Into The Will Be

Into The Will Be

The hallway is tight,

dimly lit as if

I am venturing into a dream…

something that is of the is

and of the is not.

The walls look concrete,

but there is warmth at my touch,

it carries an organic feel

that speaks to me of something

alive.

The air moves around me

and I feel

the open breath of a passage.

 

Am I the swallower?

Or am I the swallowed?

 

It all comes to an end

in a few feet of darkness.

I grasp the latch

hinged on the possibility

of the other side. I twist.

Push through the change

and the door swings,

opening to a looming hole

that runs ahead

to dim into a dark nothingness.

Anticipation and energy swell…

 

Time, to play…

 

Stepping into the advanced expanse

of a broken dance,

the exhausted love of lost romance,

I delve into the abundant possibility of I.

The question: where do I go from here?

enters my thoughts

and is immediately parried away

with the playful childish laughter of mocking

stupidity arriving with an answer,

for I can already see the directions.

Infinite,

vast,

and steeped into the limitlessness

of the everywhere.

 

And it is, everywhere…

And everything is, possible…

And it is all real…

all true, and all good

and GODDAMN THIS IS GOING TO BE FUN!

 

When the question enters the now moment

I don’t search for directions any longer

but for a stopping point

on the revolving roulette wheel of destinations.

For so many are arriving and none are ending.

 

I hear the low squeal of blockage and finality,

as the door behind me slams with a great boom-click.

At that same moment the echo

from the deep darkness ahead of me

comes with the sound

a thousand by a thousand and one latches releasing

doors to cracking open. The squeal and moan are

by hinges that have not been used.

They echo throughout the labyrinth

as something new being born.

 

Each is opportunity

that reveals other doors,

other paths, hallways and mazes,

spilling light and dark, colored shades,

sounds from the outdoors,

conversations of life

spill with laughter and arguments of all kinds.

 

I listen at the opportunities opening,

the sounds bringing images of sand

broken waves crashing with the screech of gulls.

Others scream into the open air and still

others whisper

with the closed droning ohm

of library and museum knowledge.

There is playful adult cooing

from behind some doors

of bedrooms bloom with the scent of

impassioned pheromones

urging a body to respond.

 

The air breaks from somewhere and with it

odors of the future come spilling out.

It scent sweetened with the culmination of everything.

 

I am aware of the door behind me.

Aware of where it leads,

and what is on the other side

I am aware it is unlocked and welcoming

and I smile, because back is not forward.

Without effort or thought

I take my first steps into the future matrix

of the never-ending where I will live,

and where I will thrive.

 

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Giant Urinals In A Hipster Bar

Giant Urinals In A Hipster Bar

The walls still

hold the lingering odor

of popcorn and butter.

A memory of its first life

as a popular cinema

 

showing films

of Gable and Monroe

in the thirties

when lard popped it

and the butter was real.

 

Reels lit the silver screen

fresh from the studios,

in the hopes that Dillinger

might come by for a show.

 

In the seventies

The dawn of the Home Box Office

killed it,

though it held its charm,

revamped

into a showcase

living as a diner theater

 

before it was murdered.

Its body dismembered

leaving half the lobby,

the restrooms

and the back office.

 

The remaining

held a stint as a comedy club

before transitioning

to a simple bar

with a backroom stage.

 

Now, live music holds sway.

A hip and swank bar

serving smart cocktails

holding a few bottles

of sarsaparilla underneath

for the sake of auld langsyne.

 

Butter and oil still emanate

as long feted

cinema ghosts linger

in the old brown mahogany,

and still, hope remains

for gangsters to swing by

chew the fat with a drink

then step out to Coppers

waiting to spit a grand hail

from an old Chicago Typewriter.

Love Poem For The Future

Love Poem For The Future

I see echoes of you

in longing stares

from the faces of ex’s

and in subtle glances

from a friend’s fiancé.

 

I hear the reflection of

your voice, in their words

tortured by a possibility

that stalks,

unfound

beneath the shimmy

of street corner profiles.

 

I am a ghost in your reality,

haunting

a precognitive vision of your memory

lost to heartbeats stolen

by sand dripping under glass.

 

I search and wait

as you stroll through a churchyard

dress dragging, a ghost

white veil soiled

bare feet caked with grime

waiting to vanish in your mist

and I know

the burning fusion of alone

that speaks of forever.

 

I feel the torture of tragedy,

Shakespearian and Greek

as the gods laugh at our folly.

but I must write this now

because the words have seized me now.

 

Understand,

this does not cheapen my thoughts

when I present these,

for I loved you,

long before we knew

and dreamt of the us

we have become,

as our spirits danced

across the sandman’s sea.

 

We have not met,

and you do not know me,

but when,

if I or my voice is lost

to the breath of time

you will read.

A Four Letter Word

A Four Letter Word

There is a new four letter word

my mother uses it as well as pops,

my grandmother and entire family.

It wasn’t an embarrassment

when I learned it.

I use it all the time,

and so do you.

 

It speaks of togetherness

and points fingers

to inclusion and lumps

it even speaks of destruction.

We don’t hesitate,

but the implications are bigger

than the time it takes to say.

 

It isn’t fuck or love,

the best or the worst,

and it is not hate

But I fucking hate

that I love how it polarizes.

 

Generalization is its definition,

the stated fact of a situation.

It has started and ended wars

and it is doing so right now.

 

The word is THEY,

and you should think about it

before you say it,

or before it’s too late.

 

The Pieces

The Pieces

 

There are tears in her drink. The walls are salty and blurred. The paint is chipped and cracked with loss. The frustration wells and she screams. The reverberation is swallowed by its own echo and another heart breaks with the singularity of loss.

She let it in. She let in the remembrance the once wonderful romance and the betrayal. She let in the time together and the eternity of gone. She embraced what was and what should have been until it was clear and she was done.

She stood, naked in the sunset letting the orange light fade in her eyes. And then her lip curled, just a bit at the corners and her eyes shifted in thought. She selected this and that and of course those, maybe this… No, too much. She dressed and inspected the design. It was fresh and different and alluring without being slutty. It said yes, but it did not say now.

The emotion crept back in and she smirked because it was trying to betray her. She wouldn’t let it. She turned to the shelf and thought for a moment before selecting. She sprayed the potion as a last touch, as a beginning and a simple period on a final goodbye.

The sun was gone now and she looked out at the moon, sparkling in its glow above the Angel city skyline. Then she smiled. Not for what was or what could be, but for what is.

She stepped out with a trumpets whine and a cellos low moan, her heals drumming her through the night.

The Stone

The Stone

 

Push. The stone begins to retreat. He presses through bleeding teeth. Sweat pisses from his forehead and shoulders and runs down his back. His calves bulge and pop. He can hear the tendons strain against the fibers for the millionth time. The stone retreats another inch and his shoulders threaten to dislocate. They will. He has felt them. It has happened thousands of times in the past. His elbows hold, but as he presses, his back arches, and his body begins to fold.

This is a mistake. He has felt this before as well, lost count how many times in fact.

One disc slips and pain rips through him like electricity. A second begins to follow suit. His hips could straighten this out and he tries, but that calls for the legs and knees to aid him and that isn’t going to happen in the world of hurt he is living in now.

The stone retreats another inch and his back releases with it. The leverage is gone and the stone is not stopping now. He knows the next move and with his last bit of energy he spins out of the way for the two, three, or four billionth time and dives. He just gets himself clear as the stone rumbles past. He turns and watches his nemesis roll away.

He drags himself off the ground to his knees, stops and begins to weep.

His weeping is quiet and breathy and the tears come from his eyes running in waves. When he can no longer hold back he wails in frustration and sorrow into the hot desert wind. His body is already reconstituting and as a compulsion, he stands. Still weeping, his body moving like a marionette, he is taken back down the hill while rivulets of tears run down his robe.

He cries the tears of the damned, the lost and the lonely. He glances around as his body takes him back down to the starting point. All around is desert, wasted and hot. Nothing is living or moving, but him and nothing has for as long as he has been here. He doesn’t pray for forgiveness or for mercy. He ended that after the first decade. Here, it is never been dark, it has never been night, it has never rained nor has it ever cooled. Day in and out he has pushed and strained. He has worn a groove into the earth and he knows every inch of this stone.

His stone. It has crushed body parts. It has flattened limbs only to have them regenerate a moment later and with them, the same the compulsion to return to the bottom of the hill and start again. Push.

Push, he breathes and the stone moves weighting not much more than a feather. He takes the first step and the weight begins to accumulate. He presses on. His feet treading the same path he has walked for… How long has he been here?

In life he kept his own counsel. He trusted no one. He was cruel and a trickster, but he was charismatic and cunning, with a charm that could make friends with the Devil himself. He once fooled Mr. Death and trapped him for a time. He made an enemy out of God.

The endless sleep of true death was far too good for the likes of him for he was powerful. And so, this… A special purgatorial realm was created for him to be left and forgotten about for a moment or forever. Which was it? Those two always get mixed up.

The hill was straight and not very steep, but with each step the stone gained more weight; five pounds, ten stone, a hundred kilos here and there. It was perfectly rounded so it rolled easily in the groove. He walked, pushing it, feeling the weight increase. A few hundred thousand times he had tried to turn around once he was near the top. Press with his back and use his legs, for he had clearly gotten stronger over the millennia. It was to no avail.

He might slip and lose a foot, but it would come back a moment later. He’d slipped countless times, had his arms, shoulders and legs crushed, but they too came back. He has never died however. He had never been completely crushed. His body has been mangled beyond recognition, but never his head. For he wants to live, he has always wanted to live and if he is to live for eternity in this place pushing this stone up this accursed hill then so be it. He would still be living.

He pressed. In the strain and the heat the sweat poured down his face and began to burn his eyes. The tears only came in the aftermath. They came in the frustration. The tears had only begun a hundred years ago and only came as he watched the stone roll back down the hill. Something felt different now.

All of a sudden the tears began as he pushed. Why were the tears coming now? He stepped forward, pushing the stone watching the chipped bits and flecks he recognized on the stones surface as they moved through his blurred vision.

He cried the tears of the damned as the stone became heavier. He splayed his palms wide and dug in with his hands as the weight increased and the stone rolled forward up the hill. How long had it been? It was countless.

He did not pray for forgiveness. He did not care to be forgiven. He felt his legs beginning to strain. He had been cruel and faces began to run through his vision. He imagined their blood on his hands as he pushed the stone.

Step, his feet were starting to dig. His calves began to bulge. The tears were running now for who he was, who he had been and what he had done. They ran for his self-righteousness and his complacency. He bowed his head and pressed the stone as the sweat began to piss from his forehead. The tears and sweat ran and dripped off his nose. He didn’t pray. He apologized, for what he had done and who he had become.

He used his head, had he ever done that before? The stone moved higher. His body was locked and straining. His joints were crushing and his tendons were taut and holding fast while his muscles and threatened to pull. He opened his mouth for the first time in decades to speak and found he had forgotten how. He pressed and the stone rolled, getting even heavier. The tendons squeezed and sweat squirted from his skin as his muscles burned.

Forever? An understanding suddenly came to him and more tears began to burn from his eyes. He didn’t speak to God, or the gods, for he cared nothing for them or their rules. He released a scream of pain and frustration and sorrow. Not for himself, but for those he had wronged. He pressed. The stone moved forward.

How much had he been given? He had been a king and he had squandered his power, his rule. He had demanded supplication from his subjects. He had stolen. He   had murdered and he had raped. He was worse than even he had ever believed.

He opened his mouth and screamed again in frustration and memory and pressed. The stone rolled higher, getting still heavier. The weight on the top of his head was crushing his neck. He breathed and suddenly felt eyes on him. Were they judging him, or where they only bearing witness? It mattered not at all. He was in judgment of himself. What had he become and why?

He pressed and the stone moved as his body burned and his joints crushed. His face was awash with tears and sweat and his neck was strained on his shoulders. He screamed again forgetting how to make any words at all. More eyes were on him. He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. All his transgressions were bearing witness to this final reckoning.

What was that? Final? Yes final, for he would succeed this time or he would allow the stone to take him. He pressed and the stone moved. His body was in flames, riddled with strain and leverage as the stone gained even more weight. It was now threatening to crush him. If it retreated an inch he would be finished.

He could not speak, but his mind remained sharp and finally, suddenly, after a millennium’s millennium he apologized for his transgressions. He apologized to the eyes on him, to the witnesses to his redemption and his reckoning. He cried out again and pushed with everything he had left and the stone didn’t move.

Why was he put here, to roll the stone forever? How long had it been and how long was forever? Forever was somewhere between a moment and eternity and where was he now? The fire in his body overtook him and all at once he felt his muscles release.

There was a moment, a moment of tears and blood and sweat where he could have moved and started again. In that moment he decided he was not deserving of this, for even this torture was living, it was maddening, but it was living. He could have stepped to the side and begun again and if that be the case he would die this time, and die again and again the next time on into forever. His body collapsed and the stone which now weighed tons began to roll back.

He felt it happen. He felt it all.

His back crushed with his neck. His knees turned an odd angle and this time the blood came fiercely as his skin split. He was quite literally flattened and everything that was inside of him was squeezed into the outside.

His head went last and he was still aware when it did. His skull was hard and it twisted as it rolled. His eyes were granted a moment’s vision of those who bore witness to this reckoning as tears still poured from them. Then the skull went. His brains left him as the stone crushed it and rolled down to the bottom of the hill.

The emptiness and the forgiving endless black only lasted a moment before he returned. The pieces of himself reconstituted on the hill and he took his first step as a weeping marionette. He looked around to the audience as he descended to the bottom. He breathed and placed his hands on the stone still weeping and still apologizing as a hand rested on his shoulder.

He turned to face a man. He had once called the man friend and he had betrayed him. He had his friend beheaded. Then he raped his wife and his children as well before selling them all into slavery. The wife and the children were there as well and countless others he had wronged. There were hundreds of them and they all stood with him each placing a hand on the stone and together they all pushed. He continued to weep as he walked up the hill, pressing on the stone that felt as if it weighed nothing.

Near the top he began to feel some weight, but the mob of supporting forgiveness pressed forward and the stone rolled up and up and then stopped. One by one the helping hands were removed until he stood for the first time with no weight threatening to crush him. He dropped to his knees, resting his head and keeping his hands on the stone.

He wept now more than ever in the past. He wept for the mercy and forgiveness that he did not deserve. He wept in thanks and made the ground muddy with his tears. Then one by one he removed first one hand, and then carefully he removed the second. For the first time in forever he felt the weight of pain, the weight of the horrible atrocities he had committed and the immense foreboding weight of guilt leave him. He wept and screamed his thanks to the heavens as dropped to his knees and the stone stayed.

Bestiality

Bestiality

 

The car was all flat, satin black

with tinted windows and gunmetal rims.

It was born in the fifty’s,

got a new lease when the century turned,

and it sounded as if it was very angry…

all the time.

 

Its grille smiled with teeth of black chrome

and it wanted to chew up everything in its path.

It did own the whole fucking road!

I never knew its name, it never told me,

but I called it Victor when it was mine.