Introduction:
What is *Preludium but a time to reflect on what it is we know;
What has gone before, and how it might shape those things to come?

Preludium, or, what has gone before:
An entire world,
A great big steaming musty living breathing screaming world and-
For all we know-
There’s but two souls that care to fill it:

Sly Squint, our latest hero,
Swinging through his city like t’were a steaming jungle
And him the proverbial Ape,
He crouches in shadows on rooftops,
Directing his lust, forceful! At all
That kneels before him.

Then there’s our mysterious wanderer-
One hell of a sorry, stinking, sulky sort is he.
No Name to claim yet garbed in rags aplenty
Travelling on an endless quest
Towards a dying dusk.

Yet we need to draw a Third.
See, in this strange place we find ourselves, riddled with danger and loss,
We need one who knows some things;
One who is up there;
Better yet, one who helped to shape this world.
Because for now we are clueless, vulnerable, shambling in darkness.
And that will simply not do.

So, with haste, dear reader, with haste,
Let us ride for the one with the answers;
The one with more Names than you can count, even if you had a lifetime in which to do so;

The one who holds all the strings.

a shell of a man sat in a cavern by the beach
barely willing to breathe
and he watched as the fishermen in their boats went by
deep inside he would let out a sigh,
"if only my father had taught me how to fish
and we had been wealthy and had servants to dish
up our food
then i would not be sitting here in rags

i would be in a nice little house with a pretty lady and we would have three children or four
if i had the money, perhaps we'd have more
but, alas, i cannot

i am poor and this will never change."
with what little he had, he fed that rage
he sat for days
begged for food from the passersby
they brought him shrimp, which he claimed was too dry
"and these scallops do not have enough salt.
yes.  everyone else is at fault."

with an upturned nose he'd cry 'bout his lot
his body was famished but his pride was not
it grew and reared its head like a lion
all while the leftover food would go flying
in tempter tantrums of rage
because his lot would never change
he loved his pride more than his own head
so he fed the lion of pride instead.

one day, a man (new to the town) saw him sitting in the cavern as people gave him food
the man, as usual, in a sour mood.
the new man had never seen anything quite like it before.

"Why," he asked himself, "I'll be darned if this man has never been taught how to use a net.  If I be a man of God, I ought to teach this poor fellow what he'll never forget.  I shall go out in the morning and teach him how to fish."

True to his word, the man was there the next morning before the sun peaked, while the corpse-like body of the man was fast asleep.

"Good morning, sir."  Said the man, shining his lantern into the cavern.
No answer.
"Good morning.
I am Cornelius.  I saw you yesterday being helped by the people of the town, and I could not help but want to show you how to get around.  Teach you to fish, how to make it a dish, I would even let you steer the ship.  How would you like that?  If I teach you, it shan't take longer than a month, and you'd get money to get you out of this slump.  Why, any employer would love to hire you on if you could figger it out and show some brawn.  You would earn more than enough to eat.  Could even buy yourself some nice new sheets.  Perhaps build a home, wouldn't have to be alone.  Find yourself a wife and have a happy life.  Would you like that, sir?"
There was silence for a moment, and the voice from the bed of rock and seaweed mumbled, "It is far too early for me to be awake."
Cornelius said, "Why, sir, there is no reason not to be awake right now.  I am offering you a day on the sea, I won't let you down.  Some people pay money for that, they do.  I haven't much time, I need to know if you'll come, too."
The mumbled voice, "I haven't any shoes, I could get splinters in my feet.  Besides, the morning mist is sweet."
Cornelius, "Why, I have an extra pair on the boat.  They might not be the right size, but they'd be perfect and nice."
Voice, "No, no.  I have bad vision, I will never be able to be a fisherman."
Cornelius, "Well, you don't have to look out long distances unless you are the one steering.  That won't be a problem, sir.  Come out, I will teach you to fish."
Voice, "I cannot be out on the waves too long.  Motion sickness, see, so much could go wrong."
Cornelius, "I had motion sickness as well, but you grow accus-"  
"And my arms are too frail to use a net.  No, it's best that I stay here and get some rest."
"Well, it wasn't for nothing, I suppose.  Maybe tomorrow you'll want to go."

He didn't move, his lips barely stirred, he said,
"Good sir, when you get back with the ship, will you bring me back those shoes and some fish?"

i remember the nights
that my home set itself alight
along with the rest of the nation,
in rage at ashen-faced foster parents
open window, gasp for breath
and there was only smoke.
though it was not enough to live on,
it quelled the hunger for a while
and we smiled
as one, hands held in this hell
while the father we never asked for
let us poison ourselves
on the gifts brought back from holiday
three days too late
to find an urn
in the blank space once held
by a hospital bed,
now lying broken in a skip,
all cinders, rags,
no riches —
but the stitches at
least are removed,
as gone as everything else.

Twinkle twinkle my little star
How I wonder how you got that scar
Up above the world so high
I could hear your silent cry
In this lullaby
Let me tell you a story
It's not a mystical fantasy nor just a legend spread by many
It's nothing but a harsh and cruel reality

I once got off on a damaged road
And met this child who wore a tattered coat
No slippers on his ***** foot
On his back was probably some loot
He got somewhere in the neighborhood
The cemented path was scorching hot
Oh how could I forgot?
It's 40 degrees outside and I could see sweat dripping down from his face non stop
How could I bear watch him that way?
So I approached and say if he want some ice tea
The child nodded with his tiny head
I led him to sat on the grass at the nearby park
Talked about things that made me upset
Things that snapped by bottomline thread
With a muffled voice he pretended
To be fine as he recalled scenes that made me shuddered
Who could have known a child who should be in kinder
Is working his bones for what?
A money so meager it couldn't cover his meals for dinner?
It hit me
Blindfolded eyes that couldn't see
That Jack and Jill did not just went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water
Needeed some lumber
Till the soil for the cucumbers
Catch some fishes at the river
Dig the goldmines deeper
Lights flicker, it's time for supper
Only noodles for the tummy
Where is empathy? humanity?
This was a result of poverty
Lack of responsibility
And a deaf society
His name was Juan and Juan got a sister
Who was so lovely it became her tragedy
Caught the pervert's attention
Made use of her innocence for exploitation
Robbed her dignity
She couldn't care less for your sympathy
She needed for you to stop being a silent somebody
Itsy bitsy spider
Spunning webs on tiny rough fingers
Cover the nose, chemicals in the air
The sharp tools beware
Take good care of your welfare
Ah, why do they have to bid farewell?
To stardust dreams? To fluffy teddybears?
To have notebooks instead of burdens?
To play hide and seek instead of running away from the grim reaper?
Open your eyes, people!
This is nothing simple
This is not a fairy tale
They are our children with stories to tell
Stuck at the deepest layers of hell
Being slaves to demons who don't give a care

It's time to row row row our boat
Gently but quickly down the stream
To rescue Juan and his sister
And a million more who we owed
Childhood memories and sparkling dreams
Row row row our boat
Get that voice you swallowed
Be their voice in a noisy seas
Let the world hear their pleas
To the children who had factory noises as everyday melodies
To the children who had stale breads as cookies
Who had rags as clothes and having shoes means luxuries
Show them that you care
That you are aware
And their hopeful shouts didn't led to nowhere

Twinkle Twinkle my little star
We are not so far
Up above the world so high
I could still hear your silent cry
But be ready to say goodbye
To the life worst than ants

Hold my hands
Let me listen to your heartly laughs
We rowed our boat for that
To see you away from the labor's grasps

Twinkle Twinkle My Little Star
Let me see you shine as the star you are

Horatio Alger is whispering his stories in my sleeping ear
painting me as a lowly street urchin
who conquers adversities and moral wildernesses
with only my wit, determination, and guts
and he is painting me as a phoenix of the new world
rising from ashes of banality and
the naturalized familial trappings of my past
a dirt road in the socioeconomic desert
carved out with care by the hands of forefathers I will never know
but Mr. Alger died a long while ago
and the sun inevitably rises
shattering the stained glass story of my rags turned riches
now the big men upstairs
jot me down as numbers on a chart
of consumption trends of millennials
Go to college
they say
make something of yourself
they say
you are all too entitled
they say
What went wrong
they say without a hint of contradiction
I am not equipped to say if the story of humanity
is a cycle or a downwards spiral
I am not equipped to say
that it is the job of every generation
to ensure that they clear the debris
from the path of their progeny
but I say it anyway
everybody want’s a trophy
because we were raised to believe that
everybody deserves a trophy
In the same breath they expect us
to take the puritanical mantle of the breadwinner
the frayed saddle of the noble western outlaw
the lethally honed sword of the entrepreneur
the martyr making cross of the socially conscious family man
and then wonder why we so willingly
give ourselves over to the currents
of apathy and passivity and masochistic narcissism
giving us guns and bullets with no idea how to shoot them
so instead we turn them into sculptures of modern art
and scream to the empty heavens
for just a hint of recognition
I can’t decide if history will forget us
or memorize the lyrics of our collective heart beats
but I have decided
to wake up from my American Dream
have decided
to forge my own reality

Did you hear?
The preacher met the mendicant who’s
proselytizing the end of the world Saturday.
They sat and had it out
on the steps in front of the old
  Baptist church on Main St., each idolizing
their poison with the wild green
all around, the preacher high
   on the holy steps
looking so divine above
the hobo in multicolored rags,
who scams and scams the plentiful
   from a gutter-pipe and who began
the conversation like this:

[snort]: “Go on father! Out with it,
what’d you call me out here for?”

“I hear you’re preaching the end of the world, Charlie—”
     he said putting a stick of gum to his lips,
     suddenly conscious of his stinking breath.
“Well, you’re scaring some of the lambs from my flock, they’re
       frightened beyond their wits—and I’m sorry but this is outrageous
I demand to know why, exactly why!
Because it’s interfering with my plans,
for Saturday I am preaching the End of Times.”

“Well… I believe it for a number of reasons,” said
  the hobo shouldering his heavy sign of doom.
“I mean things just keep getting worse,
no one gives to the needy anymore,
the poor are many, the golden skyscrapers high,
                            those huddling in the streets from gloom
     are praying to die—not to be saved,
   and their numbers just keep growing—
    the most double blessing that a
    man can get used to anything….
So I thought why not take advantage of my situation—
      I gotta make a meal!—
so I blew the crooked horn and said
that all ye minutemen of sin
                   and tradition are just killing
by rules that no one believes in….”
      
        Just then a fat green fly went buzzing by,
reminding Charlie of an old poem
“But tell me father, why do you
      believe in the End of
Times…?”

And the preacher in his dress took a deep sigh
wondering why it was everything had to die by Saturday:
“Well…. there are a number of signs.
         But mostly I think it’s morals—
nobody has any respect
    anymore, they open up
your door for you and say:
‘Excuse you!
        That’ll be five dollars.’
    How freewill
             turns and twists minds.
The youthful
          free, starving wanting-to-be artists—
       they won’t tithe in my church anymore,
they just throw me their books and say
with a blithe look that it’s not about
money anymore…
But what are they saying?
         Meanwhile they put a ****** hex
on all that is holy, have ***
     on all that’s white and pure.
Say that I’m an old man
            in a dress and that we’re all
blessed when really
     none of us are blessed—
say that the light is muddy
and the dark is clear, when really
I’m as clean as I can be, no foul
    smelling intentions in me!
         And that is how the End of Times will be!”

  And before the stench of death
could escape his breath, he put another
stick of gum to his lips.
  
   “Agreed.” said the hobo hastily….
     “But father, it doesn’t seem like
our lambs are really that different,
    it seems more to me that we’ve
been shepherding from the same flock
    and what we ought to do is take advantage
             of this unique situation.
                 Let’s put up a big round shining tent
                       on Main St. for Saturday
   and we’ll hold a dual End of Times—
       our lambs together, don’t you see?
      We’ll draw in twice the crowd
        twice the lot
twice the loud, crying fervor
believing in the burning streets.”
  
“Yes….. yes!” said the preacher with a corvine grin
and a turning coin in his eyes.
      “I get what you’re saying now. Yes, it’s genius—our preaching
together, one way or another, we’ll rake it in—and after the ending,
      when it’s all through….
Uh… [ahem] tell me, just one more thing—you do believe in the End of Times?”

“Sure, brother, sure…
        don’t you?”

With my head
still on my bed
I try to peek out for new lights
for new inspiration
for new myself
among the crowds of desolate.
Everyone is excited about some new year.
Me too.
and I look back at the old year
and the older one
more older one.
I remember my friends
the members of my family
the rags on the street
the kings of the doomed
Try to look at their old year and new year
everyone is happy.
much smile and happiness.
But they fear tomorrow they have to forfeit
what today they are celebrating.
even the newspaper.

I never celebrated the name.

There are shadows along our city streets
That hold the shape of life,
They wander for the sake of going
Seeking our brightness out;
To cast themselves on our emotions
Sympathy and sorrow, a little guilt perhaps
That we carry our light into our homes,
Not to a bed of cardboard and rags
Where shadows can hide among shadows.

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green **** hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip—
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

The moon's a dying ember
This evening in late September

A ***** copper coin
Resting on her porcelain ****

A mosaic of Ancient Corinth
As the soldiers passed
In blood-red rags
And orange

(c) Rafael Alfonzo

Man of rags
Man of riches
            Rags clean
            Riches steal
So who has
So who's sold?

These are wounds
piled on my desk.
They bleed for
attention and ink.

These are nameless,
kept away from view.
******* children,
of my quill.

Urchins in rags,
unkept and unfinished.
They haunt my dwelling,
as beggars do.

They are dismembered,
without proper structure.
Perhaps faceless,
void of identity.

Give them names,
would equate their freedom.
Label them,
and they shall see the sun.

Or not,
and leave them,
as they are.

Untitled.

Baby just born,
this new world you won,
destiny's is open,
your journeys begun.

You cry for the sorrow you're still going to feel,
for all the confusion and broken souls that kneel.

You cry for the beautiful sunsets you will see,
the pain of love's passion and the horrors that be.

So much anticipation that you don't understand,
so much expectations of what will be wrought by your hands.

Will you be a hero who will rise and break through?
Or just another chancer with nothing to do?
Will you be a saviour defining this age?
Or just another traveler sailing the page?

The thorns pierce you deep as you churn in your sleep,
The future still open for the power you keep.

But for now enjoy the agony of just trying to survive,
be consumed with the wonder of being alive,
pierce our hearts with your intense and innocent glare,
let us carry you on to the cross you will bare.

We will build you up with the best that we have,
we will give you our dreams and the best of our rags,
you will eat our truths and mimic our faults,
You will sift our souls and take what is yours.

And then just like that your colours will fade,
disappearing in the mist all the wonders you made,
even as you entered your life's ticking down,
it is appointed to all to receive our burial crown.

I pray you will make your mark on the history books
of a rich beautiful life breathing beyond the boundaries
of your mortality and being remembered just a bit longer
until this world is passed too and all is forgotten.

Never lose the wonder,
never lose the tears,
never forget you were carried
until the day you're buried.

You are our hope for something new and something different,
a creative spark to erase our failures and apathy,
Namaste, we bow to you,
Be, my boy, and take what's due to you.

What a sorry sight we are
Our faces are pale
Hair is ***** and matted
The "clothes" we wear are rags sewn together
We eat what the rats leave
The scars on our arms are memories
Of what we left for this
We were scorned and persecuted
Because we were wrapped in light
Now we can't escape darkness
Our smiles were slapped off of our faces
The best we can do is paint them back on
They replaced our crowns with thorns
And we let them!
We were mocked for respecting our Father
So we ran away from home
We were fearless
But now we cower from our own shadows
We **** our dreams and devour their wings
We're monsters who once were knights
And yet our Father still holds His arms wide open
He wants us to come home
But our own thoughts hold us back
It's not our tormentors' fault anymore
They can't stop us from leaving
But we think they can
So we grit our teeth
As the b;ade greets us
Crimson tears blur our vision
Of our loving Father

they say greatness can't be found
if you're less than a slave bound
down with some imaginary tether
formed from the Great Lies
of our blessed Modern Times
to that I say *******
maybe I enjoy being a slave
trying to relive old ways of life
lived by primitive men in a cave
surrounded by danger and strife

the pen starts to write
I refuse to be gentle and kind
to offer you peace of mind
to keep pretending I'm blind
to graciously bow down
to be the royal clown

as it is so it is written
smitten with the same words
over and over again

**** being published
**** your fame
**** your image of a tame
kind eyed romantic
dreaming of a better world
I'm a savage and I want to ravage
the sublime thighs of Lady Time
if immortality can't be bought achieved
I'll just climb to the top
and **** down the head of Chronos
if I end up being swallowed
by his gigantic mouth
I'll carve my way out
through his stomach using sharp words
and badly written rhymes

to hell with your preconceived notions
on how to feel emotions
on how to live
on how to dream
I'll love somebody with all my hate
I'll twist the arms of fate
I'll be early by arriving late
I'll eat soup as I would eat cake

to Heaven with your dreams
it seems you're already there
judging humans below
to Nirvana with your spirituality
being enlightened and one with all
as you ascend from the eternal descent
to the Bank with all your riches
and material possessions so you can
have more and more and MORE

it's a bit confusing I find it amusing
that I wish you all the well
while imagining you in a bottomless well
it's a bit confusing I find it amusing
how I keep abusing your sense of calm
with stick figures drawn with letters
it's a bit confusing I find it amusing
how I wish you only good
then again I want to say *******

**** it **** your acceptance
I don't need your understanding
or sympathy
or do I?

confused by my own words
****
whatever mate' I'll go and *******
******* some poems
as I drown in my perpetual shade of blue
being depressed oppressed
by my weakness

here's to being modern **** the World
make it your ***** pillage plunder
**** on the seventh wonder
get ****** be hissed by old hags
wearing old rags
dreaming of smoking ****
wishing to be young and wild again

here's to the World burning in fire
a myriad of Nero's hysterically laughing
as they watch
inhaling the fumes of their own insanity

here's to ******* till' you sweat
uh huh you like that don't you

here's to **** **** and ***

here's to us bearers of *****
aimlessly wandering from hole to hole
trying to fill the emptiness of our soul
with cheap beer bad ****
consequently conversations about philosophy
that **** the duality of our being
into a metamorphosis truly worth seeing
we're all moths flickering around some light
bright futures waiting to be lit
and pass down wisdom to future generations

here's to us whom now and then
see beyond the ****** veil of reality
and paint obscure dreams
onto the mind of strangers

here's to us fake poets ignoring
the visions dreamt by the Machine
showed down our throats since we're born
torn between consuming
and always wanting more

here's to us all humans on a tiny planet
trying to figure out where we belong
as we reach for stars
our scars become insignificant and petty
our sorrows and woes are obsolete
as we slowly slide down on the complete
beauty of Time

here's to us all
whom in our trifle existence
connect to each other
love hate and feel each other
whom live each moment as it's the last
trying to escape shadows cast by the past
whom burn brighter than the Sun
and we run arms flailing trying to fly
ending up sailing on the ugly sea
of a minimum wage dream

as it is so it is written
smitten with repetition
I don't want any recognition
my words have already taken me
far beyond the limits of sanity

thanks for taking your time
to embrace these few words of mine

i saw the greater part of creation succumb to the piracy of numbness-
the nimbus rage of torpedo cigars blowing blue-grey smoke into the dark lashes of love-struck little *****-
thirsty angels with tangled curls of hair bashing their heads against bathroom walls
screaming under their breath,  not enough.
i saw the green plastic- and her orange eyes
and the soap-bubbles on the sidewalk
and the soap frothing all over the sidewalk
and the glass that took off like pristine bullets in every direction
and-
blood running over the ***-covered lip of the curb, flowing into the street-
down to the drain, dripping into the hungry orifices of the big metal grate
into sewer pipe salvation-
destination unhindered by your humanity.
god, this must be insanity
and not even the good kind.
but
let's go watch the fire-works up on the roof-
crawl out the attic window
i let you go first to watch the electric calico
trickle down your legs like a promise.
i like the birds that fly in and out of your hair-
the handkerchief at your hip,
i like the crazy and the cool-
the too cute for comfort
and the fake angsty danger of your darkside.
like morphine-
the band or the drug?
you're ironically detached
with your semi-satanic languidity-
and overdue serenity
[i got a few overdue books at the library.]
[they closed the library a long time ago.]
i like to play catch with your presence-
our eyes with the back-and-forth,
the half-sent glances when we think the other isn't looking.
but we were always looking-
or at least i was always looking at you.
i could see half inside of you.
you were always half-naked-
in the scanty rags of the latest fashion.
when you breathed it was like nectarine noises-
and muffled yelps of love.
i watched your shirt move up and down on your chest
and told you about "never knows best"
it seems
i've seen the greater part of creation succumb to the supreme softness
and the best laid plans of motorcycles and mini-vans fall to pieces in my palms.
and you were the greatest creation i saw on the roof that day.
don't bat another pretty little eyelash at those tiny flashing pieces that go past like ricochets
it's just one more night of strangeness
and then you can be free again.

Act Anonymous
Put on the mask of your true self
Jump of the window and-
Talk with strangers

The true color of humanity is shining-
under the rags of the dumping site
where the dogs of the heaven made are-
mating . the cycle must - go on!

Needless to say,
the mask-
is the true identity

The star dust nebula swirling around
under every passing wheels
gives me chills under my anonymity

Still under the watch of divine intervention

and under the subject of my free will
"Please god close your eyes"

on the ride
i meet strangers with smile and
humans who don't care
there are turns of wormholes
and strong pull of black holes
the star dust nebula strikes again but-
its just a ride.

take a break now. the red signal means it.

-
-
* Break time Story*
Here is story I wanna tell . Just to keep you occupied.
I once met me on the turning of time travel.
I was horrible human because I defamed love for god
and few centuries ago, I was celebrated engineer
I happened to create the god. that was it. its a ride.
-
-
-

honk the horns mr. my man! start your engine, kindly.
Move on forth.
I have strangers to meet because they are with smiles.
Smiles.

Imagine waking up on a filthy, uneven floor -
light coming solely through the flimsy wooden wall.

Imagine trudging through the mud barefoot -
mud merged with remnants of God knows who.

Imagine breathing in thick layers of sooty dust -
the colors sullen, lifeless and dull.

Imagine smelling the scent of faeces and decay,
of diseases and of death every single day.

Imagine your belly gurgling with hunger and distraught,
sniffing glue - the only way to delude.

Imagine walking on rickety bridges -
a step amiss and drown you will in these murky watery ditches.

Imagine wearing the same old rags - all tattered and torn,
being beaten and battered, no rights of which to call your own.

Imagine having silly daydreams of going to school
but there's not a penny to spare - not even for a worn-out book.

But alas, imagine no more for such children exist,
with ghosts clouding their starry dreams
And death hanging heavy upon their tiny, little feet.

We got out of the ****** motel early,
while we still could,
before the rental car got stolen
or our room underwent dynamic drive-by refurbishment.
There was supposed to be a
complimentary continental breakfast,
but the coffee machine was broken
and someone had already swiped all the donuts.

My only frame of reference for Inglewood was that it was Sam Jackson's character's home turf in 'Pulp Fiction',
leading me to suspect it
probably wasn't a nice area,
although the fat ****** smoking outside
when we'd checked in at 2am
had seemed very friendly.

You were right about LA, about
how there must be a sun, but you can't
really see it, you just
sort of assume it's up there somewhere
behind the fog huffing in off the Pacific
and the toxic breath rising from the
city's gridlocked mouth.

We made for Venice Beach, because you
don't fly all that way and then not go,
us figuring ourselves early enough
in the grey, jet-lagged damp, to
avoid the junkies, the winos and the crazies,
the symptoms of America driving itself mad with
unrealistic dreams.
But they were already there, muttering and
shivering on sand and cement, some
under rags or cardboard,
just waking up in
spite of themselves.

A woman with the hungriest face I ever saw
threw a cigarette lighter at me, then yelled,
shaking in her filthy clothes, that she wasn't giving it to me, *****, FYI,
FBI, CIA, JFK... then
started screaming about Kennedy and all those lying ***** up on the hill.

The ocean ******* away at the land behind us, like it was
whetting its appetite for the day when San Andreas splinters, and the waves finally get to
devour
California.

The hungry-faced woman was still shouting when
we walked away, through the graffiti and
gangs of *******-huge, hulking seagulls.
If I'd stopped and tried to talk to her, if I'd
gotten anywhere close enough, I was
afraid she'd tear a bite out of my face,
and I didn't know what shots I'd need if that happened, and we didn't have medical.
Which was a shame,
because I'd have liked to hear
what she had to say about Kennedy.

We walked to where you'd street-parked
the car which
still hadn't been stolen.
On the way, some guy, a stranger
coming the other way, called you
'Football Dude' and asked you
to catch his neighbour if she
jumped off her balcony, but
I think he was joking.

Oh, and the car was yellow.

The road seen, then not seen, the hillside hiding
then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall, and the way forward
always in the end the way that you came, the way
that you followed, the way that carried you into your future,
that brought you to this place, no matter that it sometimes
took your promise from you, no matter that it always
had to break your heart along the way, the sense
of having walked from far inside yourself out into the revelation,
to have risked yourself for something that seemed
to stand both inside you and far beyond you,
that called you back in the end to the only road
you could follow, walking as you did, in your
rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night, became a prayer for safe arrival…

by: David Whyte
excerpt from SANTIAGO

I didn't intend on joining
Neighbourhood Watch
When I stepped onto my perch,
The elevated porch.
I spied a lad
Trying a car door
In the drive
Next to the cop's.
That's forbidden fruit
In the dark of night,
Under the slight light
Of a quarter moon.
Had I called the cops,
Would he now be homeless
By an ignominous,
Effaced father.
His pride's a tailored fit
From rejected rags.
Friends may post the antics
In glossolalia on FB
For all nations to read
The mark against him.
I didn't call.
The sin of the father
Is exposed in the sun;
Not in alleyways
Under broken street lights
Where a rejected son
Devises a defense;
Thinking no one sees him;
Thought he was alone.
I yelled to him, go home.
Go home, very few can.

ask me what happened to make the world this way
I will say everything happened
we were put here to destroy and destroy
to obliterate all that came before us
because **** those people
We are here now
and they never will be again
so burn the museums
and tear down the landmarks
salt the earth black
and then we can build an ode
to the false idol
of the post-modern fragmentary image *******
and our cult will go on living in caves
in ***** rags
terrified of the thunder
and the night

When I almost reached home, I took some water from the ocean. It is as blue as the morning sky.
I passed the market, and bought
you a cup. It is as brownish as the earth I used to plough.
Then I put my best clothes, made of old rags. Sewed by my old lady.
And i walked over the plants, picked a blooming daffodil.
I did not have it wrapped, nor any ribbon to cover it up.
I ran to your garden, faster andfaster till I caught my breath.
I saw you standing there, in your garden of Eden, with a man holding your white hand.
He got roses. Red and white and pink and blue.
He got a sparkling bottle and a beautifully crafted wooden basket.
I just stood there, watching you. Watching him. Watching me.
I poured the blue water to the ground. Left the cup above the earth and the dirts.
Ripped my clothes into pieces of rags.
And i ran, as fast as the wind.
Heading to the ocean.

our promised land is mortgaged
waters poisoned
your daughters legs are spread
mass culture ready to eat her out.

she buys it all-
the gossip rags, fake tans, cherry-flavored condoms.
she aches for it and it takes her gladly
leaving behind only a faint scent of perfume.

blood nails and ******* lips and artificial **** carry on.
girls lose their virginity only because it's trendy
and people obsess over the human interest
pieces on the nightly news.

i lash out with coffee breath
and short nails and unkept hair
and no religion
as my mother sits me down and
asks me not to step on any toes.

We looked down into the canyon.
Our tired eyes strained.
The dying Sun.
Searching for that hidden trail.
Running from those smoking guns.
Those men with money on their minds,
who have no place for guilt, nor fear.
As we looked into the canyon,
I thought I saw her shed a tear.

Three long days spent running.....
just these old rags upon backs.
At night I'd watch you sleeping.
Sweep the ground to hide our tracks.
The morning light would bring relief,
cause you'd be by my side.
Thinkin..... someday if we make it,
thinkin you might be my bride.

But alas, our fate was always written, there among the stars,
I should have left you safe at home,
in your fathers arms.
I should have hit the road alone,
before they got a scent.
But it was you that always said
"Our Love is Heaven sent".

That Shot Rang Out...........
that pierced your heart.
Rang through the crimson skies.
So with this final bullet,
I shall also say goodbye.
Ill see you soon in Heaven dear,
from where our love was born.
Ill see you on the otherside..............
upon those golden shores.

See you on the otherside,
so we're never alone.
.

Silent are the rocks;
Silent the alleys and stone walls,
Cracked foundations and fountains.
No voices speak now, except through the wind
Twisting and turning, on its way through the gorges.
The weather has beaten out every surface,
Stamped it's stalagmite of time upon the faces.
The last rags of clothing hung out to dry
Are a sifting, unrecognizable ash of piled up molecules,
Indiscernible from the storm-strewn cadavers
Of wood, straw and leaves,
Leaves which can laugh at the ferocity of sudden gales
And chatter annoying, behind lifting fingers of twig,
Themselves tumbled shamelessly, into ancient doorways
That once were closed against all intruders.

The cipher of their blood has marked, defined this place,
Pressed it down, with the missing weight of forgotten culture,
Though their language is still indistinguishable from others,
But that their slivered bones have stopped up the pilfering,
The plundering of tombs by wild running waters,
Trickling down to the lowest graveled catacombs
Of a once vibrant village;
It is all running spaces of tomb now,
And the few visitors that happen to wander in
Find themselves holding their breath,
Wary of their modern dissonance
Disturbing the invisible residents of past days.

The rubble cries, mourning the loss of human touch. Weeping over the crushing silence that echoes through the once busied cobble-****** streets. These neglected edifices, with their iron-rusted bones, litter the long-vacant valley. The inhabitants of the forgotten valley stopped bearing children and began falling ill, heralding the arrival of their great collector.

On their own horizons, the people could see the visage of their guilt, cloaked in tattered rags that seemed to disintegrate against the most subtle breeze and sitting atop an emaciated mount with pallid skin. That rider, who strolled ever so slowly, dragging behind him wrapped in chains the ill-begotten promises of fools, the indiscretions of humanity came with ample warning. They ignored him; their self-loving monuments fell, and the crystalline waters of their gilded fountains flowed with arsenic. All too late did they recognize the shameful consequence of their hubris.

And so, when that cold Gray Rider arrived, gaunt and hollow-eyed, to collect his caravan of souls, the buildings howled like mothers sending the last of their children into the cold, unforgiving world. Thus, the sorrowed rubble weeps until it is reclaimed by the borrowed Earth, slowly returning to the soil from which it was born, allowing the verdant valley to take shape once again.