You have now lingered too long
And have settled on hard parts
That are not too inhabitable by eyes that observe with love

My words are like knives;
Most of the time -
They pierce you;
They are the unwanted truths.

My words are like candy;
Some other times -
They are sugary;
They get me what I want.

My words are inspirational;
When the need be -
They are like fire;
They warm up your heart.

My words are powerful;
And influential -
They command respect;
They cannot be ignored.

Do you remember the last day?
Not the one where our words left burns on flesh
But the one where our tentative apologies became the salve
Where forgiveness became possible
And our future was suddenly not set in stone
We stole pens and wrote our sins on sweat coated skin
Our truths sinking into every wrinkle and every fold we created
But in the morning you were gone
And in the bathroom I found a washcloth stained with ink.

i am of an age ...

when hubris cannot be afforded
and perception is informed by experience
when a mind that is questioning is a turn on
yet healthy enough for primal urges

i am of an age

where knowing what i don’t know
fills me with curiosity and wonder
when i have time to look at nature
and think deeply of its beauty

i am of an age

when i know to curb my nostalgia
so not to bore the young
but have a rich past to appreciate
and the bold inspired moves
that made it great

i am of an age

when i can play with my grand daughter
with connection and joy
while seeing the wonder of learning
and the purity of innocence

i am of an age

when the worthy are quickly separated
from the time thieves
who are quickly dispatched
only to give to the worthy

i am of an age

when character and spirit are primary attractions
regardless of any other categorisations
when the soul of another can be seen
and be the most important thing

i am of an age

when i walk the dog
and feel like a boy
when kissing a loved one
makes me feel new

i am of an an age
when i can appreciate you

I been writing like a mad man and had my works passport get stamped in multiple countries .

Australia,  Italy , Germany , England, Indiana .

Okay Indiana was more a state run mental institution but I was published there none the less and I liked finger painting graham crackers and crazy women so probs to them.

I mean I didn't want to visit there or anything no offense but im not a big fan off fields and chainsaw art .

I stayed busy flask in pocket and my mind constantly towards the page .

I had gained respect but still I always found my way home .

For better or worse Hello has been the house that me and few other writers built I was here from day one i'm the flaw you just can't hide .

Everyone's favorite black sheep and all around lovable train wreck.

My place was permanent .

Like me or hate me you couldn't ignore me .
Well you could try but I usually won people over or annoyed them to the point of blocking me and joining the witness relocation program but enough about my past relationships .

I was taking some time off from three months straight of chasing publication.

I posted a write at this place I called home for so many years .
It was solid as a brick **** house .

Then some kid posted a write that was total **** but had a pic of her cleavage in the restroom mirror .

It trended in two seconds had a bunch of ***** ******* telling lies in vague hopes to see more .

I knew the ship wasn't sinking it long since met its demise on the icy dark oceans floor .

You just can't compete with *******.

I set my sails to the closest port .
I would share some drinks and maybe see some familiar faces .

I believe a pirate is better suited to roam than be food for the ***** .

My future is in the wind not lost within the depths .

Stay crazy hope are ships pass in the night .

And if ever we find ourselves in the same port .
First rounds on you .

Never sit and wait for decay on any level will consume you .

Stay crazy

Gonz

The end of the holiday's are near and it's time for me to get back to work. I've been writing and reading and thinking and meditating for years. Preparing the temple, so to speak. My stories are public and private goods and the presentation and profits of these stories must be landed in a good and truthful way ~ I've spent much time and energy on how to do this in a way where I can maintain certain intensities and integrity. Intensity for distillation of truth and integrity for power and resonance.

Stories are just stories but it is the ***** when someone else co-opts your creation and paves over the nuances and complexities of that which you had overtly placed your personal power, thought, and energy into.

You might be reading this and all you are seeing is: *******, *******, *******, *******.  All ******* for as far as the eye can see. Fair enough, I've been thinking the same for years but just when I thought I was out, the ******* keeps pulling me back in. As far as I can see though, **** is the distillation of truth and I hope that I can spin this yarn into a web that you will see the ******* structure that holds up the ******* truth and maybe we can try and digest that and compost it and churn through it then grow a mushroom on top of it and then eat the mushroom so we can attempt to find the spiritual truth of what our ******* structure lies upon. This particular idea is not just some floaty meandering abstraction, it is a truth I saw on the land: Longview, Alberta. And this truth was emodied in the ghost I slept in, nearby in Indian Graves Campground that night.

The land speaks if we let it; if we have prepared our temples, maybe the land speaks truth.

You feel me. If you don't then that's ok. It isn't your time and maybe never will be for this iteration of instinct that I am presenting. My rhymes aren't meant to resonate with everyone all the time. I'm not writing pablum or soul food. Feed your own soul in your own way. That's between you and Mr. Potter and the Chairman. Our truths are our truths and they are absolute.

The reason that I know I am prepared to write this story now is because I have done the work. I have found my inner compass and tested it time and again. While in process and flow, the landscaping shifted and my truth's fell away and the absolute revealed itself one star at a time and isn't it ironic how in tune our bards are with the ... wait for it ... enigmatic.

So where am I going to land this access point to the White Buffalo medication? I am not. The medicine already flows and always has, I just woke up and took what was prescribed because a dude in shorts once told me: abide!

When I see your brooding face
A faint tint of sweat under your shirt
The hint of sleep lingering
Faking that I didn't remember you

Swearing I don't know you
Fingers crossed wishing it was true
Memories packed into forgotten boxes
Too dusty to unfold their rotting edges

Constant thoughts and dreams
Hidden truths of the past
Leaving a massacre in it's wake
A hurricane of forgotten things

For all that we have thrown away
A untended wound weeping pus
A river of red rubies
Coating the shiny linoleum floor

Despite all we've been through
You still believe the lies
The figmented truth they sell us
In neatly folded towels
Ironed sheets and fresh linen
Tempting us with home
A seemingly harmless word
Dragging us under
Sinking us deep
Those words held memories
Drilled into our bones
Buried in the recesses of hearts
While we wander the streets
Clutching to our rags
Nursing broken dreams
Scampering like mice in the night
Tugging at loose ends
On the pieces of frayed cloth
For the unspoken promises
The light at the end of the tunnel
The reward from the journey
You didn't believe me
When I said survival is for the fittest
But you have seen for yourself
There are no such things as miracles