A Toast

A parched throat makes for difficult speech… Instead of clearly communicating, you find yourself throat clearing, self jeering, eyes watering, mind wondering when this hacking will begin departing, all the while knowing that – it’s really not attractive.  You can see into souls through eye windows, the dimming glow as their response to your unintended show… It almost does not matter what you know, because like a dam, your words have lodged in your throat blocking your flow… Releasing spittle and foam at random intervals – overall damage is minimal, but the purpose in which you originally opened your mouth to complete has died all of its lives, and it’s game over – Nintendo.

But you know that it is not your fault… You needed just a bit of moisture, as some fine cuisine needs only a mere dash of salt… But without Mrs. Dash, appearance is divorced from success, like dollar signs taken off of cash… The end result being paper scraps… Tidbits, leftovers, unwanted – anything synonymous with trash… Because anything not done wholly simply will… not… last.  … And it is ironic because you can feel the tangibility of what it is you want to say deep inside your very being… Some wondrous thing – or perhaps simple – yet nevertheless unexpressed that only your eyes are seeing.  Ahhh if only you didn’t have a noose delivery!

A tendency to get choked up from the throat up when it’s something vital from your heart that needs expressing!  Vision is both a curse and a blessing… You wish that you could just pop a pill discreetly, or take a sip of some magical serum, to free you from this self induced delirium, after-all what good are above average thoughts if you must live in fear of them…?  … Looking… Searching… Waiting… Your soul knowing… That there is an answer… There is a way out of this moat… There is a cure – there is an antidote… There is a little known diner on the outskirts of town… A little further than just a ways away, but closer than too long would take… Open to any who care to pass through its doors into peace, and reverberating revelation… Who have an appetite that yields only unto satiation…

In this diner, the sparkling diamond glasses are for every occasion – for every moment in life is special.  Here – there is no such thing as wasted. No concept of the term “outdated,” no reference for existing without existence and purpose being mated… It’s not Heaven – but it surely is not earth… Just a small, easily missed diner… The menu?  Your heart’s desire.  The sign hanging over the counter only says “Higher.”  Order whatever you like, with whatever sides, anything you can think in your mind can be made manifest, for the deep recesses of thought – are who you are.

… There is but one drink served here however, and accompanies every meal… It unstops your throat, and has a rather curious feel… Smooth going down, but it can make your heart race, or your body shake… Tears may stream down your face – but tongues are always loosened, and obstacles are parted, that one may behold one’s goals… The ears become sensitive to the word “go,” ambition oblivious to the word no, and all too often the diner echoes with fearless declaration of “look out below!!!”  This – this special drink, birthed from the progression of time to meet human needs like dough… This elegant glass of shimmering power that can unblock your throat… THIS – is wine for the soul.

~The Wordsmith

Almost Made It

It’s like someone played the wrong chord on a vital organ… now I can hear the rising score morphin and taking over. Taking over the senses it connects to, it connects four because the clouded eyes behind these glasses are pourin.

Somewhere, in a garden hidden inside a forest, a flower falls…

A hitch in the step of sunrise, not strong enough to break into dawn, the darkness of the void is granted more time. Unintended benevolence, ignorant of what’s ahead of us, fishin for love with negligence, forfeiting our inheritance, trying to attain a better trust. Empty handed in the end, facial expression incredulous.

Like a roll of thunder, the flower crashes powerfully to the ground…

The bees lose passion for their honey… Badgers crawl from the cracks and crevices to lie dejectedly on the sand… the deer come down from the hills… Butterflies self identity with the cocoon… there are tear drops on the leaf tips. The dew of a morning that will either never come, or never cease. It’s only Tuesday, but the pews are already filled again. Completely unsure of what to pray, just aware that there’s a fresh crack inside and they don’t know how to fix it.

The broken flower rolls, idly, across the ground… slowly losing life yet captured in the twilight of ineffable beauty… there is no redemption in this- and even if there was, it’d be unnecessary.

Every petal isn’t meant to be saved.

Chance Encounter

My mind is a maze of brainless cutaways.

Alternative alleyways of alleviating allocations. Always allowing a little leeway out of the situation. Alluringly elusive, what chance had I until now.


I caught your eye in the middle of a thick crowd. You co-signed my hand sign and before we could question the equal sign, there we were making math. Adam and Eve wrapped in an animate dance while the animals watched in a trance.

Suddenly our breathing became saiyan vapors on a cloudy night. Backed by black, there rebelled the misty whisps of white. Taking a step back, shoulders still in class forming right angles like parallelograms, the question hung between us.

One step further and math wouldn’t be the only problem. One full explosion and there’d be no one left to solve it.

Beams glare, shining off of a reflective mirror. It seems there is air that’s clean here. Twenty thousand feet above Asgardian sea level. Flying high like a mountain soaring on the back of Aslan’s racing stripes, primate delight, I’m going ape with hype, this has been a close encounter of the strange kind, lowkey.

And now we’re back in line at the diner.

I open my mouth to place my order, then I smile at her. Her eyes twinkle with a knowing gleam. My hand shoves deep into my pocket, burying my phone in a grave of deadened ambition.

We’ve been down this road before.
Almost didn’t survive.
It’s a violation to receive a second chance twice.

We nodded slowly at each other.

I made my way to my table.

She rang many customers and I ate a lot of food. After the fifth refill of my drink I was like that one aunt we all have… bursting at the seams. I paid and tipped my cap to the fair lady. She smiled the fantasy I would never live. Some stories just aren’t meant to be told or revisited.

With the air of the President, I whooshed through the door without looking back.

And never…
Saw her…





The breathing is shallow.
The paper thin grasp of skin upon skin, electric.

Fingers tentatively laced together, the passionate fury of the boiling sun right before it explodes into the dawn of the sunrise… how many times had he been here before? Blinded to consequence by his raging need for a suitable outlet? But blindness was his life. He couldn’t afford to see his own, because he only existed to die another day.

This was the silver lining embracing the thunderhead.

And yet, it was somehow the same girl every time. Taken aback by his charm, appallingly disarmed by his swagger, he’d realized that all women are all the same. Torn apart by their desperate need to not be ruled by man, yet equally desperate to be conquered and ravaged by one, what they truly wanted…

Was the perfect storm.

Fiery kisses and tender stroking. Unrelinquished attachment and thrilling dominance. Whirlwind euphoria and slow motion savoring.The focused man at war with himself was unmatched in his ability to pleasure.

Deft fingers skillfully weaving their dance, bodies responding to the inspired romance, he falters for the barest tenth of a second.

Because of Her. He knows she can never exist in his world, because his world is death. Stained by impurity. The hellish excavation of the very spectre of a real woman haunting his mind that he fights to hang on to. He can only be what he is, which means that she can never be. Every so often, she stumbles across his path, but he restricts her to no more than a tease… Because the pain of abstaining is less than the pain of heartbreak.

So every time he makes love to a stranger, it is in dedication to Her.

In some odd way he is hoping… she will receive the gift from him that another must give her. He is hoping for redemption… that he is in her heart as she is in his… and as his biceps flex causing dew touched wings to spread, his focus returns to his one mission.

Being the perfect storm.

The Dark One

This is what I do.

Drawn ever unto the light, but retaining my picture of imperfection. I can’t be framed, because I actually did it. I can’t condemn the world, because I’ve been cursed by spirit. The luxury of lackluster living spoils me…

I am the Shadow Man.

Sometimes I forget.

Sometimes hope sneaks up on me. Dreams sneak up in me. The sun blazes and I think its holy light can finally be the remedy.

…. but who is there to conquer when I am my only enemy. Enmity inwardly ending things instinct free… injury prone and found guilty.

I am the Shadow Man.

I can’t keep track of all the wrong things I’ve done. Can’t cling to redemption long enough to hold on. My heart freezes up and my fingers break. I am not Tris, not made dauntless, I am the loch ness forever locked inside his cage.

I am the Shadow Man. The Magic Terror. The Demon Dressed in Light. The Evil One. The Unholy Son. The Mare Rider of the Night. I quit everything except the darkness I dabble in, because when a man has nothing, he needs power and I’m too afraid to be powerless out in the sun.

I am the Shadow Man.

The unsolicited villain sullying and polluting the brook your story flows in.

No liberty bell can save me.

For I…

Am Rumpelstiltskin.



Paralytic vision converter verging on the edge of mended delusion. A rose softly dropping it’s three petals like a roll of silent thunder, because you lacked the  vantage to see the lingering fourth.

Passive aggressive in its active nature, every tree refuses to violate the horizon. Dawn rebels, tired of the earth’s cyclical self, shelving the responsibilities of time management and begrudgingly nudging forever off into eternity.

It’s a cosmic rip, like the moon harpooning your mama’s ceiling and doing lunar things to her while you are sleeping, it makes me sick.

The night sky is the eternal Judas.
The march of time is the wisest clueless.

And my contrite mind stays awake to tune in.