose.
Great distances. The distances weren’t the great
Part. I forget what the great part was, because
This was when I was a kid. When I was 12.

The things you did
As a kid
You store them in a secret kid-locker
In your heart
And your heart, it grows, along with the rest of
You, like a quarter pounded into the meat of
A young tree. The tree envelops the quarter,
Taking it in to itself, swallowing time
That you only try to clumsily relive
(Like I’m trying right now)

It used to be cold, icy, and snowy in Iowa.
I know this; I was out in it most of the time.
Does anyone sled anymore? Toboggan?
Round-saucer spinning uncontrollably at
About 12 mph? Metal sleds with runners
And power steering? Down crazy-steep
Barreling down frozen white hills, crashing
Into copses of thin pliable young trees.
You only see this kind of stuff on Youtube
In somebody’s ‘All-time Epic Fail List
The failure is epic, alright. We’ve moved on.
And not necessarily to a bigger, brighter future.

Ice! I skated on long-bladed racer skates.
I could stop on a dollar’s worth of
Dimes.

And this one time
I
Fell right on my knee hard enough to
Grind a hole in my jeans. It looked like a ******
Meteor crater. A pretty girl named Tina
Felt sorry for me and sat right next to me
She wore pink pom-poms and I fell in
Puppy with her for about three hours.
Then she smiled and hugged me and
I was more frozen than the ice outside
And she left, her Mom picking her up
And eying me balefully as I stood
Pink-faced and flushed and utterly
Confused about the randomness of
What had just happened to me.
Girls from my town all knew
More about myself than myself knew
About me. They had me PEGGED, brothers
And sisters. But not this girl. She was from
The next town over.
That was a good day, if I’m remembering
It correctly. If. I’m pretty sure I am.
Or, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

We played a game called ‘Blackman’
Like a tag game in Gym, where
One kid is “IT” and a mass of skaters
Goes from one end of the ice pond
To the other, and the people you capture
(I couldn’t catch an old man in front-wheel
Drive figure skates and I got so frustrated
I gave up to jeers and yells and found the
Trees were good listeners to kids
Who couldn’t skate as coordinated as
They wanted to.

So ten minutes later
I would go into the Warming House, and
Listen to am radio. All the Hits! KSTT! Davenport,
Iowa. On ******* Blvd., which was really
River Drive, because the Hostess Plant stood
Sentinel on top of the hill, pushing out
Sponge-cake filling and HoHos and Cupcakes
And those awful coconut snowballs, and
This one time, in high school, I shoved one
Inside my mouth and tried to swallow it
And about choked to death.

I walked to Mark Twain Elementary School
And ran home for lunch, and was usually
Late because I was easily distracted
And when the school day ended,
I walked or ran home, hurrying, because
Captain Ernie and Bugs Bunny Cartoons were on,
And then Gilligan’s Island from about 4:00 to
5:30, when the news would come on,
And then Dinner,
And I couldn’t stand to sit still
To save my life. I have ADD. I
Know this now. I didn’t know it
(Nobody knew what it was)
I knew something was wrong with me
Or not-right. It was just the way
The World Turned.

Back then. I had no sense of ‘self’.
I was a changeling. I tried to fit into
Whatever people expected of me, which
Was very often extremely difficult, because
These people I emulated and thought were
So **** cool were just as messed up
As I was, maybe more; But I
Didn’t have the emotional maturity
(Or I couldn’t face the awful responsibility
That went with that awful truth)
To deal with it, so under the rug it went.

I was moody and happy and singing
One moment and crying in the shower
The next.

This one time, I was stuck
In the borderlands of childhood
And the beginning of a man
It was safe, for awhile
This one time.

you shook my status as mere mortal,as you opened up Satan's portal, achieve true greatness
true power, the omnipotent godliness, begging the end when the end should begin
different yet accepted by the black sheep, and the wolf, pit against the weak
archetypal situation bleak,beware of what you dream for,entrails spread across the floor
you'll pray for death, when they all find out, the wicked darkness from the dragons mouth
now I live in the borderlands,blood and **** within the sand,Blood of every man
PERSONAL DEMONS BECOME COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS. irreverent irrelevance.on the fence
we've lost the keys to the kingdom. we must stop running in place, be the change you want
day dreams, must be a reality. sanity chosen inside the minds of the insane
being lost a perennial classic. you want them to see the little movie in your head
Christ posse, blue birds, and the doors is painted red
how do your dreams match up against this created reality you exist in now
the city of the dead, the cities have all burned down

Why do ye fight, ye little men,
that strut like ***** afore their hens?
Religion, pride or avarice -
are all wars fought because of this?

So near are ye unto the ground
ye see so little, hear no sound
save childish voices, raised in hate,
as ye proclaim some new estate.

Whilst far beyond this lonely world,
in splendour ‘midst the clouds unfurled,
an angel sadly shakes his head
as new born babes replace the dead.

For men learn little, so it seems,
however long their span of dreams;
On heaven’s maps drawn high above
there are no borders, only love.

Return trip from the borderlands
and Maria, she's driving though
she's had a little too much based
on the tremors and the listless
drift of the party bus from left lane
to right.
I'm in my Chuck Taylor's,
the Warhols, the $795 collector's,
thumbing through my girlfriend's
Facebook timeline. She just bought
a Picasso, a self-portrait. I want
to stab her with the long end
of my ****-me shoes. They're
on the carpeted floor. Jenny's
on the carpeted floor too. I roll
her on her side so she doesn't
choke on her own *****. Hero.
The path lights overhead start
blinking and somebody, Kate
or Kristen, I get them mixed up,
starts screaming, "Strobe." We're
in the left lane going ninety, ninety-five.
The right lane looks weak.
Jenny mumbles something as I step over her.
"What's that?" I ask.
"Read the quiet book. Love the quiet book.
the whole human experience captured
in twenty-six scattered symbols."
Someone's in the ****** laughing.
We go into a tunnel and everything
goes quiet and thoughtful and black.
Breathe in through the nose and out
the same way. Click the heels together
and wait.

Give it a rest there Sylvia,
I'm out on the borderlands while you're dead.

Break bad
if you dare.

Come down to where bandits rove
and marauders will **** you
or show you the ropes.

If eye go,
You go.

The times we have are good
for there's drink-a-plenty
and shed-parties galore.
Join us out here on the edge,
In wonderland as the world ends.
It could be hell, but it's our hell.

Are ya well yet? Beta-phenethylamine
and the mezheads; they know the score:
It's forty-to-four. Now to get lost
before they find us. I'll be in touch.

Sincerely,
-The Outcast Reprimand.

The village is reaching the end of eternity.
The story has been told, written, read.

Out in the borderlands,
David still
fights Goliath.

The crowd have been around them for thousands of years,
chanting names,
fists in the air,
***** angry faces.

As the chanting of his name increases,
David grows in size,
unfolding like a redwood,
gleaming tanned bark.

The crowd becomes uneasy;
a giant among them? whose children will he eat?
which maidens will he devour?

and so they begin chanting Goliath's name;
David's strenght ebbs, they're feeding Goliath with their tongues now,
as he hulks and looms more and more over the shrinking David

alas, the crowd learn their mistake,
bite their tongues,
twisting them
until they are saying "David" once more.

This fight has been going on for thousands of years.
The crowd continue blindly shouting, 'David' and 'Goliath' being the only words they have uttered for aeons

unrealising they hold the power to release themselves
from this eternal fight.

To net a butterfly takes time,
catch the states of mind with kindness.
From thoughts, emotions, opinions, belief,
ethereal dreams may seem out of reach.

The small pineal gland still stands tall,
even if we're concealing what is real.
Cold hard stone in hand,
a granite man can fracture.

Match the eye of sun gods,
appreciate your wider space in chorus.
Combined from our creative borderlands,
where we learn to understand and teach.

Factual fractals repetitively resonate,
so try to make the most of your ability.
As intuitions have a silent plan,
contemplate your future face.

This life can be deemed a dream,
where we're all here for a finite time.
You're born, you work and times pass by.
Then onto the next opportunity.