To Falter

Out yonder mountains falls the scalding sun,

thick among burning branches,

dancing along red blades of grass.

The embers of the fire grow cold

among their orange glowing brethren

turning black.

Huddled and chilled, wrapped in a carcass

a man stares into the fading light.

From pink to purple and gold to blue

a wind delivers the rushing turns, the

breaking winds, the gusts.

He reaches out his calloused palms

as if in prayer, as if pleading;

as if to hold the weight of the sun

from falling.

Isolated in that place, he fails.

The sun falls.

The fire dies.

His soul is crushed under its weight,

left to smolder, a pile of embers turned black.

Isolated in that place, he falls.

Out yonder mountains swallows a black sky

among littered branches and pine needles,

among the fallen blades of blue grass

the dead things are forgotten.

09/24/11

You know, an old crow like me could fall for a girl like this...

Or maybe I already have...

Yeah, no doubt in my mind.

circa 09/24/11, Iowa State Capitol

"I'm a Catholic..." (Dream)

07/31/06 Dream recorded.

I just joined the KVPD Police force and after training, I was on the night shift. I was in with death row inmates and our job was to arrange and carry out executions. Each day a different officer brought an inmate out, put them in a chair and executed them by firearm.

There was a public viewing area in front  with benches and chairs. The entire room was very spacious with Italian rose marble pillars. When my day came up, we led a tall, middle-aged fat woman out to the chair. Her family was seated along the aisle and they cried and moaned and pleaded as we passed. The woman snatched one of her grandchildren and would not let her go. We officers had to keep the family back while trying to subdue the woman.

We finally pulled the kid from her arms and I rushed the woman to the chair.  Along the way, in the confusion and hysteria, I explained to her that I was a Catholic and that this wasn't something I wanted to do  - it was just a job and I hated it. She sat down in the chair, looked up in my eyes and said, "Fine, just get this over with.  Do me quick because I don't want to know I'm dying."

I tried to reason with the Sgt. but he kept telling me everyone had cold feet on their first time. I stood behind the woman and put my long-barrel .357 magnum to the back of her head. I spoke a Hail Mary aloud to her, maybe to calm her - but probably to calm myself - as I pulled the trigger.  Just as the cylinder turned, she flinched, her neck muscles tensing up, and I blew a hole in the back of her head.

She lay there on the floor with her eyes open and mouth twitching. Regulations required we put a total of 3 rounds into the criminal's head, so I fired again into her face and finally placed the last one in her temple. The last shot was the most difficult because the sights of the gun were covered in bloody flesh.

The coroner arrived and checked her pulse, announced the hour of death and the cleaners began picking up the pieces of her skull.  The Sgt. told me, as per policy, I could go home early. I stood around and talked with the other guys for a while to calm my nerves. They shared stories of past executions including a time an officer had to physically hold a man down and pump three rounds into his skull.

I drove home.  Traffic seemed to speed by me and everything in my car seemed to go really slow. I eventually came to some road construction, stopped my car and got out.  Rather than drive around it, I decided to walk through it. I had my uniform pants and a bloody white tshirt, and I was carrying my unholstered .357.  People passed by staring at me and all I could do was think of the woman I'd just killed.

The Depot (travel)



Who dares disturb the slumber of the dead?

Upon this hallowed ground do footsteps ring;

Upon this earth, the beating hearts.

But through shafts of light do shadows break

And splinter forth into springs,

A well of life poured out…

07/30/11 Backstage, Surf Ball Room

Top Left to Right: Susan, Cate.
Bottom Left to Right: David, Mike, Alex, Eric

Obelisk (poem)

Shadows engulf pockets of light

Beneath unblinking phallic walls.
Sprawled upon faces, the subjugated
Bow before unholy might;
Those hinting denial, burned in pits.
Eyes cannot betray utter devotion,
Amidst quickly fading lives;
The irises rolled white, veins pumping,
Mouths in ecstatic gulping.
Towering, Omnipotent, Omnipresent
Black obsidian cut thick and precise.
Fists once held in the air to protect,
Now cudgel the woman, the child, the weak
Until blood soaked streets wail in terror.
Sprawled upon faces, the subjugated
Bow before unholy might;
Those hinting denial, shattered.
Silent, firm, Omniscient.
Obelisk.

Medusa Me (poem)

I have cried, “Peril, Ye, who enter this tomb!”
And yet you approach suddenly, confidently
Your horse champs, your sword shines, your helmet, thick
Muscles glistening in the sun with dew of sweat
Through veils of flowered emerald ivy, you climb
Into my Ivory halls.
My marble pillars festooned
By crimson silk and incensed urns,
My chamber glowing with white hot pine embers.
You plant your sandals like boulders,
In the bounds of Netherworld.
Upon your back, a curse;
Stifling breaths, stagnant waters, burning touch
And upon great wings shall I fly
Above and beyond the snares,
The swords, the lances, the shields.
Above you I shall fly until time vanishes,
Our eyes meet.

Rotten and decayed –

The corpses of granite, alabaster, basalt –
The statues of those forgotten line my corridor.
Molecules grind, burn, screech abruptly;
Organic machinery fails, weakens, deconstructs.
Wiring sizzles, tendons freeze, veins harden
And your grimace cements perfectly.
Lost in time, lost in dream, lost in perfection,
Cut from the very rock you were born.

Gorgonian eyes pierce meaty hearts

Like the obsidian arrows of thine enemies.
The human stoked infernos of Hades
Unleashed upon you, the accusers, until you wither,
Passing as specters into the silent nights.
I remain, a Mortal, clean hands and washed of sin.
Into my blue eyes you stare,
Into Death’s eyes, you stare.

Autumn Walk (haiku)

Red leaves gamboling
Fluttering by, butterfly
From brawny branches

Writing as Expression (reflection)

I see now that writing is an expression of one’s self at a specific time in one’s life. Writing is not a skill developed over a period of time. Certainly, one may develop one’s expressions and thereby articulate more effectively – in other words, one may practice writing and learn just how to say what they want to say, just how they want to say it. In this way, writing most certainly seems like a skill.

Yet, a skill is a rote mechanism one performs in repetition. A master in a skill may recreate and repeat their skill into exhaustive redundancy. A dancer, for instance, learns her steps, learns her poses and she repeats these until her body physically disallows her from further performance. Nonetheless, if the dancer possessed an immortal body, the dancer would be able to repeat the very same steps cyclically into eternity.

Writing is different, just as painting or drawing is different. Writing is no less an art as dancing, but writing, unfortunately, disintegrates with the writer.  As a child and young adult, writing bursts from the brain into shapes and forms, and strange things which no young writer can utter. The challenge of the young writer is simply harnessing this energy and shaping something intelligible. Many painful nights and long days are spent crafting.

As one gets older, the spectrum begins to flip. With much practice, the older writer knows exactly what to say and how to say it. But now the brain has begun to rot. The energy required comes in spurts. One month may be spent contemplating suicide for lack of energy when suddenly a thunderbolt cracks from above and the humble writer spends two or three days pounding out brilliant material.

You see, writing is no more a skill than laughing. One cannot practice laughing well. Writing is an expression in which one perfects themselves as a whole and learns to express. There is no mechanism in writing. There is no movement.

Agnosis is not a dirty word... (reflection)

There is no single being called God/god/Al-Lah/Jehova/Emporer/Yahwae/Father.
We are as much "God" as anything else in this Universe, on this plane of existence. In fact, we are God.

God is not male or female. God does not reserve a place for sinners.  God does not favor one person, group, knowledge or creed.  God does not answer prayers. God does not have moral requirements. God does not know sin, nor does God care what sin might be. God does not require good deeds, or submission. God does not need money and does not care how you spend yours.

Instead, God is the ocean in a drop of water.  God is the infinite Universe in a grain of sand.  God is the molecule which forms the Redwood tree.  God is the mountain on a single strand of dust. God is the vast emptiness in a vacuum. God is the ever-exploding, ever-booming sun, as well as the choked silence of the deep sea. God is Life and God is Death, the evil, the good, the ugly, the beautiful. God is the omnis.

How can we explain something so infinite, so magnificent, so ultimate with a narrow vocabulary of words developed by inferior minds under crass assumptions with limited knowledge?

We cannot.

Religion is a hoax developed by men to acquire power.  These men of ultimate blasphemy, arrogant and impudent created an image of one THING as God, pouring favor onto this thing, fearing this thing, bowing to this...thing.

And now our civilizations teeter on the brink of self-annihilation, begging at the feet of their constructed god/s, praying that their selfish people may maintain a grasp on life...

But should the thirsty dirt absorb the last drop of human blood, and should these god constructs crumble and blow away, God will remain in the energy of the Universe just as God has for eternity.