Writing to Exist

You're going to make something of yourself they said,
You are going to go places.
Tomorrow is the blank slate of the rest of your existence,
A toy box to sculpt, and engrave.
Your name, and your face will be known by all about you,
The old will be humbled,
The young will be astonished.
Those within your peer group will sit starry eyed and astonished.
Till they read between the lines,
Till they see that you didn't move at all.
Through the imagination of your life you will have accomplished wonders,
Without ever witnessing them,
And they will grow angry and bitter for being fooled of your genius,
For they once had the same ambition,
But worked with their arms to accomplish what they could.
Some made it to the place at the top of the class,
Other's were nearly there,
But cutbacks made them falter and topple down on their ass.
In the tomorrowland carousel of discontent,
We barrel at the gun shot with unparalleled velocity,
Angry that things couldn't work out the way we planned.
The intensifying struggles from those who did it "right"
Who followed the status quo's properly,
And didn't stick it out.
So what you still made it where you did,
The pressures in your head,
Were the pressures on their stress.
Someone has to be the dreamer,
And someone has to follow through,
What they didn't tell you when you were younger,
Was that it shouldn't be you.

For This Is the Place

The summer blues blow in on the wing of a fading wind
Taking a chance that they may be brought up
Dipping into the sand.
Tracing toes in specs of sand,
A pallet of colors soaked in sunny rays.
The tomorrow that comes,
In the midst of the fading light,
Hidden among the great beyond,
Measured in the distance of promises,
Taken with a grain of sugar to help the grace go down,
On wings of heavenly apparitions,
Beautiful clouded eyes that see into the future,
Growing heavy with regret,
When they have no need of it.
Yesterday the summer blues were many,
Today they have only doubled,
Thanking the crossed stars,
Cursing the many ruined roads.
Beach sand under rugged fingers,
That grip to hold the grains within,
A fist, losing grace quickly,
A heart hoping for eternity.
Under a pale moon,
And beneath an orange sun,
Each and ever night,
To the days that we'll fight,
Holding the hand of love tightly,
Never letting go.
A blanket on arms in an oncoming winter,
A push up the mountains of yesterday,
Over looking the sands on a blue summer day,
Where a chord rings out in the winds,
Carried forth and back again,
Brushing against the flower pedals,
Bracing the back of the beautiful eyes,
Cloudy and present with a heart that is full but distant,
Living in smiles and memories,
Of former summer days.

The Spit in the Fire

There was a dollar sign attached to my name and it was red with purple flowers engraved,
It was coarse and simplistic, and exactly what it should be which was something not at all fantastic.
It was clearly defined, with no blurred or broken lines, and a font that was clearly visible,
And despite all that they saw they did not quite get it, even though its wore its position with ease,
And when winter did come, and the prices did fall with the snow white presipitation,
A catalog of familiar folk songs arrived quietly unchained and ranting on just about everything
That in the summer the thaw did come, and the quiet little foxes rode off in the light
That the dollar sign attached that said what the catch was was still there too.
So no more toil when they said I made no sense, that's right I don't make cents, I'm all cash,
All the time so keep your change to yourself.
See what you want through glazed over glassy eyes,
And let fog fall around, and swarm about,
Let the toadstool landing spew falsehoods on an empty cotton plain,
And simply forbid the world from advancing,
Take the time to forbid the dancing,
For the dollar sign though can be broken in half, a 50/50 shot int he dark,
Will take this car and we'll park, and go necking in the park, under the scrutiny of accountants,
Who will glue back the dollar sign attached to my being,
And say, see even though you changed the coat you can't change the horse,
Colors remain to remain to be seen, and the crimson light from a blood red moon,
Does not make the man mourne when he kicks the can in the day,
When the song is song, and simple little tune, is cut shorter down in the day light wane,
Don't forget to curse me, and slam the door when you go,
Run away and hide and continue to bide the time that it'll take before I'm through with the charade,
In the midst of an ocean of preposterous design where every one and their mother,
Knows just what must be done,
Departing the two cents said tot eh dollar sign I'm afraid apart I'm not much at all, and even though you are there,
Youre still cracked in twain, and torn asunder, under the watchful eye of your lair,
So take your tone, and be done and run all the way home,
Cry in the pit of your self pitied sit,
Tempting to the crow to pluck out the eyeball,
On a laughing bonanza of crimson tundra,
On the frosted hills where polar bells slide,
And penguins waddle two and fro,
Take it in ounces but never in pounds,
For fear of over compensating, and thus over dosing on amore.
It's a disease and it's fresh, but it'll rot out your breath, as your teeth begin falling out of your head.
Love is a many splendid and horrid litlte thing,
And maybe you should pick out the dirt from your eye holes,
And cut the shit,
Just cut the shit,
This little old worthless dollar sign, is not a dollar,
Just the rerpsentative of a dollar,
The knight can save you,
But I'm just the town's fool,
Prancing about in some weak and muddied armor.
Let's face it you wanted something who slay that damned dragon,
And while I was good at the laughing,
I'm not much good, at much else at all.
And that my dear is what happens.

Green Vines

Years ago on the brink of a war,

We tried to pray and we tried to stay

Attempting to be what we wanted,

Cancelling our hearts,

Fretting our cords, and fleeting into abyss'

Fabled places go on to traverse

A blanketed mountain top

On the other side of the world.

Oceans falter,

Blood spills horrid,

Men cry for nothingness,

And the places just keep rolling on,

Hillsides in a chaotic battle,

Bodies strewn about,

Feasible lies,

Told behind our backs,

Take a moment to breathe it in,

Let it go,

Let it be,

Out to sea,

No one knows more than this,

What God wants or what he gifts,

Claim as we may,

Maybe we only have us,

And maybe us is all we need.

Rough Preview of Episode One

Atticus strolled through the empty streets with his rifle firmly in both hands.   At a moments notice he could bring it up to his shoulder, and aim down the sights to mark his target.   He was prepared for such a moment, in fact he had been prepared from the moment he set foot in the streets.   There was a quiet air about the neighborhood, and the sound of a calling black bird was all that was heard revirbirating down the barrenness.   Aimless newspapers twirled through the gusts of vacant air, the whistling brush against the iron rain gutters.   A soda can rolled and clanked against the ledge of the sidewalk as it dipped in the storm drain.   Atticus’ steps were precise and purposeful, gentle and deliberate.  His ears took in all the nothingness, every spot of irregularity were dinner bells in his ears.  

A screeching howl from the throat of a cat twisted him to his left to stare down an a dank and uninviting alleyway which of course he ventured in to.   The owner of the howl rushed from behind a overstuffed tin trashed can and brushed passively passed his feet and into the empty streets behind him.  Atticus took no interest in this startled animal, his ears open, and his eyes locked on the forward progression his feet were carrying him.

Then in an instant the rifle was readied and the owner took a knee.  Atticus looked forward toward a alcove between dumpsters and the towering brick walls.   A shaking shadow was eminent on the cement, a product of a hidden light  from a window just above.  

“Step out.”  Atticus spoke with controlled command.  His arms were steady and he pressed the stock a bit more into his shoulder.   The shadow on the earth grew slightly as if it’s owner was now standing at its true height and not at its hiding posture.  Atticus searched slightly, lining up a headshot with his rifle in accordance with the distance of the shadow.  “Step out, or I’ll shoot you dead.”   Atticus commanded.

There was no response.  The shadow remained, its owner exposed but not cooperative.   The rifle shook slightly, but not enough to falter the sight line.   The muscles in his arm were weak, it had been two days without sleep.   His weakening arm a side effect of his determination.   If this was his target he couldn’t let it go.   He needed this done, he needed to rest.  Slowly Atticus rose to his feet, his bent knee straightening his rifle prepped, and loaded.

He only took a step when the figure emerged arms raised, and fingers pointed to the stars.  “I couldn’t stop him.”  The woman said, she was clothed in a harlequin dolls outfit.  The red santa hat like points slung in opposite direction up on her head with dangling bells ringing out as they swayed and tapped against the side of her head.   Her face was painted a pure white, her lips the color of pitch.  

“Where is he Harley?”  Atticus said in the same tone he had held when he first arrived here.

“Where’s who?”  Harley played back.  She stilled walked arms raised up with gloves powder white on the palms, and red atop.   The same red that matched her skin tight costume, the color red that was similar to the spots that were not black or white.   Her feet were in heels that clanked upon the cement ground, and she stopped in place.   She cocked her hips to the side and brought her fingers to hang on the side of her waist, while her other hand brought her index finger to her lips and she attempted to think of an answer to Atticus’ question.  “You must be speakin of Mr. J.”

There was not a moment that Harley moved that Atticus’ didn’t have his sites trained on her head.   A location between her eyes closer to the left than to the right.   “No more games.”

“No games Mr. Finch.”   Cackled a voice from behind him, “Just jokes.”  Atticus’ twisted around with a unbelievable velocity but there was nothing except a set of three cackling teeth with legs shimming across the entrance to his trap.   Atticus returned to Harley as he heard the sound of her heels beneath her steps.   She made to cross to an intersecting alley when he let his finger find the trigger.   The round entered and exited through her calf and she stumbled down with her face planting against the pavement, but she was tenacious and back to her feet.  

With the wound through her leg Atticus knew she wouldn’t get far, and as if in the same instant his gaze went back to the teeth.  He pulled the bolt up and back on his rifle and expelled the empty shell and slammed it forward and back down readying his next round.  He fired at one of the teeth, and then repeated his steps till all three were gone.   He had to sure they contained no traps, for he knew his target too well to fall for any again.   His memories rushed to the scar down the length of his right arm, he remembered it fresh and red, oozing with immeasurable blood.   The jack-in-the-box had launched a volley of shurikens, it had been cleverly hidden amongst the other toys in the store.   That was nearly two months ago.

Two months since of tracking, of scarce meals, of limited sleep.   Two months since he had had him cornered and restrained.