The Crew of Expendables

Hail the captains and their crew of expendables, haughtily sailing the slow seas south toward Mexico where cargo waits to be unloaded and tequila waits to be drunk. The bright sun glimmers on the waving waters over which pristine seagulls glide, crying their lonely cries. The crew of expendables silently work and are ignored by the dutiful captains who diligently discuss the business at hand.

The clouds hug the harmless horizon, afraid to let go and be transported back up to their boring blue homes. The crew of expendables grasp the helm in similar manner. For they are like the horizon’s clouds, searching for newness in places where none is likely to be found. The lofty clouds explore the forbidden earth; the land loving crew explores the mysterious seas. Not so the captains, who are wise enough to recognize that newness is merely a trick of the underdeveloped mind.

The crew of expendables live in either the future or the past, but never, never the present. The present they fear because of its impulsive immediacy. The present is for the trilingual captains to face and interpret. For them, the present is like a condemned building, unsightly and unlivable, that will malevolently collapse upon the brink of entry.

Because.

Because,
I'm a stupid guy,
With a smart brain,
That cannot comprehend,
The word,
Because.

So Long.

So long as the money is printing,
So long as the green color blinds,
So long as the paper flowingly crumbles,
Into million-dollar wallets.

So long as the worthless insignia,
Is packed,
Into countless bombs.

So long,
As they march with crocked knees,
Crooked in mind.

So long,
As they fire bought bullets,
Into human targets,
We must say it.

So long,
We must say it without luck,
And you must say it with your last breath.

"So long..."

Silenced

How alone is the silence when it has no ears to hear?

Evening.

I stare,
Through a glaucoma telescope,
Toward the future,
In an evening that resounds,
With morbid sighs,
Who protest,
Consolation,
And her lackluster,
Philosophy.

Never to Be Dislodged

Dust rode in on the clouded air, stopping on the way down to the lungs. Dry dust that coats the throat like a sandy slicker. The pestering grains riddle its reflexes, and the driest cough shudders the air. But the unharmed dust, unmoved, perches unworried in the most unreachable centers of the unhappy esophagus--never to be dislodged.

The Machine God

The people dig through their pockets, bring out their leather wallets, and place their earnings in the patient machine's famished mouth. Its green lights display its unsleeping hunger, and its emptiness arouses the emptiness in others.

The devoted pay homage to their everlasting idol(one of ruin, no doubt) as they traipse by with practised poise. It accepts with engineered stoicism--like the golden calf of ancient myth. It towers, nine feet tall, a droll hum rumbling from within its monetary breast, affecting the thoughts of all who glimpse its immobile body.

Some pray with wanton fingers, tap-tapping on the sacred number pad, praising the puppet whenever their selfish stomachs grumble. The buttons are shiny white and make pleasant beeping sounds when depressed: a bleep that causes conditioned mouths to water.

The machine god always produces with blunt precision any time it is correctly hailed, and there are few who have incurred its absent-minded wrath. It reacts to requests with punctual predictability. This is why their worship is wildly reactive and forever involuntary.

Take It Slow.

Take it slow,
Because life moves fast.

Slowly,
Inside the swirl's,
Ingenuity.

Slowly,
Inside the hurricane's,
Cliche eye.

Slowly,
While the world's instruments,
Swiftly speed.

Taking it slow,
While life moves fast.

Blink your watery pupils,
Against the rapid blur.

Unclench your fists,
In the midst of chaos.

Silence priority,
With a firm will.

Take it slow.

Let's take it slow,
Because we're all in motion,
Always motion.

Flush It Out

To flush forth the riddled past,
Purging for the demanding present.

To flush with rushing waters,
And feel their streaming passage,
Whoosh with hope.

Let the fluids make their way,
Through clammy corridors,
Plagued pastures,
And locust dens,
To the awaiting exit.

Out it surges,
Blackly cluttered at first,
Squirming with gaseous debris,
Then lightening,
Into a clear and unassuming,
Purity.

My Laughter.

My laughter
Is always
Just below
The murky surface.

Take your pin
And set it free.

Away From Another Day

I walked off into the night,
Black as it was,
Away from another day.

I walked away,
Feeling my hamstrings pull,
And my fists clench.

I drove off into the night,
Black as it was,
With my headlights on.

I drove away,
Squinting at the lights,
Comfortably blind,
Away from my newest friends.

Untitled.

Frozen in the rock's cracks,
Invading its insides,
Kniddling it apart,
In innocent destruction,
Are the seeping waters,
Of the shifting seasons.

The reeling stone contemplates the pain,
Body in decay,
When the wintry seizures strike,
And baldly break its granite brethren.

Use Your Words

"Use your words,"
The enchanted voice said.

Its tone warmed the senses,
And crinkled my eyes,
Into strange laughter.

For I had unwittingly experienced,
The best advice,
Of my time.

The Sounds of Thought

The sounds of thought come in unceasing waves. Harsh bombarding waves. Light, subtle waves. Waves that can cluster or annoy. As their noise resounds, I feel the dramatic echo and then wait for the repetitive cry to bounce and warp within the caves of my distracted brain. As it does, my foundations are upset, and I frantically work to bolster the supports.

Yet sometimes the sounds do not reverberate. The slimy algae absorbs the shock, the echo dies, and all is undisturbed. Although the building stands strong, it feels artistically incomplete. It becomes savage and vulgar, nasty to any worthy onlooker, and repugnant to the frustrated architect. One can only listen with head-cocked in the fray, and await for a chance recurrence.

It takes a special sort of ear to hear the sounds of thought. It is the eternal internal ear, and its auditory canal is purged of wax. The sounds pour across the eardrum. The cerebral cortex struggles to interpret. This is the prophet's informer, and he is never silent. All information gained engenders the seeds of power whose deceptive chutes eagerly blossom and ominously sway--to The Sounds of Thought.

Chivalry is Dead.

Tiredly tell the immolating gentleman that chivalry is dead and classify this foreign contempt. Tell him that hollow manners should never flatter; that elitist jargon should never enchant. Tell him about the sterility of generalized and widespread affection: how its thin, weak, strained spread loses all emphasis with time. Tell him that it cannot replace lost or stale attributes.

Chivalry is dead because the wise have killed it. Those who are able to love and hate have kept it dead and promote its decay. You would use your medieval charms to resurrect it from its unmarked graves, but what you uncover may not be what you wish.

The Vacant Vessel

The shores on each side of the flurried river are littered with fallen trees. They are rotten and soggy, and the etch of insects have tattooed the trunks. They have all died, bent by the wind, and now return to their eager mother. Step over and around them as you make your way to the water.

The river's waves are gentle now and kind to the beaten canoe that aimlessly drifts with the current. Stand and watch it as you've done in past dreams. It grows larger as it approaches from the East(nut brown, sleek, and narrow), made of the very same trees that tangle the shores. The oar lays at one side, waiting for a pilot. Your legs stand firmly planted on the hard dirt, but your fingers and arms twitch for the wooden instrument. The waters are gentle, the approach is leisurely, but the distance is great. The canoe nears and your decision is made. You will brave the icy waters, and the shifting currents to reach the vacant vessel. But you must swim without fatigue in order to overcome the gap. When you reach the vacant vessel, grasp the oar, and you will be in command when the deceiving waters shift and begin to change color.

Rest Your Head

Rest your head,
On the friendly shoulder,
Close your red-rimmed eyes,
Still your frantic nerves,
Breath softly.

Rest your head,
On the living support,
Give up some of the pain,
That lurks in living.

Rest your head,
On the friendly shoulder,
And be thankful,
That it exists.

Rest your head,
And ignore the whistles,
The cries,
The jeers of the race.

Rest your head,
With welcoming warmth,
And put the marathon on hold.

Untitled

The quivering scrawls on the pitiful page are the result of the elder's quavering hand. Once strong, it barely obeys the will of its owner, and then only weakly. The letters gawk and mock. They destroy the hopes of the lively by reminding them of their own imminent, omni-present demise. How the aged heart must palpitate once youth is dismissed. When strength abandons, the world becomes hostile. And lucky will be those who have companions in decline.

Lady Reality's Dogs

When Lady Reality's dogs bark, feline instincts flare. Their hoary voices drown the morning's sleep-touched peace; their pitch casts a spell of depressed duty on the ears they disturb. Why can't Lady Reality keep her dogs quiet and well-mannered? Is that so much to hope for? They bark at the worst of times, and when I leave the house they stalk my shadow, growling and guttural. I try and keep casual, but my adrenaline soars, and my fear ignites. For I have heard that the ill-tempered, uncollared brutes will tear out a man's throat with their clamping jaws and yellow, razor teeth. Don't arouse their hackles. Docility is what the situation calls for. Docility before dogs.

It is true that Lady Reality's dogs have me cowering. I am afraid of their drive. I am haunted by their hunt. I am terrified by the things they have done to humanity, and the things they will timelessly do until the timeline's end with such simple and ferocious detachment.

I now find myself covering my scent and ducking into dark alleys whenever I spy the four legged demons in the distance. They tasted my flesh once; they must not taste it again. But I know that they are in a frenzy, and I can only dodge them for so long before they find me. For bloodlust now drives these savage creatures; their eyes are glossed by it. In hiding I hear the Lady, their master, chuckling at my fear.

Down to the Catacombs

Let us descend,
Down to the catacombs,
And listen to the century's waters,
Nostalgically drip.

The sound of stones' blood and tears.

Down to the catacombs,
You and I,
Where darkness rides,
On neglect's saddle,
Through the submerged kingdom,
Beaten leathers bleating.

Where the hollow skulls stare,
And the air reeks of moss.

Let us wander,
Lost and forgotten,
Through the winding corridors,
Trailing our young fingers along ancient walls,
And around mysterious corners,
In the steely depths.

Our perspiring palms are together,
And our minds enlarge as our bodies explore.

Inside the city's black bowels,
Let us lose the will,
To surface.

The Flying Comet

The comet's semen-tail,
Trails and flurries,
Whipping the mysterious skies,
Tickling the stunned stars,
As the smoldering center flares,
Buried within.

Fiery, whirring,
Life outbursting,
Boundless to simple eyes,
As it creases faster,
Fastest.

The planets lay below,
Dead, stationary, and unappealing.

But down the comet,
Must fall,
When the energies give in,
To gravity's call.

A short lived streak,
To the world below,
Where the new comet rock,
Cools amongst the old,
Who lay supine,
Who died untold.

Untitled

I am amazed at the speed in which we scrape our red and smoking wreckage off the unforgettable pavement; at how normal life appears when the mess is cleared, the violence purged, the problems hidden by routine's warm, drab blanket. Whenever the twisted carnage is pushed within its safe folds life continues, obliviously anew. The vehicles single-mindedly speed on, unworried and unimpeded, toward their respective destinations. Whatever will we do when the clean up crew fails to arrive? What will we do when the smoke lingers, the bloodstains darken, and the bodies start to rot? How many desperate horns will dumbly honk in the future's bedlam?

Untitled

Let us forget in order to regain the simplest thrills and sorrows of the learning and experience which classify life. Let us touch the flame to see whether its body yet burns, and then doubt all over again, though our infant fingers still smart. Let us thus keep our minds innocent and inquisitive.

In this way our youth will never be lost, and age shall not embitter and harden our aspiring hearts, even when our skin creases and dries, our bones creak and crack, and our breath comes shallow and tired.

The Intellectual Care Bear.

Hear it talk,
The intellectual care bear,
To the crowd of creatures.

Its quiet voice,
Charged with timid confidence,
Occupies the hall.

Emotionless, toneless,
It drones and drones,
Full of uncolored opinion.

My intellect is unmoved,
My interest is repulsed,
My ears stop,
Inexplicably,
As the emotionless opinions,
Rack my lungs.

They are filled to the brink.

I cough and cough,
Convulsively,
But the obstructions,
Still refuse,
To surface.