Alliterations Anonymous

I had more fun writing this than any piece in recent memory.
I hope you enjoy reading it just as much.
Guess you would classify this as prose.

my meticulous Mind eschewing exterior existence
It iterates itself
passionately processing points of contention on parchment
decisively drowning in deep crimson flowing forth from felt tipped fingers
consciousness connects conscience
newly nuanced is my new frame of reference
now i  bow
po- lite-ly
before Powers boasting power over me
no longer misaligned do i feel
i will wait with reverence
gentle Genius, genus of cognition
treasured truly like lovers light caress
rush of reason runs spirited strengthening Sinews surreptitiously
quibbles and quarrels quit wasting my time
no longer will i ache after allowing
yesterdays yearning to rise as yeast
and near self destruction
i'm my own opponent owning every ether filled second
my jeering jury jesting at my success
zealously zaps, zeroing in
on the existential examiner of my exposed sense of self

Your Reign

Another shortie. Muses muses all around

The perfectionist in you
drives me
It displays what is true
I'm eager to be

under your tutelage
humbled before your grace
To you, my mind I pledge

your good name I shall raise
myself to, a goal to obtain
Each new day brings closer your reign

Affixed

Wrote this one a while back during a time that was.....topsy turvy to say the least. It's dark, brooding and moody and short. I had put this to music awhile back but can't seem to find track. When I get time I will see if I can find it, or I will just re-envision it and record it again. Never opposed to working when I love the work.

Affixed


I sit affixed, hollowed by your words.
My soul reeling through the continuum, trapped neatly between your verbs.
Leave. No? Fine I'll walk.
I guess there is nothing left to say, no time to talk.

Your guess is as good as mine
as to where we went wrong
Of course they say only time
will heal, your face seems so morphed, so oblong

I reach out for closure but receive none
my hands fall short, so I shall wait affixed and stunned
to my position, slowly permanence develops
The world narrows, my body it envelops
Waiting hollow, for your sign, your gentle beckoning call.
Wonder encases me and I sit in awe
of what your lips could do to me
of how one last kiss would set me free.

What if I Was Wrong.

What if I was wrong?

That love is not all you need,

It can steal you from you or take all that you claim

near and dear to self and cap you at your knees, leave you lame

High water swells, robs you of your senses

Beaten for every penny, it would leave you cent less,

Again and again turned over and over,

Destined to be fruitless, a rambling rover

Of the roads and the night

Of the deserted city streets,

No end for me hope isn’t in sight,

No golden dawns, no morning treat

What if I was wrong?

About everything I’d ever I’d ever told you,

That every bridge was impassable without the fear of God,

Would you convert and take the path in lieu

Of what’s been read, or fight till the death with steel sword and rod?

Let’s get this out this out of the way

I’ll just go ahead and apologize today

all my misgivings and deep shame,

My lamentations, you’re not to blame

For the terrible mess I’ve made,

For the years I’d wasted static,

Our distance grew, camera start fade

to black, lungs heavy, breath asthmatic

I clutch my chest and wait for the truth

It’s what I need to hear, no matter how uncouth

What if I was wrong?

That all grey skies bring pain

Thoughts that torture and toil in my mind

The nagging sound of rain

Deluge of the century, making soil unrefined

My roots have long since withered, I no longer carry grace

But my value is intrinsically tethered, I have saved face

Deep within, a squall broods

As I sit pensive, lost in such melancholic moods

Heavy upon these shoulders, my mind rests

Such is the penchant for those caught in eternal thought

Clawing, writhing and teething I evolve for the best

The work is never solved, sinews of the brain pulled taut

What if we were wrong?

About everything we knew

If all knowledge was no longer sacred

Culture we would eschew

And all would topple down, a nation misled

Two Spirits of the Day

This is the response cadence to a poem written by a friend.


Trees:
 carry the breeze that breathes life into me,
foliage falls softly as you tickle and tease,
sun becomes lofty, soon drops to its knees
ready to rest for the eve-ning

Moon: ready the night eye
to ascend through the sky
and bathe me in cool blue
giving mind the glue
to sleep on through this lack of light
(ah what reprieve from great respite)

OTM: Off the Map

Phone is Dead, No charger. But still a spark flows through these veins. 

Time to go

Off The Map.

Pen has melded into flesh, ink pouring into blood.

As my fingers scrawl the page, life is borne again. 

Reality via ballpoint.

A battle begins, between the literature gods and my mind, my hand the mediary.

The resulting casualty, my lucidity.

 My fractured essence, caught and recorded.

This moment in time forever etched

 a heavy lead weight affixed to a singular point that will be rehashed and renewed

vicariously felt for the ages.

My Third Eye

Italics breathe new life into the read.

Prying open my third eye

I witness the relentless pursuit of self, which fails to cease and desist

It slows only for the sun and sky, which join in a lovers chase

I hear the pulse of the city, blaring in protest across the horizon

My ears quiver from Mother Earth’s voice; all her joys and her pains, they are but fleeting

I smell the heat, as it hangs heavy and thick, streaming forth from the sweltering eye of the world and it beats down on my back, draining me

The flavor of the day ruins my taste buds for its taste is much too sweet to be true

I taste The freedom

It lingers and I acquiesce to its power

I feel full of purpose and vigor; my vitality is only as limited as my sight

But my eyes deceive me

in reaching out, my arms falter and I fall short

the taste is no longer so sweet

Why do such sour grapes taunt me?

Yet in this state I feel alive

Again I try and my boundary, it greets me with feigned sorrow

I sit idly by; my fortress warning me to go no further; you see it enjoys my company

Prying open my third eye I will witness the relentless pursuit of self which makes its return home

So I lay in wait, the moon nearly ready to do her dance and beckon the spirit of dawn

Just long enough for my Withered Eye to come full circle

and for the pursuit to begin

once more

Fair Game

I

Sunday 3:30 AM

The phone rings with intensity as it slices the night silence with its not so dulcet tones. Alan Dervis is none too pleased. He takes his hands from his wife’s side. She shifts to regain his caress. He sits up and her hands fall to the bed sheets. She grabs them in mild frustration and turns over to fall back asleep. His loss.

“Do you know what hour this is?” He says in his usual gruff tone.

“Yes sir. Am I speaking to Alan Dervis?” The man’s thick southern drawl almost it him impossible to understand. Alan shakes his head at the sound of the man; he already doesn’t not enjoy this man.

“Who am I speaking to?” His voice audibly annoyed.

“Sir this is Special Agent Phillip Rivers, Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I speak to Alan Dervis?”

Alan’s face takes on a very pale white. He swallows so hard the shudder sends chills up his spine. He pauses only for a split second.

“Speaking sir.” His tone still gruff. He doesn’t kiss ass well.

“Thought so. Sir you sound like a man that doesn’t appreciate horsing around and I don’t either. Your program was under investigation by the NCAA, now it is FBI. We have evidence of a gambling ring, coming from your squad of players. We also know that you know. We know you have given money to Chad Ringer on several occasions; we have video evidence of it. We know that money was used for illegal purposes. We know you know this. What we have presents a problem for us and our current investigations and what I’m saying is that I would appreciate you not saying a word as so to not compromise my hard work.” The static hangs, a tonal tomb slowly closing on Alan’s mind. The words have yet to process fully, his mouth hangs a tad agape, eyes frozen, breathing slowed. He registers a response, a small barely audible gasp.

Alan’s face tingles, then his arm. Soon his whole body is hyper sensitive. .Static hangs in the air. The air conditioner hums and the blinds rustle from the fan. Their normally faint noise sending searing pain, like molten nails boring into his head. His blood pressure spikes along with his heart rate, sweat suddenly and profusely drips down his aging cracked forehead.

“And if you don’t. It’ll be more than your dignity that you lose.” The voice is tame, calm.

Alan hangs up the phone and lays back down. His wife turns over again and places her arm around his neck. She comes in close, her lips resting on his ear. She nuzzles her forehead against the back of his neck and breathes lightly on his bare back. Her eyes flutter, with fantasies of the swim coach floating in her head. She claws at Alan’s back, he rolls onto her hands to stop her, she rouses from sleep.

“Who was that honey?” She asks half moaning. She runs her hand down his body, he remains motionless.

“No one sweetheart, go back to bed.” He turns harshly and her grip becomes loose and broken. She huffs in frustration and pulls away, her frown quickly fading as the swim coach returns for some adult lessons on doggie paddling. Alan lays awake, his reality now turning to fantasy as his bewildered mind struggles to cope.  His eyes sting, but he can’t blink. Or think. Or do much of anything good to society. His brain is pierced, by a terrible quandary.

II

Monday 6:30 am

Coach Alan Dervis sat in the locker room, his left index finger running up and down the tiger stripes on the helmet. Its backside is riddled with tiger paws, little purple paws, offset nicely by the yellow background. Stemming from its middle a long purple stripe stretches, from that a tiger pattern, purple naturally. His leathered and weathered hands examine the helmet. It belongs to his best player, Chad Ringer. Over the years Chad has become everything Alan wanted in a player, he treats him as he would his own son. That is if he ever had one. His vicarious living has propelled to numerous championships, and three failed marriages. He pulls out his pack of Pall Malls and finds only his lucky remaining.

“The highlight of my day.” His tongue laced with stinging self deprecation as he inhales the smoke deeply and slowly.

As he smokes he holds the helmet up to face him and pressing his nose up against the faceguard, he snarls and grits his teeth; their yellow stains a more menacing glare than the helmet. He stands up, growling louder and louder, working himself into frenzy his legs stomping as he jerks about the locker room. His maniacal gestures suddenly stop, and he drops the helmet to his side. He looks down at with disdain for only a moment before he hurls it at the nearest locker. As it rolls back, facemask caved, he smiles and takes a long slow drag from his white nail. He walks over to it, his ire cooking again, working itself to boil. He grimaces at the numerous purple paws the litter the back of helmet. He examines his finger nails, he looks at the helmet. He fervently shoves it under the sticker, trying to work it off. Sweat beads at his brow as he chips away as Chip’s years of achievements. His yells echo violently through the empty hallways, the raucous noise building upon itself a cacophony of angst. His nails splits, but it doesn’t slow him. He continues jamming finger into a sticker determined for just one more, blood spurting staining the tiger skin like a battle wound. Abruptly he stops. Only his heavy, loud exasperated breaths reverberate through the halls. The helmet falls to the floor and rolls awkwardly into the middle of the floor near the drainage, a small stream of blood lies underneath it. Alan walks silently to his office and sits down at his desk. The room is a deep and inviting brown and green. It feels like a study, or a loving family room. The space is wide and the furniture was a gift from the Athletic Director for last year’s bowl win, among other very fabulous things.  He kicks the chair over, leaving deep gashes in the fine leather from his cleats. He falls to his knees before his trophy case, staring at the reputation he has created. The history he was making. That would all be over soon. The NCAA had been on his back for months but had turned no credible leads, he was in prime position for the hearing Tuesday, that was until he called. Maybe it was a long standing history of bad choices Alan thought to himself. Was it not just himself, it had to be others. It was a culture of deception. The money came from sponsors, probably a tax write off anyway. It wasn’t affecting the game; he made sure the boys never played to lose even if the odds were better. What harm was it for a college kid to get some perks. A smile came to his face, as if struck with the idea to invent the wheel. He earned it, through years of bloodshed and turmoil in his own life he thought to himself. His fists slam into the desk, defiantly denting the wood. He shoots out of desk with purpose his eyes perusing the trophy case.  Is this the legacy of a cheat? Does dishonesty breed this?  He scratches his head with the broken nail and he winces with pain. He looks up to the ceiling.

“I have a feeling this will only be the beginning.”

III

Tuesday 8:42 AM

Alan sits in a twelve by twelve room, a television set in front of him. Alan laughs what he sees on screen and for a brief second a smile comes to his lips. The first one in days. It fades when commercial comes and he returns to his somber state. He stands and moves listlessly about the room, often bumping into the furniture and nearly stumbling over. An assistant comes in to inform him, stops for moment to judge and then leaves. Alan feels more dejected. He slowly exits the room and proceeds to the conference room, Chad Ringer’s helmet upside down in his hand, a gold object protruding from it. Upon his entrance the room stirs with bright flashes and the sounds of near a thousand clicks. His moment being captured, recorded, forever etched. For years people will live his moment, some with trepidation as they vicariously live the fear and shame. Announcers will jest and pundits will poke and prod until the image is worn and the jokes are old saltines. Alan sits at the table. A stoic expression blanketed across his face. He runs his fingers through his hair to force the part just a little bit more. A carefully crafted appearance should never be underestimated he thinks. Another smile comes to his lips and he leans forward into the microphone.

“I’m Sorry to have to say this…..”

He pauses, his throat dry, his lips feel heavy. Suddenly his mind is lazy and he cannot form the words. He clears his throat a couple of times, no luck. He straightens his tie and grabs the water; he slams the cup in under a second. He stops to look the crowd in the eyes, he pans across the rows. He opens his mouth but pauses before continuing. His mouth hanging open he looks around, slowly he closes it. A small murmur rushes through the crowd. Is he Sane? What does that mean? He did it!

He stands and quietly plants the helmet and trophy on the table. He takes two rings from his fingers and places them on the table. He smiles meekly and buttons his suit, runs his hands down it to press it flat and then bows slightly before turning off stage. His walk carries purpose, a great bravado as exits stage left. The stunned crowd clambers for answers, the room is awash with unintelligible noise as Alan smiles without saying a word. 

They follow him intensely, pressing for truth.

what about the prospects? The vibrant youth?

chaos follows but he pays it no mind

he only sees sunshine, warm and kind.

wordless and stoic he enters his car,

starting it quickly his door still ajar.

he floors the accelerator, tearing through the lot,

 until he is off in the distance, visibly only as a dot.

END

your beauty

Your beauty, akin to goddess

Skin softly sun kissed

You lie stark, next to me

Fingers    d  a n  c   e  a    im  le  s    s ly

Across my chest,

chin nuzzled in niche at my behest

My flesh pallid at best

My face nestled neatly against your beating breast

Essential you see

To my lucidity

Is your anti tepid touch

No greater swoon, passionate lust

Reinvigorating vinegar in my veins

Tightens the reins

 directing me through the course

of Actions I would proudly do without prod

You beauty the driver, I the horse

I give you my all, no façade

Cleanse the palate and the easel with ease

D

O

W

N

 on my knees,

how easily you will it

Jolt of life, lifting my spirit

As lips meet, smolder turning to flame

I find your sweet scent and grace to blame

For my beating heart

Mental pictures secured in a frame

Of mind that cannot be broken

Celestial ectasy

Tomorrow’s  fantasy

lived today

The only way

I say

That’s worth living

Much too late.

Searching for the copasetic state,

Full of regret? Nah, much too late

Left to mend  deviant desires

Remember what you sow is not what you sire

prepare for the worst expect the best

sometimes dinner doesn't have a dress

code for your cryptic ways

To be hung up, strung up and strung out on that fool

 is nothing but a waste, no escape

space is infinite and so is your rule

seduce, sedate, sever

with the mind eye's gaze,

affixed  heavy stare, boring deep

I entreat ye, let me sleep

Searching for the copasetic state,

Full of regret? Nah, much too late

Mind meddled, eggs scrambled

Overfed from this pseudo Hollywood scandal

Can’t I relax, just this one time

Without you bursting in, taking what’s mine

Right from under my nose, knows no bounds

Caved and pitted, deeply mined, so deep no sounds

Will ever reach.

My resources scarce, my supplies rare

Yet there you sit, blankly stare

Waiting for me to make the first move

You can’t make me

Fuck you

I won’t fall for it again

No, not this time, Your legacy is up time to burn all your kin

Just watch for the smoke,

That sucks you right in.

GIve it up

Jump Down, fall up

Twisted passions, inverted visions

Rebel Flags, Safety Nets

How about that bet

A run for your money, she’s the best

At what she does

Thinly veiled threats, Smiles from ear to ear

I get this funny feeling, a sickly pit when you’re near

Days I can’t win, days I won’t try

Love for you is running dry

A run for your money, she is the best

At what she does

Damn you, for your sweet face and those lips

they could Sway Satan to sell his soul

for the mere promise of your gold

More precious than any stone the way you wield it

Reality remains secondary to perception

The truth of you is, you are as dirty and worn as we

The ores of your love are unrefined, solid but untamed

Rough and unkind, it coats the lungs

Thick soot, disguised with hugs,

 early morning kisses, dressing your best

Your reality will seep through, ugly like the carbon composition that resides in your chest

You can paint a carcass, but it’s still dead inside

So GIVE IT UP, just lay it to rest

She’s a run for your money, the best

At what she does

as you sleep

As you sleep, idyllically in the dreamscape

The heavens shake above me, tremors they quake
The awesome force from forth nature it spawns
The sky cracks, splits head to toe
Piercing blindness, much like snow
now i sit alone in wonder

Thoughts so heavy, mind asunder
from the incredible malevolent sound
sent me reeling, deeps from bounds
of slumber
Now alone i sit, deep in wunder
Womans Womb, doth sound grow
Her course overhead doth now go

the silence felt is the silence heard
only time for peaceful patter, and songly bird
as the sun rises, it brings its grace

to the new day, I Soon face..

Storm's A Coming

          Mathis looked at his watch impatiently; the sun will set soon he thought to himself.  Soon the only company would be the desolate darkness. Darkness so unrelenting it would swallow itself if it could. Sweat trickles down his face, Mathis cleans it with the back of his hand his wedding band scratching his forehead and drawing a faint amount of blood. The salt stings his skin and he winces, biting his tongue so hard he draws blood again. His face sours and he grimaces, muttering to himself words only a sailor would use. Stopping to look back he sees his friend Ricco, wheezing and coughing like a geriatric with pneumonia, a few yards behind him. Mathis inhaled deeply, the freshness bringing repreive from his minor wounds. The air fills him and he relaxes, a rare smile creeping to his face. It had been years since he felt this peace in him. A rare piece of mind granted only to those who can cherish a moment for what it is, fleeting and yet strangely fulfilling with the cavity it leaves. The kind of yearning that only makes the heart grow fonder. His fondness grows as the clouds billow above, gathering substance by the second and turning the sky a sickly grey. An ominous sign of the coming violence. Mathis opens his eyes, a flare of light invades his mind and without turning away he squints into the sunset, his eyes fixed on the beauty of the land. The canyon is beautiful, rich reds and brooding burnt oranges mix playfully with the clay. The land is peppered with hints of dull green, weathered and wind worn from the years. It was a magnificent view, but today it would be short. The earth trembles beneath his feet gently; the distant sound of thunder is heard. Mathis’ face becomes stern, twisting to understand the strange weather that is fast approaching.

"Hurry Ricco, I don’t wanna get stuck in the dark." His voice echoes across the rocks, mixing with the distant rumbles.

"Why? You afraid of the dark you big baby?" Ricco grins and stops moving completely, a clear defiance of Mathis’ plea.

          Mathis ignores this and continues without Ricco, his soft boots leaving traces of their existence in the moistening clay. Another distant rumble rolls through the valley.

"Did you hear that?" Ricco said, his eyes scanning the horizon for the cause.

"Do not worry, it's only thunder"

          Ricco skeptically eyes the sky, his hair stands on end and his pupils widen. A current begins welling up inside him, first a numbness then a sharp pain as it builds within him. His teeth chatter and his eyes began to spasm left to right. He shrieks and jumps forward, the sensation stops. He runs his hands across his body as if trying to throw the force off of him. He checks his surroundings, nothing. Mathis is just a small figure near the butte nearly a quarter of a mile ahead. Ricco takes a deep breath and hastens the pace. His grips his jacket tight as the wind picks up, his mind racing with thoughts of what it would be like to be bacon. His face shows the displeasure of his thoughts. His teeth begin to chatter again, soon he feels it. A deep low vibration is permeating through the canyon’s walls.  Mathis stops and turns to Ricco who is frozen in terror, searching wildly for the source of this magnum sound. Mathis takes out his phone, suddenly the cacophony ceases leaving only the wind whispering its quiet consolations, he drops the phone to his side.

"What the hell was that?" Ricco said nervously.

"I do not know but I don’t want to be here when it returns."

          The two travelers hurry toward a cabin on the horizon, hoping to escape their fate.

"Did you ever get scared here Mathis? You ever feel that we are being watched? Is so big here, you’d never know.” Ricco yelled as the men hustled towards the door just before them.

"And you call me a big baby? What are you afraid of?"

 Ricco stopped, “My mother is pretty scary.” Ricco laughs to ease the mood; Mathis fakes a smile and ran ahead.

          As his hand touches the doorknob Mathis begins to shiver, his fingers turn icy and numb and his lips fade to a tepid muddy blue. He let’s go and turns around, the warmth quickly returns, there is only Ricco who is looking stoic and confused.

"W-W-What's wrong?" Ricco stammers.

"Nothing, it was just the wind." But there was no wind.

          They enter the house and slam the door behind them. Mathis hurriedly closes the blinds leaving Ricco’s mind to wander in terror. Mathis’ face has lost its color as he silently stands in the middle of the room, hands affixed to his hips. He scans the room for something, but he has no idea what he is looking for. He looks to Ricco, his face the very same pallid complexion. He contorts his face in confusion.

“Ricco! Buddy! Ricco.”

          Ricco is catatonic. He only slowly raises his index finger, devoid of life it points behind them to a solitary beam of light seemingly walking the path to the house. Obscured by the shades it seems to bounce, with a human gait as it picks up speed. Mathis rushes over to the window to open the blind. The light disappears as he unravels the shade. Mathis searches frantically for the beam but has no luck; he turns to Ricco again who stands pointing to the other side of the room now, the light continuing its path to the house. The light widens as it pulls in closer, the bounce becomes more pronounced, and the speed becomes inhuman. The howl of the wind is heard and dust flies into view, shrouding the light with brown. The beam grows in intensity; the shades do no good. Mathis runs into the kitchen  shielding his eyes from the atomic light source as he darts to  open the top left drawer, a .38 special and ammo rattle about as the cupboard opens violently.

"It’s too late!" Ricco notes, his voice cracking with fear. A tear rolls down his cheek as the windows crack beyond repair, sending the desert into the cabin.

          Mathis fumbles with bullets, his fingers shaking violently, rocks and shrubs battering his body. The house is now engulfed in a chaotic whirlwind of dust, debris and light. His heart beats out of his chest, each pump shaking his whole body. He pulls the hammer back and levels it at the door, fine pieces of dirt whip around stinging the wounds. Rocks, shrubs, small trees, even boulders now surround them. The malevolence magnifies and all hope seems lost. Then, ceasation. The dust settles and the last rocks clatter to the floor, the boulders tumbling away. But Mathis notices it first. The nothing. No more light. No noise, not even a whisper or a tumbling boulder. Ricco sits in the corner cowering in fear. Mathis calls to Ricco cupping his hands around his lips like a mega phone, but he find he has no voice. He clings to his throat beginning to panic he swallows air, attempting screams but nothing is heard. His eyes bulge, his veins press the surface of his skin and his organs begin to feel weighted. He struggles to bring his head upward to the heavens. His throat wide he gapes at the celestial brilliance. In the middle of it all it strikes him again, and a rare smile creeps to his face. Space and sky melt as a bright light, brighter than any earthly light envelopes the men. The cabin is pure white light and energy flowing from all available angles.  A vague outline appears in front of Mathis; his eyes squinted so tight he cannot make it out. The figure reaches out with a thin appendage; Mathis throws his arms as if to offer to what fate has been sealed by him. The earth opens up and as fast as the light appeared, it is swallowed by darkness taking the men and the cabin with it.  Leaving only the desert and the wind whispering its quiet consolations.

Date May 2 2011