There's a certain peace that settles inside you when you hear the wind whip through the forest, the sound soothes you until your muscles quiver with joy and you begin grinning with delight as the cool air runs soft fingers down your spine and sends shivers back through you. That was the feeling going through Fayowin as he stalked his prey, a nimble buck that mindlessly grazed in the snowy glade. Fayowin was a wolf, tall and regal, his fur ran a silver-white with intricate blue lines spiraling and writhing around his muscled body. His eyes glowed pure white in the night and shimmered in the daylight. The fangs lining his jaw were longer than the other wolves'... then again he was also larger than his alpha as well. Fayowin saw everything clearer and faster than the most skilled hunters in his pack, and he was also the swiftest. He should have felt proud of his uniqueness, but he felt outcast instead. The other hunters shunned him and disliked hunting alongside him, leaving Fayowin to hunt alone.

Today was no different. It was his turn to hunt and he had to hunt alone. If he failed, the pack would force him out into the cold. "If the pack starves, the hunter freezes," was the motto of his alpha, Alexei. Fayowin narrowed his white eyes and drew in the scent of the deer. As he did, he caught the hint of a she-wolf nearby, not of his pack. Distracted for an instant, he snapped back and sprinted for the deer, lunging for it and tearing into its throat and ripping out the windpipe and blood vessels all in one bite. As the smell of blood coated his senses, he began to feel uneasy and whirled around to see a silver wolf snarling at him. It was the she-wolf he had sensed earlier. She stood just a little shorter than him and had strange markings of her own: she bore black marks under her eyes and one on her forehead that resembled a paw. What struck him the most was the band around her upper foreleg. His eyes wandered as he observed her and she growled, bringing his attention back to her glaring green eyes.
"That... was my ****!" she growled. "I don't know how you managed to get it before me, and I don't know how you managed to escape my notice. Who are you?!"
Fayowin sneered and raised an eyebrow, "This, my dear, is MY ****. I've had my eyes on it for a while now. And frankly, this is my territory as well, and unless you want to become part of my territory, I'd suggest you treat me with respect."
She edged closer to him, surprised and infuriated at this male's straightforwardness. But there was something about that and his scent that appealed to her though. "I'm not leaving without this deer."
Fayowin chuckled, "It looks like you will be leaving without it, whoever you are."
"My name... is Feiria!" she licked her lips hungrily, "and that is MY deer!"
Fayowin narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he studied her. Even through her winter coat, he could see the outline of her ribcage and could smell the desperation on her scent. He saw Feiria's muscles contract as she prepared to lunge at him. He sidestepped and she landed face-first in the snow, a mere inch from the warm deer meat. She looked at him hungrily, almost pleading. Fayowin sighed and nodded his head once, after which Feiria voraciously tore into the carcass.

He slowly meandered towards the center of the clearing and flopped down into the snow. He could hear the she-wolf eating ravenously behind him as he thought of his next move. If he returned to the pack, he'd be ridiculed and forced to live in the snow. If he stayed out here he faced the same problem.

Fayowin flattened his ears back and started to doze off, still listening to Feiria eat his ****. He began dreaming of gaping mountain passes, tall forests, and warm valleys. He felt oddly warm, not freezing cold as he had expected. He didn't care though, warmth was a gift in the winter. He slept peacefully until nightfall overtook the forest and the moonlight shone down and illuminated his fur, the lines becoming like blue fire. His eyes would have glowed if they were open, but they remained oblivious to the change in scenery until a cold wind blew through his fur and he shivered awake. He nearly jumped when he realized why he was so warm: the she-wolf lay curled up, pressed against him, sound asleep. He tilted his head slightly as he watched her sleep, probably the most peaceful she'd been in a long time. Fayowin would've hated to ruin his gift to her, albeit an unwilling one.
Feiria woke up soon after midnight, and gazed fearfully into Fayowin's glowing white eyes, taking in his
Cynical stare and his glowing body. She whispered, "I've heard of your kind..."
he looked curiously at her, "my kind?"
"the star wolves.."
he averted his gaze, "Never heard of them.. I'm just a normal wolf.."
Feiria glared at him, "You're glowing, *******.. Not normal. Unless.... Unless your whole pack is made of star wolves!" her face seemed to light up as she said it.
Fayowin whipped his head around, "No! I'm the only one like this..." he looked solemnly down at his feet as he finished.
She blinked, dumbfounded. Clearing her throat, she said, "I really should get back to my pack. They'll be worried about me if I stay out for much longer." she glanced at the massive deer behind them and sighed quietly.
"Your whole pack is starving...aren't they?" said Fayowin quietly.
Feiria nodded and he stood up and walked through the snow silently towards the deer. "you'll need to lead me to your pack if they're to get this meat."
Feiria blinked again, then nodded, getting up and starting off  
Towards the north. Fayowin gripped the deer's neck and drug the carcass behind him as he walked. After a half hour of walking, Feiria howled long and low, signaling her pack that she was near. Fayowin sighed as he heard their howls respond. He thought, there will be no howls for me tonight...
As they neared her pack's clearing, a group of young wolves sprinted towards them, rushing past Feiria and surrounding Fayowin. "Who is this outsider, Feiria? Why did you bring him here?"
there were five of them and they all went into attack mode, growling and circling him.
Feiria attempted to stop them before they got into a fight, but one of them pounced, and in a flash Fayowin had him pinned to the ground with his fangs around the wolf's neck. Fayowin watched the wolves around him react, stepping back and glancing at each other. Feiria shouted at them to stop but they didn't seem to hear her immediately, backing down only as Fayowin's growl tore through the trees, echoing throughout the forest
. They finally heard her, "he's a star wolf!" by now a crowd had gathered around them, Feiria's packmates watching Fayowin closely. He let go of the young wolf beneath his paws, who quickly scampered away, and Fayowin sat up straight and tall, his markings and eyes glowing for all to see. The wolves ooh'd and ahh'd amongst themselves before the alpha stepped forward and looked him up and down. "You killed this deer, yes?"
"I did."
"Why bring it here? We are strangers to you."
Fayowin glanced at Feiria, who shifted, uncomfortable with the silence. "I brought it here because i could tell that this pack needed the meat more than my own." Fayowin looked directly at Feiria and continued, "besides... She saw it first."
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(End of day one of writing, really enjoyed it, look forward to writing again)
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Fayowin perched high upon an rock outcropping, overlooking the clearing below and the wolves within. The alpha had allowed him to stay, grateful for the meat. Feiria was pressed against him again, but this time Fayowin didn't mind. He enjoyed the warmth that she provided and felt at ease around her. She nuzzled his cheek affectionately, a move that surprised him enough that he turned to face her, brushing her nose in the process. He gazed fondly into her eyes for a moment before standing. "I have to return to my pack."
Feiria looked shocked, "No, stay here with us. We could use a hunter like you. Plus you're a star wolf, and it doesn't seem like your pack appreciates that."
He let the words sink in before replying, "I have to go. I'll return in the morning." Seeing the desperate and doubtful look on her face, he added, "I promise. I will come back."
Fayowin walked to the edge of the forest, the glow of his body soon disappearing from Feiria's view.
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...
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F­ayowin sprinted relentlessly back to his territory, smelling the familiar and not so pleasant scents of his packmates. The smell of blood ran thick in the air as he neared the clearing. The moonlight cast eerie shadows around him and he could feel the eyes of the wolves watching him as he reached the gore pile. The mound of bones and rotting flesh dripped blood into the white snow.
"You're late. And emptypawed. You know what that means, filth." the voice was that of his alpha, Marroy, who stood three feet tall at the shoulder, a whole foot and a half shorter than Fayowin. His fur was a mottled black with a grey underbelly.
Fayowin bared his fangs, the longest being three inches long, and he growled, "My name.. is Fayowin."
Marroy cackled in the darkness, "So straightforward. That's unlike you. No matter, you failed to bring us fresh meat. As punishment, you'll be reminded why we protect you in the first place."
Fayowin heard growls emanating from the trees. The pack of around 25 wolves was massive compared to other packs, and there were enough hunters to go around. Fayowin took a step back and let his eyes adjust so he could see them in the trees.
"You don't protect me, Marroy! You fear me!"
Marroy laughed again, "Not from where I'm standing, Mutt. You look pretty frightened." Fayowin took another step back. "Run! Run! Give us some entertainment!"
The wolves started bounding out of the trees and began chasing Fayowin out of the clearing. They seemed to be pouring from every shadow. He ran faster than ever before, the trees blurring past him as he tried to get away. He ran for what seemed like an eternity before seeing the snowy valley at the edge of the forest. He added a burst of speed and instantly regretted it. A rock beneath the snow tripped him and pain shot up his left foreleg. He tumbled end over end in a heap of blue and white, coming to a stop twenty feet away. Fayowin heard the pack coming for him and he tried to crawl away, but to no avail; the pain was too much. He whimpered as he was surrounded, and shut his eyes tight as he felt them bite and claw at him, retreating only after there was a ****** pool around the star wolf. Marroy walked slowly up to him after they had gone and said, "I hope you die out here. If you aren't, we'll make sure that changes." Then the alpha left him there, cold, ******, broken and alone.
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* (End of Day two/Start of day three of writing and i'm really hooked on this, I believe this may be one of my better stories...)*
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Feiria lay silently on the rock outcropping above the pack and she thought of the star wolf. Something about the breeze brought thoughts to her mind.  
Feiria lifted her nose into the air as the smell of blood became present. She sniffed intently and heard her packmates do the same. She looked in the direction that Fayowin had left in and saw a dark form slowly shambling through the shadowy flora towards her. As it neared her she could see that it was dripping a dark liquid, trailing it through the snow in a scarlet path. "Its Fayowin.." she thought to herself. "Why are his eyes so dark? Why isn't he glowing?"
she rushed to his side and the smell of his blood was almost overwhelming. There were numerous bites and cuts all over him and his left foreleg seemed broken.
Feiria called for the healer, an older female named Sheya, and supported Fayowin as they walked to the glade and waited for the healer. Fayowin collapsed in the center of the clearing, the moonlight hitting him directly, making the blood seem black against his white fur.
Feiria whimpered helplessly, waiting for Fayowin to answer, but his eyes seemed so lifeless that
She felt it was almost a false hope. When Sheya finally arrived, the blood had stopped flowing and his breathing had slowed until he was asleep. When the healer examined him, she looked puzzled.
"what's the matter, Elder?"
Sheya pondered a moment before saying, "His wounds have healed. I'd say its a miracle, seeing as he lost so much blood."
Feiria examined the sleeping wolf herself and found the elders words to be true; there wasn't a scratch left on him. "Leave him here, the sunlight will warm him once daylight comes and his fur is thicker than ours so the cold will not affect him as much." the gathered wolves sat in silence as Feiria washed the blood from his fur with snow and lay down next to him, pressing her body against his. The blue lines on Fayowin dimmed and brightened in tune with his heartbeat, and Feiria listened as her own beat matched it.
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...End of day 3....
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Fayowin felt like he was in another world, this one so much quieter, but at the same time he could sense every noise, every movement, every vibration. His fur was no longer the bright white it once was, but rather a deep black with crimson lines flowing round him. He was lying down, surrounded by a wolf pack, Feiria pressed against him for warmth. He saw, or rather sensed her spirit energy, a type of green fire that outlined her entire body as she slept. Fayowin stood up, thinking to wake her and let her know he was alright, but she hadn't moved. And neither had he; his white furred body remained as it was a moment ago, but he was looking at it as if in another body. He took a step back as he realized he was roaming about in his spirit form. He looked around at the pack and none of the gathered wolves seemed to notice him. He exited the circle of onlookers and gazed up at the falling moon, watching it descend into the horizon, chased away by the rays of the sun coming over the mountaintops to the east. As the sun peeked over the ridge, Fayowin caught something out of the corner of his eye, a dark mass that didn't fit right with the rest of the environment. He looked and saw two sets of glowing purple eyes in the shade. He called out to them, hoping they might hear. "Hey! Can you see me?"
The eyes looked at each other and then back at him, staring for a moment before turning and running.
"Hey, wait!!" Fayowin called after them and began to chase them deeper and deeper into the mysterious forest.The beings moved faster than Fayowin had anticipated, disappearing soon after the chase had begun. Fayowin stood there in the middle of the woods, panting and searching for the elusive forms. After a moment he saw them at the very edge of his vision, their eyes glowing brighter, almost as if they were taunting him forward. Snarling, Fayowin bolted towards them and they led him on a winding path marked by a barely discernable scent trail. The smell was that of burnt wood and crushed pine needles and was oddly alluring to Fayowin as he ran. It seeemed as if he were running for ages, the sun and moon rotating numerous times around him as he traveled over mountains and rivers, through forests and valleys. On the thirteenth solar rotation, the figures finally stopped, joined by eleven other figures surrounding a circular rock with vines and overgrowth covering its base.
As he neared the figures, he saw that they all looked like him, long furred and covered in glowing lines. "Star wolves... Like me..."
The wolves all surrounded the dais and watched him with razor sharp eyes, watching his every move. As he gazed back, Fayowin noticed that each of them had some form of a trident mark right below their left eye, the color matching the lines tracing their bodies. He felt the urge to move forward, as if an instinct were telling him to stand in the center of the circle. Fayowin stood, all eyes on him as he waited for whatever was about to come.
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....I have nothing to say to you HP... I dislike you at the moment....
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Nightfall was coming swiftly, the moon and the stars swirling into place above them, reaching their peak and then halting completely. All of time and

Thinking of Eve Seeing First the Shiny Thing
The subtile beast, she saw eating of the tree she was
told
would **** her
if she ate it and she believed,
if she even touched it, she would die,
though die was something of a mystery.
What, she thought, is happening here?

The shining serpent thing
is living and eating the fruit of knowing
some thing known to this thing,
unknown to me, this shining serpent can't speak, needn't, but 'tis a beguiling
creature,
a scoff-god swallowing forbidden fruit
as nothing happens. Not dead,
what ever that may be,
why should I? Curioser
and curiosum it says, with its eyes,
"you shall know, as God knows, you shall not
surely die".
(those Kachinas, I imagine dancing off in time,
singing as the chorus of snakes,
"we hold such things as men can't hold in hands")

Oh, no, wait and see. We, you and me, we play no
past roles, no deed is redone, thoughts are rethought.

Everything has been thought, the object of thinking
is to think them again. Mr. Goethe made note of that fact,
when he thought, everything, excepting what I know,
is temporary at the moment, I recall the idea of

God knows what, but it ain't accidental,
and it ain't the misperception of decept-icons dancing
on the head of a pen.

You got that right - question - quest ions symbolize what
you do not know, so, who knows? Question marks
Symbolize the act of questioning. It's a primal need,
Wisdom, the principal thing of which
more is always desire-enabling.
Somebody beyond your knowing imagined that  right.
Would you believe the algorithm needed to program
perception of a who'll-go-rhyme,
or an I'll-go-rhythm positive knee-**** response
to the ***** of a pen or the whisper of a word,
which it is supposed, was written
by 100 monkeys with typewriters,
whacking away endlessly, balancing precariously
on the edge of the first 100 turtles
in the stack? What are the odds, eh?

Life has a plan with no plot, ought we think?
We shall not surely die, we know now, that's a lie.

Beyond believing lies, we know now, how and why
we are naked, by our own cognition.
We told us we are naked.
We, now, know that,

but here, in the pages of the book of life,
we are no longer subject to the ******* of fearing death.
Here, there is no more condemnation.
Believed lies re-cognized here,
affect no fear, we know,
the final foe fell. "It is finished" was no lie.
Take comfort here. Be still, and know,
rest prevents any
re-triggering viruses left by
the lying messenger's old fables, told as prophecy
or fair-tales oft sung as epics
pre-determining the possibility of evil winning in the end.
The words that built the lies remain,
not the lies. Evil never had a chance, life isn't fair.

The basic plot is a man-made thought, the purpose is not.
Life goes on, death never could have won
and now its power serves
to make eternal waves that keep thinkers thinking things differently.
Loneliness, after all is said and done,
is not
as common
as one might think. There's always
Details, details, details
God only knows.
Saying such a thing idly is vain.
Unless, you know, God knows.
****, that, too.
None of that here, you know.
no condemnation
Socrates was a joke, nothing new under the sun,
beyond that is no mortal's concern. Believe me.
Knowing nothing is far more difficult than men imagine.

Tongue in cheek was an old clue in fair play,
your gramps
could poke out his cheek like he had a snake in his mouth
struggling to break through sealed lips.  
Then he' tells a
fish-story and claims the magi know it true.
Tongue in cheek, so to speek, I see some missed conceptions
fructify from spores spat idly as ****** hells and damns
from tinkers tinning pots with crazy making lead solder.
Which meandered my other me to lead
Lead soldiers. I led the boys to war, that's what they were for.
It's all in the plot to make men of boys so we can help God
defend Heaven, in case…

What?
Good versus evil and all that whole lie.
Or is it faith we must defend?
How reasonable is that? What can **** an idea like
one of the big three?

Eve knew knowing good and evil cost her.
She paid attention to
the truth of all she so suddenly knew.
Otherwise,
she could not attempt the task of bringing
Able into the world, after the pain of Cain.

Oh, please, let Cain fulfill the promise, I cannot bear the pain,
said Adam in his shame.
Eve, on the other hand,
knew hope for joy she found in every
birth, and there were many twixt Able and Seth, all girls.
Cain had been gone for decades ere Seth came along.
Eve was o'er-joyed at the boy whose son would somehow
bring to bear the final sacrifice of travail and pain to
manifest the sons of God to play the role pre-ordained
for sons of God and their sons to play, wombed and un,
each, in his own way, the one creation groaned for,
the missing, wanted, desired, one, an
only begotten with just exactly your DNA,
one in 8 billion, a rare element, indeed.
You know.

you did not smash a guitar to
splinterings: That Night,
there weren’t enough iiiiii

watching:

six cigarettes later,
all packed,
tossed back,

....you meandered off...
a long pause...

LOST CAUSE




I too patiently waited out the fight
I too patiently weighed out the fight
I too patiently way out did the fight

weighted, I, too,
impatiently,
way out,
-wait-

FIGHT

People, they just ain't all golden, not at all.
Not even silver, magnesium or copper.
Maybe zinc, because it tastes like ink and it does your body good,
but you never get enough, even though you know you should.
But had I the means, and the ends were understood,
would I be zinc? Would I carry the common good?
Would I feign precious metal? Or am I nothing but wood?
I met today aluminum, he said, "I'm bad luck."
"I know it," I said, "You're out of your element."
"My melting point is 660.2°C!"
I told him my name was Kristian Huselius,
but that turned into a testament.
"You're just lucky you aren't a duck," he said.
"Maybe, but I find I've got too much will."
"You can't spread will on bread, my friend,"
he said, much to my Brazil,
"but lucky for you they make contraceptives in pills."
I didn't want children anyway, but when Boron arrived,
I was feeling less than sublime.
Boron said, "My name rhymes with '*****'!"
"No kidding, Boron," I replied.
"I can come in both the dark crystal and brown powder variety!"
"That may or may not be true," said Aluminum,
"but at least I benefit society."
Oh, yeah, he said it, he went there.
"I value correctness and propriety!" Boron shrieked.
"And you can be flimsy, squishy, and weak!"
I wanted no part in this, so I meandered.
Not too long after, I met Helium.
I told him my name was Carlton Deandre.
"I don't believe you, mealworm," he bombasted.
"You're gaseous," I said, "I wouldn't put it past ya."

Blake meandered, like a wayward stream
Over the valleys and the hills
When suddenly: struck by a dream!
An inferno of dark, satanic mills
Spread across the land and overseas:
On tyranny’s wind, the mills replace the trees

Abominable as a cage for a child
Putting bars behind their eyes
The factories enclose the wilds
A bleak blockade against the sky
Thousands he saw in a momentary flash
Festering on the Earth like a virulent rash

The dirt clouds above the factories loomed
Only beat by the awful stench
A poet wants the world to bloom;
The mills just make Earth blench
He stared – and stared – in horror enwrapt
The world was a treasure unbound - now she's trapped

For oft, when poets dream they think
Of nirvana or some such felicity
It replenishes them like a fountain drink
Which brings the bliss of serendipity
And then their feet in wayward trances
Fill with the rhythm of their romances

There once was a lad from the Lone Star State,
who dreamed of exploration and realized that just over the horizon, adventure await.

He was commissioned by the internal desire for adventure,
which burns deep inside us all, and within him grew,
so he assembled a ragtag crew to explore a land seen by few.

He set off for the ancient land- more north than he’d ever been-
whose beauty and wonder only true voyageurs and men of the wilds knew.

By air and by land, the voyageur lad traveled to his Uncle’s cabin,
nestled deep within the Harshaw Hill country.
  
This legendary cabin, was built solely by the hands of the one they call Uncle Buck-
the most amazing cabin one could ever see.

Uncle Buck is renowned and recognized throughout the land
for his merit, adventurous spirit, long grizzled beard, and skillful hand.

It was here, in the cabin’s comfort, the brave Sugar Beans (as he was fondly named)
greeted his courageous crew with a hearty, “Boozhoo!”
They were some of the finest canoeists around-
paddlers tested, tried and true.

Together they pondered, planned, and plotted the course of their adventure
for which they’d set forth;
packed their belongings, and dreamed of North.

Sugar Beans’ crew consisted of five, rugged braves-
paddlers he knew had grit and could battle the wind, rain, and waves.

Uncle Buck, a wise and grizz old guide, had seen many moons in the Northland sky.              
Respect of all living things and the song of the wild are the codes to which he ascribes.

Jonesy, a well-traveled voyageur himself and Sugar Beans’ proud dad,
had been to this land and wanted to share its magic with his brave little lad.

Joeseppi , a young blood at heart, was the lad’s loyal cousin and friend,
a trustworthy bowman, on whom all paddlers could depend.

Makwa, the newcomer- fierce as a bear and as tough as the rest-
and after day one, she gave it her best.

And last there was Pierrὲson; the lad’s other cousin and fellow adventure zealot,
who once learned his lesson and stayed away from anything that resembled an apricot.

They loaded the van, strapped on the canoes, and greeted the early morning with a boisterous “Bonjour!” and embarked North to begin The Magical Northwoods Mystery Tour.

Traversing blue highways the voyageurs meandered north, through the wilds of Wisconsin and the Land of 10,000 lakes, hoping to make the Canadian border before it was too late.

Eventually they arrived at the Magical Northwoods’ doorway- delicate and ornate.
The crew unloaded their gear and launched their canoes- confident and sure.
Each eager paddle stroke brought them closer to all the memories they would create.

And Sugar Bean and his crew created memories- some of the best.
Memories that seep into dreams and make one feel blessed.  

Memories of:

discovering a pictograph and plodding through a ****** river- just to get back on path;

stumbling upon wolf tracks and forgetting the fishing poles- but never the packs;

exploring  craggy caves and battling and paddling against the wind and waves;

hunting for ice under rock clefts out of the sun, they searched and searched but came up with none;

swimming in the warm water nearly every day and asking painted turtles if they wanted to play;

practicing the art of stalking seagulls, and on every lake, they gave greeting the glorious eagles;

dropkicking each and every single portage and of food and laughter there was no shortage.

The crew came back with fantastic tales and experienced everything a voyageur could wish.
And although his dad will try to tell you it was only by an eighth of an inch, there are pictures to prove that Sugar Beans caught the biggest fish!

So here’s a paddle rattle for you- young voyageur lad- the greatest voyageur old Quetico’s ever seen!  May your adventurous spirit continue to grow and may the waters you paddle always be serene.

Among dust bunnies collecting on the carpet of her bedroom are lullabies, matted into the seashell shaped ridges by eager toes.
Other mothers sing Rockabye Baby, but hers crooned the crash of ocean waves and the ballads of mermaids.
Memories like those sent shivers down her spine, cold fingered fairies dispatched to walk the tightrope of each nerve, triggering flashbacks of moment after moment.

Beneath a quilt of fallen oak leaves he found a baby hedgehog, infant bristles damp and lonely.
Some days, when it meandered curiously across half-written papers, its paws writing notes in a script he couldn't decipher, he regretted rescuing the handful of spines with the pale, inquisitive nose.
Leaves of muddied paper, though, became pages in a scrapbook, dedicated to moments more beautiful than he could fathom.

Following them were snapshots of sunsets over the lake, the first phrases from a concerto he adored, a polaroid of his fingers interlaced with hers.
Her palm met his without hesitancy, and the joy she felt reminded her of the mermaid's musings heard through the sleepy ears of a child.
On all sides it was warm and safe and fantastically real, simply because they decided it should be.

While she did say no the first time he asked her to marry him, it was only because to her marriage had grown stiff with age and its rusting hinges complained when she tried to add her own swing to its meaning.
He asked her again, of course, because she was the only person he'd ever met whose heart fit his jigsaw edges so perfectly, and this time she said yes.
Waits for the love, her mother told her; a fearless woman waits for love to ask twice.

On the winter solstice their son was born, whom they named Martin, because he thought it sounded courageous and she thought it sounded furry.
Distant waves tumbled as she sang her little one to sleep in the only way she knew how, and gave him hedgehog kisses with her eyelashes because butterflies are too delicate.
Dreams always came quickly and lingered in his mind, fantasies of whirling woodland dances and salty kisses from the wind.

They documented the unassuming; they tracked coincidence; they remembered the weight of every footstep and the cadence of every whispered "good night." They knew that even though they were obscured by the smoke of normality and stench of the future, every moment was unique. Among other things they found everything.

Shrouded in deep purple fear and billowing clouds of crimson shame,
I sat on the floor, a trembling moth in still air.
I swallowed. The taste of bile remained.
My warmth flowed out of my body into the icy bathroom tiles, escaping rapidly through cracks in my split-open soul.
She sat beside me, quiet, waiting.
After an eternity, I nodded to her with a shaky breath.
She helped me gently off the floor and guided me to her bed, tucking herself behind me to become my tight cocoon.
With my head rested against her chest, I heard her blood pounding through her, but her breaths were slow, controlled.
The fibers of my muscles remained tense, straining to compensate for my spirit - raw, exposed, vulnerable.
Her small, soft fingers ran through my tangled hair,
drips of golden honey appearing as she began to hum.
Her radiant honey oozed from the smooth, full notes of her voice and dripped between sharp fragments of my shattered porcelain.
The clock tutted at us from the wall, approaching the third hour of morning, but she held my shards together tenderly and unhurried.
The fight drained from me as she sang her sweet melody.
A puddle of purple and crimson beneath me. Pieces, tenderly held.
Her pure, glimmering honey meandered through my etched cracks and between my too-prominent ribs to replace my purple and crimson.
She sang the life back to me, held me together with her sturdy grace.
She waited as the liquid gold began to solidify and I began to feel closer to whole once more.
She - who loves me laughing, who loves me dancing - loves me messy, too.

One night
I was a werewolf,
but that got out of hand.
One night
you were a peach,
but I preferred fresh
over canned.

The blood scent was strong
and on your collar,
or was it spaghetti sauce?
We meandered in
the lost city of angels,
but those women
in the maternity ward
were better shape-shifters.

Couldn't see if the moon
was full against
the polluted skyline,
(but I bet it wasn't).

Then somewhere
down the tracks,
the howler (that's you),
half a dream away
on some deserted block,
and flat on your back
like a pancake,
with the nightmares
stacking up,
and dripping
with strawberry syrup.

Or was it blood?
(I bet it wasn't).

Ahh-he-che'em ack-ahem. Sorry, let me clear my throat.

One day I set out galavanting, looking for a high.
I meandered to the ocean shore and set a lively stride.
My eyes were wet, my heart was light as I looked out at the splendor,
About that time I heard a rumble, a sudden yearning for a chicken tender.

I galloped to an eatery in hopes of a hearty meal,
But had a measly handful of coins, so I opted for a deal.
The only place I found tat would accept my sum of coins
For anything sufficient enough to satisfy my *****
Was a gritty place called Taco Bell, but it was my only choice.
The cashier was a voluptuous dame and my trousers became quite moist.

She said to me, "what will you have?", in a shockingly low-pitched voice.
I was taken aback for a moment, but stuttered, "a number six, I think".
"Comin' right up honey", he or she said with a wink.
I just smiled shyly and went to go fill up my drink.

My food was finally ready, but I was a bit wary,
I could't tell what was in my taco - squirrel, beef or canary.
My hunger pushed me through my fear and I finally took a bite,
Although skeptical at first, my taste buds did delight!

I had finally finished with my meal and was satisfied and full,
But down below my abdomen I felt a mighty pull.
I had no time I knew at once and dashed to find relief.
The single men's room was in sight, but who should be a thief?!
The cashier with the arousing bosoms had stolen my salvation...

As I stood there in that Taco Bell I felt a curious sensation.
When normally I could have held it, a complete bowel prostration.
While the **** was pouring out like a broken sink,
My mind started to wander and I couldn't help but think,
*If the women's  room is out of order, I wonder which she/he has,
A set of both, a meat-locker or a **** and nads?

One morn a muse meandered in to mind
Carolling soft in sacred tongue
The spirited song of kindred hearts
Clan to which my own belongs
She stroked my mind with fearsome flame
When all the world had dropped dead
Stoking bright and cosmic spark
At the center of my head
The ebb and flow of epiphanies
Through percipient perception course
Strange, explosive truths yielded
From deep, divinest source
    Her mind is wider than the skies
    Which ring with her luscious lullabies

‘poetry is unfair
for those who’ve arrived late,
there’s no new words left out there
poetry is stressful
because how can the english language expect us to wrap our souls into just a handful?
poetry is rude
feelings have to sound pretty
though life is actually quite crude
poetry is limiting
there’s only so much paper, lead, and ink
and there’s never been enough to get across what i think
poetry is too demanding
forcing our thoughts, our dreams, and our plethora of feelings,
to make some sense
to appeal to others
to stay within the coherent fence
and poetry is competitive, a jealous ***** at that
we’re all so rushed to send our souls into combat
because the last thing we’d want is to be deemed a copycat,
it seems to me that we all crave is to be deemed something or someone, as long as it’s “unique”
poetry is confusing
because in all reality, each soul has of languages its own variety,
and value to society
it matters how we speak
but not with the languages you can learn from a dictionary
it’s the ones deep inside us, that you may not be hearing
that tell who we are
both pretty parts and scary
but who is poetry to expect me to know when someone is forest green, though appear seafoam?
i’m pretty spot on when it comes to my colors
i’m still scared so it’s rare that i voice them to others
because poetry is contradictory
for example, i know i’m not the only one in the world who’s got colors in their head, chaotically swirled, or at least that’s what i hope
but whether or not there’s someone wandering near,
feeling lilac tunes passing also through their ears,
their poems to mine could be completely opposite
to me, yellow’s eminent
but to them, possibly irrelevant
and it’s so **** frustrating
because we can’t all be right, can we?
society picks their favorites
and the rest of us are negated, painfully invalidated’
this form of art, this way of life is so unrealistic that it should fill me with strife
but it doesn’t
and there’s a reason why

because poetry is fair
be the first or the last,
the whole point is to share, we were not put here to strip others bare
use whatever there is that takes ahold of your soul,
who cares if it’s new, used, broken, or old?
it came from you, from your entity it poured
this arrangement of words, feelings, and selves
they’ve never seen this before
poetry is a release
it’s gifting to you the stitch to your seams that’s been slowly tearing, the most recent cause of your despairing
for me, when i’m writing, it stitches me up with each letter from my cup becoming a word that becomes a phrase, one step closer to the glory days
when the english language will lose it’s power
and no longer have my soul in a haze
the english language is over exaggerated
we treat it with such respect
and tell ourselves it has something of us to expect
but it’s just letters, syllables, and sounds
it has no real power over us and by that i mean
it holds  us to no real bounds
poetry is real
all it is, is what we feel
and when we feel, there are no obligations
there’s no “should” or “shouldn’t”
you don’t have to keep up some fake reputation
feelings don’t have to be pretty
and life doesn’t have to be crude
your truth is your truth
so just write, and to yourself don’t allude
poetry is limitless
because while you may run out of space on that page, and yes it’s annoying to not have a place to keep going, you’re not confined to a cage inside your notebook lines
you don’t need the pencil lead to know that there’s something going on in your head
paper is limited
but we,
our souls,
we’re infinite
poetry doesn’t ask for much
just that were true and we do it for us
“to make sense” is too generalized of a concept
being as “sense” means something entirely different to all of us
i’ve had a problem with coherency, it’s never really agreed with me
but that’s only because i’ve convinced myself that i need to convince others
and that is impossible
people will see what they see and they’ll believe whatever they think you mean when you show them your poetry
but no amount of explaining is going to give someone else your eyes
you can try all you want to appeal to the crowd
you can scream what you really mean, but it doesn’t matter how loud
they’ll take it as they need to
so you might as well just write it all for yourself
poetry is confusing
and you’re never going to fully logically understand a poem that didn’t come from your hand
but that’s not the point, never was
the point was to put most things on pause,
and listen without your ears
to be able to hear somebody else’s “because”
poetry alone does not have rules
it’s our tedious brains and overwhelming insecurities that give these common misconceptions their fuel
“unfair, stressful, rude, limiting, demanding, competitive, confusing, and contradictory”
these are all words we throw, at ourselves and the art, when we’re scared
and our self-esteem is falling apart
and we’re worried we’ve done something wrong
but in art,
when you truly identify with whatever it was you felt enough to amplify,
you can’t fail
this form of art,
this **** way of life,
this ******* paradise
is one of the best reasons that i am alive
and why i’m able to do so much more than just simply survive

The tour group meandered
through silent monuments
of marble, limestone, and granite,
both grandiloquent and pedestrian,
both a signal of worldly prominence
and all those left behind could
scrape together on short notice.

They stopped by the grave of
a once-famed ragtime composer,
the still resting place of a musician
who had been all
banging syncopation and boisterous clamor.

The lyrics of his most famous song
were etched onto the memorial
lovingly in reverent tribute
with the presumption of indelible finality.

But the words were so blurred,
so bled with the rot and rust of weather and neglect
you could no longer make them out.
Perhaps it was a simple failure to scrub
the accursed headstone clean.
Perhaps it was the inexorable stain of time
that could never truly be lifted.

In the end, it was all the same,
all the same,
the same freighted symbolism
all the same.

in lover’s eyes a symphony
wherefore love resides
when hate and pride have forsaken
all our attempts to hide
have been mistaken
i am surely left to blame
for our feelings have meandered
and our minds have often changed
where is beauty and where is spring
when mistletoe is high
all our dancing in apple orchards
really never meant a thing

I was in an art museum once.  
I saw a black and white picture hanging on the wall.
It was of a potato.  Nothing else.  Just a potato.
I was angry at first. I had just meandered through an exhibit of miniature houses that must have taken hundreds of hours to complete and a crazy amount of attention to detail.
This person took a picture of a potato.
I thought of what my hipster friends would say.
“It’s isn’t just a potato.  It’s so much more.  It’s art. It probably stands for famine or the Depression or a childhood friend...”
No.  It is a picture of a potato.  
I thought I would jump on the bandwagon.
So here is my poem:
Potato.

Do you believe in serendipity?
That some things are meant to be?
Like the way our paths meandered
before you bumped into me?

A self-arranged route.
Ambitions led me forward.
Every step was to gain my adolescent aspirations.
I was confident.

When life was array,
The goals became my crutch,
My vitality,
The only reason to move, progress.

Idealistic and naive.
Blind and hopeful.
I meandered swiftly,
I gallivanted unsuspecting.

If I was to truly exist, I had to control my haste.
Oblivious to true adversity,
I needed to digest the lesson,
I needed to understand the complications.

Unexpectedly, the caveat stared at me.
I fought and clashed,
To only raise the white flag of surrender.
The battle was lost.

Who I was eluded.
I struggled through a sea of self-impediments.
I allowed myself to drown in the agony.
I did not have the armor to save me.

Through the fog, I heard songs that healed.
I held on to the words as they began to stitch me together.
I started to crawl,
I knew I would never be the same again.

I knew I had to start a crusade,
An onslaught against myself,
An onslaught against the organization.
I knew I would never be the same again.

As I raised armaments,
With the reinforcement in my ears,
I began to evolve.
The person I was became more substantial.

I had further tribulations ahead,
But I was more prepared, more capable.
I was humbled, yet proud.
The person I was became more unobstructed.

Through the misfortune,
My identity became solidified,
I reattained my dreams,
And I made efforts to get a steady hold.

I told myself I will not founder.
I told myself I could not relinquish.
For this was the war that would define me,
And I knew I must persevere.

I miss that place
Where I used to be:
My childhood land
With the lilac tree.
I miss that grass,
And those golden fields,
The times we used twigs
For our makeshift shields.
I miss that pond,
With the brand-new deck,
Where we’d use a canoe
To make our trek.
I miss that barn,
With the musty stalls,
Which I never minded,
Never minded at all.
I miss the house
On the big, tall hill
With the dark green shutters
Above the windowsills.
I miss our swings
And the climbing tree
That stained our hands
And feet and knees.
I miss the horses
And their comforting smell
With sparkling eyes that
Held my secrets well.
I miss the path running
Through the woods
Where I skipped and laughed
As lively as I could.
I miss my grandfather
and his good ol’ dogs
and doing chores
and catching frogs.
I miss my grandmother
And her sweet smile
As I sat in her kitchen
And did dishes awhile.
I miss those strays,
The cats we had,
Whose kittens we’d catch
And get scratched real bad.
I miss those days
As we lay in the sun
Soaking up all the rays
And just having our fun.
I miss those cats,
And their colorful fur,
Especially Buttercup,
My favorite, her.
I miss dear Grandma
And her warm hugs
And her talent and her laugh
And her homemade rugs.
I miss ol’ Gramps,
And his mischievous ways
and him talkin’ fast
and us balin’ the hay.
I miss that path
That meandered in the trees
Where the branches creaked
And whispered in the breeze.
I miss the horses,
And the bridle leather
And feeding them oats
In all kinds of weather.
I miss the swing,
All knotted and worn,
And the mulberry tree
Where our clothes were torn.
I miss that hill,
With our little house,
That held just us
And sometimes a mouse.
I miss that barn
With the stalls and hayloft
Where the sparrows gathered
And the hay was soft.
I miss the pond
Where my favorite horse died
And I sat next to the water
And I remember I cried.
I miss the grass
That grew thin and tall
And hid all the bugs
And stole our baseballs.
I miss that place
From my childhood,
But I’ll never forget it.
I don’t think I could.

I was magnificent.
I sat there in the dark, alone, and I clutched christmas lights to my chest.
whispering, "here,"
I have wept for my broken hearts, I have meandered down paths that led me slowly here
I am content. I reach backwards with my left, to
those I see stumble,
to catch them if they fall, to see-saw them to the
right there ahead, glinting with age 25
and the sunshine on newly tinted hair.

I haven't caught all the hands or all of the tears,
but I can grasp the holes they left behind with a strength anew

The roof quaked and the sky cracked.
Thunder rang through the misty atmosphere,
and rain plummeted from the overcast sky.
I could hear the drops thrumming rhythmically on the windows,
and the splashing of the cars that meandered down the soggy roads.

Lightening shot down and splintered the heavens,
followed as always by the roaring of the dark night.
I felt the house shuddering
as torrents of rain were cast forward,
and gales of wind crashed around it like waves on the rocky shore.

Through the dripping glass panes,
I saw fog gathering in the dense, stormy air,
shrouding the leafless trees and neat fences in mystic obscurity.

The persistent booming of the heavens did not cease,
and the pounding of the raindrops soldiered on,
but in all the noise, the clamor, the chaos,
the only thing I could hear
was calm.

She wore a windbreaker as red
as her parents voting habits,
and smoked American Spirits
as rough as the next-door
skateboarder's hands.

At 18, she was bored by
teen-aged touch,
and looked towards the
thirty-five year-old avant-garde
painter, who meandered in his
sun room, like a soul
pretending to be lost.

At 20, her parents told her
to go to college, to go to
'some place other than here'.
So, she went and had skinny,
Greek fingers with chipped nail-polish,
dip down and inside of her, without
judgement, without thought, and,
with this touch, she felt free.

At 24, she was an undergrad with
an apartment and a guy named 'Blake',
and Blake said Brown and she said State.
And when Blake left, she felt complete
despite losing something meaningful.

And when her story started to go on forever,
her body spread across the pavement like
seeded jam on burnt toast, scraped thin,
without image and without future, lost
inside crevices and cracks, a memory
or thought, wandering nothingness.

I search this ocean of emotional wrath,
Rage building up from below the core,
I study the textbook acts of feeling hopeless,
In a world of halfwitted fools,
Whom I claim superiority over.

Behold! This artifact of false pride,
I discovered it as I meandered the ocean on my love boat,
Fighting constant rouge waves of selfishness,
It calmly floated through the white foams.

I defected on the **** deck,
Holding no desire for consideration of my mates,
Mates who could care less for me,
And my prejudice towards sailing on this body of water,
They then made me walk the plank.

My heart rate reaches a point of vulnerability,
As I struggle to hold my breath below the surf,
I lasted unusually longer than a month's worth of travel,
Floating on nothing but my buoyancy,
I reached shore,
Suffocating with no use of my hands and feet.

Ironically,
A lady fisherman retrieved me from the waves,
Reciting a prayer, then proceeding CPR,
I regain consciousness, gasping for air,
Forgetting what was to become of me,
I grab her by the torso of her slicker,
And kiss her passionately,
With no ***** given.

She did of course kiss me back,
Confused but delighted,
Once she realized what was occurring,
She pulled away smiling,
I gave her a glance projecting my ruthlessness,
Because I am in fact,
Superior to the king himself.

The sun looked innocent,
As the clouds rolled in viciously,
This storm seemed like an old friend,
I recall it's grubby warfare,
Kicking me around as I swayed to and fro,
On the mahogany of my dear rig,
A rig that has been stolen from me,
On the lost sea of emotional wrath.

I'm waiting for the "block" to break.
My pen is filled with ink.
Nothing seems to come to mind.
I can barely think.

My rhymes have just meandered
Out the kitchen door.
Inspiration took a day off.
My life's become a bore.

The headlines don't excite me.
The president didn't call.
The queen did not invite me.
There was no mail at all.

The pope just went fishing.
Congress is on a break.
My lottery tickets have disappeared
And I can't stay awake.

I guess I'll stay in bed all day
And enjoy a lengthy nap
And maybe have a dream or two
To get me back on track.

I don't have a poem today
Or wait... I think I do...
I'll call it "I don't have a poem today."
And foist it all on you!

Bethany Care Centre staff member by day –internationally recognized knitwear fashiondesigner by night, Sylvan Lake resident SallySandusky recently took Vancouver FashionWeek by storm with her stunning Fall/Winter2016 line.

Eight models strut their stuff for Sanduskyduring her recent show where they showcasedher signature chunky knit sweaters, dresses andshorts as well as a number of delicately knit overlay dresses as they meandered the catwalk.

Her clothing label named, Sally Omeme, stemsfrom her middle name and the Cree word fordove Omimiw, a name her adoptive parentsgave her in hopes of helping her to hold on to a part of her heritage.

In addition to the name for her stunningknitwear line, Sandusky also credits her motherwith her love and talent for knitting.

“I had wanted a scarf and my mom, who hadbeen a knitter all her life, said ‘Well let me teachyou how to knit’,” remembers Sandusky whosaid she has now been knitting since the early2000’s. “One year I knit 75 scarves byworking nights and it just kind of grew from there.”

Following graduation from Camille J. Lerouge School in Red Deer, Sandusky began her career withBethany Care Centre before making the decision to attend the John Casablancas Institute inVancouver – an internationally renowned fashion and beauty school where she studied creative artsand fashion business.

Following graduation from the Institute she returned home to Sylvan Lake and continues designingin her spare time with hopes to launch an online store in the coming weeks. She hopes her recentsuccess at Fashion Week could potentially lead to a buyer picking up her line. In addition to therecent Vancouver Fashion Week show, Sandusky has also been featured in two previous VancouverEco-Fashion Weeks.

The fun doesn’t stop here for Sandusky as some of her most recent line may be featured in upcomingeditions of both Vogue UK and Glamour UK over the next year.

While it is apparent Sandusky was born to create, she added she has faced a number of challengesover the past four years as a designer.

“I think because I’m not trained as a fashion designer I’ve had to learn everything from scratch,” shesaid. “The more complicated my knitwear design becomes the more I have to learn as far as sewingin linings and zippers goes. That has been the most challenging for me in addition to learning how totreat it as a business and not just a hobby.”

She encourages young fashionistas everywhere to never give up on their dreams adding it’s hard tobelieve how far she has come.

“My plate is definitely full right now. Before it seemed so out of reach but now it seems like it’s reallystarting to happen and I’m excited to see where it takes me,” stated Sandusky. “IfI had one piece ofadvice it would be to never give up – keep working towards your dream if that’s what you want.”Read more at:www.marieaustralia.com/white-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-perth

I met a man who sells boxes
Big boxes, small boxes,
dark boxes, boxes with a hole in the top.
right there on the street corner.
selling boxes to whomever he meets.
The man was sharp with a Colgate smile
and eyes that searched your pockets discretely.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,
especially you boys and girls,
toothy wink
Now is your chance,
don’t miss the opportunity.
These boxes sell faster than a free lunch at noon
100% certified to the industry standard
and they come complete with a lifetime guarantee!
I see you second guessing the decision sir.
Let me just tell you, I’ve lived without a box.
It’s not a pretty place to be.
The elements of this world are cruel
and you can’t get back what they take away.
I tell you what, I’m feeling generous today!
I’m declaring that for the next 2 hours
With any purchases of a full size box
I’ll include a child sized box for no additional fee!
But wait, there’s more!
You don’t want a box without a secure lid do you?
Act now and I’ll throw in our patented dual-use lock
Lockable from both the inside and out.
Yes, you ma’am, and one for your daughter as well?”

I watched in horror as the gathering crowd
meandered through his maze of assorted boxes
crouching down and stepping gingerly
inside each one that caught their eye.
Nothing like that new box smell.
Some looked for boxes with head room,
some felt safer with walls to their noses.
A father was helping his son
pull his dreams from a big yellow backpack
filing down the odd edges,
pruning the extrusions,
so they would fit neatly inside
calling his son’s tears the fruit of naiveté
speaking with a voice he assured himself was reason.
The shiny suited man approached me cautiously,
his salesman polish dimmed,
“Have we met?”
He asked with incredulity.
“It’s been about 20 years, I’m surprised you remember”
“Oh, I never forget a face,” he said.
“But what are you doing HERE?
Was there a problem with the box I gave you?
You know there’s a lifetime guarantee.”

“I met a man who collects boxes
in a waterproof warehouse
down at the bottom of the sea.
He knocked on my box and asked the simplest of questions
‘Would you be free?’
My eyes began swimming and my heart shook to its core
as I sadly admitted I had somehow lost the key.
‘Would you be free?’
He repeated, and I answered.
and at once the lid was lifted
and I was lifted
and I was free.
And he set straight the lies that others had told me
And asked if I would give him my fear
my pride, and all the other strings that tethered me to the box
I had sealed myself in for protection.
And then, of all things,
he whispered to me a poem
and it’s that poem that I am here to speak.”

I have people to support and impress and make proud
I don't have the time or funds to afford breaking down
So don't take me seriously when I consider the knives too long
I'm an adult now, won't use the pain, am convinced it's wrong

But I do bleed pretty.

I bleed deep red, it's mesmerizing, stains the floor and bed
I bleed like molasses, slow drops hit the ground like lead
I crackle like a fireworks display, bubble up into vertigo
My vision gets hazy and the colors smear and the light glows

But everything gets better and I'm completely reformed
I'm no longer lonely or depressed or feeling unbearably worn
I don't choke back sobs when I'm in a crowd or at home
I don't stare at nothing and feel impossibly alone

But I do bleed pretty.

Now, I'd never touch a knife, never would go back to those days
When blood meandered down my arm in a thousand different ways
I'd never think twice, never consider diving into pain
And no knife on earth calls with a sugar-sweet whisper of my name

I am happy in what and where I've chosen, would never trade
I have no second thoughts, regrets, no uncertain days
I enjoy life, can't begin to fathom why I ever wanted it to end
I am satisfied with the lack of people I have to call friends

But I do bleed pretty.

A drop on the floor becomes a puddle so fast it intrigues me
One towel becomes four, it still smells like copper, isn't clean
The sound of a blade gently coaxing skin apart is bliss
Only heard when blood rushes in and out and all is quiet.

I do bleed pretty.

A butterfly collided with
my face, today,
as I meandered along that trail.

His wings bruised a kiss
upon my forehead,

echoing another day long ago,
or maybe from a past life
along a different trail.

I can no longer be sure.

And when I blinked
to rediscover myself,
we were both crying, again.

So I brushed him away
toward the dirt road
and kept walking,

My forehead still stinging,
faintly,
marked with a tiny, red heart.

i am a mountain stream
meandering through
a rocky mountainside
one day to stop
and become
still
a deep pool
of those who meandered
before me
whose channels
cut into the earth
with speed and power
to ease my journey

i am always becoming
never ceasing
in the plummet towards
oblivion
i was born in the sin
of my forefathers
tarnished by the acid rain
of my surroundings
and my mistakes
lie in me
as impurities
that only time will filter

I'm deceased
my body and sweet decay
the rot setting in,
I still hear the beeping,
a flat line signaling my end.

It was all a poorly sung illusion,
the offbeat melodic rhapsody
a ****** mockery,
a slow sweet tinkering of bells
tolling a harsh lullaby.

The composition meandered for
so long, the songs changed my life,
beautiful textures,
my bones showing,
my love so bountiful, each moment
still-life.

I flicker to passages,
as I'm lowered in to the case,
I see the happy faces,
you see I'm deceased,
I'm not dead...
I'm at peace.

My hair and teeth,
against bleached cartilage,
and that face;
a contemptuous corpse,
fingers pointing inward,
freed heart and soul,
piercing chest,
a cavity...
okay,
he's dead.


http://www.robross.ca

filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility

The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence

Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate

For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk

The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst

The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return

Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.

Flippant polymaths exude the frippery of travail for lapsed inordinate surgical gains in temporal but temporary acclaim that owes its provenance to the gullarge accentuated by the guttural tempests of silent windfalls that wrestle with sharks and snarky cagamosis with pilfered fame without rulers for rules that own the profligacy of a cineaste game

We cannot surpass our talents with ease when the treecheese of inevitable distance between equipoise and insanity is a tantamount inanity of prolixity for the sake of freedom rather than servitude to the slow meandered steps of trudged verbigeration that needs to be exorcised from the seat of authority for the plodding inconvenience of time earned that shakes the listless yearning people who lie and spurn

Demagogues are trifles because they are anoegenetic and care not for the abligurition that consumes the energy of a dismal life lived on fringes rather than reaped with grimaces for binges that continue to absorb the painful pangs of twinges that hedonists are of interest

We cannot exorcise the demons that give stygian weight to exchequers beyond the gamut of money but rather the currency of velocity of thought that owes its weight to weightlessness of spaces between the spacious and the limited tract of isolative territory that many mendicants looking for sustenance travail in insolence and in perjury of their solemn duties for self-serious honesty they lack a vista to see their crimes as more than just a pettifoggery of disputatious wranglers that wrench and then contemn the objects of their moral scruples to contend with nothing but the vacant expanse of a limitless injury for a momentary slip of cultivation and countenance

Frippery is hard to cobble with lapidary wit because succinct grievances are fallow ground for the permanence of atrocity and the temperance of felicity to conform to the desiccated pathways of limpid but livid excoriations of willful ingenuity met with aleatory rambles that sprawl incalescence with words as a dying occupation that is resurrected from the abeyance of its pragmatic utility to distinguish class from crust.

The triadic fatuousness of snarky sharks recruiting the gullarge of paranoiacs to deputized alacrity lead many strident vocations astray as they pilfer the nullibiety of spectral ignorance and defy the gravitas of the primiparas of a swollen technocracy, an outrage that scarecrows with prevenance have adumbrated against with strident accelerations of sublime velocity

So we swim in perilous straits against the demiurge of inclemency in fated rittles for the turpitude of wraiths and engineer every aborning day a new foofaraw of unalloyed atrocity
Now more than never should be deployed to ensure that the castigation of scoundrels and guttersnipes that exert a rip tide to those stranded on the shores of littoral desiccation might find the pristine beachgoing public an amenable treat proffered by exorcised sheepishness in reiterative bleats that quarkswarm only the antinomy of sentient masteries by shoveled civilizations proctor to horological insistence in design

So we designated an abeyance of heydays to create a rippled nostalgia that creeps in the winter storms that singe even glabrous ignorance with the twinges in absentia of the regal crows that circle the sun as the sustenance of the alighted moon as we reach for the heaved Richter teeming with ablution for venial commination of prolix croons that exert a Palo Alto rhyme

Phenomenological fields distal to the cephalocaudal origination of limber and the ironic counterpoint to that strife in excess rather than dearth of the henchmen behind the exchequer showcase that fluid thoughts surpass the limits of the dentistry of cosmetic cosmology simultaneously a scientific boon but a coarse albatross

We are criminals in a world stranded by ****** apostasy because of the sincerity of minstrels meets plodding human ignorance as exemplars rather than the apotheosis of divine excoriation of wastrels and flattybouches who webdoodle their way into the extinction line in some computer file swiped from eccedentesiasts who often in uncouth barbarity forgetfully abide without the temperance of floss

So what are we to make of magisterial wits of wiseacres who pilot tenable objectives like Indiana Jones flexing his comical whip when the gunfire of cacophony inundates our ears with a lisp of cockalorum imposture rich in chewing tobacco and its ungainly gripes and tenacious grip

Should we seek salvation from the treecheese of arboreous terrain amenable to the newfangled windfall of agricultural whims that dare now with caprice but not quixotic disdain to reconfigure the parsimonious levered engagement of melliferous fungible transaction between sabbaticals and chief financiers dubbing the vociferous limn of the primeval fulgurant incandescent ethereal quips?

We strive for palaces issued with dimes, dozens and scores of retinues that retain the patina of sophistry as the gullarge makes the vangermytes cozy in their defensively mechanized citadel buffered against the unheralded malversations of mammon intersecting with primordial chemistry that give the philanderer a guise of philanthropy despite professed gainsay that perjures because hucksters are winsome with fiduciary risk

So we calumniate with lapsed puns and Potter’s Spells as we dredge the indemnity of bustling heydays that extend beyond the bailiwick stated because of the prolonged trace of nostalgia that frazzles our voluntary expeditions with misanthropy as each libertine instinct becomes subject to stop and frisk

How to balk at such a garrulous repartee as proffered by swanky intransigence that shakes it off in a quaky town that hates the Swift refrain that endangers the fatalism of recuperated foresight borrowed from the armamentarium of corrupted killjoys who swim in a dalliance with the itchy myths that drift from powerlessness to voguish debauchery of insouciant internecine fringes frayed by the tomes that decry Stygian drift

Shiftless and rooted in rintinole absolved by plackiques that enchant the voyeurism of repined squalor of industrious frippery deracinated from the aureate complicity of largesse calibrated to mobilize the skittish mercurial yuppies to a dance with divestiture, taxes and an earthen death, we sprint the evergreen mile toward the scrupulous invention of enthusiastic euphemisms arbitrated by the procrustean silt of the leaky faucet of enigmatic timelessness etched by chiselers to beat “Us and Them” and warn the vanguard of the front rank about the thespian rift

Exhaustive rescue squads prepared for the dearth of monetary heft in times of perilous drought denigrate the authors of famine to the indulgent parents of inordinate sabotage of narrative for riskless arbitrage that is the outrage of sciamachies between platonic indifference and the tantrums of the feckless in the dangerous hearth of the cavernous wilderness of limitless imaginations that stagger so far beyond orbit they become satellites to vagrancy and whittled paragons too distant to dissolve in the ethereal chemistry of incalescent uproar sadly flanged by the Dopplers of ephemeral fate

Squandered by the desuetude of a snarky intervention I issue invective at the proctors of deafferented limbs for barbarous swine meeting expediency in demise, bemoaning the placid distaste of rectified cries that issue candles for each acrimony beyond the permutation of the staid inflexible limit of 88’

Bashfully we careen through argosies of curiosity to fossick the stalactites of timeworn intuition and reckon with their converse ironies that drip faucets of mildew that remain hidden unless poked by plucky flashlights to inspect the paragon of erosive filigrees of a bewildering paradox of polarized design that one meets the ceiling at inception and the cousin strives to clamber empty space to know with faint certainty the bulldozed irony of superordinate coexistence

Now we return to the majesty of a spurned wiseacre that evades the snappy parlance of a wrenched friction between the physical and the metaphysical elements that constitute a commensurate reality so supernal that its ostentation creates lifetimes of reiterative growth that spawns crimson red and bloviated blues to find a fulcrum of balance between the malversation on one hand of criminal sinister machinations and on the other hand the execrable self-righteous ignorance of a hidden vehicles of dexterity that are subsumed by a subtlety of legislative graft that owes its forbearance to the sanctimony of perseveration without the laurels of persistence

Now we wed the concepts between the ambidexterity of a monolithic titan who wanes rather than waxes himself because his glabrous head already exposed requires nothing new because the empire that struck back is denuded by the thorny imbroglio of a sunken Rose

Timmynoggies are perfect for haberdasheries of saccharine and glib excellence as measured by the ****** cacophony of unmerited applause that strains the resourcefulness of the silent mastery of magistrates in mellifluous alcoves surrounded by the soundproofed rigors of an execrable dereliction wilt into the imaginations of the few that watch movies with errantry rather than pleasantries of gaudy nonsense enchanted by a striptease of the wanton zeitgeist that some balk at but everyone knows

Time earns the spangled banners of sloganeering because of the fastidious creations of pole folders that maneuver between quips borrowed from antique movies and swindled affectations of yearning of many of all fears inevitable with the malevolent passage of the technocracy from cheers to vehement inveighed jeers

We should fear the watershed because it necessitates the evaporation of winsome ambition and implores the subservience of a guiltless fascination with abominable regress concomitant to the acceleration of money preceding a whipsawed downfall ensured by the funereal spates of requiems to oneironauts who plunged to their deaths on headlong flickering whims past the craggy landscape of lunar concordance and through the abeyance of qualms to flabbergasted self-importance in the eradication of provident fears

Memorials exist encoded in the temporal twinges of agony that straddle the cardiovascular throbs of impermanence that sweat with each simple beat to blather about the repetitious nature of a livid nature scrambled in exodus of the emigration of senseless blather to the subroutines of regimented sleepless paragons of travail in every pedestrian feat accelerated with each passing foot traversed by vigilant and eager feet

Tempests crowd the cluttered hamartithia of dredged incompetence leading to the foreclosure that precedes the simple derelictions that amount to grievous uncertainties that squawk in the plumage of the frippery decay of an autumnal fall from gracile riches landlocked without room to sprawl rigged against every track that is a surefire gleeful keepsake to meet, greet and serenade the claques adorned with the monikers of the Greeks

Trembling beneath the weight of mellifluous sauntering dingy designs that exude the anguish of our provident but incidental remonstration against the plodding indifference of the artistic clerisy we sputter against intransigent annulments of the emotive human engine calibrated with creaky pistons that rumble with furor of abrasive protest in timely haphazard elemental designs for vanguard ears

Tridents shed the fossicked leaves that are divisible by two but not inevitably glue that solders the identities of people congregated around a situation of gleeful sprees rather than wistful regress into a temerity without regret that gets dangled in the purview of the spiteful wings of armies that drawl when they sing vapid songs for vaped bongs but not the soberly cheers because of the deafening din of conformity oblivious of the honorific crescendos that still peak after so many restless years

Confederates line the avenues of bustling caverns of cumulative human disdain so willfully flouted by the wrenched corrosive frictions of vibrant deformation of the cultural narrative that encapsulates the collective bubbles chewed and jettisoned like bandied candy and then defamed without justice because  hurricanes churn up the reclusive emergence of protective vanity chased down as a sunken cost for a siphoned glory of tribal pride despite the strictures of logic

Creeping with insistence is a subaudition of governing gravel that entombs many steadfast lies that embodied people living delusory lives under a paradigm that has been subverted by the feats of science into a morass of irrelevance and the chances are many of those so deluded still breathe the air now more polluted but balk at the memories of the fallen passengers on the convalescent train that accelerates sunblind but respectfully toward a systematic engrossment of swollen intellects whimpering about the tautologic

We finance our prescient rodomontade with rodeos equipped with zany clowns who spurn the tridents of Poseidon because of the iridescent gloss of sheepish and flippant zealots who churn against the wrestling match of televised irony with accentuated eccedentesiastic disdain amended by a tolerable diversion of ennobled gallantry zip-zagging among the many valid quodlibets and missing the mark entirely on purpose to vacate the possible raillery of those who balk at time’s chosen serpentine tracks because of limited pedagogical tracts

So lets solder a forceful brunt against the senseless regalia of modern omphalos and return to the plenipotentiary fields of resourceful human inquiry into the chagrins outmoded by convenience but amplified in vociferation by the prosthetic extension of a grangull humanity outfoxing itself into a zugzwang inevitable in the future with collateral losses because of senseless invidiousness orchestrated by the immiscible dermatology of divisive facts often about race and ineluctable tax

We conclude with the optimism that refineries become gentrified by the superlunary squadrons who bask in beatific beams of anonymity and that the pollution preceding our evolution is just adventitious rather than central to the amelioration of wavy screens ennobling so many upstarts to teach themselves the majesty of lucid dreams and to capitalize on ludic ideals divorced from the urchins of radical idealisms that ironically poach rarefied air with smug pollution of narrative scares

Without trepidation we can muster the largesse of civility to create a progeny that has a recursive progeny of heirs that defiantly imagine a world bereft of specters of the soporific imagination enforced by the lapidation of insight from termagants who stride with ursine acrimony naked bare and envision a global meliorism that is careful, picaresque, pragmatic and filled with meritocratic care

With those ornaments of an aureate measure in mind


We leap beyond the enumerated infinity in time's proper design