In between   (a poem)
.
my mind struggles against its own illusion
nightmare tumbles out into still morning
light is heavy,
a fog of echoes...
and I am caught
.
day dreams the sunlight
dreams light the day
and I am caught in between
mourning echoes...
like a stillborn ghost
who can't take a breath in the present

….
  
I live on a tropical island and just want to go surfing with my husband, but the nausea in the early morning as I try to eat  breakfast and drive with him to the beach is so uncomfortable.  Day after day it makes even surfing a chore, and I consider not going anymore.  Background anxiety and unreasonable irritation interferes with our marriage, frustrates him enough to want me out.  

For me, a trip to the grocery store or meeting a group of people awakens the same dreadful fear as rockclimbing a cliff. Perspective has been lost in the extremes.  I try to gain some control over this hindering nuisance, seeking situations that bring the same surges of adrenaline so I can learn to master it.  If I can just push past the avoidance that would keep me inside doing nothing, if I can just ignore the feeling I want to throw up, if I can just get out there, I am rewarded with life’s potential beauty eventually.  Many days I do enjoy the thrill of mountain biking or connection with nature when surfing, but there are too many days of internal struggle that reduce what should be enjoyable to a relentless chore of wrestling inner demons.

The VA offers a few sessions of marriage counseling, and the doctor begins to explain PTSD.  ***, I’ve learned to cope with an unreliable brain, but now there’s this?  From what I understand (and that’s just me, an amateur philosopher) Sometimes the brain is so traumatized, that the memory is literally sealed off, encapsulated, protecting it from changing.  If later something happens that is similar, the brain triggers avoidance responses as a take-no-chances survival mechanism.  Literally the brain is protecting one’s self from one’s self.  This all-or-nothing strategy works fending off potential dinosaur attacks, but in our complex society, these automatic avoidance behaviors complicate functioning and well being.  Life becomes an attitude of constant reaction instead of motivated intention.

The website for the National center for PTSD says.  “After a trauma or life-threatening event, it is common to have reactions such as upsetting memories of the event, increased jumpiness, or trouble sleeping. If these reactions do not go away or if they get worse, you may have Posttraumatic Stress Disorder.”  

“Common reactions to trauma are:
• Fear or anxiety: In moments of danger, our bodies prepare to fight our enemy, flee the situation, or freeze in the hope that the danger will move past us. But those feelings of alertness may stay even after the danger has passed. You may:feel tense or afraid, be agitated and jumpy, feel on alert.  
• Sadness or depression: Sadness after a trauma may come from a sense of loss---of a loved one, of trust in the world, faith, or a previous way of life. You may:have crying spells, lose interest in things you used to enjoy, want to be alone all the time, feel tired, empty, and numb.  
• Guilt and shame: You may feel guilty that you did not do more to prevent the trauma. You may feel ashamed because during the trauma you acted in ways that you would not otherwise have done. You may:feel responsible for what happened, feel guilty because others were injured or killed and you survived.  
• Anger and irritability: Anger may result from feeling you have been unfairly treated. Anger can make you feel irritated and cause you to be easily set off. You may:lash out at your partner or spouse, have less patience with your children, overreact to small misunderstandings.  
• Behavior changes: You may act in unhealthy ways. You may:drink, use drugs, or smoke too much, drive aggressively, neglect your health, avoid certain people or situations.”   It lists four main symptoms: reliving the event, avoiding situations that remind of the event, feeling numb, and feeling keyed up (also called hyperarousal)”

Four words strung together: Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.  They’ve become a tired cliché, exhausted from the endless threat of random cruelty camouflaged in banality, weary of the weight shouldering back the wall that separates death and gore from the living.  Living was a reflex beyond willpower and devoid of choice. Control was self-deception.  The mind was so preoccupied with A: survival, B: sanity, in that order.  Rest was a cruel illusion.  The tank was drained, no room for emotions ditched.  Empathy took too much effort, fear was greedy.  Hopefully they can be remembered and found on the other side, if there is one.  Sleep deprived cells were left hyper-alert from the imminent, shot up and addicted to adrenaline.  Living was Fate and Chance, and meant leaving that time and place sealed in forgetfulness.  

Now PTSD is a worn out acronym, a cold shadow of what it feels like.  I try to think of something more personal that can describe the way it randomly visits me, now resigned to its familiar unwelcome influence.  It steals through my brain, flying ahead of me with its own agenda of protecting sabotage.  Its like the Guardian Trickster of Native American legend.  Its an archetype but real enough to make mistakes: Chulyen, the black raven.

A decade after the ER, contentment is found in a garden of slow tranquility as a butterfly interrupts a sunbeam.  My heart fills with bittersweet as I’ve finally found something I love and want to keep.  Just then Chulyen’s grasping black claws clamp my heart with painful arrhythmia and it fills to burst, tripping in panic trying to recover its pace.  The sudden pain drops me to my knees, in the dirt between fragrant lavender and cherry tomatoes.  Pain stops breath and time and makes me remember the ER, when my heart rebelled its ordained purpose for a week.  I had tried to throw my bitter life back in God’s face but He didn’t take it.  Now that I have peace and a life that I treasure, He’s taking it now.  The price for my mistake is due.  It was all just borrowed time and I’m still so young, my children just babies.  God with a flick of cruelty reminds me not to put faith in the tangible, especially when its treasured.  The sharp claws finally relent and I can breathe, looking up with a gasp and the Raven takes flight overhead leaving a shadow.  Bright noon warmth, unusually heavy and foreboding, seems to say ‘there will come a time when you will not welcome the sun.’   Doctors run an EKG and diagnose ‘stress’.

The bird perches on my shoulder two more decades later, always seeing death just over there.  So I sit on the porch just a little longer and check my list again, delaying the unavoidable racing heart and rush of tension when I fix the motorcycle helmet strap under my chin.  I know all those stupid drivers have my life in their cell-phone distracted hands and hope my husband knows how much I love him, and my daughters too.  

Chulyen wakes me at 3:00 am when autumn’s wind aggravates the trees.  His rustle of black feathers outside unsettles summer’s calm night.  He brings an end-of-the-world portent that hints this peace is just temporary, borrowed.  Tribulation will return.

Ravens are attracted to bright shiny things.  Chulyen steals off with treasures like intention, and contentment.  I don’t realize they are missing until occasionally I find myself truly living in the moment.  I guess that is another reason why I crave adventure, for those instants and epiphanies that snap me out of that long term modis operandi of reacting, instead of being.  The daily list of ‘I must, or I should’ can for a brief while become ‘I want’  and I am free.

My companion the black bird perches relaxed in the desert on the gatepost of a memory.  A bullet-scarred paint-faded sign dangles by one corner from rusty barbed wire:
    No Trespassing    
    That Means You
I have a haunted idea what's behind the fence.  Chulyen implies the memory with a simple mistaken sound:
a Harley in the distance is for a second the agitating echo of a helicopter...
or those were the very same words they said when...
or I hear a few jangling clinks of forks in our warm kitchen...
hinting a cold cafeteria at 5:00 am smelling of fake eggs and industrial maple flavored corn syrup,
and everything else that happened that day...
My cells recollect, brace with the addictive rush of adrenaline.  But the raven denies access to the memory, distracting with discomfort.  I trip and I fall hard into the gritty dirt of irritation at the person who unknowingly reminded me.  Anxiety floods in along with fatigue of the helplessness of it all, back then and still now.  I can't go further.  Chulyen’s tricking deception says Leave This Memory, you never wanted to come back.
But I already knew from just recognizing the bird patiently sitting there a sentinal,
recalling every other time he tricked me with nausea and depression.
I tried to tell myself again that behind that gate,
the past has dried up from neglect.
Disintegrated into dust,
Blown away,
doesn't
exist.
…


After everything else, how to work through this?  The VA gave me a manual, a crudely printed set of worksheets with a government-looking blue cover page:  Cognitive Processing Therapy.
“In normal recovery from PTSD symptioms, intrusion, thoughts, and emotions decrease over time and no longer trigger each other.  However, in those who don’t recover, the vivid images, negative thoughts, and strong emotions lead to escape and avoidance.  Avoidance prevents the processing of the trauma that is needed for recovery and works only temporarily.  The ultimate goal is acceptance.  
There may be “stuck points”, conflicting beliefs or strong negative beliefs that create additional unpleasant emotions and unhealthy behavior.  For example, a prior belief may have been “ I am able to protect myself in dangerous situations.”  But after being harmed during military service, a conflicting belief surfaces, “I was harmed during service, and I am to blame.”  If one is ‘stuck’ here, it may take some time until one is able to get feelings out about the trauma, because one is processing a number of rationales.  “I deserved it because…” , or “I misinterpreted what happened, I acted inappropriately, I must be crazy…”  The goal is to change the prior belief to one that does not hinder acceptance.  For example, “I may not be able to protect myself in all situations.”

(chapter continues with recovery methods)

**** me like the ocean would the moon, Dear Amaranthine.
Teach me as you would any abecedarian, slow with pace.
My pallid arms are spread, and feet are crossed.
Crucify me, like one of your French girls.

Your endless frame arched over mine
a vaulting testament to the heat
of your front against my back.
This scene should have been a chapel.

Through hazed musk I can taste the saline
as it tumbles from your dripping brunette tendrils
forming brooks and lagoons the color of flesh
in the glens and about the islands of my spine.

I wish I could write about you in me
while you dance a contemporary beat
ceaseless, indeterminate, untold are
your feats within and upon my person.

For a split moment, seconds shattered in two,
I am completely and totally permeated by you.
I whine for you to vacillate me, I am ******* begging
to be occupied, satiated, by a rhythm akin to the sway of trees.

Love me fast and kiss me slow, Dear Amaranthine.
My palms are red, and feet bloodied, too. I moan.
Call me your poetaster but don't come on my chest;
There's far too much weight there already, my dear.

The artichoke
of delicate heart
*****
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
keeps
stark
in its scallop of
scales.
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
devise
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb's agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
oregano
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
burnishes.
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
hoppers:
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.

And
Maria
come
down
with her hamper
to
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a ***.

So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
sweetness,
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.

Hearts another beat a second
A+ made the grade rare meat
Why is everything told to
us in a heartbeat
This is getting way too sweet
"Lips took Beeswax" bittersweet

Someone got stung B-
Strong sound muffler
Joyride Owl Hoot clever
Sweet and sourpuss
honey babe

Her mustard lips of custard
Hot temperature rising
The spicy lady opening
up new horizon gate

Too many sad rides
empty plates last joyride
Gas empty blame the county
Why did we call this joyride
without knowing
your fate

The others are more noticed
Fashionably they came late
Dine and the Wine joyride
romanced money upfront
advanced

Lips like jewels left their stale
You were the chosen one taken
for a ride from
a crooked male

Like bushel big loot basket
Rock the Kasbah rocket
Golden joyride ticket the
pickpocket
Getting away with ******
****** lips in the gasket

The joyride so beat looked
disheveled new love
unraveled
So messy but **** neat
looking, Lexus,
She looks mighty fine like
Venus, I beg you to zoom

And the love after all the treats
Sherlocked in his room
The devil made me do it
All flushed and deep red
Hearing his joyride of beats
What was really going
through her head
Hard rock ambient
painter deviant

The holiday like racing hot rod
Harvest Halloween of a joyride
Two peas in dark maze pod
Igniting a hot fire
Her lips need to decide
Who was underneath the
fumes of his fire

The coffee taste accelerating
Do we feel the pulsing beat
What a high anxiety peak
High intense flavor
You waiting for his joyride
Christmas and Hannukah
Tree to decide that's easier
But wait for true love above all
the gifts to deliver
Like bedrock meeting
Monster ride plant-eating Bug
More slugs my chinch
Inchworm of books at Joyride
College Dorm horn alarm
Manifestation enjoying
her joyride
What a conniver
Greece with my niece
vacation
Basil New rival tea
Pomegranate Cherry-bomb
Blonde Bombshell
Culture novelty joyride
Ring my servant bell
Met their sanity tomb

Her hand's dainty they shine
and sparkle
Her lips know how to jingle
Arace for hearts of stories
and memories
Always the death hand takes
a ride to the winding road of
the cemeteries
Just stay for the moment
think about the
Joyride forth of July
Our firecrackers went off at
the same time
Brie cheese favorite time
English tea and crackers
Like two lips sublime read
her diaries in his designer dockers

Going to the end of the earth lips
light up New York City galleries

Needing the fresh corner
Sunset taking lowrider Boulevard
Hollywood Oh! No world
Wildly satanic or the carefree type
Her joy smile he's sold on skype
Benevolent triad remembering
The mad magazine
MLM Maserati longevity Master
Of the joyride gun blaster
"Lips build like a Pyramid"
Becoming irresistible
Not to humble

Lips race Joyride to gamble
Nothing weakens to crumble
Baking a crumb cake its
doable stays together but
things unnamed not like
a marriage

We get blamed joyride
got damaged
We become gullible
What becomes of the broken heart
someone isn't reliable
Lips are not responsible
Leadership has you cornered  
To stumble upon her lips
Rendered steamboat surrender
How he tumbles
Mr. Grey Poupon Mustard seed
He plants her like his
only joyride
In need
We are all Jupiter the moon
joy to the world
All the boys and girls being
taken for joyrides

The Beach boy's video games
Spy lips whose to blame
Phillip screwdriver
But they take a ride
All you could pick a hot buffet
feasting she is still wearing
hot lipstick
Men have their choice of
they're next
Joyride Bride about the money
Wall-Street cars of hobbies
investing
Yeah right?

Through an open window, I hear
      the Big Thompson's steady music
drifting up from the valley below.

May breezes and gentle rains
     coax the snow-capped peaks
to surrender their alabaster cloaks
      downslope into gathering streams.

Silhouetted by light from the waxing moon,
      a cinnamon bear lopes along water’s edge,
pauses for a draught and meanders on.

A bull elk newly coifed with velvet antlers
        folds his legs beneath its belly
and kneels into grasses beside a tranquil pond.
        while the Big Thompson rushes on.

Spring beauties, calypso orchids and geraniums  
       shake off their winter's sleep and
dot every vagabond trail and verdant hill
        while fresh new leaves adorn the aspen boughs.

The Big Thompson inexorably presses on
        bound for rendezvous with time and space
and tumbles into the always patient sea.

© 2017 by Robert Charles Howard

1, for the slumber that tumbles us round,
2, for the remedy, the musics bold sound.
3, for the tree that became your canoe
& 4 for the rain, it's ambiguous blue.

5, to escape, to a world we contrive,
6 for the tricks that I played to survive.
7, because heaven, is supposedly on earth,
& 8 for my mother, and her unknown worth.
9 for the failures, the faults & mistakes,
10 for the fears that keep us awake.

11, for my father, consoles me each night, whispers advice crystal clear, filled with insight- words on courage & kindness, love & delight.
12- when you wake but it's already night.
13 forever, with strength glory and might,
14 with wisdom, discretion, insight-
both numbers together sizing up every fight.

15, for my little sister, and all her turmoil,
15, for her spirit, the last one to spoil,
she and the world but water and oil,
15 for her soul, and like the mighty cobra it's coil,
deadly & graceful defends its home soil.

16 for the evil- the wicked & cruel, the endless hate they spin into fuel.
17, for reason, justice & art,
and all the other virtues life etched on my heart,
18, to redeem, to admit your mistake, to truly move on then perhaps to retake.
19 for that shame, always the same, so familiar it almost comforts my brain. 19, for the suffering, agony & betrayal.
19 true stories retold as mere tales- how they surpass logic and induce other's fails.

20. For my years. For the moment, for now. For to the past I salute, and to the future I bow; All with the hope that next year I'll know how

to do what everyone else can.

the little girl just could not sleep
because her thoughts were far too deep
her mind had left her; gone out for a stroll
and fallen down the rabbit hole

this life will never be a wonderland
nothing goes just like it's planned
all the creatures are gathering round
as her broken body tumbles down

but darling, you're too late, I fear
your sanity has already left, my dear
maybe you're too big, or maybe you're too small
but you'll never get to wonderland at all

you're mad as a hatter, and far too late
you'll soon see, but you'll have to wait
this will soon all be a memory,
left only as a darkening dream...

(the girl wakes up to the smiling light of the crescent moon. but the nightmares don't end.)

Dedicated in part to Iva and Terry and their ever lasting love

First to describe what it is made from and then what it ultimately is and what it means
I will just be able to give description in part it is too great for any one person to do justice to it I choose
To use what some may call and object used in ceremony by unlearned superstitious people but you will
See this has none of that going on but I ‘am hunting big game in that regard maybe you are setting in a
Chair in your house apartment yes but also you are on a planet suspended in space a space that an
un manned space ship Voyager is on a trip of exploration one day it will pass from our galaxy the Milky
Way and go into many galaxies but it will never come to an end because its journey is carrying it into
Infinity one of the stars is a hundred times bigger than earth they are more numerous than the sand on
The sea shore but it is said that God knows them each and every one by name David said we are
Fearfully and wonderfully made my point is we are spirit and flesh the flesh perishes daily but the spirit
Is Renewed daily this all goes into the qualities and perfected ingredients that make up the amulet I’ am
Writing about here is a couple of human examples this is what can happen when you see the real truth
About the body and spirit Dr Albert Schweitzer was from High German society his credentials include
Theologian, Musician, Philosopher, Physician, and medical missionary and his home was in a safari tent
In the African jungle one of his many visitors was the actor Hugh O’Brian after this meeting Hugh went
Back home and sold his big pretentious car bought a used one and modeled his life after Schweitzer this
Great man came to realize what he really was not the outer that passes away but he was immortal and
Understood solidly what that meant our trouble with the Arabs is their identity problem they fret at
Deadly levels about the glories of the past and what as a nation they contributed in mathematics
Language now they reproach themselves and then the disgraceful aspect they are ruled by the west
Again they should take pride in their heritage and within the frame work of the given reality they could
Be great benefactors through the oil riches that were put in their hands and by changing their moral
Compass to the spirit they could amaze the modern world and the other human content in this amulet it
Can’t be discussed without bringing Lincoln into it from the humblest beginnings he became a towering
Giant his words blaze with grandeur significance and other worldly wisdom when it happened I don’t
Know while swinging an axe or while reading by candle light he fused his small life into the great current
That is flowing eternal his accomplishments superceded that of his backwoodsman’s life by eons I finish
With that part of the amulets fascinating qualities now if I follow what I discussed with my wife which
Was so painful several times I was interrupted by tears and was not able to be audible one of the things
Was widowhood I speak in particular about Iva recently certain influences have passed into my life it
Plays out here dreams joys love is unquestionably the most powerful force we can ever know I
Tried to lay the ground work that the flesh is limited but by the spirit we can now and in the future will
Override the sad state of affairs of living in this body that imprisons us restricts us because
We are now in this physical life there was a great quotation of course out of date now because of
Refrigeration but it said God gave us memories so we could have roses in December this I do know that
Spiritual connection does exist between us and our lost loved ones but that the flesh is so dense
And insensitive the connection is poorly or nonexistent my words speak of the beauty of the spirit
Nothing is impossible to it so we have to reconnect the broken by imagination my unaltered thought it
Will always be this truth what was will always be its Ida birthday this week the room only glows slightly
The music is soft and from eternal shadows Terry steps forth this magical moment is provided by purist
Love they join in tender embrace the flood of years together and apart breaks over them it’s like he only
Left moments ago Terry has lost little things that use to bug her but now there are new ones look at
Him not one thing has changed except all that is better but he got that way by divine aid on the other
Hand she has grown into this beautiful woman of grace and softness that glows with character it’s his
Time to be envious but she knows she got that way by doing it one day at a time love tumbles down a
Richer measure than the music can ever do new promise is born deep within each heart that was
Beating Stronger the longing ever so briefly was short circuited in powerful arms he seemed to carry her
On air as they swayed to other worldly rhythms there isn’t a clock where love is concerned because love
Is timeless it is placed on a steadfast but oh so flimsy when it comes to physical endurance if we were
Only able to see love as God sees it is it not the shimmering living picture that is from the bottom of the
Floor to the ceiling within is the telling vibrancy a currency more valuable than all others nothing else
Can take two very different lives and create one that streams bliss and longing a selflessness that stirs
And moves hearts to heights of appreciation a otherwise place of only rumor and place of tall tales but
Here between two people cherished thoughts are visible touching and powerful built by stones hewn
From quarries that reach back before time and have a future that is without end building materials of
Feeling emotion faith and honor all else would only be fables nothing could be that sure and have
Such endurance pillars of fire that burns and its end is in purification the arching unfamiliar to one
Looking from the outside but for the two in the center when the countenance of another can melt you
With a look and when eyes are locked together has the power to make the whole world fall away
Nothing else exists or should exist love has a bridge unseen the other side holds spectacle splendor
Fulfillment laughter romance announced in royal castles on the highest hills not even the richest can
Purchase what Terry and Iva have it is secure guarded and promised by He who is all love widowhood is
A robber but his plunder is of truth but the riches outweigh this temporal division and though
Sorrow as keen as it is makes loss into wellsprings where denial exists then courses unknown open and
You love the departed even more than before ever greater waves reach that other shore you have
Heaven then you feel this rapturous deep wave’s made noble by the caldron that has tears that over
Time Become far more valuable than diamonds and swells of emotional dreaming of a future day all that
We long for in life are constant gift to the departed these truths are mighty in force between Terry and
Iva for her birthday visit and the sweetness of parting with the statement see you ihasta manana in
English it means see tomorrow the tomorrow that now are seen through tears but then joy and rapture
Hugs will be without this divide the surging racing of the most clear and beautiful river will be surging in
Our hearts your hardship is harder than mine because I dwell in pure love and you must contend with
Human l life that isn’t clear and free thoughts are muted where here they burst and grow as you are
Taking in a great harvest where on earth you must be content with a small garden here your forehead is
Always shining for two reasons such wondrous thoughts occur continuously and His glory shines from
The throne brighter than the noon day sun when you walk in the sunshine and it touches you know that
Part of it is me touching you it can’t be as powerful as when its starts because earth regrettably has
A diffuse system so see it as when I use to kiss you tenderly if I didn’t say it I was saying thank you
For being mine and that you will be mine forever now that is half true be well my beloved my eyes are
Ever on you as the French say not goodbye but Au revoir it means till we see each other again and I do
Know all the languages and French is the language of love in my mind you appear in all the loveliest
Places in Arabian nights on the shore of the St. Guadalupe River that has the most shinning waters like
Your smile that is like day light dawning or in the lovely foots hills of the Sierra Nevada the Brazos River
Country because with you in them they are the picture of my beloved rest with the peaceful knowledge
It won’t be long now I have it on good account now the streets of gold then the gold in the streets will
Blend with our golden hearts which we refined in life and death by the High blaze we truly gave up all
That tarnished the gold now only the purist golden love is all that remained I love you

I had to stop writing last night around two I got to sleepy I had to delete a half a page it was just like
Writing a report it was lifeless when I came back to write I prayed that Christ would cleanse me with his
Blood so what I write would be truly pure it worked because I was broken by tears hard to see the keys
That way but I wouldn’t write any other way now the amulet grows dark because it is a living reality stop
Here if you are easily wounded I wrote already about my home Fremont California in night thoughts I
Described the shooting death of a teenager on a bike in broad day light a distance up the street we lived
On just because he was Mexican and just a week later a Mexican mother missed her ride at midnight to
Go an work at a nursing home her teenage daughter went worth her because she was afraid I know the
Place this happened very dark a man I say a man he had human features let say he got out of his car
Picked up a fallen tree limb and beat them both to death as they screamed into the cell phone to their
Helpless relatives yes the amulet shows a dark ominous Black like an ink well was knocked over and the
Ink rushed over the face your reaction is disbelief stunned a disconnection occurs that same thing
Happened before but on a grander scale in the garden when our first parents fell the same thing
Happened a darkness covered the globe leaving natural light unaffected but men and women’s minds
Were darkened they could do everything as before but they could only practice unrighteous acts as seen
When Cain slew righteous Abel there was a way to connect and do right but like to day most just strayed
farther and farther from true right living only the coming of the pure one that would be slain and by this
Sacrifice only could you have your mind freed and you by the spirit can walk free and please the most
Holy one He was beaten to the point you could only tell He was human because He stood upright and
Had limbs it was brutal but that was the cost to purge the vile disease we all suffer from that bleeding
Broken lamb was taken from that cross and His resurrection cast a new light over the whole earth the
Amulet glowed take cotton white clouds white snow and your getting how white and pure the amulet
Became this is in the heart of every soul that is redeemed it is the Holy Spirit it is shining and will shine
Into that perfect day don’t continue without it you rob your own soul of everything that is clean and
Decent and it will fill that ache in the heart that desires something all those that chase the next drug
High or the next conquest of another human how pathetic and it grinds those that practice it into a
Powder of Shame and guilt and a destination that only will end in flames why would anyone be that
Careless with Their own soul when there is a Heavenly Amulet waiting for you

Valor Gates poured her younger siblings cereal, they sat at their broken kitchen table.  The cereal was stale and she wasnt sure if the milk was spoiled.  Her anxiety was through the roof, her mother hadn't come home last night.  It wasnt anything new, her mom was a drug addict, she would go out to the club and not come home, sometimes not even for days.  She wouldnt call, or text to let Valor know she was okay, or where she was.  She couldn't even call the police the times she went missing for days, because she knew they would call child services, and they would take the twins from her.  Angela Gates was the typical ****** mom, got pregnant at sixteen, she had no way to support a child except through her now ex boyfriend Charles,who she had cheated on, hence Valor.  Charles had sacrificed his teen years to try and raise Valor, he'd been a father to her, and she loved him for it.  He left six years ago, a little bit before the twins were born, they also weren't his.  Valor at ten years old had taken on the mother roll when the twins were born. She'd even named them, Andrew and Abigail.  She thought of them as her own.  She taught them how to read, she'd taught herself to read.  She taught them how to tie their ripped hand down shoes, she hadn't learned tell she was eight.  She taught them how to ride a bike, she didn't know how.  She taught them how to swim, she'd never been to a lake or a pool before that.  Valor went to school part time, then skipped the rest of the day to go to her job at the hardware store.  She got payed minimum wage, her paycheck went to the bills, and the small portion left went to the groceries.  She got the twins clothes from the shelter, or from neighbors whose kids had grown out of them.  She hadn't gotten any new clothes, or new anything since two years ago when Charles bought her some clothes and a cheap ipod for her birthday.  Those gifts had meant everything to her.  Valor sat down in the broken stool by her little brother and patted his little blonde head.  The twins were beautiful Andrew was tall for a six year old with short blonde hair and giant blue eyes.  Abigail was just as gorgeous, she already had thick hair to her tiny waist in tumbles of blonde satin, her eyes though were very different.  One was as blue as Andrews and the other was the same mossy green as Valor's.  Valor wasnt a blonde with blue eyes, she saw her self plain with thick long brown hair, and shining mossy green eyes.  She worked out to stay fit, and she didnt get to eat much in fear that the twins wouldnt get enough food.  She dug out a small cheap phone that Charles had boughten for emergencies , the small screen was blank.  Her mother hadn't stumbled into the house and to her room like always.  Valors heartbeat picked up two notches and sh could hear the blood rushing in her ears.  She had a anxeity disorder that also gave her a bit of OCD.  Her OCD was extreme cleaning.  Everything had to be neat, she thought it was because her life was in such disaray that the one mess she did have control of had to be perfectly in place.  
She debated weather she should call Charles and ask if he'd seen her.

I stand on the scale
I look at the number

I'm fat
I way over 140lbs

What am I doing wrong?
I barely eat anything

She steps off the scale
Walks over to the counter
And opens the cupboard

Peanut butter

She untwists the twisty ties
Grabs two pieces of white bread
Places them in the toaster slots
Pulls down the lever
For ten seconds
Pulls it up
Pulls it down
Waits ten more seconds
Pulls it up
Takes it out
Spreads the peanutty butter across the crisp edges

Starts eating it
Nom nom nom

Her dog moves close to the counter
And begs

She walks away
Drops a few crumbs
And the dog eats it up

And follows her into the living room
And looks up

Nom nom nom nom

She just looks at the dog
Puts her bare foot against his nose
Which is cold

And the dog doesn't even move
Sticks his tongue outside his mouth
And breathes quickly

Stupid

She puts her foot back down
And moves it against the rug a few times

Then walks into the kitchen
And opens a bag
Of salt and vinegar chips

Starts eating them
Nom nom nom nom

Dog catches the crumbs and slides against the kitchen floor
She walks back upstairs
And the dog follows her
To her room

She shuts the door
And the dog starts scratching through the bottom
And barks

She just lays in her bed
Eating
The dog barks again

She opens the door
And pushes him
With her right foot
Down the stairs

He tumbles down the stairs and hits the kitchen floor
He races back up
Gets pushed back down
Dog runs away

She walks towards the bathroom
And uses the other scale

And she sees that it says 141 lbs

I've only been eating for a few minutes

Errrr

She closes the bag of chips
And stomps downstairs
And places the bag on the counter

Dog waits in the living room
Right next to the kitchen

His food bowl is empty
No water

Grandma’s old straw hat
rides low on her brow.
When hilling potatoes,
sweat rings the brim.
Twine provides a strap.
Sometimes, when a gust
tumbles past tomatoes
and green onions,
a calloused hand
pushes the hat back
to feel deliverance
from summer rays.
The brim shades a spot
two-feet wide over
thick-skinned Half Runners,
caresses long weepy
leaves of corn when she
brushes past, edges tattered
by forty years of okra stalk
shaving flesh and straw.
Ice water renews
her will under hat and sun;
as winds feign,
wrinkled fingers hold
fast to its lip, beating
hot air cool around a weary face.
When crickets serenade,
the hat becomes a bucket
for the day’s last peppers.
Today, a ‘For Sale’ sign greets;
the gate swings wide.
In the shed a plow sits idle
while the straw companion
hangs from a nail.
A swig of gas in the tiller,
brim shading my brow,
sweet soil tumbles over tines,
my sweat mixes with hers
under the garden hat.


© 2010 C.T. Bailey

"So the pen is mightier? who'da'thunk'it."
He said to the bleeding man tied down
to a messed, stained, bed.

The bound man figured,
even though he just got
to an LA plagued
by criminals, killers, and copy-cats,
that he wasn't getting out of here whole,
finally.

Holding a pen knife,
red-faced and sweating,
was his captor.
It had been a struggle
to awake and realize
who stood before him:
Quill.

The exact killer he'd been looking for.
He had heard about him in the Halo Herald,
An LA pun, it's not very popular,
but he liked the funny section.

"Are you just going to stand there?"
The bound man says, eagerly,
"Hey bud, you're the hanged man,
I'll do the talking."

"It's about time!"

"huh?"

"I'd been waiting.
heard you'd be at that
open mic. Knew you liked
the mealy type."

"Shuddup or I'll write you off."

Quill runs his pen knife over the bound man's right cheek.

"Stings a little.
Usually, I start with a rufie
and emotional damage.
But it looks like you
want to cut to the chase.
I'm a man of a similar mind.
spirit.
problem."

"Nobody's like me dude."

The bound man locks eyes with Quill.

"What're your trophies? huh?
I read you like to drain your victims,
cook'em dry.
don't you use their blood and powdered remains as ink?
Short stories or something?"

"Oh, an avid reader?! it's your lucky day:
you get to be part of the collection!"

The lamp nearby tumbles
to the floor as Quill lunges,
ready to ****.

"Wait! Don't you want to know who I am!"

"Not really."

"I'm a ser-"
The sentence is finished by
nothing but the sound of blood
and air
gurgling
into places it was never meant to be
as Quill's blade passes through flesh.

"Pfft, what, you think you're special?"
Quill saunters over to the sink.
"I'd hate to waste ink.
but there'll be more.
there's always more.
isn't that right, Celine."
he says to no one
and stands there with a smirk
as if listening to her.

She danced across the sidewalk

Her tiny boots splashing the puddles of color

Blue, pink, green, yellow

Her pigtails smudged with paint

Brown, blonde, black, red

She dances through the rainbow rain.



He walks to work, leaden, heavy

His shoes are black, but polished

With red, and orange, and yellow

His hat is dark blue and his coat is green

His smile is coal, traced in red,

His face white, with eternal teardrops

Etched on his face. 



The boy and girl, young, shy

Their hands delicately intertwined with strands of purple

Strings of yellow electricity

Jumping from heart to heart

Red raindrops fall up from the sidewalk

Gravitationally drawn to them

Tracing their faces before flying away.



The seagull collides with clouds of orange

His wing tips blue and wispy

His beak green as the sea

Purple fog tints his stomach

As he tumbles through aqua wind

My window only filters mango light

My ceiling the color of honey

The air above the floor is black

The space beneath the ceiling is white

And everything in between covers my body

In rainbow rain.

You are a compass, and eventually every direction you lead me in takes me back to you. I think I am the north pole. I think I'm confused, or just confusing you; I think we're two of a kind.

I once watched your magnetic heart swell when I touched you: I realized I was hurting you as I loved you all too tenderly; I never thought of that as a possibility.

You quickly made yourself a home in my cerebellum; I can't even sleep anymore. You're always there, tapping, tapping, tapping, sneaking your way through me, pulling strings that don't belong to you. I can't talk about you: you always interfere. My tongue tumbles ineloquently over your name; I've lost control. You are, again, tapping, rapping on my motor controls. Get out of my head, or come back home to my heart.

I am bitter, and I am turning, and I am not sure whose fault it is. In the end I'm sure it's mine, but it's much easier to blame you, and I do. I blame you. Why did I have to love you; why did I have to leave you? What made this all happen, was it the stars, or the moon forcing a change in the tides? Was it some other cliché, or was it just my idiotic decision?

I have lost you again.

you came to me in the first dewdrops of spring
with the scent of newleaf lingering on your lips
and the taste of fresh rosebuds and honeysuckle
a mere whisper on my tongue
your kiss the heat of summer sunlight blistering against my skin
and ripping my throat open in a blaze of inferno
heaven knows how you quell the flames
with the same brush of lips against mine
you dance forever in my mind’s eye on dappled autumn leaves
with the swirl of the breeze tousling in your hair
a symphony of red yellow brown and glittering eyes
footsteps going crunch crunch crunch over the carpet of my heart
your goodbye is the wind that whips through my eternal winter
as the snow settles in the silent solstice
i crave crave crave crave the fervent heat once more just once more
REPEAT.
cyclic cyclic cyclic
as i fall in love with you all over again.
(like the mist that rolls in with the first snow that tumbles like waves from the sky/like the budding of the flowers in the garden and the fallen petals beneath your soles/like the gradual melt of ice cream onto sticky fingers and stained flip-flops/like the green fading into a myriad of blossoming colour the facade of beauty disguising slow death)
baby, you break my heart slow

On an ebony bed decorated
with coral eagles, sound asleep lies
Nero --- unconscious, quiet, and blissful;
thriving in the vigor of flesh,
and in the splendid power of youth.

But in the alabaster hall that encloses
the ancient shrine of the Aenobarbi
how restive are his Lares.
The little household gods tremble,
and try to hide their insignificant bodies.
For they heard a horrible clamor,
a deathly clamor ascending the stairs,
iron footsteps rattling the stairs.
And now in a faint the miserable Lares,
burrow in the depth of the shrine,
one tumbles and stumbles upon the other,
one little god falls over the other
for they understand what sort of clamor this is,
they are already feeling the footsteps of the Furies.

I was at a party the other day
I don't usually go to parties
I don't like crowds
I don't like gatherings
I don't like, new people.
But I'm here as a favour to a friend,
And so I stand in this hovel
That looks like the dodgy part of *****
Or the ganglands of Gomorrah,
Pathetically clutching my long empty beer bottle
And breathing in air that's more smoke than oxygen.
Desperately hoping
That if I pretend to be drunk enough
I wont have to meet anybody new.

But as luck would often have it
As luck and I do not get on
My friend beckons me from a darkened corner
Surrounded by people I don't know.
She's confident, enigmatic and wants me to come over.
And because I owe her a favour I cant say no
And so I trudge towards her with all the enthusiasm
Of an arthritic Labrador, dragging my hind legs
Across the sweat stained carpet
Bracing myself for someone new.

And as I place one foot in front of the other
I can practically see the outline of the gallows.
And I notice that the walls really are an especially ugly colour
And that boy surely isn't old enough to be drinking without permission from his mother.
And someone please tell those guys not to put the owners dog in the oven.
And I wonder if I should break up those limb tangled lovers
Because I hear that that one, who's dating that one, gave that one chlamydia
and suddenly the air is too thick
And too hot
But my feet will not stop.
Because I owe my friend a favour.
But this hideous carpet might as well be an ocean
Because believe me, I'm drowning, adrift.
This feels like I've left my stomach
Somewhere four feet behind me
And I've always been so used to listening to my gut.

This is not fear, this is anxiety
The two are so easily confused, but
Unfortunately by now I know the difference
More intimately than many people do.
Fear is a cold steel
Sharp knife, with smooth un-serrated edges
That drives into your chest or your head or your belly
And it takes what it wants from you, and then is wrenched back out
And its painful, but its usually there for a reason.
Fear can be conquered
Don't laugh I've seen it
Fear grapples with the human spirit in the eyes of every
Soldier still fighting
No matter what the battlefield.
Be it desert or office or kitchen or playground.

But anxiety is fears younger cousin
and it is a wire sponge against your chest
Like the ones they use on cleaning dishes.
And it grates at you until you're raw
And scrubs at every inch of skin
There's hardly a moment when you're not itchingly pink
Until it feels as though your ribs are utterly exposed
And every eye is fixed on what you hide within.
But that's not the worst thing about it.
That's not what drives you every second, mad.
I can handle the razor winged moths that make a home in my stomach
The worst, is the irrational nature of this relative of fear.

I should not be afraid to open my mouth
To be seen, and immediately judged
Even though I know in reality
The most important people won't reckon me
On the first impression, first look, first word.
But I still am
I am scared, and that is terrifying.
And I know that this might just pass
It could be teenage angst
My lack of self confidence holding me back.
But whatever it is.
Right now, it is Everest.
So don't you dare tell me just to get over it.

But as I sidle up beside my best friend, I know she doesn't understand
And I hope she never does.
One, Two, Three.
Three people who are new,
Three epinephrine shots of irrational anxiety pumping through my blood.
And she smiles so encouragingly,
All yellow and marmoset eager.
And I take one, two, three deep breaths of smoky air,
And let my mind play marionette to the corners of my mouth,
Tugging them into a smile that's somewhat believable.
And the first word that tumbles out of my mouth is a hideously unimaginative,
“Hey.”
But they don't seem to mind.

This small talk we're making, that for me is colossal
Gradually settles the pinpricks of venom beneath my skin
Into something entirely more manageable.
And by the end of the night
Two of those three people are no longer somebody new.
And I feel as though I've made the progress of a few meters
In climbing my Everest.
But there's still miles and miles to go.  
But the thing to remember...
What I must remember,
No matter what mountain anxiety builds for you,
Be it Atlas or Snowdon,
Be it at a school, or an office or at home,
Every step that we make, on our own or pushed forward by friends
Is another meter or mile, on this arduous road
That will eventually lead to a summit, ten times more beautiful
Than the valley we just left below.

A thousand tumbles takes a bottle in the sea-
a thousand dashes and whirls and swoops.
A million grains of sand takes that bottle in the sea,
to break apart, to come to me
in fragments like a snowflake fractal.
How many mermaid miles till she hands that glass to me?
For I've taken out my very-ness, for you.
- And my crossness.
My judgement and wrath.
I've taken out slight hot breathe
               (for you to melt the ice on your whiskers.)
I've taken out my toes when they are reaching for yours in the cavernous blanket world  through the forest of our lazy limbs.
I've taken out my righteousness
and my second guessing.
I've taken out for you (a surprise, I was going to surprise you!)
all the times you were going to be wrong to me-
          and to wrong me...
taken them out to sea, you see?
In that bottle, pretty bottle. Broken now like too many vows.
I've taken out my knowing best and finding better.
I've taken out the half moon of your thumbnail as well
...I will miss that in my night sky-
(perhaps I'll keep that after all.)
I'll take out the complacency of holding your hand getting out of a chair.
and the mindless strokes
as you explain
my commonplace crazy
to
simpler minds-
I'll take out the very-ness of me, and the we-ness of us.
and fill a bottle with a the brine of a thousand tears from hundred slights not slighted quite yet.
I fill the bottle and gift the sea
with the softness of you and the brashness of me.
A thousand turnabouts it takes to reach you on the beach,
a sea glass diamond ring, engage me you engaging man-
and the tides tickles my feet in anticipation, marry me. marry me.
just a sea glass promise
for a mermaid bride
waiting for the sailor man to sing her sweetly with salt on his lips
Just a sea glass lullaby from the man who loves me so.
Marry me, marry me
And we drink sparkling water from a sea glass flute
and we drink all the us and we drink all the we
for sea glass could never hold a second in,
sea glass is far too vain not to shine in the sun fanning
your invite out in a spectrum of color that
a small child's hand creates when he holds it up to the rays.
Spills out all of my intentions
Spoiled child, loved child,
Spills out all of my intentions carelessly on the sandy floor for the tides to swallow whole.
My sea glass prism chucked unceremoniously back to sea
and me the mermaid bride left at her own alter...
But a seashell to your ear and her my wailing sorrow calls,
'marry me, sailor. marry me.'


sahn 8/5/14

A photograph of a girl,
with dark hair and a bright smile.
And overtime, over pictures, you see her unfurl.

A smile, and a glimmer in her eye,
her rosy cheeks stretch into a smile, with her arm around her friend,
the change is hard to deny.

A week ago, hollow cheeks and bright hair,
dried from the bleach and dye,
when did she fall into the depths of despair?

Empty eyes with no hope,
and a plain, faked grinned,
her decline is a slippery *****.

She falls further down,
gripping to the sides,
as she tumbles and tumbles and tumbles.

But mistress! The bin is intriguing
I'm sorry for all my trouble
and the doors can be oh so deceiving
when they shut I take tumbles
but I go on believing
you'll love me double
when I make my way back inside

Swift as nightfall, it closes in
Rolling over sea still as glass
Thicker than smoke, darker than sin
The fog, it tumbles in an impenetrable mass
Blocking out the early light of day

With tiny footsteps it creeps to the dock
Softly stirring secret shadows
Standing quiet, observing, I in my night frock
Some part of me still dreaming of distant meadows
Moving swiftly, it devours the very last of the sun’s rays

I wrap my robe around me
Making my way out of doors
The fog, it deepens, struggling to be free
And like a cat, crawls on all fours
Up and over and past the bay

Frightfully quick now it surges on
Some part of me murmurs that my feelings are wrong
My mind urges, “Do not fall prey to nature’s con!”
Yet the sweet, seductive calling of the fog’s siren song
Sends me dreamwalking into its heavy gray

My spirits start to soar
Engulfed and held by the fog’s thickening grasp
Against my mind’s desire, I want more
And as the fog turns suffocating, I gasp
Falling to my knees in this place I long to stay

The fog, ever enveloping me in its endless cloak
Whispers words of freedom like the loveliest of poem
I close my eyes, tripping, slipping, fumbling, tumbling, giving in to the beauty of the smoke
Knowing deep inside that I am home
And in the fog, forever I lay

Breathing in that familiar smell of sweet coffee that screams Starbucks i sit quietly inside....alone..but actually, i am accompanied by some cheap elevator music which closely resembles country, and my grande cup of thoughts. This grande cup feels more like a thousand grande cups: a possy almost. This possy fills the empty Starbucks with small talk and the soft murmur that many people usually create. This possy keeps me way more company than any other living breathing flesh.

The thought that sits closest beside me is my mask that i purchased before i could pick out my favorite colored sweater. I wear this mask every day of my life although not always at own will. its hard to admire whats staring back you every morning when your cards dont match the ones on screen. It goes like this, i feel as if i had horse like pony tail hair crawling down my black so silky and taking a skydive at my *** would make it a HELL of a lot easier to wear this mask of mine in which has the title of: MY FACE.
But what is it about the crystal blue eyes that show the rhythm of the ocean or the solidity of the sky? WHAT is it about the deep forest green or the eyes that you can see more than just the sky that is so appealing? HAVENT YOU HEARD??
"THE DARKER THE BERRY THE SWEETER THE JUICE?"

So why does it seem the whiter the paper the more in favor. the blonder the hair the greater the fair, you seem to have in life. MAYBE its the recommendations in which the tv inscribes for us. Maybe its the runway that draws the rules of beauty.
The twiggier the prettier
the fatter the more laughter you receive from people who dont even know
your ****
name.
As I stare at the reflection and into the deep pools of confusion I fish out decent..and different,
but not pretty. I never arrive at the adjective pretty when i look at the reflection staring back at me but
does it ever occur that i do not strive to be merely pretty but something more.
DO NOT and i mean DO NOT EVER
slap a label onto my forehead titled pretty.
dont slap the sticker of cute either.
find another **** sticker
that you can not find at a store, this sticker is so original that it doesn't exist, its so intricate, considered more than an antique
for I AM MORE THAN A MISSION TO ARRIVE TO PRETTY.

Do not look into my cage where I sing and call me beautiful- for its funny how that so called gift seems to be nothing but a mere sample at a beauty supply. Im not a biscuit for you cant butter me up and salt me down for ill never be your favorite dish you can take a bite out of for comfort. I am more than just a piece of meat for I am more than just an adjective for you will not be able to pick up a dictionary and collect the word that fits me best.

I am more, WE are more, we cant be thrown into a binder full of women---no, for no binder is large enough to hold the complexity of just
one. woman.

Listen to the sound, and loose it, its sweet music, and dance with me, for there is beauty in the world so much beauty in the world. But we put a parental block on it we ignore that ad
we throw away that piece as if they are the unwanted leaves to the strawberry,
or the peel to the banana---we drive by that ordinary girl.

We sadly fail to realize-fail to notice the blue skies, notice the butterflies, but you will NOT fail to notice me.
Now, Starbucks is full-full of other rocky mountain climbs and terrible tumbles. It has become a pool of not only coffee...but pools and pools and rivers and seas,
of insecurities.

She's a boss *** *****
with diamonds in her eyes
and mercury flowing over her skin.
When she walks the world
tumbles, crumbles, easily humbled.
She's got a devil's tongue
with a lick of fire in her veins
and she's all I've ever
dreamt of being.

I lost a friend and I lost a tooth,
The tooth had to go; the friend I couldn't lose
It was a wisdom tooth, with some decay,
It was a wise friendship, its strings began to fray,
The tooth couldn't be salvaged; the friendship stood a chance,
I chose to cut loose the tooth; cutting the friendship wasn't my stance
Like my tongue wiggles, at the place the tooth would be,
So mind tumbles, at all things my friend used to be

**** when did waking up get so hard
I feel so dead I think I belong in a graveyard
Drowning in all of my own thoughts I need a lifeguard

I feel like nobody knows the struggle
Like trying to grab sleeping pills, ropes, and guns to juggle
These thoughts that I gotta smuggle

All until my smile cracks and crumbles
Until my very soul snaps and rumbles
Until my drunken body just   tumbles

Sitting on the edge of highways watching cars go by
Exhausted from always being the tough guy
Wondering which truck is gonna catch my eye

Don't wanna die but it's my only choice
So tired of screaming I'm losing my voice

Slitting wrists with promises bleeding
Is it just extra love I'm needing?

Maybe not then again I'm already dead
Make sure the note is read

I'm tired of being alone, by Tommrorow I'll be unknown


-Dominguez 2018

Upon deceit I've built a kingdom;
A mighty fortress declaring freedom.
She stands up tall; brave as can be
And gazes outward toward the sea.
But when one’s castle’s built on sand,
There is a chance it may not stand.
For secrets hide behind her doors
And crawl through cracks beneath her floors.
Until the light sheds on the lies,
The castle wears her sweet disguise
And secrets linger without a sound
Until the kingdom tumbles down.

Your words are like precision guided Bombs in clunkers,
Exploding between my ears. there are no bunkers.
My response tumbles out stuttering like anti aircraft nests.

The alarms in my brain go off suppressed by tears discharged
Heart, Trust, Ego, Friends over the years........
Your armaments know where to hit and cause most damage,

Plumes of fiery emotion flare up, soon loves smoldering cracks .
I dodge your heat seeking adjectives, they encircle in packs.
Cold nights afloat clinging to this yellow deflated ego. ergo.

Our love is war

A Tribute

A king takes supper on a creaking deathbed. Featureless, winged creatures zoom by the dark condensed windows. Micro parasites build adobe headquarters in his soft tissue. Reaching for a plate,    he groans the terabyting howl that’s prescribed with chemotherapy. Qwerty and light from the drugs, he stares at the apple on his tray. Lost in its curves, he finds himself trapped in a safari of memories. A dream devolves upon his downtrodden mind….

The canopy is populated with twittering, angry birds. Pools of social blood attract flies to the googolplex degree. He stumbles through the dell, suspicious forest while a tremulous, fiery fox stalks behind his echoing footfalls. Pixar apes swing from trees chased by grisly, disney men with guns and trucks. A large eye tunes the darkness and blinks red upon an aging mountain lion in shadow’s brush.



The sony rays belight foliage in auspicious, plaid-orange hues. This amazon of experience plugs the wanderer into a hard drive of intelligence – a gateway to an encyclopedia of wikis and browsers, expanse enough for any backdrop rooftop audience to be faux-enthralled and eager. There are grumblings in the distance of another engine tromping the scope in search of something new and useless. A rumorous bat upsets the plagiarizing tide of the Atlantic Pea Sea. A snake slinks out of the blossoms clinging to the vines among a macintosh tree and bites the salty flier of the washboard night; cyber venom invades his veins.

The average, homeless, bounding, warrior awakens to find a cold supper on his lap and another syringe in his arm. His remaining gums support his teeth as they bite into the apple. He swallows, sighs, and rests his balding, crescent, once-handsome head on the white pillow.  The green fruit tumbles gently out of bed and mutely rolls to the floor.
With that, Steve Jobs is dead.

Spread thin between the trees
Waiting for the sun to set
And gentle night to begin
Crystal dripping as the thunder far away tumbles
The cold night wind
Playing in the dark

Would you believe though
That I could be broken
As quiet as the click
Of demons claws
On hardwood floors at night
I could be shattered
Like a crystal dish
Lying broken
And silver handled
Dust collects
Sunshine comes in bright
Until her voice comes in
Until the calling wind
Until the river bend
I'm home again
Back between the trees
Waiting for the night time
So gentle and sweet

--I. M. Edward John Henley (1861-1898)

Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours--friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?
Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The Thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low?
The clashing swords?  The lover's call?
The dancers gleaming row on row?
Into the night go one and all.

Envoy

Prince, in one common overthrow
The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:
As dust that drives, as straws that blow,
Into the night go one and all.