The Sight of Blood

The light flicks on and the shocking red of blood offends his sight. The boy studies the intricate rouge lace upon his outspread hand. A slender gash is visible beneath the violent blanket at the center of his palm. It glistens sickly, but has stopped oozing. There is pain, and his brain is heated.

For the sight of blood causes instinct to flare.

For the sight of blood prompts immediate self-assessment.

For the sight of blood is a harsh reminder of mortality.

For the sight of blood topples idols and banishes youth.

Over the next few days, the boy's hand begins to heal. The wound's ugly mouth shuts by slow degrees; its nagging voice sluggishly wanes. The pain is gone but its didactic memory remains. The scar of experience lays visible in the dusky lights of self-reflection. Many more wounds lay in store for this hapless boy. Some severe and memorable. Some light and flippant. At his life's end, he will have innumerable markings of the past. Each will have its own intriguing story. These markings are wormholes to the past. And by these markings we will read his life.

Show them all.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them listen.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them bite their lips.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them staring.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them ecstatic.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show their faces meld.

Development

The chinks in human character subtly become cracks and may gradually widen with time. The human cultivates his own corruption. The dark line is drawn on development’s pavement; we have only to step across.

Yet the question is posed: is corruption negative? Is the flawless character necessarily perfect? Or is there some virtue in delving down into the world’s dregs and emerging once again into the judgmental sun?

The experienced and reformed character is the strongest. Those whose walls have been breached know where to shore up extra supports. Yet the reformed character is a rare breed. Like plagued rats in a fortress, corruption lodges itself in unseen areas and only comes out in the mind’s night. The reformed character must be a willing and able exterminator.

The untempered character is weak and malleable. Unanswered questions will always lurk in his dreams. His hut is built on sand, and a gust of wind may blow it down. But, at the moment, it is ignorantly free of disease.

Both types have their flaws.

The untempered character cannot possibly expect to persist in his purity for he is forced by his inexperience to ponder the world. This is shown by the rampant pedophilia of the priestly class. Man is a worldly creature, nothing more.

The reformed character is rare to the point of unreality. His experience is his temptation and often leads to his downfall.

Reader,

Open your eyes and acknowledge the point of no return. It is different for all. Life is a great poker game. Do not throw away the card of reform on a whim.

Through the Peephole.

Through the peephole,

Reality is skewed.

Through the peephole,

Suspicion ignites.

Through the peephole,

With rounded vision.

Through the peephole,

A life untouched.

Through the peephole,

Safety lies.

Through the peephole,

With one open eye.

Through the peephole,

Tiny as it is.

Through the peephole,
The day is curved.

Through the peephole,

To glimpse the sun.

Through the peephole,

A shelter unwon.

Rays.

See the sunny rays evenly spread across the cool evening uppersphere?

The life of us.

Piercing through the fluffy clouds. Blades of myth. No wonder the early savages worshiped this harsh-yet-gentle radioactive love. No omnipotent technology can surpass this. Ever.

See the clouds' illuminating cloak!

Why must they block my fierce desire?

Selfish and white.

Yes, selfish and white.
White against the toddler's first sunny view of blue.
Such is young life's breaking lessons.

Why can't they be undone?

"Because of our ways,"

The silent wise man spoke.

The River is Crying

The river is crying.
One can hear its weeping gurgle,
One can feel its chill roar,
One can breathe its sad passage.

Why are you crying, river?

You are on your way to the sea,

To be absorbed in that whole body.


Is it that you fear the loss,

Of your geographic identity,

Within the eclectic ocean?


Remember that your source is limitless,

That it is a part of all,

That it is supplied by all.

The river melds with the sea,
And becomes anonymous,
Pouring deep inside the vast heart,
Expanding its muscled ventricles.


The full sea is living.
One can hear the world's oceanic heartbeat,
One can feel its steady drumbeat,
One can breathe its giving heat.

Untitled

Oh the still, quiet evenings when lonesome man has retired to his time-consuming television. All quiet now as the night descends. A new sort of creatures surface, stirring beneath the earth as their nocturnal sense begins to call. Light exits, and it is the closest thing to peace I have ever felt. The silence...disturbed only by the dull distant roar of an airplane, the faint and sacred echo of the human voice, the randomly rhythmic patter of sneakers on stairs, and the immutable orchestrations of the crickets. Darker, darker every minute. And fatigue pulls. The gold encrusted horizon that crowns the earth like a halo. The bare chill breeze that pricks my skin. Too early for the roaches, too late for humans.

The world hangs in a vacuum, in a timeless state of stoicism.

Oh, divine river god! Let the waters of life freeze here at the peak of night. Let this be my icy eternity. My heart is already filled with content. Freeze it before it bursts with feeling.