The man sat rocking slowly, methodically on his Grandmother's wooden rocking chair. Eyes gazing intently at the tree line. H looked yet he saw nothing and he was no better for it. A strong breeze penetrated the woods blowing pine needles with a weak grasp to the forest floor. The branches give the illusion of a mystical coordinated dance. Swaying as the wind blows only to sweep back to original form when it ceased. But our man sees none of this. He only looked because that is where his gaze rested. No, our man who we will call Charlie sat rocking silently while cursing loudly in his mind. Charlie had broke an oath beholden only to himself. Something he swore to do, usually right after doing it. It hardly bothered him as a child or teenager. His nascent conscious was the reason for his strife for these last 6 years. It all started when Charlie was a boy. How it came to be, well is an even longer story for a time long from now. Suffice to say Charlie had an affinity for fire, especially large out of control, chaotic fires.
It was the forbiddingness of it, knowing it was wrong, destructive and disgusting. Obviously to him these were the views of the world and ironically he happened to share these views. Maybe that was what drove his great incredulous desire. The process of perverting his own soul, a self perpetrating meeting of the mind and body. These feelings of wrongness did not come until after the fact. Oh he was quite giddy after committing himself to his next sacrifice. And it was a sacrifice, like the Viking kings of old, his fires consumed and imprinted an unmarked sense of immorality that was for his and his alone. His altar was everywhere and in a world made of wood he decided what was and what once was. Once he finished his sordid duties not even God could (or perhaps would) bring it back. God...Charlie broke free of whatever dream that left him physically invalid, he stood up so abruptly his feet almost leaving the ground, only to begin his normal pace of the mentally obsessed or tortured. His rough leather like hands clasped behind his back as he walked 6 paces pulled a immediate 360 degrees turn and begun the whole process again.
The door creaked or screamed like a dying rabbit as it opened. A woman many years Charlies elder walked slowly through the door frame. She seemed to hunch slightly over her grey hair curled just so. The deep wrinkles on her precious face were a (?modal) both to her age and wisdom. Wearing her usual Sunday best consisting of Khaki pants and a button down shirt covered in purple and red flowers. Charlie never stopped passing or raised his eyes to notice or acknowledge his visitor. "Charlie come on in and get you some lunch." Charlie walked his 6 paces and stopped his back to the voice he had just heard. He did not speak for a time but by his body movement the lady knew he heard her. After several moments just when she was about to repeat the question he replied, "Nanna, I am such a bad person, if you only knew the things I have done. I wonder would you still love me? Could you still love me,""Honey there is nothing you could do to make me ever"spittle misted visibly when she emphasized the "ever make me stop loving you. You..." Cutting her off as if he didn't even hear her speak he said without turning around, "I mean if you told me Something truly horrible you had done it wouldn't matter to me. But is that because I have done horrible things and know what it is like to harbor a horrible secret? Or is it because I love you. Because I have known you all of my days, Nanna."
He half way turned around and looking over his right shoulder stab a glance at her. But as quickly as he looked he stole away. Running down the stairs into the wet dewy grass. His bare feet breaking (?) and sharp rocks bruising his feet, yet he noticed the pain not at all. He was very afraid and his fear numbed all other sensation. His family knew nothing about the dark secrets he harbored. Or so he thought, they did have their suspicions. But they chose to ignore their gut all together. If he dared to look or investigate this inclination then they would be forced to acknowledge them. This was simply not done in the Shackleford family, no not at all. Charlie had no idea of their suspicions and so when he wore his pains, his secrets like a scarlet letter he dare not even let them look upon his face. Less they pierce his veiled shame with a glance and then they too would hate him as much as he hated himself. That frightened him more so then the inevitability of his losing control. And he was only just now understanding the inevitability of his dark hunger as he ran deep into his family's woods. To find his matches and the gas he swore never to use again but proudly never threw away because ha! He had decided never to do it again, because gas was so damn expensive and you never know when you might need matches.
Friday, February 22, 2013
Short Story 4
He lay quietly on the tough (?) brown carpet. The bed towered over him obstructing his view of the uniquely painted wall. He was proud of his wall, he would not think of a single soul with a wall like his. His Mother painted it to look like bricks, muddy red with dirty white almost silver granite lining. On top of this his Mother had spray painted several differenet words. Nothing ugly, a few "War Eagles", a "Go Braves", some different band names. He still did not understand the "War Eagle". Knowing it was the war cry of his fathers alma mater and comprehending the meaning of the "War Eagle" were two different things. He did not have the guts to ask his Father the meaning. It was not that his Father would neccessarily berate him, but he did not want to look stupid. Better to pretend to know, perhaps infer as well.
It was not that he did was not that the bed was not comfy, it was. In fact at that pint in our boys life he did not knowbeds could be anything less than toasty and majestically comfy. The floor suited him fine though. He lay in the prone his head rested on his hands, his hands propped up by his elbows. He was consumed by his novel and had not a care in the world. Why would he?
The lights were still on. Like a deer that sensed danger approaching, Chris jumped up and rested on his butt looking with grim dread in the direction of the stairs. The look was (?) completely forgotten as he watched and listened. He could hear the lonesome yawn of the door as it opened and could tell it was his Mother descending the stairs by her lite rapid steps down the stairs. When the Mother reached the bottom of the stairs she had already mentally braced herself for the fight that was sure to come. What she was not prepared for was the sick anquished look on her small boys face. His eyes wide, his hands clenched together, his breathing short and deep. He would never say what scared him so much. In fact he always denied he was scared. He shrugged off all of the careful poking and prodding . His answer was a variation of "I can't sleep with the lights off". "Oh Brett needed his big brother to sleep with him for his protection." "Protection from what,"she once asked. He had smiled up at her sweetly and not without some false bravado replieing "From everything Mommy." She was his Mother and when he hurt she hurt. He thought them all oblivious but she knew he was agonizingly terrified.
It was not that he did was not that the bed was not comfy, it was. In fact at that pint in our boys life he did not knowbeds could be anything less than toasty and majestically comfy. The floor suited him fine though. He lay in the prone his head rested on his hands, his hands propped up by his elbows. He was consumed by his novel and had not a care in the world. Why would he?
The lights were still on. Like a deer that sensed danger approaching, Chris jumped up and rested on his butt looking with grim dread in the direction of the stairs. The look was (?) completely forgotten as he watched and listened. He could hear the lonesome yawn of the door as it opened and could tell it was his Mother descending the stairs by her lite rapid steps down the stairs. When the Mother reached the bottom of the stairs she had already mentally braced herself for the fight that was sure to come. What she was not prepared for was the sick anquished look on her small boys face. His eyes wide, his hands clenched together, his breathing short and deep. He would never say what scared him so much. In fact he always denied he was scared. He shrugged off all of the careful poking and prodding . His answer was a variation of "I can't sleep with the lights off". "Oh Brett needed his big brother to sleep with him for his protection." "Protection from what,"she once asked. He had smiled up at her sweetly and not without some false bravado replieing "From everything Mommy." She was his Mother and when he hurt she hurt. He thought them all oblivious but she knew he was agonizingly terrified.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Poetry 19
They ask with burning eyes
to keep very still.
Listen very closely, drugs and alcohol kills
But this dogma keep my eyes trained on the horizon
Damn it all to hell if this is not trying.
Because it is all I can do
to sit half pretending to listen
its hard to care when you cannot afford your nutrition
to keep very still.
Listen very closely, drugs and alcohol kills
But this dogma keep my eyes trained on the horizon
Damn it all to hell if this is not trying.
Because it is all I can do
to sit half pretending to listen
its hard to care when you cannot afford your nutrition
Writings 1
This is a portion of a message Joshua sent to a friends brother. Both Joshua and Taylor battled addictions and were great friends from high school. Joshua always attempted to contact Taylor or his family to check on him. He loved Taylor and prayed often for him.
Josh Davis- 10-9-2012
"I wish I could explain your brother's irrational behavior to you Russell. We share a bond, him and I. A taint on our souls that will not wash clean; this taint I have scrubbed at until my fingers bled and my tears dried up. It is as if the devil himself marked us at birth for forlorn melancholy and despondent despair.
It is not fair that you should be made to suffer, that your Mother should be made to suffer. I saw the haunted dejection in your Mother's face every time my own Mother peered into my blood shot eyes. I have learned to count my age not by the days I have lived, but by the bouts of sobriety I earn. I do not understand the person I was two years ago, but I force myself to know him. To know him truly is to destroy him utterly. But know this Russell, it is never to late, verily, for we lost souls.
Taylor was one of the best friends I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Condemn his actions Russell and forsake his foolish endeavors, but find a hidden place in your heart to hide your hope. Hide it so that you may never lose it. Neither he nor I deserved the benevolent families God gave us. But such is life, both unmistakeably cruel and superlatively sweet. "
Josh Davis- 10-9-2012
"I wish I could explain your brother's irrational behavior to you Russell. We share a bond, him and I. A taint on our souls that will not wash clean; this taint I have scrubbed at until my fingers bled and my tears dried up. It is as if the devil himself marked us at birth for forlorn melancholy and despondent despair.
It is not fair that you should be made to suffer, that your Mother should be made to suffer. I saw the haunted dejection in your Mother's face every time my own Mother peered into my blood shot eyes. I have learned to count my age not by the days I have lived, but by the bouts of sobriety I earn. I do not understand the person I was two years ago, but I force myself to know him. To know him truly is to destroy him utterly. But know this Russell, it is never to late, verily, for we lost souls.
Taylor was one of the best friends I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Condemn his actions Russell and forsake his foolish endeavors, but find a hidden place in your heart to hide your hope. Hide it so that you may never lose it. Neither he nor I deserved the benevolent families God gave us. But such is life, both unmistakeably cruel and superlatively sweet. "
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Poetry 18
Pass the basket, chaulk it full
Throw in your best or look the fool
Christ came in a man's flesh
Suckling as a babe on a women's breast.
Like you, like I , he
for a time came as we
shall die.
though he (?) to died, watching
both Mary's they cried
In vain though they could
not know, he would return
and men would forever more yearn
For what he is a God
a vessel to the holy Father
if and when he should be saught
Throw in your best or look the fool
Christ came in a man's flesh
Suckling as a babe on a women's breast.
Like you, like I , he
for a time came as we
shall die.
though he (?) to died, watching
both Mary's they cried
In vain though they could
not know, he would return
and men would forever more yearn
For what he is a God
a vessel to the holy Father
if and when he should be saught
Poetry 17
A mural staining the wall
Dare walk past, feel its call
it seeps as it drips through your pores,
boring down, down into the soul
Such power rippling, visably vibrating.
turning Gods blessed gift into your own worst curse.
You wisper to the death
"Give me to my casket"
but he giggles and blankens your soul but a little
leaving you soiled.
Such toils, misery wrapped in brilliant blue wrapping paper
as confusing as aromatic deadly vapor.
Dare walk past, feel its call
it seeps as it drips through your pores,
boring down, down into the soul
Such power rippling, visably vibrating.
turning Gods blessed gift into your own worst curse.
You wisper to the death
"Give me to my casket"
but he giggles and blankens your soul but a little
leaving you soiled.
Such toils, misery wrapped in brilliant blue wrapping paper
as confusing as aromatic deadly vapor.
Poetry 16
Christmas colors surrounding
inticing one's delicate sensabilities
Where to go? Where indeed
Prech on feelin the fire
crying and dying
Standing in awe of a broken temple
Broken by men, causing many ripples
Resonating throughout the way
Is age a (delation?) of time?
or does it stand alone, blinded
Lined with congealing lava
Founding it which was pure
But the Christ distorted by men.
inticing one's delicate sensabilities
Where to go? Where indeed
Prech on feelin the fire
crying and dying
Standing in awe of a broken temple
Broken by men, causing many ripples
Resonating throughout the way
Is age a (delation?) of time?
or does it stand alone, blinded
Lined with congealing lava
Founding it which was pure
But the Christ distorted by men.
Poetry 15
Angel eyes, by design
watching it all fall
from a soft rust recliner
Liar's all of you
do not dare to speak
because we will not turn a cheek.
but point out our communal shame
with bleeding broken knuckles
and crooked nub
Why the look of surprise
when we stayed in the streets
in the streets.
as the rest watch like bleating sheep.
Shaking your head at our 60's repeat.
But we will see, when the bottom of the basement falls out.
And then who will be watching?
Who will be left?
watching it all fall
from a soft rust recliner
Liar's all of you
do not dare to speak
because we will not turn a cheek.
but point out our communal shame
with bleeding broken knuckles
and crooked nub
Why the look of surprise
when we stayed in the streets
in the streets.
as the rest watch like bleating sheep.
Shaking your head at our 60's repeat.
But we will see, when the bottom of the basement falls out.
And then who will be watching?
Who will be left?
Poetry 14
Stripped back, lowered expectations.
Ready to supplicate my life to any who listens!
Tripped up, beat down,
nothing wrong with fouling out.
Listen freely to talking Christmas lights
in the middle of October. Striving with ease, nod and say sir.
You do not mean it, no surprise, no need
for your endless list of lies.
Picture it. Everyone, all the lies.
Physically materialized as a golden roladex.
With each one used receiving a check.
Bud do not fret, once checked we can use and use
till the fool get wise.
Laugh loudly as we move to the next big prize.
No one can hide. No one knows.
Hone shit.
Hide your face. Peek out and see their burning beady eyes
because the joke is you
and will be till you die.
Now like little blondie
going from tall to really fucking small.
Go ahead act ahead, times without signs.
Useless.
Smile now my child.
With two wrists you cut twice, as deep,
with a feeble promise from the shadowy
men with no face.
chase it back, its time for sleep.
The faceless one
whom walked hand in hand with you from the start.
Ready to supplicate my life to any who listens!
Tripped up, beat down,
nothing wrong with fouling out.
Listen freely to talking Christmas lights
in the middle of October. Striving with ease, nod and say sir.
You do not mean it, no surprise, no need
for your endless list of lies.
Picture it. Everyone, all the lies.
Physically materialized as a golden roladex.
With each one used receiving a check.
Bud do not fret, once checked we can use and use
till the fool get wise.
Laugh loudly as we move to the next big prize.
No one can hide. No one knows.
Hone shit.
Hide your face. Peek out and see their burning beady eyes
because the joke is you
and will be till you die.
Now like little blondie
going from tall to really fucking small.
Go ahead act ahead, times without signs.
Useless.
Smile now my child.
With two wrists you cut twice, as deep,
with a feeble promise from the shadowy
men with no face.
chase it back, its time for sleep.
The faceless one
whom walked hand in hand with you from the start.
Poetry 13
Blessed we few
in the moment, so true
to see her fly, to walk,
begging her with our eyes
drinking her in with limpid wonder.
She does not notice
or perhaps her ivy
demeanor, verily for us
allowing the true blue moment
to linger
Onwards and upwards
lasting in me a moment
immortalized until perhaps
I die.
and when I do so too shall thee.
Fore in me that moment
inoly now you exist shall pass, buried with one under dewy grass.
never again shall you look as you did,
for even now, tis true time.
will beat at you, up you.
But in me you are free of times grasp
It will never be the same and
point must be made
That it shall never be the you I know.
A stranger evermore.
in the moment, so true
to see her fly, to walk,
begging her with our eyes
drinking her in with limpid wonder.
She does not notice
or perhaps her ivy
demeanor, verily for us
allowing the true blue moment
to linger
Onwards and upwards
lasting in me a moment
immortalized until perhaps
I die.
and when I do so too shall thee.
Fore in me that moment
inoly now you exist shall pass, buried with one under dewy grass.
never again shall you look as you did,
for even now, tis true time.
will beat at you, up you.
But in me you are free of times grasp
It will never be the same and
point must be made
That it shall never be the you I know.
A stranger evermore.
Poetry 12
Angelic eyes filled with fire.
Supplicate busy beavers who never seem to sit.
Still, I contemplate wondering if old saint nick
is runing from some cunninly, horrid past.
Looking through a pane of glass
in a vast house not yet my own.
This I know, awaitng the first stone.
In a house, not a home.
Still alone, always alone
as it should be
query me why, there softly I shalll never reply
with work its quite sardonic
this mine attempt at being larconic
Do you see the irony?
of all the powers that be
when they refuse to see
or believe in what is plainly
Their only hope is to see
us all hang from a rope tie dyed in a chalice of sour blood
Unless we cry uncle
but how do you repeat such merciless defeat
at the hands of so few?
1 percent to be precise is responsible for every single tear of all yours and yes my peers
Less we put down any
Supplicate busy beavers who never seem to sit.
Still, I contemplate wondering if old saint nick
is runing from some cunninly, horrid past.
Looking through a pane of glass
in a vast house not yet my own.
This I know, awaitng the first stone.
In a house, not a home.
Still alone, always alone
as it should be
query me why, there softly I shalll never reply
with work its quite sardonic
this mine attempt at being larconic
Do you see the irony?
of all the powers that be
when they refuse to see
or believe in what is plainly
Their only hope is to see
us all hang from a rope tie dyed in a chalice of sour blood
Unless we cry uncle
but how do you repeat such merciless defeat
at the hands of so few?
1 percent to be precise is responsible for every single tear of all yours and yes my peers
Less we put down any
Poetry 11
Mocking eyes
make for many shifty lies
Wishing the worlds (?)
made up of earths deep blue skies.
Walking forth, strutting nothing.
yet still keeping my chin down.
Fear clouds, sirens wound up,
if drunk roosters hoot,
who then woke me up.
Fire cleanses, beer from dispensers,
dirt caked, lady's waiting
it never stops,
don't dare look to a clock.
It is with hands.
Keep on pretending this is the only way
to keep medium rare deer at bay
It is a problem, believe me not
Go ahead call them. But be sure to own up.
To the flame, we all at some point believe it's vane.
To even try to enjoy life.
That's the price.
Nice guys don't finish last.
If it is a only a fib.
We who have you fooled.. Look hard we are easy to spot,
the ones with the hat
It's our top.
make for many shifty lies
Wishing the worlds (?)
made up of earths deep blue skies.
Walking forth, strutting nothing.
yet still keeping my chin down.
Fear clouds, sirens wound up,
if drunk roosters hoot,
who then woke me up.
Fire cleanses, beer from dispensers,
dirt caked, lady's waiting
it never stops,
don't dare look to a clock.
It is with hands.
Keep on pretending this is the only way
to keep medium rare deer at bay
It is a problem, believe me not
Go ahead call them. But be sure to own up.
To the flame, we all at some point believe it's vane.
To even try to enjoy life.
That's the price.
Nice guys don't finish last.
If it is a only a fib.
We who have you fooled.. Look hard we are easy to spot,
the ones with the hat
It's our top.
Poetry 10
Ushered forward by archaic minstrels
bound to a plane not known to you or me.
Trudging through congealing concrete
attempting to avoid holes
whilest they attempt to fill my lungs
with bitter flavored bumble bee's
whom contemplate life from within me
Yet I prefer the sting
and the rest that I then soon possess
But as the concreted hardens
I have no choice but to nod
and query the pros and cons of their symbiotic partnership.
Abjectly raising my paws
to black out a white dwarf who has
begun to write her will
I know my name which no one thinks is strange is strangely not there.
Fucking Santa with his incessant lists.
Is it such a shame
that I turned his ebony coal into several diamonds that verily are not priceless
and not a measure of love
now don't be amiss
when she the (decides) to tug your
shoe, of which there is no doubt
I am unglued because the shoe does still rest on a heavy chest
bound to a plane not known to you or me.
Trudging through congealing concrete
attempting to avoid holes
whilest they attempt to fill my lungs
with bitter flavored bumble bee's
whom contemplate life from within me
Yet I prefer the sting
and the rest that I then soon possess
But as the concreted hardens
I have no choice but to nod
and query the pros and cons of their symbiotic partnership.
Abjectly raising my paws
to black out a white dwarf who has
begun to write her will
I know my name which no one thinks is strange is strangely not there.
Fucking Santa with his incessant lists.
Is it such a shame
that I turned his ebony coal into several diamonds that verily are not priceless
and not a measure of love
now don't be amiss
when she the (decides) to tug your
shoe, of which there is no doubt
I am unglued because the shoe does still rest on a heavy chest
Poetry 9
Heroin, you insidious bastard
Upright, resigned in my 28 gauge casket
Like a transparent dog you nipping at my heel
and I shout out horrendous obscenities
a passerby abjectly scurries
I seemingly walk-backwards
frothing, hacking up my soul
endless pain, choking shame, damn your toll.
Damn your love sweet sensation
with hallow promises of new elevation
You're a sweet old lady
with a blood stained knife hidden in your pocket
I peek at you through sordid fingers
as you linger over a blue face child.
So dark yet to you I creep
until you allow
deaths final sleep.
Upright, resigned in my 28 gauge casket
Like a transparent dog you nipping at my heel
and I shout out horrendous obscenities
a passerby abjectly scurries
I seemingly walk-backwards
frothing, hacking up my soul
endless pain, choking shame, damn your toll.
Damn your love sweet sensation
with hallow promises of new elevation
You're a sweet old lady
with a blood stained knife hidden in your pocket
I peek at you through sordid fingers
as you linger over a blue face child.
So dark yet to you I creep
until you allow
deaths final sleep.
Poetry 8
Scorched limbs lay still
A once wooden throne reborn
Transformed peacefully.
Oh forgotten waste,
We invisible must be
for we do not hide.
Strange. We who are lost.
Smile sweetly, lest you be found
damned if it should fit
A once wooden throne reborn
Transformed peacefully.
Oh forgotten waste,
We invisible must be
for we do not hide.
Strange. We who are lost.
Smile sweetly, lest you be found
damned if it should fit
Poetry 7
Piercing luminous light beats down upon my brow
a constant presence to a never broken vow.
to Mother with your distant cusion.
who swallows macabre flesh
after giving birth to flies a buzzin'.
do you miss days of old and their worship
from heathens past laid to rest in
beneath Mother's ever welcoming breast?
or are we no more than your eternal chore?
we so few of years when death our only promised due draws near.
that you dare not one glance
lest you fall by chance
for one of blood and flesh.
still I wonder, are we not blessed?
To be so intimate with death?
for every morning we shall know
is (?) certainly now a promise
and furthermore astonish
Therefore you must pay homage
Because everything is all the more beautiful
(Seems to be unfinished)
a constant presence to a never broken vow.
to Mother with your distant cusion.
who swallows macabre flesh
after giving birth to flies a buzzin'.
do you miss days of old and their worship
from heathens past laid to rest in
beneath Mother's ever welcoming breast?
or are we no more than your eternal chore?
we so few of years when death our only promised due draws near.
that you dare not one glance
lest you fall by chance
for one of blood and flesh.
still I wonder, are we not blessed?
To be so intimate with death?
for every morning we shall know
is (?) certainly now a promise
and furthermore astonish
Therefore you must pay homage
Because everything is all the more beautiful
(Seems to be unfinished)
Poetry 6
Undeniably aiming to please
your smile my desired breeze
Did you not know you had but ask
or frown
and I would jump and shout
either up or either down.
To please, to please
Were you not aware of your power
to snare?
My soul, I gave you my soul.
your smile my desired breeze
Did you not know you had but ask
or frown
and I would jump and shout
either up or either down.
To please, to please
Were you not aware of your power
to snare?
My soul, I gave you my soul.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Poetry 5
Brittle stars lay beneath my breast
Will solace only follow my final rest?
Beyond closed eyes a river flows
Yet my facade of gleaming glass
awaits passively the caw of the ebony crow.
silently (one?) waits,
silently fear rapes,
my soul, oh God my soul.
Why, why, a soul did you bestow
unbearable weighted with guilt and foe
this foe, whom i dare not confront
when he glares back with
beady, blitzed eyes when I look into any such mirror.
for it is I, and if it should die,
would not I die as well?
thirsting for a hope, where hope does not dwell.
for it tears, gnawing to the surface
boldly, purposely laughing as I bend a knee
to thy sovereignty in any of your churches
Will solace only follow my final rest?
Beyond closed eyes a river flows
Yet my facade of gleaming glass
awaits passively the caw of the ebony crow.
silently (one?) waits,
silently fear rapes,
my soul, oh God my soul.
Why, why, a soul did you bestow
unbearable weighted with guilt and foe
this foe, whom i dare not confront
when he glares back with
beady, blitzed eyes when I look into any such mirror.
for it is I, and if it should die,
would not I die as well?
thirsting for a hope, where hope does not dwell.
for it tears, gnawing to the surface
boldly, purposely laughing as I bend a knee
to thy sovereignty in any of your churches
Poetry 3
How many sat where I rest?
A litany of wounds cleaned and dressed.
In these rooms I used to ponder
only after my life torn asunder
Only to return to you's the other
my blitzed eyes pleading with brothers
new brother, old brother
my never change brothers
Dare I stay?
or in blood do I continue to pay
One answer, two choices
his will or follow the voices?
A litany of wounds cleaned and dressed.
In these rooms I used to ponder
only after my life torn asunder
Only to return to you's the other
my blitzed eyes pleading with brothers
new brother, old brother
my never change brothers
Dare I stay?
or in blood do I continue to pay
One answer, two choices
his will or follow the voices?
Poetry 2
Pale blue ancient days
call forth the tears of the sky
flowers dance with wind
back and forth they dance
bound to the winds of wind
precious dew, once more
call forth the tears of the sky
flowers dance with wind
back and forth they dance
bound to the winds of wind
precious dew, once more
Poetry 1
Spring forward with purposeful footsteps.
Eyes skyward, days of past (?)
as I watch thinking often
of desultory pain
answer me of broken glass
cry and I shall laugh
not in your face but
like an ignoble southerner
with pride and vast pleasure
Eyes skyward, days of past (?)
as I watch thinking often
of desultory pain
answer me of broken glass
cry and I shall laugh
not in your face but
like an ignoble southerner
with pride and vast pleasure
Short Story 2
A priest once told me I would live a long life. At the time I thought it was a very nice thing to say to someone. This was a man who isf ever there was a person with Gods ear, it was he. So I took what he said quite literally at the time. I heard what he said and tucked it away in my mind. It was another 8 months before I remembered those kind words again. They took on a whole new meaning in that agonizing moment. I found myself in a bathroom that would do any crime scene proud. After unsuccessfully attempting to hit a vein with a needle chalk ful of heroin for an hour, the room covered in the blood of failed attempts. My shirt was so stained with blood I proceeded to pull it off and use it as a make shift rag to clean up my debauchery. It was the sad state I happened to glance at my reflection in the mirror. And like the (Infauctae dwarf) I was shocked. Thunderstruct. Yet I could not look away and it was in this moment I remembered the words, "Joshua, you will live a long life." those words, those nice words he had said with a smile full of teeth on his face. Those words... they tormeneted me without mercy. Yet I could still not tear my eyes away from my invalid reflection. I remember wondering why I wasn't crying. But I could not cry. No, I had no tears left. So there I stood with my blood soaked rag in one hadn, my broken thorn in the other and I knew. I knew that I was to live forever as this sad, disgusting cursed junky for the rest of my long, long life. It was then I realized I was no longer scared to die. No at this point death would be a mercy. And neither God or the devil had any mercy left for me.
Short Story 1
He woke slowly, coming back to a reality he would of soon forgotten. He sat up and reached above his head groaning deeply while he stretched. There was several leaf and dirt clusters sticking to his black tattered "Doors" shirt. It was a brand new shirt when he had put it on. He could still remember finding it folded neatly on his bed. He had picked it up, pulled the tag out and tossed it carelessly on the his floor. He blinked the tears from his eyes as he patted the dirt and pulled the leaf off. He knew his mother could not save him here. Not this time. If he saw her again he would never callously discard such an act of love and kindness. He would change...He would be a worthy son. He wiped the tears from his eyes and felt a surge of determination. He would get through this. If being strong was all he had to get him through this. Peaking up at the sun he began walking in its direction. In this moment, Chris was absolutley sure he would find his way out of this forest.
Chris began to walk some sort of path. He called it a path because there were no pine trees in his way. The foilage was still at least up to his waist and sometimes almost at eye level. But he beat his way throught the briars and ..."Damn it" he muttered as he pushed through a patch of poison ivy. Stopping for a moment to collect himself he dared a 360 degree look. What he saw still startled him despite the fact he had stared down the same view for over 12 hours now. The only difference was the sun was out now. Or so he assumed, the tree prevented any real view of the sun. It was almost as if he had a flourescent light (a small light) in a dark room. Damn it all if that was not better than nothing. "Damn it all to hell anyway." He continued to attack the bushes and limbs wiping blood from small cuts on his arms and scratching demonic itches all over his body. He had grown increasingly more filthy as he walked. Sleeping on the hard Alabama dirt last night had not helped. But now he had to endure teh putred Alabama humidity aswell. At home he ran from his Mother at the mention of a bath. Oh how he would love a bath now. He closed his eyes to hold back the tears that the thought of his beautiful Mother brought on...God what if he never saw her again. "No," he could not think like that. He opened his eyes and saw a piece of paper nailed to a tree with a screwdriver. The bright red handle drew his attention before the words on the paper did. The handle was dripping .He reached to touch the handle only to quickly jerk his hand back as if he had touched a flame. The handle was covered in blood and he (fought?) to cry loudly and without restraint.
The words seemed to bled on the paper, echoing the violent impression the handled (marked ?). The message was no different and the meaning was not lost on Chris's young mind. "We see you...You will know us soon." The message left him rigid, he was afraid to move. At this moment he knew there were eyes on him. There were others out there who were enjying his plight. It was no longer a scary situation, it was hopeless. The tears stopped leaking from his eyes. When he findly was able to move again he turned in every direction. He saw the (smothering) fat brown bark that stuck to every tree like scales. He could not (pierce) the shiled of forest that surrounded him. His imagination was running faster than he could keep up. Were they wathcn him right now? They... so ominous, so despairing. They were fear, his fear. And what could he do? Could he protect himself? Not physically, no. You can not fight what you can not see. Chris had never been in a fight. He usually did not allow something to progress that far. No, words were sharper than a knife. His Father had taught him that. Not directly, not on purpose. But he listened to everything. Especially when they thought him oblivious or better asleep. He begin to collect himself drawing deep breathes,. They were fear... He wanted nothing to do with them. So be it...He reached up and grapped the bloody screwdriver and begin to walk towards the direction of the sun.
Chris began to walk some sort of path. He called it a path because there were no pine trees in his way. The foilage was still at least up to his waist and sometimes almost at eye level. But he beat his way throught the briars and ..."Damn it" he muttered as he pushed through a patch of poison ivy. Stopping for a moment to collect himself he dared a 360 degree look. What he saw still startled him despite the fact he had stared down the same view for over 12 hours now. The only difference was the sun was out now. Or so he assumed, the tree prevented any real view of the sun. It was almost as if he had a flourescent light (a small light) in a dark room. Damn it all if that was not better than nothing. "Damn it all to hell anyway." He continued to attack the bushes and limbs wiping blood from small cuts on his arms and scratching demonic itches all over his body. He had grown increasingly more filthy as he walked. Sleeping on the hard Alabama dirt last night had not helped. But now he had to endure teh putred Alabama humidity aswell. At home he ran from his Mother at the mention of a bath. Oh how he would love a bath now. He closed his eyes to hold back the tears that the thought of his beautiful Mother brought on...God what if he never saw her again. "No," he could not think like that. He opened his eyes and saw a piece of paper nailed to a tree with a screwdriver. The bright red handle drew his attention before the words on the paper did. The handle was dripping .He reached to touch the handle only to quickly jerk his hand back as if he had touched a flame. The handle was covered in blood and he (fought?) to cry loudly and without restraint.
The words seemed to bled on the paper, echoing the violent impression the handled (marked ?). The message was no different and the meaning was not lost on Chris's young mind. "We see you...You will know us soon." The message left him rigid, he was afraid to move. At this moment he knew there were eyes on him. There were others out there who were enjying his plight. It was no longer a scary situation, it was hopeless. The tears stopped leaking from his eyes. When he findly was able to move again he turned in every direction. He saw the (smothering) fat brown bark that stuck to every tree like scales. He could not (pierce) the shiled of forest that surrounded him. His imagination was running faster than he could keep up. Were they wathcn him right now? They... so ominous, so despairing. They were fear, his fear. And what could he do? Could he protect himself? Not physically, no. You can not fight what you can not see. Chris had never been in a fight. He usually did not allow something to progress that far. No, words were sharper than a knife. His Father had taught him that. Not directly, not on purpose. But he listened to everything. Especially when they thought him oblivious or better asleep. He begin to collect himself drawing deep breathes,. They were fear... He wanted nothing to do with them. So be it...He reached up and grapped the bloody screwdriver and begin to walk towards the direction of the sun.
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