the everywhere of nowhere (pt. 1)

In those dark, lonely hours after all the action has gone home and the sun is still hiding itself, three men of no consequence ran into each other on the corner where two streets named after states meet. The first to reach the corner is a man named Horatio. Without direction, he pauses at the corner to light a cigarette and figure out which is the right path. After a few drags, a man approaches.

“My good man, would you happen to have an extra cigarette?” Horatio is asked.

Horatio acknowledges him with a nod and takes a cigarette from his pack, handing it to him. The other man begins to stroll in tight circles near Horatio, which makes Horatio nervous. But without direction, he feels he must stay on this corner until he has a revelation. Sensing the tension, the other man decides to try and break the ice.

“I once knew a delightful girl who ate nothing but lemons and daffodils. I won't bore you with the details since you gave me a cigarette. I am forever indebted to you or at least until I've had a chance to repay the debt. Right now is no good. I have very little to spare.”

“Keep it. I have a feeling you're going to need it. Whatever it is you have, it will cost you too much to lose.” Horatio responds without looking at the other man. He's afraid that making eye contact with him might lead the man to believe a bond has been formed, and then he'll never be able to get rid of him.

The other man takes this opportunity to get closer to Horatio. The two are now a normal conversational distance from one another. Horatio rolls his eyes as the other man speaks.

“I believe, kind sir, that you might be right. What you have said rings a certain truth. May I ask your name?”

“Horatio.”

“Horatio, a fine name. I am W.J. Bumsworth.”

Horatio vaguely nods in agreement. The two ash their cigarettes as a third man approaches.

3rd day blues

Another night dissolves into morning.

Dawn is the moment of possibility.

The early birds shutter,
stutter,
take flight.

And the baby that wailed at the stars, is now quiet.
The first pink hues of the sun at dawn on his cheek.

And I walk along streets where the homeless sleep.

Restless.

Anticipating.

i am

I am a thousand blind beggars,
hands reaching out for alms.

I am a thousand passer-byes,
money clenched in fist, scurrying along.

I am the top of the mountain
where time is irrelevant
the wind, a hymn.

My soul free from the burden of investigation
My caustic contempt becomes grief
My hungry eyes close in peace

The sun, moon, deep blue seas,
contain within them,
the fractured energy that was once me.

because . . . because

Because pleasure is involved,
they've become conjoined twins.

Because pain is involved,
they devour the sins of one another.

Bird and flower.
Two lovers
elude sleep
in this
still hour.

Because pain is involved,
the blindness of love will come to an end.

Because pleasure is involved,
their love, becomes a monument to sight restored.

A Cow Story

I hesitate in thought. Drink in the deep, sudden silence before it departs. And I begin the lamentations that come with the end of another day. I look at trees northwest of the setting sun and I'm reminded of a country road I walked down somewhere in the middle of Tennessee on the outskirts of the city of Murfressboro. I was all alone and very stoned. My foot steps felt heavy, the sun was setting behind a hill to my right and the sky was oranges and purples. I had smoked a joint in a park not to far from where I was, and was relaxing by the river when a couple of pick ups full of high school kids armed with cigarettes, forties, and Boone's Farm. I wasn't in the mood for company so I cut out and just started walking, figuring to walk for a little while, then go back for my car. Instead I walked, no direction in particular, down these long country roads that roll with the hills. After a while it became chillier and I noticed the sun was sinking fast. I didn't know where I was or which was I needed to go, or even at this point, why.

I stood alone along the side of the road and watched the top of the hill turn the color of painted fire. I heard the shuffle of hooves and the mooing of cows coming down the road from just on the other side of hill I had just come down. I wanted to keep walking, move fast in the opposite direction of the herd of cows that were headed my way, but I had no idea which to direction to move and I felt paralyzed.

Then they were upon me. Two dozen Holstein dairy cows, mooing and shuffling, snorting and sneezing, flies buzzing around their black and white hides. I had never been surrounded by this many cows. They moved slow and stepped around me except for a calf that butted me with it's head while another chewed on the back of my shirt. At the end of the line with a long walking stick that looked like twisted roots, was a thin, sinewy man with white hair tucked under a a straw hat with a long mottled black turkey feather in it. The hand around the walking stick looked as ancient and gnarled as the stick itself, and was a similar dark brown color, making it hard to distinguish his fingers from the stick.

All the cows had passed and I still hadn't moved. The old man stood in front of me and tapped the side of my leg with his walking stick, then looked me in the eye. “You need to go that way,” he said, pointing the stick in the opposite direction from where the cows were heading. “Just go back the way you came and watch out for the shit.” He smiled and laughed, then moved along in the wake of his cows.

without sound

I pulled you off balance,
dragged you out of your complacency.

The moon high over head.

The city is made up of
fragmented shadows.
The sun, like a clever,
cuts through the secrets
revealing love, lust.

As we walk down cracked sidewalks
of silent avenues,
with fingers entwined
my right, your left,

we recognize the fragility of sovereignty.

The fantasy that is our longing.

Clinging to what fell into the crevice between.

fortune's third hand

They dance with caution,
steady movements,

knowing this seduction
could deteriorate
at any moment.

She's a devastating mystery.
Clues scattered from Venice to East Monroe.

He's so transparent
he's now bulletproof.

On the other side of tomorrow
are haunting memories,
inspiration for a series of dreams.