My early sea town home came
With strides of colossal change floating between
The marrow of my bones; gnawing inside.

Chance always showed me where to go
Landing near deep, blue-green waves
That washed the soft slumber from my eyes.

Perlious seas to cover the silence of a murmurous beauty
Pouring into the Colombia Gorge that flows a horizen-line
Against the rim of peaceful strangeness in the city.

Darkening dusk hovered in the wide quietness
Of Forest Park with lanterns lit along the west coast
while I counted the spaces of plum-colored stars.

There I went running on the hills through the virescent woods
Of tall evergreen trees dripping wanton rain into the hollows of a wet earth.
Dressed in ghost-white like a wayward drifter.

Night, emitted a warmth of drunken red wine
With tireless voices laugh shaken to beats of ethereal music.
Departure struck me with sudden change to a new home.

Ripped away and fixed in the belief of happenstance.
Always to remember the feeling of being young
On this cold night in Oregon.

Rain forest warm,
predicting a storm,
hippos, giraffes and more
Parumping the water hole.
didn’t take us long, to slap a crown
on a fools heart.
Everything the light touches
made the lions cold.

had to many sad boys in your bed.
(To tune of: Nants ingonyama bagithi baba from: Lion king intro)

Moat of toys,
prey on canniballs,
venison visceral
Drop your bridge Shallow moat.

Midus touch,
rabbit didn't quite touch
lucky enough, your trust, bust
The weatherman cuts.
Can't fight a storm with a pack
Of lions, and djarum butts
Cool Cats don't like the water
won't splash,
might soil their tight pants
Sea captain called
old Horizen won't dance
"listen to your old man".
not worth a penny of your sand.
but if we weren't so green-headed,
A compas might save our hand
for marriage
we don't want plans
They don't understand
want to roll around with simba
Giggling in the butterflies
when they're gone, find another man.

Never once could one begin
To comprehend
The mass of emotion and depth
That we are to swim
Yet we are trapped with no escape
Left to the fate of falling
Into a void in the timeline
Of an ever spinning whirlpool
The surface no longer in sight
Leaves the waves crashing over head
As our bodies struggle to cope with the fight
That is tearing us apart
We pray from the bottom of our hearts
That we can make it, one day
We will open our eyes and see the shore on the horizen
But that day seems far from our gaze
And as we are stunned and afraid
We fall further into the Ocean

Sunset at my horizen and far to much regret apon me.
The story forever the same a jilted lover a midnight kiss.
Often ive tasted the wine to avoid the saltwater tears and a distant shores redemption.

Lights from the carnival tatterd dreams and the Jersey shore.
Far gone my thoughts hollow is the bottle burried in sand.

Why do we embrace the pain to only understand the stage traggic by design.
In eye's often reflected I recall you but never understood myself.
As children we yern for what seems a ghost hunt  in a moments time.
Im still walking but no longer can I sense my return.

Footsteps burried in saltwater washed in a long vanished time.
It only takes a song to go back yet a foolish pride and a storm couldnt make him
turn to her.

Ive known many faces yet never understood one.
Take me to sunsets demise and a night skies birth.
Toast a broken soul and ******* logic for it's all I have to give for now.


The lights from afar seem no more distant than I.
the sunsets my canvas the waves crash my song.

Whispers of what never was pillow talk and tommorows thought.
All intentions often merge with the same long walk.

I understood nothing more clear .
Then when she uttred the words goodbye.

The sunset kissed the horizen  and the flask was finally empty.
My old friend to no suprize  had said his last goodbye.
Theres a place in a man's mind that doesnt allow understanding.

Darkness was soon to replace the laughter.
As a void was forever left.

Walking from the site I had no dellusions this was  to
be continued  no play of words could twist fate.
Outlaws were never ment to see happy endings.

He knew the game and laughed at it's  outcome.
To be forgotten  wasnt a ploy but only time held the cards
and its face wasnt giving any clues.

The redness in the clouds like a perfect backdrop
cast a shadow apon the headstone  the leather bound flask
with the intials engraved into its front.

Was but a side note to a epitaph.
Time in thought's is wasted apon a life
ment to be otherwise empty.

It's time for me to leave.

And so a souls winter does begin.

oppressive season
causes a struggle to breathe
unseen pressures mount without count
as prophetic undertones threaten mankind –
I try to unwind with Kind I grew myself
but the smokey flavor offers no solace
placing my weary head into my earth-stained hands
and any attempt at plan formulation is met
with only the recognition that the tears
falling from my cheek to the dusty ground
are not only soundless, but barely alter the brown hue –
Not often am I left uncertain of what to do
Normally I tighten boot straps and **** in the gut
pick myself up and continue the fight…
today tiredness overtakes me, breaking my
spirit and filling me with fear
unable to steer clear the queer feeling
takes my complete focus
So long since I gave my laurals some work
too much time has passed for me to go all
conscientious objector
the debt collector knocks incessantly
    the phone has not been quiet for days
         grinding gears and twisting metal
               fill my ears……..
                  and the sirens…….
                             the sirens………
                                      the sirens………

Sometimes when i say goodbye.
I wonder how I hold it togather befor
the phone touches the reciever.

Does she know the pain I mask.
Memories make us drunk with emotion.
Time makes us bitter from the cold.

And in the darkness she brings light.
Under the ice she creates warmth.
She kisses  the past away.

My shelter in which to run
If I choose to lead so does she follow.
Two halfs of one heart.

Weve walked across broken glass to lay
in a feather bed.
The nights passionet flow
her head apon my chest.

And how could I find one so perfect for me.
Distance takes the heart and traces the tear.
Such comfort brought from the understanding.
That pain would be erased if she were here.

Jules i see that next day as a promise
set in stone.
That from that first hello
we found in one another a reason to never be alone.

The highway rolls into the horizen
eternal is the love.

As a sun sets apon the ocean we stand
my arms wrapped around you waves crash into the shore.
In love I give everything.
For i could spend a lifetime here with you.
And still thirst for more.

With words we struggle to say.
What flows from the pen.
Also bleeds form the soul and that
shall never go away.

Coming outa the fog that was a steady binge I reailzed it had all
changed.
No longer was I the in demand writer but more like a sad cliff note
to a on going trainwreck.

People either stopped by to view the specticle or laugh at the
man who no longer was what they secretly hated.
The drinks but a old vice and my only true friend who held the
promise of my death.

The night befor had been a display of Gonzo like a vetran preformer
I played the role empty to myself yet the joke they did thirst to
know to see that spark and relive vision's of a burning fire.

To have the safe laugh with the old drunkard.
My eyes but a store window to a long since closed business.
I had become a human ghost town a walking monument to
the strange case of what used to be.

There taunts were clear hidden under a mocking yet sweet candy
covered lie.
tormented like a lion in a zoo who's rage if released would
make them run in sheer terror if only they could imagine the violence
that loomed in my thoughts.

But I just continued to extinguish that fire every drink
kept it at a dull smolder.

They wanted the image the walking joke not the truth.
like a burnt out ****** eventhough it killed me i still
craved that feeling of utter acceptance in the reality of it's
true rejection.

The road called to me as it viewed me as a lost love
who had fallen and was notning more than a sad parody
of a once brave yet now bitter soul.

The mystery of that last great journey still did awake me.
The heart is a highway it's road looms on into the horizen.
Hitting deadends and emotional near insane crossroads.

And I no longer was numb enough to take it's punishment.
Th scrapbook of my mind was full yet pages were added by the drop.

The final chapter waited.
But befor it's end it must be lived.

Alone I knew this was the last stand and only when you walk through hell do you understand how it feels to rest in silence.
A circus preformer left with only posters and trinkets to recall
thoose failed glory's.

One last battle still did wait.
All i needed was one last spark.
So began my trip from paridise to hell.

The words my guide the whiskey my fuel.
Insanity my old friend in battle.
And this semi thing called reality my willing rival.

As writers we thirst for perfection and all its beautiful destruction.
As for gonzo it was all down hill from here kids.

Rain and all its forms
Blurred Mountains seeping into the borders
surrounding
A little village
Grey on the horizen
Ocean way way below the village
Down the mule trails
Scraping in coils
Pebble linings
Down to the mediteranean sea
In this village
Cobble streets
Coloured roof tops
Crumbling houses
Empty clotheslines
Except a few wet clothes hanging
Forgotten faded red shirt
Hanging from one season
To the next
Water drips and dances bouncing from stone to stone
Wooden shoes clack quickly
As they rush over the street
A lady
Wearing hand woven clothes
warm fresh flat bread
Wrapped in cloth
And in a basket.
A young boy follows her
His sweater held over his head
Eyes obscurred
He walks as though in a maze
Then they are gone
Empty streets
A round woman, hair ******* with a faded white rag cloth
Empties out steaming hot water
From a copper ***
Soapy steam
In the rain
Alley way
Side door
Not much activity
A girl sits looking out observing
Watching the rain
Smelling the warmth
Rising from the bakery down below
She remebers the hustling market, the colors when in the sun
The shuffling people
In sunglasses
New people
Sun season
Different apearences than the ones she knows
The ones shes used to
The skin foreign to her.

She likes her room
With the elephants in the rug
Little marchers
Within the mandela sequince
She likes the bakers down below
Aunts and uncles
Unsure of who's family
By blood
And who's family
In spirit.
She likes the old man
Who sits with his cane
In the little sitting chair
In front of the bakery
He who treats her to a cookie every now and then
Or slips her a piece of sweet bread
He, who wears an old black cap
And puts on his coat
And hobbles down the little street
She waits for him sometimes
She sits perched outside and looks down the street
From right to left
Until she hears the familiar clatter
The sound of his wooden cane on cobblestones
Each who carry their own divine essence
Or sound to which they bring
A memory of her father comes to mind
How differently he sounds when he walks
Gentle and slow
Heavy and kind
Compared to her mother
soft and light
Swift like a feather
in the wind
Sweet like a berry.
The girl sometimes likes rainy season more
Although she misses the hustle and bustle of market day
In the sun
When the lively noises fill her ears
The wild smells
When the bakery arises before the crack of dawn
And the smell of fresh bread awakes her
Smells of new special treats
Made larger and larger
Just to apeal and to please
The large crowds.
The sounds of bakers
Yelling orders back and forth
Clanging pots
A madness of creation.
Grand cakes
Thousands of tarts
Each one delicatly made with care.

When the people make extravagant delicacies
When goats are roasted
And fresh tomatoes
Made into scrumptious sauces
With fresh basil.
Olives pickled and handed out on toothpicks
By yelling merchants
The best olives in the region shouts one
Across the street, the bestsest shouts another.
Most
spectacular
Imaginative
Freshest
Most this
Or that
Yummiest
Tastiest
Wildest
Amzingest
Greatest.
In her mind the images play
Like moving dolls

In full vibrancy.

For a second she forgets
Her placement
She has returnes back to the heat
And the memories
Of men in white undershirts
Smoking outside
Playing cards and waiting for the sun to dry
the rest of their clothes
The bantering ladies
From window to window.
She gets lost,
until the sound of a door loudly shutting in the streets awakes her
Jumping up
Looking out the window
Still silence
Nothing in sight.

Drizzles of rain
The sound it makes
When it slides down the roofs
She misses the heat
Of the bustling summer day
But in secret
she likes the rain
The silence and comfort it brings.
She likes the rain and the lonliness.
The solitude.
the sounds of her parents sleeping
Yawning.
a distant kettle whistling,
A neighbors.
The desolatation.
Patters of rain.
She likes to have both seasons
One season to live
And the
other to dream.

The gravel of the driveway shifts under my shoes
While I lift my eyes to the horizen, like the evening before.
The sunset never waits for me, but I pretend it will.
I've always been a dreamer, but that's not news.

Not of any consequence. A pipe dream.

The night will come when it will come.
I guess I'll get used to that someday,
but for now the sun is sinking over the potomac.
It scares me how the shade can make me numb.

Hold on to the light. Catch the very last beam.

With the passing of day, night steals in.
Suddenly, every ghost on every corner is you.
Whenever a shadow falls across the street it's you.
I try to call out, but don't know where to begin.

I can smell you in the rain. A pipe dream.

But there is nothing on the street for me to find.
No eyes, no hair, no smile or warm touch.
In fact, there's nothing much to be seen at all.
I breathe in deep; the victory of a calm mind.

The sun sets over the potomac. Catch the very last beam.

Television makes it sound like a fun, 30-60 minute adventure into the lives of our favorite comedy or drama characters. But not for me. For me, an episode swells up through my soul and eats me from the inside out. The story doesn't get a comic relief, or a satisfying arc.

All it gets is cyclical, depressed me.

Where creativity and dreams once thrived, there lives a barren waste of hopelessness. Its like my body is in constant phasing shifts between dimensions. One place, I'm normal. I'm a writer in a dry spot trying to figure out where to go from here. Another, the world and my mind are boundless and I could be on the precipice of becoming exactly who I want to be, whoever she may be. And the last, everything's been gutted and that shadow of a woman dreaming has been reaped of her happiness; there's nowhere good on the horizen, only desolation.

If my moods were a television series, they'd only leave fans dissatisfied and sad. They get to watch a hopeful stargirl dream of the universe only for her body to crush her mind from the inside. Its like watching her sharply get possessed, like watching a hopeful underdog tale with the ghost looming quietly in every shot. Before anyone would know it, this star story turned into a horror-fest.

Like this, I'm so tired. I'm not someone wanting to make the world better. I'm not a writer with big, celestial dreams. I'm not a woman on the cusp of adulthood and the truths of her future.

I'm a wanderer, lost in the nuclear fallout of her own head. And its exhausting.

That's not an episode anyone really ever wants to see.

Love, trust the heart completely. So like hippies we drove a van into the sunset, sweet grass, aviator haze, straw hat chins to the sky, singing from our hearts, barefoot desert land, oncoming moon on the western horizen, crisp of an orange glow left on the desert mountains in the east, moon and stars, dream catcher dangling, quietly breathing, sleep calling me like a child, sorrow and love sinking in, warm cool air, sighs of release, goodbye. Life, simplified, always pursue the heart, surrender and release, deal with you{re stuff, cry, release, yoga, it becomes easier the more pain we release, tension is built up pain. Western medicine isn{t very neccasary, trust, visit death, lose attachment, the soul will never die. Lose fear, fear is opression, surrender to the luminous love light of the one. freedom.

What do i dream of life, and where it go so fast? oh, how Can always go back to those days in the port, on the grassy hill in front of the Bean. A gathering of sorts, an almost mecca for the everyday people and artist alike to enjoy thier coffee's or expand their mind's. Seldom know how i remember those warm golden sunsets on the beaches, where we'd look off on the horizen and wonder what tomorrow would bring. We'd lay on our warm towel's over sand after swiming in the cold waters of the atlantic that i miss so much. What are these days and nights i see before me, as i sway back and forth like a branch in these winter winds? I know who you are now with that draw, that look. Gasp as you see me before you, like a ghost in your mirror. Do you think about the molocules in your body, how the millions of them flow thru you now like my voice thru your ear? Hear me now in his room, with the blank unknown faces of yester year and today, sipping on their what have you's, dreaming of a better tomorrow. The only dream i dream today? I won't Remember in the morning...

.

She was a bit like the moon

Shining with borrowed happiness
and glowing with light that wasn't her own

But

the moment she felt unloved
she sank beneath the horizen
dark once more

Clop, Shuff-clop
Worn boots worn well
Their journey, mine
This path travelled
Paved against soles

Low brimmed hat
Wraps the mind
The sun beats on it
A hammer wears it thin
Sharp eyes, peer forth

Horizen's low, scant miles
Always just too far, just too close
One step in front of the other
Home is a sort of walk
All the ceilings my stars

Scrapped leathers worn
A mess from tumbles and scars
Hair once short, now unkempt
Held back, with a short throng
Not for for naught, simple necessity

In my mind's eye, the road isn't there
The clothing isn't worn, not thin
No thought for the sun or night
Even the road, so hard,
Nary a moments thought

Thoughts stay focused
Her lips so soft, unlike the journey
Eyes so deep, refreshing pools
The coolest water; the driest day
Dramatic curves warm, coldest winter

A dry hot wind, chafe his leathered face
Any observer, wouldn't notice
Either twitch, a momentary rise
Or flinch, surprise recognized
In fact, he didn't notice

There was nothing, then or now
To distract from the path
Either paved road, or dirt path
No matter the twists or curve
Nothing to lose his way

There is one end, for him
Maybe two, but that's no concern
Just her, and by her side
Always looking, just to find
Another stranger, to share the ride

There are times to be scared
In them, rational thoughts drift from your head
The times when news comes that appears unfair
And all the crazy, wild fills you instead.
I know it, you know it. I hate it.
Take a breath.
In an ocean of waves, some are meant to swim
With a storm on the horizen, the outlook is grim.
Take a breath and hold it. For a second and release.
You can make it, I can make it.
This is not how I die,
It's much more surprising for the life I've led.

You won't take me alive, sir.
To be clear, you won't take me at all
Look into my eyes, Storm.
See the walls I've made fall.
Don't come any closer, truly, I mean no harm.
But come at me, I'll attack thee.
Until my sanity is long lost,
Every bone I've been blessed, will shatter in just cost.
Take a breath. Take a second.
Think hard about your moves, you hold such might
But I hold a will with everything to lose.

There are times to be scared
When my hands shake without end
Truthfully, I do my best to hide it
Try as I might to hold it in.
I take a breath.
With water just below my mouth
I've been submerged deep in water
And turned that downpour to a drought.
I don't want to, you can make me.
Because, although, I'm scared of the sea
Make no mistake, I will make the sea fear me.

The sea a sheet of molten gold,
Shimmering under a fiery sky,
The beach was deserted,
Sailing craft secured against the night tide,
Carefully built sandcastles awaited their obliteration,
A few seagulls picked over picnic wrappings,
I stood, alone, as the the sun dropped below,
Allowing the darkness over the horizen,
It was the end of another wonderful day,
And I felt full of gratitude for the chance of being born.

Love Mary **