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“It really is,” I whispered, “It really is a beautiful world."


     “This really doesn’t feel safe,” Jamie said, her voice holding just a hint of fear. She was probably right. By anyone’s standards, this was straight up stupid, and here I had convinced her to come along with me.
     “Nah it’s totally fine. I wouldn’t do anything to put you in too much danger.” I said this without a hint of doubt in my voice, confident as usual. I had to keep the fearless and confident image or she might change her mind. I hoped the risk would be worth it in the end, but I couldn’t really be sure. How could I know unless I tried? If I didn’t try, I would just be left wondering how great it might have been.
     “We are really freaking high.” This time Jamie said it deadpan, more of an emotionless observation than anything else. Again, she was right. I looked down the long white ladder past her. It was probably 80 yards to the ground from where we were. Above us was another 20 yards of ladder, leading up to a narrow platform. We were climbing a water tower. The platform above us circled around the tower just below where it began to bulge outward into a spherical shape at the top. There was no safety cage around us, nothing to break our fall except for the climbing harnesses we wore. Each harness had two straps, each with a clip on the end. One clip would be snapped onto the first rung, then the next clip to the second, and so forth until we reached the top. It wasn’t fool proof but it was better than nothing.
     “But seriously my hands are getting tired. How much further is it?” Jamie was great, but complaining was one of her most annoying flaws. Most people wouldn’t have made it this far anyway. The fact that she had was just a testament to the athleticism and strength she had underneath all that complaining.
     “Close. Maybe fifty rungs. Hang on for another five minutes and we can sit down and rest.” Yet again she was right. My hands and forearms were burning like crazy. I had long ago learned that climbing with gloves on a slick painted surface was asking for trouble, so today we had no protection from the narrow rungs pressing into our skin.
     For the next fifty rungs, the only sound I could hear above my heavy breathing was the clink and snap as each clip was removed and replaced. It was surprisingly calm this evening, the sun not quite finished slipping below the horizon. It was late August, so the temperature was still somewhere in the 70s this time of day. The backpack on my back seemed to get heavier and heavier the higher we went. I could feel the straps digging into my shoulders and trying to tip me over backwards. This bag was far too big for what I was doing, but I needed some way to bring a sleeping bag and blanket up. Finally, my hand left the last rung and found the top of the steel platform. I unclipped from the last rung and snapped on to the hand rail that went around the outside edge before I reached down to take Jamie’s hand.
     “Thank you sir,” she said, “I see chivalry is not dead.” Her hand brushed a few loose strands of long blonde hair out of her face as she stood upright next to me, looking out over the edge.
     “Ok, you were right. This is worth it.” She said in a matter of fact tone. I laughed softly.
     “This isn’t actually what we came for,” I said with a grin, “We aren’t done climbing yet. I just didn’t think you would actually come if I told you how far we were going. But the view is really nice here.”
     “You can’t be serious. I didn’t see anything going up any further.” She sounded rather incredulous.
     “We have to follow this platform around to the other side. There is a set of stairs going up to the very top. At least it isn’t another ladder.” I tried to sound confident, like it had already been decided that we would go on, but I couldn’t stop a tiny bit of a pleading tone from leaking in. I knew there was a small chance that she would want to stop here, but I also knew that going just a bit further would be completely worth it. I had scoped this tower out from the ground several times, using my trusty binoculars that I bargained for at a neighbor’s yard sale. When I discovered the stairs going up past the platform, I used an online satellite map to take a peek at the very top of the tower. From what I had been able to tell, at the very top there was a completely level platform, twelve to fifteen feet in diameter, with a secure looking rail around it. Amazing what a person can find online.
     My hope was to spend the night on that platform, hence the sleeping bag and blanket in my massive backpack. Tonight was supposed to be the brightest and most active meteor shower of the year in North America and the weather had decided to be kind to us star gazers, leaving a clear and cloudless sky for the evening. It would be perfect. Perfect if Jamie would go along with it, that is.
     “You are the worst kind of person,” she said. She wasn’t facing me so I couldn’t really tell how she felt about it. Finally she turned around and rolled her eyes. “Ohhhkaaaay. Let’s go. We’ve already gone this far.” She was used to situations like this. I was the one who always wanted to push the limits, go a little further, risk just a bit more, and she was the one who always asked me to reconsider and then went along with it anyway. I always felt bad for a little while, but I got over it pretty quick. It’s not like she didn’t know me well.
     “You are the best kind of person,” I said with a wink and a grin, “But let’s rest for a bit. My arms are tired now.” We sat down and I took off my backpack, setting it on the platform beside me, digging through a side pocket. I pulled out two bottles of water and a box of Poptarts.
     “Poptart?” I offered, “Snack of champions. All the professional water tower climbers eat them I heard.”
     “How are you not fat,” she replied, taking a delicious cherry snack from the silver wrapper. It wasn’t a question really, it was more a running joke between her and I about how much I should actually weigh. She’d usually joke that one day all the junk I eat would hit me at once and I would wake up weighing 400 pounds. Even though she joked, she wasn’t beyond being bitter about my eating habits since she worked hard to keep a perfect physique.
     Next I pulled out two plain white pieces of paper and handed one to her. I began folding mine delicately into the perfect paper airplane, using the flat section of the water tower for some of the more delicate creases.
     “I don’t know why I hang out with you. You are literally so freaking weird. Like who the hell would bring paper up the side of a water tower just to make a paper airplane.” She laughed even as she criticized. I knew she didn’t really mind. She had on multiple occasions told me that my “quirkiness” as she put it definitely made me more interesting to be around. I guess I was a little odd, but I didn’t really think that was a bad thing. I did what I thought to be amusing or entertaining. It wasn’t my fault the rest of the world didn’t seem to feel quite the same way about life.
     “In fifty years don’t you want to be able to set your grandchild on your lap and tell them all about the time you tossed a paper airplane off the side of a water tower? Grandkids don’t want to hear boring stories. I would know. I was a grandkid once.” Jamie just shook her head with a grin and started folding her airplane. Mine was finished and ready to be launched into the great unknown.
     “This is Air Farce One to ground station Loser, requesting permission to take off.” I did my best Top Gun impression, trying to remember how cool Tom Cruise sounded when he said it.
     “This is ground station Awesome to Air Farce One. Ground station Loser could not be located but we can go ahead and give you permission to launch. Have a nice flight.” Jamie still had at least a little bit of a child left in her. I tossed my paper airplane over the side, watching it glide several hundred yards before landing in the low branches of a tree. Mission complete.
     “What perfect throwing form you have,” Jamie said sarcastically, "You were probably one of those nerds who just made paper airplanes in class all day as a kid." Ouch. Yea, that had been me. Jamie wound up and threw her airplane with all her strength. She had made more of a dart than a glider and it flew fast, eventually landing in a tree considerably further than mine had.
     “You win this round,” I said with mock disgust, only barely able to hide a smile, “Let’s keep going.” I removed my clips from the rail and began walking along the platform. The bulb at the top of the tower was much bigger than it looked from the ground. I could just imagine the thousands of gallons of water above and beside me.
     Eventually we reached the stairs. It was nice of the designers to have taken pity on the poor inspectors who had to climb this far up. A ladder going around the outside of the bulb would have been terrifying. The stairs curling around the side felt much more secure. Reaching the top, there was a narrow platform leading from the edge of the bulb where the stairs ended to the flat space in the center of the tower. There was only a handrail on the left side so Jamie and I were sure to snap our harnesses on. The sun had almost fully set by now, the last tendrils of light just enough to see by as we made our way to the center.
     “Okay this is cool. You know what we should have done? We totally should have brought an air mattress up here and slept or something,” Jamie thought aloud. “I’ll bet the stars look amazing from here. Oh and look you can already see the city lights over there!” I loved seeing her excited. She would take one hand and play with her hair while the other would point at things. It was kind of weird when I thought about it, how she always pointed at things when she was excited. But that was just Jamie being Jamie.
     “You read my mind.” I pulled the sleeping bag and blanket out of the backpack and laid them on the flat steel. I probably should have realized how cold that steel was going to be. Oh well.
     “We are so in sync right now,” Jamie laughed. “This is awesome. You were right.”
     “Wait so what did you think was in the bag?” I asked. She hadn’t mentioned it before and I never said anything about it.
     “Honestly I thought it was a parachute or some **** and you were going to try jumping off the edge,” she laughed, “I would have tried to stop you but I decided I really won’t feel guilty when you die doing something stupid.”
     “Brilliant!” I exclaimed, “I am so going to try that next time!” I wouldn’t really. I liked doing risky things, but I wasn’t suicidal. We spent the next few minutes getting the sleeping bag and blanket situated. I loved the fact that Jamie could be spontaneous sometimes and that she was totally okay with just camping out on top of a random water tower on a Wednesday night. How many people in the world would have been okay with that? I was lucky to have her as a friend.
     We had everything settled by the time darkness fell completely. The climbing harnesses had been stuffed into the backpack and the backpack had been strapped to the railing on the side of the platform. With the sleeping bag laid completely open, there was still at least five or six feet of open platform on all sides of us. It felt secure enough.
     “I also forgot to mention that tonight is a huge meteor shower.” Jamie and I were on our backs, looking up at the infinite blackness.
     “I love shooting stars.” She said softly. Her eyes were wide and I could see her making fake mustaches out of her hair. She had kicked off her shoes and socks and was wiggling her toes in the night air. There was only a sliver of moon, just bright enough that I could see the glow of it on her cheeks.
     “It makes me feel small,” Jamie whispered, “I feel like that should bother me, feeling small, but it doesn’t. It’s weird because it’s almost comforting to me. Here I am, this tiny speck of dust, floating around on a larger speck of dust in the middle of infinity.” She wasn’t usually one to enjoy philosophy, but on the rare occasions she spoke like that, her point of view and opinions usually inspired me. She had a beautiful mind. She just didn’t often care to open up and share it like this.
“It makes me feel like it can’t all be an accident. Some people say that we got here through a series of random and fortunate events, that there is no great plan or design. But I just don’t see how that can be. How can mere chance create something like this? Of all the possibilities, of the infinite infinite possibilities, I just can’t believe that people, that you and I or anyone else were put here by accident. I don’t think that life could be an accident.” She spoke softly the whole time. Her voice never raised or quickened. Words seemed to flow forth effortlessly, as if this all were prepared and practiced. She was able to speak without doubt or hesitation, with such certainty that even the greatest cynic might have stopped to listen.
     She continued on, weaving words as though spells, playing ideas as though harp strings. She talked about her life, telling me things she never had before, teaching me things even I didn’t know. Jamie didn’t seem to be Jamie for the next while. Instead, she seemed to have become a font of wisdom, ideas, and genius. At least, that is how I saw her. She was able to take a single idea, and examine it from all perspectives. It was as though she held it in her palm, slowly rotating it to peer closer. She made connections that I had never thought of, inspiring me to think even deeper, loving the moment. All the while she lay there, watching the stars, wiggling her toes, and making pretend mustaches out of that long blonde hair. Eventually, she turned silent.
     “But what if it is an accident?” I said. My voice was unusually soft. “What if it was all an accident? What if there is no plan, no fate, and no reason for anything? What if there is no beginning or end and we are just insignificant bits of space dust? The idea of it not being an accident just seems so conveniently comforting, almost too convenient.” Jamie was silent after I finished. My heart was beating fast and my mind was alive. I didn’t feel close to being tired.
     “So what if it is,” she said eventually, “What difference does it make? Even if it is all an accident. Even if there is no meaning to life at all, it seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here we are, you and I, able to share this with each other. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this great big world, all the adventure, all the excitement, and all the love that it is filled with. That seems like a beautiful accident to me. Here is this infinitely huge sky, filled with stars that are incomprehensibly far away. If this is all an accident, it is the most beautiful I can imagine.” She paused for a while longer. “I feel that whatever you believe, it doesn’t really matter. Perhaps you believe there is a supreme design and plan, or maybe you believe that life is an accident filled with chaos. It doesn’t matter. We all live in the same world. We all see the same beautiful sights, we are surrounded by it. It is only our perception of it that differs. I choose to believe that such an incredibly beautiful world cannot be an accident.”
     I was quiet for a long time. Jamie had, for all intents and purposes, rocked my world. Hers was a perspective I had never thought of before. I, who believed I had thought it through from every angle. I, who believed myself smarter than the world. I realized then, at that moment, laying on the top of a water tower in late August watching a meteor shower, that maybe I was not a genius. Maybe I did not have the world figured out like I had believed. Maybe, just maybe, I was just a cynic; a cynic blinded by the misfortunes I had seen and suffered; a cynic disappointed in a world that had not treated me well.
     Jamie took my hand in hers, interlocking her slender fingers within my larger ones. She turned her head to the side and looked at me, still sporting a fake mustache. The sliver of moon was reflected in her eyes just so that I could not really look into them. Her lips were curled into just the slightes
Does it really matter whether or not this world,
Is made from some divine blueprint?
What beauty is lost in either idea?
It doesn't matter if this is an accident.

Excerpt from my book of short stories, Fictional Truth.
Mahima Gupta Dec 2013
Bipolar
There’s this label 

Which moves everywhere
with her 
Now and then 

Distracting people

And 
Making her life miserable

Because they think

It’s something different 

She’s something different 

There has been a breakdown
She’s mentally sick 

But do you listen to her soul 

Asking people

If they’re not different 

From one another 

Or are they not

Allowed to express themselves  

Everybody is different 

And they prove their existence

In their own ways

She has to behave

As if she has something 

On her conscience 

Something lurks every second 

In the corner of her mind 

With a sublime confidence 

Of acceptance 
But
Anhedonia comes alive with the words coming

Out one by one or rather 

All at once 

Incomprehensibly prefect 

But this label 

Those pills

That prescription 

Only swallows her

From within.
as i bathed in the ashes
of a swirling monstrous din
the cries of  a woman
hysterically expunging
ghastly portions of an all
consuming horror
pierced my ears,
cuddled my heart

as i huddled in a corner
biting lacerated knees
i beheld ax wielding
firemen swagger into the
jagged dangers of a
metallic avalanche, its
voracious maw
swallowing last
acts of heroic love

as i genuflected toward
Trinity's steeple,
i was cowed by
the rushing noise
of a splintering tower
collapsing downward,
billowing outward,
a gray predation
scattering the proud
humbling the mighty
breeding terror
threshing anything
fearfully racing
through the city's
cavernous breaches

as i fled down
Wall Street
screaming adrenalin
outran bits of the city
cascading down
stalking, nipping,
gnashing at fleeting steps
chasing reeling refugees
into miraculous sanctuaries
shielding trembling confusion
in blanket's of grace

as i peered into
the mortal wound
of the South Tower
incomprehensibly wondering
what my eyes refused to
understand; a slow
astonishing epiphany
of the grisly hell unfolding
in the upper floors
was confirmed by the
intermittent slow
cascade of leapers
deciding it was
a good day to die

as i decamped
temporary refuge
i entered an unsure
midnight of a blackened
street joining a growing mass
of refugees trundling eastward,
our burning eyes yearning
to perceive a river of escape
hoping the bits of torn cloth will
shield nostrils and cover mouths
protecting tinged lungs from
emulsified ash of glass
and asbestos laden air

as i made my way
northward, enveloped
in ambivalent confusion,
shell shocked  by civic turmoil,
covered in terror dust;
amassing voyeurs
rushing downtown
incredulously asked
what we witnessed,
a Jersey Journal stringer
refused to believe
people jumped
from the upper floors,
as vendors in Chinatown
marked up bottles of water
and a barkeep of a
crowded SOHO saloon
refused me entry
to use the
bathroom fearing
contamination risk...

as i stood depleted
on Christopher Street
ATMs and wireless
phones out of service and
my PATH way home
shut down;
a Sisters of Charity
AIDS hospice
brought me in,
wiped the terror dust
from my clothes,
gave me grape juice to drink,
set me a bed for the night
and put me to work
in the kitchen
to feed God's children.

as i stood on
a late afternoon
Washington Street,
witnessing Seven WTC
plunge into another raging billow
the collapsing day ended
in a room shared with
a young man traumatized
by the days events.
We related our
halting incomprehensions
as the sound of fighter jets
circling the city filled
the void in our
disjointed narratives.
My roommate related
that he was on the plaza
as jumpers splattered around him.  
A tearful PA Cop pleaded for help
to cover the dead.  
It was the last request of this
trembling public servant
as a jumper crushed him
as he finished speaking.

as i fell off to sleep that night
my young roommate
tossed and turned
in the maelstrom of
a deeply troubled sleep.
  

Music Selection:
Philip Glass Koyaanisqatsi

9/10/13
Oakland
jbm
recollections of 9/11
Incomprehensibly inebriated, I stood up
Whether I walked, stumbled, fumbled or
Even crawled; I need not know or care
I struck you my friend, my best one too
Never did I deserve such company anyway
Pity, six of the best and hardest years spent
Mostly with you by my side and I by yours
Knowing what's best for someone is hard
A two way curse I say, whilst it may be best
It mightn't be what is wanted or needed
For arguments sake, we'd squabble
In the name of fun and youth we'd dabble
To be cast aside and know you deserve it
Friend, it hurts but the damage is done

Incomprehensibly inebriated, I threw
Six of the best, hardest years away
They say boys don't cry but we did,
When they said we couldn't attend our
High school prom because we didn't
Behave or act in a way that proved we
Wanted and deserved to go, although it
Wasn't for lack of trying, I remember
Those phone calls, Those late nights
I remember the successful appeal we made
How we both attended the prom, delightful
How your date was drop dead gorgeous
How mine kind of, wasn't?
You laughed Because she wanted to sleep with me and
You could tell I wasn't keen, funny times

Now we're 20 and we don't really speak
I know it's only been three to four weeks
Since I irreversibly ****** up, it's just
It feels like a long time now, I think a lot
About how I'm not friend material because
I hurt people, emotionally and physically
I'm a lousy drunk and cynical too
I've been this way a long time, nothing new
I have problems buried down deep
Even demons too, but I fought them
With others, I fought them with you
I miss my friends
Ellie Taylor Feb 2014
It's strange
the way a cluster of neurons in your head reacting to some particular stimulus can make your heart feel like hamburger meat
As if there really is a hole in there, and everyone can see right through it.
What kind of strange fiction allowed debilitating pain to come from a mere firing sinapse?
How unfitting, that such an incomprehensibly small and silent event begets the destruction of worlds.
You'd think
that with the breaking of a heart should come some ceremony
Smashing of a gong, ringing bells, the flight of a thousand crows or even the sound of breaking glass.
But we're left with heavy dreams that tug at our consciousness and even heavier moments upon waking and remembering that you have a hole there, that everyone can see right through
that didn't even warrant shattering dinnerware.
Tommy Jun 2017
All I’ve ever wanted,
is to live my life to the point that
I can die with no regrets.
Live to the point where when I’m
on my deathbed,
I won’t have to wonder “what if?”
I want to live recklessly,
I want to get in trouble, get hurt, and
smile the whole **** time.
I want to make wrong choices,
get high, and party for days.
I want to stumble into my room at
3 a.m. drunk and high,
thinking about good times with
even greater people.
I want to drive to another state,
while smoking with a friend,
talking about anything and everything.
Hell, I want to take a train ride to
Colorado with my sister one day,
and spark a blunt while we stare out the
window at the pine forests and rain.
I want to take risks that are incomprehensibly
stupid.
Cause I just want to burnout young.
I don’t want to die of old age because I lived
a “safe life.”
I want to die before my heart can give out,
maybe of drug use,
probably just a dumb decision,
or maybe die of heartbreak cause
God knows one of these nights I’ll
drink to much...
But that’s okay, it’s alright in fact it’s pretty perfect
don’t cry for me cause
I wrote this to let you know it’s just what I
wanted.
No I’m not suicidal I just
want to die living life,
not just surviving,
because in the end I’ll be nothing but
a story.
But I plan to make it a good one cause
I won’t be remembered like Hendrix,
or missed like Prince,
Hell this ode could never even compare
to the mark of The Rolling Stones.
But I’ll say it again.
It’s okay, it’s alright,
just promise you won’t cry if I don’t
make it back one of these nights.
Cause I promise I was smiling in the end, thinking
“this ending is perfect, I loved this life, and lived every second of it.”
True, all this heartbreak and drinking
will catch up to me one day,
all these drugs and bad decisions
will turn on me one day.
But I’ll be happy when it happens,
cause I’m living life like the Great Ones,
a life full of ***, drugs, and rock n roll,
a life full of love, hate, and sadness,
but never full of regret.
And I want to go out just like them,
whether it’s accident, overdose, heartbreak,
or maybe these **** cigarettes,
my death will be perfect
and I will be content.
Cause what more could I ask for
than to burnout young,
having fun.

~ t.g.
"No, I ain't scared of livin'
'Cause it's all we've got
What are we breathin' for if we ain't living?
And I don't want your love
I just wanna feel like I'm still livin'
And if there is no god
I know the day I die, I lived through heaven
And that I gave it hell
And if it hurt, oh well
Atleast that's living
That's all I want"

~ EDEN "rock + roll"
skredman Sep 2009
I'm perfectly imperfect
That's what they always say
I'm crookedly straight
But I'm far from gay
I forever speak my mind
Always and all day
My heart is on my sleeve
But guarded all the same
I'm devilishly innocent
My mind is not so tame
I'm dishonestly truthful
But never take the blame
I'm completely backwards
We can never be the same

To me upwards is downwards
The sky's my only ground
Your life I can still ruin
It is with in my bounds
I'm depressingly happy
There is no middle ground
My version of earth is flat...
Why should it be round?
My earth is a work of art
With colours everywhere
Your world I broke and ripped apart
Just to prove I don't fit there
I tore it up in little bits
I left the pieces without a care
I'm completely backwards
I'm such a major scare


I'm nationally local
You can see me all the time
I can disappear into thin air
Leaving you without a rhyme
For I'm melodically harmonious
No brighter than the dullest shine
I'm incomprehensibly real
And yet so hard to find
Pure white to me is simple black
Race is gone and can't come back
I can prove all that I am
A thing to which you surely lack
I'm disrespectfully respectful
My words are always fact
I'm completely backwards
I'll drive you past insane
Then I'll never bring you back

I'm illegally legal
Like a drug that you can't sell
I'm contrastingly bendable
In this world of my own hell
I'm resistingly irresistible
My secrets you will never tell
I'm obscenely lovable
In this world in which I fell
I landed in this twisted place
A world of expectations
This world I created on my own
For I'm an undertone of exaggeration
Here I've found my only home
In a backwards world of my creation
And all in all I'm here to say
"I'm completely backwards
In every single way"
Marshal Gebbie Aug 2023
Everything is BIG here.

Meals are big, bums are big, cars are huge and the skies are a million miles wide.

Janet and I are travelling in the Northwest of the United States of America, spending time with Boaz and Lisa in Idaho, Steve Yocum in Oregon and Greg and Linda in Washington State.

The trip is a "quickie" in that we are fitting one helluva lot into just three weeks duration.
Never in all my days have I seen such huge quantities of food served up in restaurant meals, plastic bags discarded, American flags fluttering and all the young, blonde girls in tattered, impossibly short cut offs and sleeveless tops talking loudly, incomprehensibly at a million miles an hour ......Just blows you away!!
Monstrous pickup trucks, Rams, Broncos, big V8s travelling the freeways continuously. Sheriffs, troopers and Road cops all wearing firearms on the hip, in their souped up pursuit vehicles parked on the roadside shoulder, eyeballing everyone as they pass, with a mean, accusatory glare.
Out on the range there is a million square miles of nothing but sage brush and basalt rock....and searing, baking heat.
114 degrees in the painted desert of Moab. Beautiful though with vaulting red sandstone cliffs and rearing stone arches against the blue-est of blue skies.
Standing pillars of ancient sedimentary rock born in depositions laid down in vast oceans of bygone eras, millions of years ago.

History is painted vast in this immensity. The gigantic and abrupt catastrophic inundation of a vast and deep inland sea, swelled suddenly by floodwaters of rivers diverted by lava flows from subterranean fissures....Unimaginable torrents abruptly released, gouging out ancient lava beds to create gigantic waterfalls and deep, sheer sided chasms.

Cascades that constituted the biggest river flow ever known in the history of the planet, washing away everything from the epicentre of the continent in Utah through Idaho to the Pacific ocean in the rugged coast of Oregon. Such was the Bonneville flood of 12,000 years ago illustrated today by the gigantic chasms created in the beds of basalt and rhyolitic larva throughout Idaho and the fields of massive, round, house sized boulders strewn from the floods origin near what is now, Salt Lake City in Utah to the coast in Oregon, a thousand kilometers away.

The two weeks stay with Boaz and Lisa just disappeared in a flash. They took us down to Moab painted desert, Zion National park, the Craters of the Moon, Monument National Park and up to Stanley and the Sawtooth mountains by the mighty Salmon river. Janet and I took advantage of a couple of push bikes hanging in the garage and spent most days cycling the local trails and visiting Starbucks for a celebratory cappuccino or two....Those bikes saved our bacon, walking trails in that heat was ******. Great hospitality enjoyed here. watched reruns of Sopranos on Boaz's 70 " SmartScreen TV and enjoyed Arnie's escape from postwar Austria to Mr Universe and fame and fortune @ Hollywood with Boaz whilst enjoying chilled margaritas in the hot tub.

The camaraderie of meeting an old mate of 45 years past, Steve Yocum of Oregon  a fellow writer and author. Both of us intent on shooting the breeze, putting the world to right. In some ways a sad exercise in that no longer can either of us make things right for with age upon us, neither has influence. We can huff n puff n blow the house down....but it seems, nobody pays the slightest bit of attention. The penalty of age is invisibility. The relief in it all is that, really, nobody actually gives a hoot!

Just two Old Dogs letting off steam..... it's rather cathartic actually! Thanks to Stevo, Ian and lovely Heidi for the accommodation, great hospitality and warmth.

The cool atmospheric relief of the serene and calm, Puget Sound in Seattle, Washington state gave welcome respite from the intense heat of the interior and the serenity of our cottage accommodations and startlingly beautiful garden surrounds. A forest of conifers and deciduous trees harboured gardens of blooming roses, hollyhocks and multihued cone flowers, emerald lawns carve swarths of sunlight in avenues of deep, green shade....a delight for the sunburnt brows of yesterday's heat.
Woken by the bassoon blast of the passing early morning ferry out in the waterway, to stroll out to sit at the very edge of the sandy, pebble beach and gentle surge of the deep, clear saline waters of the magnificent Puget Sound.
The peace of early morning crisp cool air, a seascape of moored fishing boats on mirrored waters, the distant Olympic range rearing to its' full 7,000 ft against a powder blue sky left us quite breathless with the utter beauty of it all....add to that a lovely breakfast offering of fresh berries, kiwifruit slices and yogurt and a chilled glass of fresh squeezed orange juice...and we absolutely, couldn't want for anything more. To Greg and Linda our love and thanks for giving up your beautiful bed, travelling us around beautiful Seattle and being our airline coach to and from Portland. We shall return the warm hospitality next time you hit NZ and Taranaki.

Vulcanism has dominated the terrain in Idaho, Montana, and Utah. Continental drift westward of the land mass has brought about a steady transference eastward of the massive geothermal hot spot which currently lies in Yellowstone park and which is the source of all volcanic activity within the park..
Idaho, in ancient times, wore the volcanic mantle of the region in having truly gigantic rhyolitic ash and magmatic eruptions. These cataclysmic eruptions emptied deep cavernous, subterranean magma chambers which collapsed under their own weight leaving vast circular calderas in the landscape. Subsequent plate tectonic activity caused deep faulting allowing huge flows of sticky magma to surge to the surface like searing hot black toothpaste, spreading across the plains obliterating all evidence of the rhyolite caulderas, surfacing the state, to this day, with millions of acres of hard black basaltic rock.
Here and there, rhyolite has wormed its way to the surface building gigantic domes, over the centuries these have weathered leaving statuesque, dramatic flat-topped mesa scattered across the landscape.
Altogether a truly unique and enthralling terrain for visitors to behold and one which reveals a dramatic insight to the volcanic and tectonic violence of the recent past and gives a definite air of mystique to the beholder.

In a land of 360 million people, supermarkets are downright huge...and they contain the spoils of the nation's plenty.
Acres of dazzling variety... and cheap by international standards. The very best of prime beefsteak, sides of pork, Alaskan cod freshly caught and displayed in rows of chilled enticing exhibit. Every possible vegetable and fresh picked fruit known to man in piled pyramids of brilliant, colourful display. Beautiful ornate furniture, beds, mattresses, tiers of car tyres of every conceivable brand and size, wheelbarrows, fertilizer, fresh flowers in mountainous display, ***** in barnlike chillers. Supermarket trolleys for giants..... and gird yourself for a marathon hike in collecting your basket of groceries...and give yourself half a day....you'll need it!

America has momentum, huge momentum. Across vast tracts of country lie networks of highway. Multilane concrete that tracks mile after mile carrying huge trucks with 40 tonne loads. Incessant trucks, one after another,  thundering along carrying the lifeblood of America, merchandise,  machinery, infrastructure, steel, timber and technology. Gigantic mobile freezers hauling food from the grower to the markets. Hauling excavators, harvesters,  bulldozers and giant Agricultural tractors. Night and day this massive source of production careers across the nation transporting the promise of America, the momentum which drives the Stars and Stripes onward, ever onward.

On the margins of the cities of Portland and Salem the unhoused gathered in squalid tent communities. In the beautiful city of Seattle I saw many down and out unshaven, untidy individuals with hopelessness in their eyes, pushing supermarket trolleys containing their sparse possessions. I drove through rural communities, some of which, reflected hardship and an air of despair. Run down dwellings in need of maintenance and repair, derelict rusty vehicles adorning the **** strewn frontages.
Not 20 kilometers away in Ketchum and Sun Valley Idaho the homes were palatial in grounds tended by gardeners and viticulturalists. Porsches and Range Rovers graced the ornate, rusticated porticoes. Wealth and privilege in evidence in every nuanced nook and cranny.
America is, indeed, a land of contrasts, a land of wealth, privilege, and plenty..... and yet a land that, somehow, tolerates and abides a fragile paucity which emblazons itself, embarrassingly, within the national profile.

On a hot day in Twin Falls, Idaho, I walked into a huge air-conditioned sporting goods store specifically to look at guns....and in the long glass cases there were hundreds of them. From snub nosed revolvers to Glocks, 38s, 45 caliber even western style Colt 45s and the ***** Harry Magnum with the long, blue gun barrel and classic, prominent foresight.
In the racks behind the counter are hung fully and semi-automatic rifles of myriad types...all available for sale providing the buyer has appropriate licensing.
In a land where mass shootings proliferate weekly, I ask myself....does this availability of lethal weaponry make sense?

The aching beauty of the mountain country in Northern Idaho, Oregon and Washington state cannot be overstated. The Sawtooth mountains, the Cascades, Mt Ranier, Mt Hood and the Olympic range. Ridgelines of towering conifers as far as the eye can see, waves of green deciduous running down to soft grassy clearings with boulder strewn, rushing streams and the cascade of plunging waterfalls. The magnificence of the natural beauty of this rugged, heavily timbered mountain country just defies description being far, far isolated from the attentions of man.

To happen upon this country from the far distant reaches of the South Pacific is a culture shock, to be suddenly exposed to the extreme largess. It is difficult to calibrate, hard to encompass, impossible to assimilate....but the people encountered warmed us with their generosity of spirit, their willingness to welcome travelling strangers into their homes....and, of course the invaluable time we spent with our family….and for these factors alone together with the huge magnificence that is this........
GRAND AMERICA.
We are truly, truly grateful.

Janet & Marshal
Foxglove@Taranaki.NZ
thomas Nov 2015
The late afternoon sun shines amber rays upon a silent grasshopper.
A profound event is under way.

In the woodland's soft loam, mama grasshopper has planted her eggs, the ****** of a brief, worthwhile life.  Having evaded field mice, mantids, lizards, snakes, and birds, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED - almost.

In this little patch of sunlight, it is her time to "donate" to Mother Ecosystem.  It's an honor she shares with the butterflies, bees, squirrels, gnats, toads, termites, foxes, deer, hawks, robins, ants - and let us not leave out microbes and fungi.

Now sugar ants have discovered her and are dismantling, tugging, dragging her away in parts, reminiscent of an automobile salvage.  

Wayward workers stumble into ant lions' pits and become meals themselves.

The old, hollow white oak log, once mighty King of the Forest, is prostrate and bare.  Yet, with its last molecule, it continues giving.  Within its hollow, a disparate multitude is moving about, hiding, hunting, chewing, defecating, sleeping, reproducing and dying. 

In decomposition, the oak's material essence  melds back into the earth as nature's great Round River,*  an incomprehensibly slow, invisible tide.

It is late spring and waves of woodland sounds are pulsing through the community.  Cicadas shrill chorus fills the air. Distant flocks of song sparrows and warblers combine in a cloud of chirps. Above it all is the sharp tapping of a  woodpecker.

A charred fence post has become prime real estate:  a coveted,grand perch for phoebes and jays, and for a fence lizard, an elite high rise station for sunbathing and attracting a mate.  Mating azure damselflies dance in the air above the lizard.  They alight for a moment - snatched!  Above, a circling red-tail hawk eyes the lizard.

Across a draw stands an abandoned farm, tragic end result of disrespect for the land.  Goodbye sweet, precious loam, created over millennia.  You are being carried away with each rain.  Where, on where are you going?  
To brooks, rivers and the sea.

On a bleak ridge, a few oak tree survivors huddle together as they endure relentless grazing.  This parcel of land has nothing to offer anymore.  If you were to listen to the wind, you might hear its whispers of dispair.

But here, in this vibrant, buzzing woodland community where the land breathes life, there is home, food and an ideal place for all.

*  Words coined by Aldo Leopold, pioneer American ecologist, conservationist, and educator
If I had to compare you
You would be a Sunday morning hangover
I'm afraid I can't put it lightly
the headaches you create could
with no doubt
**** a great white
You can take offense
Yet I must inform you that you are more offensive than ****** and Genghis Khan combined
Contrary to your exterior,
your mind is only that of a million others which I avoid
If only books always matched their covers this struggle wouldn't take me to such heights-
Or perhaps lows, I should say
So pardon me, my dear
The memories of my youth would be much fonder spent sitting next another individual-
One with the ability of truth and compassion
Or atleast the courtesy of decency
But your moral is blatantly,
Unsurpassably,
Incomprehensibly
too skewed


(C) Tiffanie Doro
V Jan 2016
Perhaps the truly 'alien' things out there isn't other life.
Its the planets and pulsars, the nebulae and all other matter.
They are massive,  incomprehensibly distant and incomprehensibly old.
Totally indiffernt to us, they will be there long after we're all gone and have there been long before.
Just a personal thought that has been held deep within me. :)
Liam Jul 2015
when one door closes...
then it can also be locked
an unintentional specialty of mine

some close of their own volition
others require a little nudging
leaving those that need be kicked

i've walked through them all
beneath their porticos of promise
over their thresholds of dreams

spaces beyond so warm and inviting
or ominously dark and foreboding
but entry is inevitably mandatory

a lament in keyhole retrospective
reduced in scope and visibility
incomprehensibly limiting foresight

begrudgingly resigned to redesign
wishes trapped beyond mortal reach
accessible only with a skeleton key
Esther Huang Apr 2016
You tumble your gentle words
into the well of my inarticulate silence
Beckoning excitedly to me to come, come
And the ghosts, they don’t quite know what to do
In the presence of joy as lovely as your’s

You remember the best of me
When i barely understand the worst
And amidst the madding throngs
quietly retell those stories of old
In the most familiar of voices
Until they seep into my skin and well my eyes
with long streams of relief

For all my exquisite words I still cannot articulate
How home draws incomprehensibly closer
When you simply let me be
the girl I thought I forgot
tread Jul 2011
I like to constantly mix up my mind and take everything I know and stick it in a blender, then switch it on 'Liquefy' and wait until everything and anything I thought I knew is nothing but a smoothie of confusion. I could choose to leave that smoothie in the blender and go down a nice hot mug of reality, or I can choose to down the smoothie and get lost in the taste of it all, mixed together so fervently that one former form of knowledge is incomprehensibly inseparable from another former form of knowledge. It is at this point that I either come to terms with the fact that they are so mixed up there will never be any individual understanding of any of them ever again, or I start down the futile road of separating all the puree'd ingredients of the smoothie in a vein attempt to make them solid and individual once again. When I start down that road, I have no choice but to acknowledge I will never reach the end, and I have to acknowledge that never again will the blended banana ever be a solid part of reality, and I have to acknowledge that I have no proof to say the milk and yogurt were ever of separate forms. This is when reality becomes incomprehensible, yet closer to the honest nature of the universe, and further from the conventional delusions of the human mind.

This is when it becomes clear that we are all blind;
This is when it becomes obvious that there is no great truth to find,
And that we are lost in the beauty and delusion of perception.

This is when it becomes clear that we're alive.
MG Sep 2011
Spring
A young boy runs through the forest, giggling with excitement.  He had been trapped in the house all winter: kept inside by his parents to defend him from the cold.  The boy runs and runs, driven by the boundless energy that children have.  There is so much to explore in this self-reviving wonderland, so much fun to be had.  Slowly, the boy comes to a stop.  He looks up, mystified by the expanse surrounding him.  It’s so large, so incomprehensibly large.  Buds of new life emerge everywhere around him and melted snow drips from the treetops.  He looks down and sees the small sapling of a tree.  The boy studies it, examines every inch of the tree: the small leaves, the tiny, delicate stems.  Fascinated by the simple treasure he has found, the boys sits in silence to admire his find for a short while, then runs home to share his discovery with Mom and Dad.

Summer
A couple, teenagers, stroll through the forest, laughing as they go.  The forest is completely green now, alive, thriving.  Thin rays of sunlight trickle through the cover that the thick canopy above has created and warm the cool air.  It’s mid-morning and the constant, peaceful hum of the forest fills the air.  The couple comes to the tree, larger now, and sits down to rest in it’s small patch of shade.  They continue talking, teasing each other until they run out of things to say, and then silence.  They sit together, hand in hand.  He looks at her and senses something turn deep inside of him.  She shifts and a ray of sunlight illuminates her face.  She closes her brown eyes.  The boy leans in close to her and feels the warmth of her breath on his face.  He leans in closer and feels the smooth, subtle touch of her lips on his own.  They stay that way for a moment, taking in the sensation, and then he leans back: his first kiss.

Fall
A man walks through the forest, his arm stretched out below his waist so he can hold his daughter’s tiny hand in his own.  They walk side by side, her little legs taking long paces to keep up with his larger ones.  They come to the tree and sit at its base, facing each other.  He tells her a funny story from his past that she gleefully giggles at.  The man feels an overwhelming sense of joy when he looks at her happy face; her twinkling eyes and a smile so large it shows every one of her teeth.  He has never been more thankful for anything in his life.  He feels a tear come to his eye but he wipes it away; she is still too young to understand tears of happiness.  He opens his arms wide in a familiar gesture to her.  She jumps into them, embracing him.  They stayed that way for a while, silent, until he tells her “I love you, I love you…”, once for every orange leaf he sees loftily float to the ground.

Winter
An old man walks through the forest, snow crunching beneath his feet.  He takes small, slow steps, grasping the beauty of the forest he has come to know so well.  The air is thin and harsh on his aged lungs.  It bites at his nose and uncovered ears, reddening them.  The naked branches of the familiar trees around him seem to reach up to the heavens, begging for an end to the cruel winter.  The man comes to his tree and studies it, just as he did the day that he found it so many years ago.  “Oh, how we’ve grown,” he says.  He thinks back on his life: his accomplishments, his failures, the ones he’s loved.  He’s had a good life.  The old man sits down, his back resting against the strong truck of the tree: his favorite spot in the world.  He closes his eyes.  In the silence of the forest and with a smile on his face, he falls into an eternal sleep.
I would love suggestions for a title.
Denise Ann Jun 2013
One.

When I first saw you I forgot you the next second. The next time I saw you I forgot you after a minute. Then after that when I saw you, I never forgot you.

Two.

When I first talked to you I didn't give a **** who you were. The next time I talked to you I thought your eyes were beautiful. Then after that, I was never able to gather enough courage to tell you.

Three.

You remind me of someone whom I loved in my past life, when I was young and stupid and had no idea what love was. You remind me of heartbreak. Of my pathetic attempts to stitch myself back together after being broken in half, of the stars I always wished I was part of. You remind me of cold nights and cold days, when no amount of heat could penetrate the chilling draft enclosing this empty shell. You remind me of waking up in the middle of the night and feeling incomprehensibly lonely and miserable, seeing how big the bed suddenly was.

Four.

I want to be away from you. I want to be somewhere, everywhere, anywhere, as long as I can't see you, as long as I can't feel my skin prickling with awareness telling me, "He's right here." I want to abandon everything I've built here because I don't want to see you anymore, I don't want to hear your voice, I don't want to feel its rich depth resonating in my chest, I'm sorry, I just don't want to be near you.

Five.

I write about you. I write poems, songs, stories about you, and when silence is screaming in my ears each one of those words sing a melody to me, carving my flesh out, gorging empty spaces inside me. When the rest of the world is talking so loudly all I can hear is my mind yelling, my heart squeaking, each one of the letters I wrote weave in and out of my mind's eye, and each wasted ink, each drained pen, taunts me. Why am I writing about you?

Six.

I am not the kind of girl who normally says things like this. I don't want to say this. What I want is to burn these papers and all the dancing strokes of all these wasted ink, to watch this inanimate funeral pyre send its smoke spiraling towards heaven, to scatter the ashes into the vast ocean so I can never see this again, so I will never remember you, so I will forget I wrote anything for you. And maybe if I tried hard enough I can pretend I never met you. Maybe I can pretend you never meant anything to me.

Seven.

I hate you.

Eight.

I hope you burn in hell.

Nine.

I hope I'm not in love with you.

Ten.

She's a lot better than I am. Eleven. I will never be as beautiful as she is. Twelve. Don't worry you won't have to make a choice, because I will never be able to say this to your face. Thirteen. If you ever realize I'm talking about you, don't speak to me again, because I'd rather disappear, I'd rather run away than face you. Fourteen. I'm sorry I'm an idiot because--

Fifteen.

I'm in love with you.
Jeremy Ducane Jul 2010
Light and dark and drills and drainrods
In several windows where a wind a move
A night shale fall

Once was.

Hovering hooked hands
Hating the alliteration as much as
Unwanted rhyme.

Too inward now
So go out to the different dark
I meant dark only
Dark

And a voice from another room heard not heard
An explanation of something I should think
But moving on as News people say
We hear the distant vehicle with a purposing
Of sorts

And nearer out of sorts a startled cat with clearer explanations
Than the laugh that reassures
From the other room

And upstairs notebooks lying underbed
Incomprehensibly heavy with the tortuous oughts

Of ink.
c. Jeremy Ducane 2010
Vernarth says: “Nocturnal mutism, nocturnal stuttering, goes from the fragile phrasing, peripheral phrase, hovering last word, where my loudspeaker hits, dissonant Sagittarius, I must prepare my denarius, not but, beforehand, cheers of hope to Zion, who among the bush of the millionaire wind that travels from Pluto to Mercury, each day that we map ourselves, trying to be more earth than in its own flowering. Paradiso Omega, nap of the oldest dream, adobe path. My  to fly Anne genuflects her heart towards Mariah from Heaven, in the title of hundreds of throats and gargles of the pyogenic sediment rambling. Oh so long night!, so clear firmament born of the fallen ether of the great Heaven so clear and enlightening Compass 37 on the quilt of God, three by three towards one, linking above the easy pit and dreams, dying Paradiso, Agonizing Horcondising, a fragile mass disoriented, discouraged, with numeral letters and quadruple letters, stone after stone of forage falling on the cinnabar sky "

Joshua de Piedra from the high pinnacle exclaimed…: “Stone after stone in its correction is born of a new silence eternal bond. It eats it during the day, it eats at night, just like the galaxies licking the frivolous awakening from a starless night, but being the substance of stars liquefied with a whip. Pilgrimage or Path of the Cross, on the stony ground of Uncle Hugh's house, in the other similar, my Anne's house, further on in the hidden and clayey chaos, the last Indigenous in Western clothing, working and stuffing the wells with green size, distributing alms for his apprentices, I keep looking from the high hill earlier. Kaitelka the whale and a Dwarf Leviathan; steward of the unnameable, perhaps of an unknown Cyprian squirrel censoring Noah in his animals empowered to tell him about a magnificent episode.  Each species balancing its essence to make the most grandiloquent dossier in the world, to join them and value them towards the unknown peasant world. The big apple to go, with its tailcoat worms, well dressed and united by the march of the rock sentinel Evangelus. Kaitelca alpha and omega cetacean, fluffy with bast for all the most lost seas of the watery world. She so down cetacean, she throws herself into the sea in fears in this gloomy space, exhausted warehouse, lifesaver between lives of lives, like wishes without delay, to beat the divergent period, falling on the flat ceiling. Enter to sail through the mud of Iodine, of this great Parnassus of all iodine, the Messiah was squeezing his robe of love all over the upper margin of the face, Jesus light, loving great pilgrims who helped me to urbanize the skeleton of this great demolition, of a great geyser on its oceanic back, distributing gifts through the tangled brow of the Horcón and Cantillana massif.  Freshwater meringue, fluffy flowers, incense, fuchsias, and Calypso smoke migrating from house to house in Sudpichi.  Adelimpia, holding the cord of the axis of the fatigued planet, Queen Anne restored the acute respiratory meridians, which moved her heart from the sinister side encompassed, cursed globe moving to another galaxy towards its 9600 years of expansion. The stumbling of the sun's rays, crowded on the back of the Jacinta, which multiplied on her bank of meek ideas, to reside above all the assemblages of millions of benefits, since the world is an improper world. The world has no end, God is a beautiful mute world, where we make mistakes every day believing that we are ..., being less true. Rather, we are the waste of the almost noise that tried to leave us as a legacy of the first noise of creation that was felt wandering, perhaps it was its breathing, of its lipped wise crater, in the most irresistible protoforms, devoutly preparing turgid liquids for driving through every dinner, without stars tasting their multi-polygonal sandwiches. Memory is a raging waste, every time we try to get to lick his honey-like him, we run out of a famished minute of life not lived”

Says the spirit Leiak:

“Without a doubt, without drooling, without Buddha… the tendrils of the universe flamed, like rolling pickets within his hearing sea ear.  Striped with wounded marks in zigzag, by the middle row between the unarmed infidels.  Filled with the greatest amazement, massacred with laughter riddled with the non-shining meteor. From temple to temple, without Buddha close to him, he continues lost on the path of valleys among several, by the waves of chimneys like the snout of a mastiff with typhus, infected badly that detonates a thousand times, circular or macrocosmic chemistry in submissive grounds, to drink, where no one is wrong. Pendency of the lymphatic jellyfish, among the meek otolith of Kaitelka, almost deaf, of so many prayers of impious savages to hunt her ..., she continues begging for mercy as a species, she shakes and shakes as if eliminating the supposed flea jellyfish in whirlwinds of babies in her ears of children's stories. Anne came out of her basket as if she had been picked up from the Nile, but in reality, she was close to Chocalan, Popeta, or Polulo, lit up like coal from a steppe oven. I continued walking shirtless on an insomniac night, waiting in the decimals of the full moon, some indebted Solaris of the evangelist, in a space that slowly locked the crooked tongue of sleep, locked by the treacherous luck of doubt. Plague and doubt, plague and nail, which opens the vast sea, unsanitary radio, from the messianic ****** of the muses to Botticelli blaspheming. Anne, a diva of the division of past lives, does not die in misapplication against all odds like a thousand sperms of an ensign, making her stipends simple, to buy sensitive chaste little flowers in suitcases of her super-saucy folds ..., there is no probing look similar to the ocean Cousteau's journey, through which the lost retina drains, lies the selective gaze, covered by the Guardian, who looks before the denigrated sap unfolds, which wears away scarlet fever, the gaze of substance, in front of thousands of sayings, plagiarizing Tramontane rumors "

Queen Anne rolls up her sleeves, collects ashes from the ill-fated victims sifted, by the tobacco, a very good service from the fumes of venerable lost in disbelief, this painting becomes vague and with a sordid diametric image and silent cataclysm. The confine of evil godson in a duo and verse of the Universe, of the concrete displaced with pieces of the tobacco, has been spoiled. Joshua de Piedra with filings in his stomach was with hundreds of particles tickling the metaverse on the beards of extraterrestrial comets. Heaven and Hell, interrupted sleep, fatal nap, draconian wind, Ultrasensitive Glory of austere forces, as long as you are alive, you are prey to it. Ignorance continues to spend the night in the empty vapors of the valley of chaos, duels of masses of sleeping consciences underlying the erosive *****, Queen Anne, is gathered at a gallop by Joshua de Piedra, blindfolds him so that he does not numb more body incense and set on a spring flower. By the knees, they are incinerated, but sometimes they are half-burned, burning like incense with Joshua in reversible adulation, of the rawest exquisiteness of essence of escapes of blossoming in chains, with the drama of carcinoma petals in anti-carcinoma times and of eternal life external. At the Post Office, the postman envelopes the new vignettes, new gardens of relevant highlights. The friend Joshua links the trough of flames escaping from his domain, at a faster pace for other readings, varying in shreds of first-time, delineating, and walking breaths that are lost in the misty vividness.

Says Leiak: “After making a round, Adelimpia with Hugh and Bernardolipo, restart their adventure, almost at the top of the Horcondising massif, collecting riches from between stranded galleys, and vaults dragged by the cataclysm towards this consistent mountainous ..., The amounts of coins from different origins were countless, from all those wealthy who stole from all their belongings, the tainted and intrepid wisdom, getting rid of everything before confronting the thunderous flashes of the Guardian, to subtract intelligent action from the oppressive limit in maintaining the Gnostic parallel. Adelimpia saw how the thousands of nausea cleaned themselves, before liquids and gastric ills, of which they are the bad residences, deciding to die acidly or spiritually towards an alkaline light.  Karmic oppression, anhydrous bubbles, carbonating every breathing capsule of compassionate life. Every day there is more foul-smelling hunger in men of acid rust, for the good spirits of the dipsomaniac in the diet of the most lost undefeated blind, a universal record of walking impoverished at the end of his objectivity. Adelimpia…., And Carmina; maiden of the extravagant silence is linked to the ox Xenon, master of his pumpkin ox, collects bubbling fragments from their stomachs of acid and fragmented, with unfortunate applicants to obtain him, all of them exalted before his prayers, as well as that fleece that the other possessed ox; Cricket that was grazing in the radiant spaces of the grasslands, ruminating lost ties for the good of all and being able to observe in the distance going beyond all sensitive imagination, being me Leiak, the spirit of Vernarth who looks over where he does not it does, sometimes incomprehensibly because of its purging. "

Joshua de Piedra says: “Horcondising, land of Spa, of beautification to correct your beautiful osteological inhabitant, your beautiful pro-lieutenant inhabitant, I believed that wealth would flow from my hands to finance my own poverty. Horcondising, is my nurse Luz, tracing with her blood the route of the Talami reign, everything continues without direction, the lustrín lost his paste of ruby cream and powders, of the conductor who governs their destinies in my hands ..., and it is required. Horcondising, badly and fearfully I say genuflected, here are my riches, but I swear by the most sacred, that I never thought I was so poor at the same time, in the presence of the almighty. Karmic planet, you come like bread and honey from a dazzled bee, you come to fill us with light through the horns of the cat, mounted on the back of the rooster, mounted on the roan bovine. Horcondising ... What a memory! When I was running fast through good waters and Sudpichi, I saw in line some swindlers in uncertain Faith, loudly dismantling the stunning consciousness of possessing without letting those who do not have know, and what it is to lack, what is the love of the slightest doubled second, until it brings honey and milk to the mouth of the beggar and with new clothes, around the circular saffron, the light of isolation and God's judgment on Hommo Sapiens. Baba, Vrja Ananda, I know that to ascend you have to put clean, white clothes on the wind, lavender with druid purple and stuffed on the petioles that fell on the stumpy back of the little elephant. I never got tired, I always laughed and the manly wind stretched my cheeks of purple roses, to laugh at the feminine world like a new man being born from the darkness of loneliness, in a new man, with a new life, in a deranged valley of Solitude, gaseous, ulcerative and asphaltic soil, of Horcondising, in the blaze of a fierce virtuous lantern ..., lying with its lost light on the rich and poor, entangled in resin from a hopper and a villain with feet tired from walking. As immeasurable to act I continue, although there is too much, among which nothing was ever forbidden from an ominous advance. But more awaits me, whoever wants numb oppressive anti-libertarian oppression, I will continue to ruin myself after this world, in the jaws of the rogue armchair of emptiness, with strong and pious prayer, strong and pious karmic augury to ruin the ruffian, that he holds and looks at you like a kitchen log in his dispensary. Karma comes to without and are, with are without are, with dream sounds, hallucinated sounds to realize the truth of accuracy. I have no vocabulary when I am hungry or thirsty for Faith or equanimity, but rather, more than all the power of the high massif to fall on the despotic ripper and cutthroat, accursed beings of the night darkness! I decree worse evil than all the bad curses to which it provokes by a glance, and stuns you like an ant in the fragrant countryside. Karma, baba nam kevalam, anti-karmic, to anyone who doubles your life, to **** you more than three times, without falling into the arms of Forgione or a Buddhist Monk tired of getting tired, self-love and improper Karma from now on everyone and all who with their deeds and gaze invade them with disloyal flatteries and evils, the true triumph of Truth and Equality so that it is equal to all resigned, looking less like the worldly offering of goodness, but rather bad at last of counts. Francesco, are you coming right...? Here I wait for you, low-cut I will also get in line to be supplanted. My story will be vital and oppressive, full of capital, anti-charitable because I have never been able to understand it. I know that powerful affiliations will come, and I will be in your lap, and all those who process your consummation and death will fall, a bad omen of their whim like any piece. Force the spirit that outside is evil, always yours, Master...! I am going, I am going, each one who looks at me as his prey will have to govern and feed him, for better or for worse, and otherwise, I will be eternally burned along with all his progeny in the Horcondising. "


So Joshua spoke when making a wooden whistle. He cut his index finger with transparent grease, and saw a viscous bleeding liquid fall into the constant complaint, from each head of frustrated saboteurs, and mercilessly squandered by those who aim at you every day to finish you and beg your entire eternal psychic substance, without Numbers or paternal letters, Vernarth and the Hexagonal Birthright, attended with great enthusiasm this regression, knowing that he was in their nation and domains where their mythological beings accompanied them beyond all vision. They all remain normal; doing everyday things, but Vernarth's voice accompanied them from an altar in a vivid voice and with great clarity in the voice that expressed their pilgrimage.

Vernath says with an infernal tone: “The Horcondising rack runs out of people benches, to attend to their requests the sky has become convex and unattended, to walk down the fragile plateau crouching down, weightless trees rub their bruised roots on the scrubbed Living spirits over each parlor, each present master along with his present consort seemed like perfect strangers, each separated by name in their new and uncertain divided destiny. All by putting the hand where the ulcer makes intermittent unhealthy purulence, on whether we are and correspond what we are or those who manage to have in this twisted life without a surplus, and what would it be if we had surplus ...? Rows of speakers and auditors are compressed, trying to want to be understood, but the words are keys and conclaves of high architecture sifted, of the wild despair in which we are beasts escaping from an eternal safari of thunder and cannon, vaping fumaroles of ancestry and drinking Bourbon to the thunder of the steely ***** on the orphanage of looming. Here Fray Andresito unfolds his body, you know it here is…! Right here he aimed at the weakest, the strongest, perhaps being a slave. What a difficult word to define... This cell without adjoining limits, called Atman, or female soul engendering another female soul, in the arms of the sorcerer, whose packaging and the serial knot would be made by a novice, who did not know if it was tightly closed, so as not to know if it would be fine in the future and reopen it with light in Gandhi's eyes, or by a child in care appointments without his arms to approach his mother cradle, perhaps being ivy or algae that sway his breaths vain…, from the flickering of the dotted throbbing of the Sun in flight through the lost night of the altarpiece, putting silicone because it comes out of the picture. Today a being was born in the arms of the almighty, a being anointed in the placenta of golden liquid and augrum, filling everyone and everyone leaving them speechless… ”.

Its ancestry of eternal way comes from mutual funds, equivalent prices in promoting values, on falls and rises, in franc growth, and various financial statements to beat dividends. The lines of people obediently migrated to the Horcondising, they never thought that they would be a great family, all in chains of multicolored and endless shapes, all in the high mountain at more than three thousand meters, and no higher, because in this Age again life, I cannot count more than thousands, in which the hundreds stay up late every day on this streetcar called the alliance. Branches of salty puree and ammonite soups with coriander, in the transversal valleys, to the southeast, with verve envelopes and their large moral excess on their backs and their hope of leaving all their treasures on the sidelines, before entering the muddy showers. when swarming with turbulent regrets and losing all ego money, highlighting a new epidermis, with an unprotected but opulent soul. Each being devoid of the word and thought, was trans walking through the heavenly ranks, with buzzing in their hearing aids attenuated and a smelly shanghai screeching, nothing would be left to pour into the channels near the almighty, the one who picked them up from the ground satin in some small sulfur coins and bleeding hollow, nothing will charge to their accounts or in their excess pride, only white skin in dark skin, and dark turning to dawn gray dermis, for exclusiveness, only lost in the jungle of ignorance shipwrecked tundra. Grandmother Adelimpia cleaned with sweepers and pine feather dusters, wormwood trunk and molle, and with the ceiling. My Anne, swept the flat floor with her wedding dress, years ago seasoned ..., Hugh and Bernardolipo laced some wines pigeonholed in the devil's segment, so as not to lose track of the high hill, which could be seen falling on the witnesses of the fallen Calvary Before the world ends for many, but not for the Huasos. The auction continued; Anne still had an end-of-the-world fever, with so many degrees…. Don't worry Anne, a Mapu aboriginal boy; the one with the sinister ..., brings a good herb to improve you, it is said that he comes from less to more, with his face like a beautiful farm landscape, stream water that quiets fevers and ills of charm. Have faith, says the elder Sylph Angelita Huenuman, reborn to Anne…: “The bark of that oak will be demolished and crumbled to cover you from evil and worse evil charm. Tomorrow on the high snow-covered peak, sweet cakes will fall steamed with berries and flavored almonds in your Word, which always deserves to smile to the limit, you are the omega star stele that will know how to smile, you will see it just like your Joshua de Piedra; which is an eternal incense of ruse, you will be dressed as a coco channel between aromas of eternity like spring light and first communion, between your snowy new garland of sap and in which you are always like a web-footed dreamy bird, moving away from the Aculeo lagoon, away from the giant hermit emerging from a nucleus of water and its pool, sobbing on each step of lake light of ascending sketch and of a lagoon avoiding new despised damage "
Alpha Day, Alpha Night, Omega Day Omega Night
Alexis Rose Jun 2015
sometimes words are so unbelievably, inexplicably, incomprehensibly, beautiful.
they can sweep you up off of your feet with their hope, and spin you around in circles with their wonder as you grin at of all the blurred colors around you.
sometimes they can be the only way you make it through the night,
sometimes they can make you fall in the deep-sea-diving type of love that'll make you never want to come up for air,
sometimes they paint pictures prettier than the most stunning sunset.

but on days like today,
the words that bounce around in my head spoken from angry mouths and a tired brain,
all of these words might just be the death of me.
just an fyi..
when you whisper things about someone, it isn't as quiet as you think it might be.
a May 2015
a shell, contoured and carved with an aged elegance so accentuated that it practically screams its 'i'm so much better than you' chant, or
rather than scream, it whispers it softly for only my misshaped ears to hear, so that the dignified mutter echoes like a beautiful musical instrument played wrong in the crevices of my head
and
i stupidly stand, my feet sinking in the so-tainted sand, trying to come up with a retort, witty and cold enough to knock jeremy clarkson off his feet and back into top gear following a mild repercussion aimed at a light-hearted  producer - instead of acknowledging the fact that it is a ******* shell on a ******* beach
but
miss common-sense-defying with the too-happy polka-dotty headscarf and the five-minute-hipster-outfit that took an hour and thirteen minutes to form is intimidated by the shell that reminds her incomprehensibly of herself.
she's been reading too much john green.
or she's realising the truth, that she is an empty shell on a beach so trodden on that hansel and gretal would lose their footprints, that she is beauty and magnificence and elegance but she is empty, made of things she takes away from her television endeavors and her bookshelf, and she is empty.
Isaace Nov 2022
The Human dream became the Martian dream as we slept on our Mars-bound voyage. We could see colonies amidst landscapes pristine, teeming with strange Martian plants discovered post-bloom.

The Martians were adorned with ivory carvings and had surrounded themselves with esoteric paintings of marauding faces. They spoke in strange tongues, switching between Martian and another almost incomprehensibly clandestine tongue of barbaric intonation. And although they clutched sharp, ivory spears with a fierce resolve, they remained docile in our presence, and told us of the vivid dreams they had engaged in as a group prior to our arrival; abstract dreams, tinged with fragmented images of insemination and visitation by the Mars Moth-Man— he who was oil-funded, and had been delivering concrete messages to the people of Mars ever since the first settlers had arrived in the distant past.

But, once we had truly set foot upon Mars— from outside the strange realm of dreams which lives solely within our collective mind's eye— we could not have foretold, our shared dream was revealed to be a sprawling wasteland of jagged rocks and infertile soil.
Silby lline Jun 2013
Ambling along the seaside
a group of youth
on the brink,
looking for good music and cheap beer

we drank Jameson straight from the bottle
and poured cheap wine down each others throats
and then you grabbed my hand and

you pulled me along
like we were lovers
but I'd only just met you that day.

Closing in on a heaving crowd outside a dark edged bar,
we all agreed.  
Stepping  in
he whispered,
"You're my girlfriend for the night right?"
I didn't respond
ruminations and innocence
didn't recognize
it was just the way you were

i did not know you
after all.
this person ---
an enigma
a formation of every external fantasy was feasting upon me like prey.

Mind fuckery tipped me to the point
of no return.

For a moment
I lost you in the crowd
and I drank myself into a stupid spin
when I looked up to the landing,
you were there
looking down on me.

I danced wildly
as your eyes burned into mine.
a mission on your mind.

Later we fell out of the sweat infused bar
incomprehensibly drunk with glee
and drinking in fresh air.

Against the wall, the others fell and laughed,
but you ---
you grabbed my neck, my face, my being,
while wild curiosity burned in your eyes.

and you say that I'm intense...

Twisting our faces into a kiss,
you were so unexpected

you grabbed my hand, and we ran into the grass across the street,
but instead of sunlight and fresh flowers
taxi cabs and punters filled the streets around us
and I could hear our friends looking

Intwined for a moment --- frozen in time
swift and fleeting,
we struggled for breath discovering each other with crazed passion --
until it stopped suddenly
an interruption of unimaginable events.
they screamed our names
and so it was over.
gathered again the group headed toward the dawn,
but that kiss --- still wet on my mouth
left me gravitated

but you distanced yourself
with disregard.

I fell more in lust the further apart we grew down the alley ways
the cobblestone paths,
damp streets and street dwellers
towards the train and back to inevitable reality

couples and friends walking
separately,
and as one
but you
were not with me.

I wished
that moment would continue
that we would walk into the light of some
irrational dream
and then I woke up

in a foreign land tears filled my eyes

You said you were crazy when you drink,
but maybe i'm just
crazy.
The earth will know your flesh,
Embrace your marrow’s last memory of bone
More encompassing than any lover.

You were received from earth's body,
As much her child as sky’s; even more perhaps
When you are no longer breathing.

Into raw earth, you will change incomprehensibly
As incorporeal as starlight itself,
And nameless as shadows in moonlight.

Just as daylight dies, you disappear
Down into the deep foundry of death;
Swallowing darkness, in bowels of earth again.
See me here, and there, see me, pieces of me everywhere?
See those chains, broken pieces of wood, those broken locks?
See the dust flying and then, all the stopped clocks?
See the piece you ripped out, that girl you ripped from there?
That you ripped me like i was paper, without a care?
Like i were words that you had read and had consumed and become?
Well you read me, gave up, construed an new ending, and now i am not one.
See me standing here, strong, proud and defiant,
see my broken self on the floor, that i protect like a giant?
See that picture of me that shows all, is bare and naked, and true?
see this girl that is too young to understand, that you weren't really you?
see this girl ripped from my soul and my very inner, tenderly safe heart?
Because you had to take me, just, well just because, you wanted to take me apart?
And now i stand here, a warrior, armour, and an axe in my hand,
ready to cut down any predatory seeds you may have planned?
See me like a mother spoon feeding and holding til the morning light?
see her curl inside a foetal position, crying in candlelight.
See me trying to sew her back into place, to where she is safe from harm,
see her pulling, screaming from me, scratch marks down my arm.
See me telling her over and over, you are love, you are loved, you are....
see her wishing she could erase you all, make you die in a car,
or a un-fort-un-ate in-ci-dent, where you realise your deathly wrong,
or  Do you see me now, incomprehensibly, broken but beautifully, strong.
See this hand, holding out for a hand to hold
to gather this girl in her arms until she grows old?
So when you broke those locks and stopped a moment of my time,
you pulled a girl from inside of me, for she was all of mine.
So when you ripped that paper in half in an act of 'incidence'
I now hammer down these nails, steel upon fired steel, building rows of iron fence.
And this girl you forgot to address in your misdoing and ***** way,
now begins to stand, holds out her hand and we sit together and pray.
See me now as i build myself ten times, a thousand times, bigger, wider, than before,
I make a huge fortress in my body for my girl, and pick her up from the floor.
See me standing here, half written and half ripped and torn under the sun,
I can take all that you gave me, be renewed and reborn, we become one.
For she is back here with me now, as i stand tall, tainted and blissfully strong,
for i know to pull myself back together, i have to understand,
It was not my fault, you were in the wrong.

You will never be me, you will never beat me, you will never break us apart,
You will never find solace in your *****, weak, thirsty, starved heart.
I ususally don't work with this line of rhythm, but as usual, when i am writing my mind and fingers take over and it just pours out.
And this me, poured out.
Smoke Scribe Mar 2019
why the occurrence of something highly improbable should be inherently noteworthy


                            


Here is a way to produce                          Here is a way to produce
an outcome                                                  a poem
almost certainly                                          almost certainly
never seen before in                                   never seen before in
human history                                             human history
and never to be repeated:                          and never to be repeated:

Shuffle a deck of cards.                             Shuffle an alphabet.
The resulting deck, assuming                  The resulting deck of letters
the cards are shuffled correctly,        if the letters are shuffled correctly
should only occur on average                should only occur on average
every 52 51 *50 *... *21 shuffles,       every 26 25 *24 *... *21 shuffles,
because this is the number                        because this is the number
of possible permutations of                       of possible permutations
52 cards, all equally likely.                         26 letters, all equally likely.

 This number is incomprehensibly large, on the order of 1068 or 534 using  letters

                               100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, 000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,     000,000,000,000,
(or half that with an alphabet)


                                                Every­ person on earth could
                                       write a gibberish poem once every nanosecond
                    for the expected lifetime of the universe and not even put
                                                      a dent in that number.

                               Is this why then is there not a GOOD poem written
                                          every time letters are shuffled about
                                             the astronomically unlikely event
                                                         that just took place?

Because letters are not numbers, the subset of sequenced associations called **words
  (in the English language) is about a mere
                                                  ~ 220,000~
                    But, each year, an estimated 800 to 1,000 new words
                                    are added to the English language


That is still a heck of a lot of possible combinations and is the reason                                          why the occurrence of something should be inherently noteworthy
at all.

So writing a new combination of words is still pretty difficult,
and writing an intelligible and intelligent
mind moving combination
is a rare thing indeed.

Should you happen to write a poem and get even a single read, that is a pretty miraculous thing because the subset of the billions of English reading persons on Earth who also read poetry habitutualy
read is the square root of pi, or 1.7724537398758821888.

which ain’t a lot of people.

So, if you wrote a really good poem today and a couple of people read it, liked it, that highly improbable event is highly improbable, about the same chance that someone else exists with your exact DNA (excluding any identical twin) is a reallly low number

so, consider yourself really, really special.  I do.
Hannah Winand Aug 2014
“Life is, at its core, a smattering of multicolor streaks and blotches
on a knock-off Jackson ******* painting, don’t you think?”
you say between impossibly tiny sips
of your organic loose leaf herbal something-or-other tea—
or at least I think that’s what you said;
I was too distracted (by the general awfulness with which
your incomprehensibly long nose hairs
mingled with your bristly auburn mustache
as elevated nonsense poured out of your speech-hole)
to fully ingest your attempt at insightfulness.

But I reply:
“Aren’t you saying that what you’re saying doesn’t matter anyway?
Abstract expressionism, existentialism, nihilism, all that stuff?
Life has no meaning—so we better talk about it!”
Heh.

But my dialectical cynicism is no match
for your allegorical *******-ism:
“Ah, but we create meaning!
The lonely abyss of individual experience,
when shared, isn’t so lonely anymore—
Mon Dieu! This tea tastes like sunshine!”

I can’t avoid a sigh-and-eye-roll combo.
When my eyes return to the table,
I see my upside-down reflection in a dessert spoon.

          I painted a *******-esque piece in 9th grade.
          My art teacher adjusted her cat-eye glasses,
          the gold parts of her hazel irises sparkling behind them
          while she said something about the creative subconscious.
          The first drip took some self-convincing;
          the blank canvas on the floor seemed to taunt me
          with the possibility of mistake.
          At first I pretended I was ******* himself,
          trying to think the elevated nonsense he may have thought.
          It didn’t work.
          My friend told me to “just go for it,” so I did.
          I began with green for no reason at all,
          and ended with yellow for reasons that I knew existed
          but that I couldn’t explain.
          Elated, I realized my painting made sense to me.

“Would you like a sip?”
I can’t avoid a smile because
****,
this tea does taste like sunshine.
tranquil Feb 2015
“I want to feel weightless. Warm too... like this foam”, he added looking down as he dabbled his feet in water.

She saw him with an amused expression.

“Do you come often?”

“Yes. At nights. Alone. Whenever I'm too tired to sleep”.

“How can someone be tired and sleepless at the same time?”

A smile lit his face, “Can be. Look ahead”.

“The ocean's tired of gathering all of river's salt. Still tries to push it to the shore with its waves. Sleeplessly”.

“But why?” she asked, clearing strands of hair out of her eye. The cool midnight breeze carried salt in the air on a quintessential moonlit summer night.

After holding a pause, he added, “Maybe the ocean has no choice”.

“Why not? Who's stopping the ocean from resting down in peace?”, she questioned.

“The same melody to which all life must dance”.

She looked at him with questions in the eye.

“And what of these waves which crash on feet of rocks? What pleasure does such dance bring? Everything just dies eventually. This can't be a melody.” She was curious to hear from him now.

“Not all silence is death dear. Not all ends are the close. This.. and not even a trickle of water which lets loose from sky leaves its place without a reason. That rock has a reason to be. That wave needed to die for a reason.”

“What's all this thing about silence and death then? There's no melody in silence, or is it?”

“If there can be a music in sound, why can't there be a music in silence?”

“Now you're not making any sense. Silence is the lack of sound”.

“Not quite. Sound is the absence of silence. Sound is a cloak which hides the real face of being. Actuality is not sound. It is silence. And in this silence hides a million possibilities of being. Including this crash of waves... this tumble of the midnight tide... of you and me.”

“Hm.”

After reflecting on it for a few seconds she asked, “So end of things is just one possibility? What are the other possibilities then? Immortality? Isn't death unavoidable?”

He tried to lay it plain now. “Look at the chances of you and me being here. Right here. This moment. Sitting on this rock. Few months ago we didn't know the other of us even existed. What could be the possibility of this happening? Life is all about one possibility growing roots into another. Of chances forming relationships with each other. It all forms a web of instances which we connect with. Which we remember as life experiences.”

“But ultimately, we do have to die, don't we? We need to stop somewhere”

“Yes but what suggests that possibilities of existence end with death of body? The wave doesn't really die with a crash. See? There it came again,” he pointed with a smile.

“That's not the same wave...”, she was quick to revert.

“No that one was bigger. but”... “yeah i get it”, she interrupted him

“Its a part of the same thing. Same ocean i mean”, she said.

He smiled and added, “Also has the same rhythm”.

She smiled back, “So everything is brimming with life then? Skies and seas, plants and rocks.. all of it? Sounds like something out of CS Lewis' fiction”.

“Mhm”

“Guess everything could be as fictional or as real as it can possibly be then. Depends..”, she said looking at the midnight sky.

“Totally.”

“And this applies to everything, hm?”

“Completely.”

“What's real then?”

“Redness in your cheeks when you smile”.

A giggle followed to which he pointed his finger at and remarked, “As I was saying...”

“... stop it silly”, she interrupted him grinning.

“I meant what we see and feel this moment is real. Feeling is real. Maybe what we felt yesterday was real then, but we can't feel it now. We can't feel the first rays of dawn yet, so future is not real either”

They faced midnight's horizon. Immersed in placidness, pondering upon the gaze of sky and water with something which connected them both incomprehensibly.

“I think I can feel hearing to the sea now. Its refreshing.”

“Sure is.”

“To the silence of sea now, I mean.”

“Yeah.That's what I always come here for too,” he mumbled slowly.

"And to see the waves break themselves on feet of rocks with longing, while the rocks are deeply immersed in hearing the silence of their being in tranquil quietude".
first attempt at dialogue writing
Justin S Wampler Apr 2015
Scott took a slug of his beer, reached
deep into the breast pocket of his coat, and
pulled out an empty pack of marlboros.
He flipped the top and was distraught
when he saw the empty space where
his addiction should've been hiding.

As he shrugged his way into that coat,
which has warmed him for years, he thought:
Jeez, these sleeves are ******* cold!
He told Vince, the immortal barkeep, that he'd
return ever so briefly as he stepped out into
the weighted rains and ceaseless winds.

Making his way down the road towards the
inevitable gas station while counting his
dollars and cents, Scott is blinded to the world.
But a seventh sense strikes him suddenly
and he hears his neck creak as he looks up,
over, and across the busy street.

Wait, he thinks, how did she get here?
yet there she stands alone on the corner.
I'm drunk, the thoughts roar, she's no more..
Cars and trucks cut through his vision and
she is but an afterimage, her dripping hair
blowing in the unforgetting winds.

She's gone man, his mind screams to him,
but it's his eyes that deter potential lies.
He actually sees her over there, even meeting
her own eyes in an endless moment of futility.
Whispering incomprehensibly to himself
he steps towards her, onto the street.

That's when life becomes shrouded in
screeching tires and burning brakes,
and Scott forgets all about his smoke break.
That's when life becomes darkness,
and she fades away into the rain as
a bus paints the road with his brain.
Alan McClure Mar 2011
When did I stop looking for music
which would shatter my world view
colour the lines afresh
reach spiderstyle from dream to daylight
clatter from the heavens, incomprehensibly fresh

and start settling, instead,
for anything
which doesn't actively **** me off?
Third Mate Third Jun 2014
touched where it both
pained and pleasured

she, he, they,
son, daughter, husband, lover
returned the same,
in kind

there was no irony
that it was the same place

irony was in the kind

it was of no import
that the touching
was not physical


it was different though
in the how, in the what,
that is what made the difference,
the why was why
it sometime
pleasured and sometime pained


in the meeting place of the eyes,
revelation - then always results,
in the meeting place of the eyes,
contact most fierce,
yet no contact at all


the seismic radius of the tremors
were comprehended,
even measured,
but incomprehensibly
awesome and awful


this is how we love,
this is how we hurt,
our nearest ones,
so oft so far away


absent forever
or next door
in the same safe bed,
under a roof close to collapse,
sensible insensitive *

[this is senses insane shining mad]

this is how we love,
this is how we hurt,
our nearest ones,
so oft so far away

with a glance, a sneer, a moan, a snarl,
weeping, even when not openly,
a smile, a caress, a passing kiss,
a hard embrace,
emanations all from
the same place

in the one and the same place
where pain and pleasure coexist

who among us does not
know well this place

the place where reason absents itself,

at roll call the answer is always

Present

and that is the signal
to that place
to commence the uncontrollable
weeping
Max Watt Jun 2016
Torn between a hundred mindsets,
never resting on one.
See-sawing back and forth,
swinging high and low.
Spinning on the roundabout,
experiencing a thousand views and one.
There's no black and white.
Who would want to see in such binary vision
when the multitudinous colours are
incomprehensibly twisted and ugly
and so rich and beautiful?
Duality? Quadrupality? Infinitality.
Ysa Pa Apr 2016
Those words which carelessly slips
As if natural, through those lips
How dare you so nonchalantly
Say the words 'I love you' to me
Your words have stricken me
Giving me delight and vulnerability
You're safe yet so dangerous
You make me eager and nervous
Every moment with you is an adventure
Bringing out my weakness yet making me secure
I love how you're confusing and exciting
Also how you're incomprehensibly enticing
But I fear my vulnerability
And your complete unpredictability
You're capable of leaving me broken and sore
I love risks but I've never been like this before
Entrusting myself is terrifying
Because of this present longing
For your reassurance that you'll stay
That you'll stand by, 'come what may'
I despise the idea of vulnerability
But the thought of losing you kills me
So permit me to get used to and be addicted
To the feeling of being vulnerable and protected
Be my strength and be a man of your word
Mean the 'I love you' that's unlike anything I've already heard
Peter Kiggin Sep 2016
Destiny


A great happiness beheld me in mind for all eternity
Two people became as one like huge stars colliding fantastically
Light will burn forever from such energy and brighten the sky ceaselessly
In time and space change happens with a minute degree to change everything incomprehensibly
Some say only you can change your self into someone better but they are wrong as hard as we try we cannot change unless the world changes too in harmony
Like an everlasting love for one person can never change maybe the love he lost could change like nature being re-born everyday differently
I still look at the moon and think of your love was that not destiny.
irrationally
Dana E Jul 2014
Falling feels like slingshotting your body from metal birds
At colored patches, verdant, oceanic, supposed Earth
That comes so slowly towards you, at fifteen thousand feet
That falling feels like flying then, like floating,
Like dirt is fiction and what you know are only facts

Fact: your eyes were never made to be binoculars
You can’t make them focus on something so far away,
Can’t make them telegraph up the brainwires,
Shouting incomprehensibly about fear

It’s too far. They won’t do it. Sky divers call this distance illusion.
I call it sanity when an ending comes howling across the sightline,
Unavoidable, solid, unfeared
Inside your head is the lie that you aren’t really that far,
That this distance is tame space,
That you are impossible and airborne
this is a work in progress! one day it will be amazing
Cole Nubson May 2016
Death hot and cold bites at my lips
The tremble in my leg as I stare at the floor
I cannot remember when my core was eradicated
But I can remember how it made me feel

More so I remember how it made others feel
and in their eyes that's all there is to it.
As if it were selfish that I slipped and fell
And now I have a broken foot that I cannot recover from

I could attempt to say something bold
Like that I love you.
Or that my plan will work out in the end.
But I cannot make up my mind.

All they gift is their apology.
They didn't do anything wrong.
Why are they sorry?
They shouldn't be sorry.

I ***** profuse
on my bed sheets
alone at night in my mind
I fall asleep comfortably bleeding

I ***** when I wake up
and a fog horn goes off
Someone wet the bed.
It was me

I drool upon my car horn
Someone cut me off, me
Someone, cut me off, me
Someone cut me, off me

I climb a tree in the forest
density holds me safe
The branch is broken
and the wind starts to shift

I made a crutch from the lumber
As I seeped through the air
And I lept from my tired eyes
on to layers of pine needles

Beams of light seperate my brain from my mind
I cannot turn off the light because of what's inside
Bees fly in to pollinate me, they sting me simultaneous
How was I supposed to recognize a wasp

Yellow and black look the same to me
Both acidic and both crucify me
crunch down the subdued pain
of running that hasn't ever stopped

I could take a breath
and realize how far I have fallen behind
Or I could keep stabbing myself
Until something comes of it.

Will something come of it?
I ask this God, then the next
I respect a good intention
but I cannot agree or comply

Im addicted to telling you things I shouldnt
Despite making me feel incomprehensibly insane
I am tied to a tree and unable to fly
So I am a sick dog who barks at all strangers

Strange that I act alone
When I have so much on my half
But my half is only a fraction of theirs
and theirs but a sliver of the earth.

Darkness owns the other half
the physical entity of space
You cannot light up one side
without darkening the other

So when a comet burns down to earth
I cannot help but notice what it's left
A consummation of being the brightest of dark things
but the darkest of light

I cannot speak like I used to
I cannot cheat myself of a new thought
Because as much as I've felt like this before
I've never felt quite so harrowed and shrouded

I am clean, wrist deep in mahogany
But yet I am lost and mopped up by a pigeon
I picked out my own innards and laughed
My lungs are not yellow and my heart is not black

My lungs were pink and my heart was raw
But now that it's out I cannot replace
nor can I face anyone to operate
I'm drunk and stumbling to the morgue
MsAmendable Sep 2023
Maybe you called my name
( in hundreds of languages I couldn't speak, )
Or maybe
You said nothing at all
.
Maybe your love was so incomprehensibly encompassing I could not tell the difference between it and the very air I breathe -

Or maybe

It was comprehensively small
Delilah Summers Feb 2014
Connectivity, compatibility and my incomprehensibly blatant feelings are what compel me to be so irrevocably drawn to you. Within my heart would lie a chamber, an imaginary yet sacred safe haven where my feelings may be kept safe and strong. You own this chamber, you own my heart. Without your undying love, I would surely dissolve and disintegrate into nothing but a pile of desperation and a pathetically lost soul. My love for you burns so strong, so deep that I would never be able to love another as I have loved you. Though all odds are against us, all possibilities of being together may seem too far to reach or too hopelessly out of the question, I shall still long for your love, long to feel your soft skin lay against mine. I shall long to feel our lips and bodies collide in what feels like a supernova of emotion and love. To make love to you is like nothing I could imagine. To feel the very fabric of my existence lay within your hands; yours to control, to do with as you so please. My love for you is unconditional and undeniable. It is certain that without you, I would not be me.
I didn't write this one, he did.
Katrina Jun 2014
I’ve learned that nobody will believe in you until you believe in yourself first.
I’ve learned that you won’t always understand everything,
but that doesn’t mean you should give less effort.
I’ve learned that true beauty isn’t defined by a size 0 waist or pretty eyes,
the purity of your heart is the only thing that shows your true beauty.
I’ve  learned that nobody has the power to control you.
You are in charge of weather you're holding yourself back or pushing yourself forward.

I’ve learned that you only get back what you put out,
if you treat others horribly you’ll be treated the same way in return.
I’ve learned that true friends are there for you when things go wrong with a shoulder to cry on.
I’ve learned that some of the best moments in life can’t be explained with words alone.
I’ve learned that good things do NOT come to those who wait,
but to those who work hard to make the good things for themselves.

I’ve learned that anyone can say they love you,
but only a few actually mean it.
I’ve learned that you waste your time regretting your past,
it’s better to learn from it.
I’ve learned that sometimes the people you look up to the most let you down the most.
I’ve learned to look at people as works of art,
beautifully unique and incomprehensibly delicate.

I’ve learned that taking chances lead to the best memories.
I’ve learned that pain is temporary,
until you let it live inside you.
I’ve learned to laugh at myself when I mess up.
I’ve learned to never take anything you have for granted,
because when you do it always slips through your fingers before you can appreciate it.

I’ve learned to love myself even when it feels like nobody else does.
I’ve learned that words are beautiful when used correctly,
but can also break people if you don’t use them right.
I’ve learned that when there’s no one else in your life you can always count on family.
But most of all I’ve learned that life is a magnificent balancing act of our experiences and our perspective that make us who we are.

— The End —