Like The Shrike

Loggerhead ShrikeIn the undertone there are the wasted notes of a man who lost his voice. The shrike laughs behind his thin mask and swoops the sage seeking a sharp contrast to the self inflictions. It is not completely understood other than to say that he, like a bandit, was also seeking. For shrike, the voice came through flights of freedom. Beneath that wintered desert, reality fell all too readily, unnerving. No words were spoken and the quiet lingered like a softly brushed breeze or a whispered kiss.

Shrike glanced across the arid landscape. The vastness of this place is a sanctity of peace where only the solitary mind might challenge everything that means anything.Though our planet suffers, our actions take for granted where only the trivial days hold merit for thought. It is the space within a monotonous mind that requires a bend like molten steel shaped from the blacksmith’s hand. These details are the unexplained foundation of who we’ve become like the shrike where routine tasks are survival.

The lost voice of this man balled up with a longing, thrashing wildly inside while the placid element of time passed, rippled across the surface of circumstance. There was no touch but the metaphors that slide in and out of meaning. A ragged travesty of love that took shape under a dark night where the moon had not yet found its balance. But the vision of the man dwindled too long in the heart and the time of his reason consumed with the daily chore of making pockets happy.

One day, footsteps forgot themselves in the stairwell. While mountainous calderas surround the plain, cavernous places scar. They come from too many years with only the abrasive touch of time. Worn in place, some might say.

There is nothing wrong. Everything has a reason. Everything is an action of some other force. Humans are only cast to the greater theater. Integral, and then again, not really. Without love, this is where they go; a place of irrelevance and insignificant truth, a mannequin for the dresser to fit.

To love is to bathe with bliss like warm water. It touches the skin and tingles the mind.  But there is a cruel dichotomy; an unforgiving nature when intentions are misaligned by any means. It forces some to forget and turn toward the running dogma to justify and rationalize their complacency like the lone shadow that lives in the bosom of her arid climate.

He sits talking to himself. He loved her with all his might – like a shooting comet hurling through the universe. As the desert floor moves, it is clear that life holds no abundant guarantees for a lonely dreamer. The dreamer needs his love as paint requires the canvas. Love is like a dream where the thought of her skin presses like a brand, only to slip away. Pure joy flashes with anguish and paralysis grips the tongue. Only memories are allowed to drift along the desert; a hitch hiker rolls like a tumble weed where the future is bound to the past whence the roots snapped.

She was a ghost that slipped into the earth when he glanced the other way.

A Vomit Page

typenew2[1]blah blah blah blah blah blah….

can’t sleep and back is killing me.. damn air mattress on the floor syndrome.. wondering how long we can keep the facade..

the moon rose in a way that only can be described as once in a life time.. no words can describe what everyone already knows and understands for their own significance where none is more than another.

the lady lies sleeping, awake in her dreams where she has mastered peace someplace beyond the touches of this reality. She stirs lightly but continues to drift.

a fishtale does trail in thought as the river winds through a lazy morning.. nature seems more powerful these days.. to be revered more earnestly.

then the painter captures the light and being that she is a painter begins to analyze each stroke of sun as it shoots from the gaps in her minds grip where she keeps it there long enough to coax the essense of it to her canvas

I am not but a messed up remnant of a man who has tried to forge my own path in life with what I have, while life has leaned in with beaurocracy to define how my path should be..problem is, beaurocracy has often required much more than I actually have..

My children are beautiful and I worry for them and their friends daily.

If then there were yet another eye looking down at my miserable life, what would be told from that perspective? What if it were so that this life was to be answered for? What could the consequences be other than death, which is a natural cycle of life anyway? Or are we simply to believe it natural because that is what we have been told?

The buttersquash was delicious and made my cheeks pucker from the inside with the spices that were used. Of course, there is no such thing anymore as buttersquash, but it is nice to remember.

Conspiracies are only as concerning as we tend to believe. What’s more is when too many people come to believe and then people begin to act out of fear and the mob begins to act like a mob. At that point, did we ever figure out what was valid about the conspiracy in the first place? Or does the basic belief in something all that matters without tangible proof? Apparently so – case and point – religion.