Gods, Giants, Children & Men

Found this unexpectedly in my drafts folder, don’t remember writing it, but then again I don’t remember a lot of things in the ways that others do at least.

I don’t know that the entirety of any story,
will cover what I had wanted to say initially.
I don’t believe that the ideas are wholly there,
sitting more like clumps of clay
waiting for a better artist than I to mold.

I had a moment once where the world laid open its belly to me and told me to come close, listen at a heartbeat that thumped with mysteries beyond anything I had ever dreamed of before. A kiss to the forehead of reality and the absent blast from it’s withdrawal were the price. The air was a hazed crackle of something intangible and without form and face. A feeling left as an impression the walls of truth and the faded glories of all the wishes we had as children. When we were young enough to put our heads together and pass thoughts back and forth, pretending we were telepathic and could read each others minds. Racing the wind across the grass and stumbling because we felt we had grown wings to carry us at the speed of air. We were flying, brazen fuck yous to the established status quo of gravity bound worms that we had been, free to soar, smiles cutting our faces so broadly that they felt like they would never leave. It was a moment and a time when there was nothing impossible and anything you could think was only a moment of focus away from being achieved.

Close down to a belly thick with the furs of nature gone to shit and trees whistling with empty branches. An incoherent ramble across the soft pink that raised out a welcome heat in radiance and peace. Touch the skin with a shovel and pull the axe blade back out so that the blood could go free. Cinders and ash blasting away thoughts and giving the entertainment for the evening and the night as the moons went rising over the hillsides and into the ethereal realms which can be tasted in the heart and break the mind that walks through them.

Safely in the comfort of truth we could sit in the caverns beneath what you saw in the over world. We were realized and all to ourselves. Peaceful gods surrendering to the joy of being lighter than the air, more stable than the mountains outside. Fucking giants as children, children as men, and something gone to dust during the interim.

Something About Trees and Monsters

Simulacrum bonsai spirit shining bright,

tendril bushings famously tiny

sit so perfectly tight.

Clipped to stand proudly small,

deficiency rests on laurels deep inside

where no one fears the height

but is aware of the fall.

Watered down trivia the company kept,

guessing games fuel creativity

while vices rumble and trouble

until tranquility arrives, envelops and sets.

Your ghost is born on silent words,

freedom found out where they fly

unbound from earth by roots,

out in the open air

where birds sing and lost men die.

Fragile Bully

Tongue twisting
word misted
lofty ethics
suddenly shifted.
Verbiage awry
crooked context,
sand quickens
sickens the truth
with maddening lies.
Bullheaded bully
vacuum packed
morals gone dead
done right
presented cleanly
above suspicion
heartless lips
soulless head.
Accusations flutter
steer recklessly
fly rashly
land poorly
eventually die.
Miserable life
distorted denial
avoids change
ever always en garde
tromping a perilously pointless
and petulant hike.
Existence’s trials
trails marching for miles
dust caked grins always grimy
shiver obscenely
spit softly back at ’em
–shake the fear off and smile.

I’ve been on both ends of the stick I suppose at different points, something that I’m not proud of, but can admit readily enough. Whether it was spawned from fear, trauma, etc, doesn’t quite qualify as an excuse for how I behaved at points during my life, it was my responsibility to “not be an asshole”. Feeling someone play out their own internal sickness in the same way towards me is an eye opener.

Tattered, tired, and angry though someone may be, it has to be an echo of some truly painful and unresolved issues to advise an individual dealing with a mental illness that they are despised and everyone is in the eaves waiting for them to die. Shitty and deeply manipulative behavior, knowing that the recipient can literally do nothing other than just sit with themselves, absent means to defend themselves without seeming more culpable as a perpetrator of something justifying such vicious and cutthroat suggestions. There is no power in the words themselves other than what the recipient gives them.

Maybe though, in some ways, it might just be how a person deals with their particular brand of sadness and pain–the only way they know how, lash out. Go for the throat. God knows I’ve done it before more times than I care to think if not totally in that literal context. A whipcord reaction to hurt those that hurt you, even if it is based on incorrect judgement calls and assumptions.

Everyone heals in their own way, and while that doesn’t make it right, finally, I can put myself in the other pair of shoes and understand the feelings behind the words. Temper my own frustration and resentment at the unnecessary cruelty with patience and accept that it is what it is, and life will continue to move on. It’s not worth giving though or dwelling on someone’s words when they are bent on hating or hurting you, let ’em go by the side and don’t look back.

Someone once told me, if someone’s an asshole and lies or treats you poorly, at the end of the day, they’re the asshole, not you. I’ve been an asshole plenty across my life, and that makes a lot of sense.

We have only ourselves and our actions to control–for better or for worse.


Shine the Light

Showing denial as an image.
Denial.

An imbecile with brains to spare,

if only it didn’t get wasted on recklessness and flair.

A heart of gold that’s caked in grim so foul by

denial in fluid form quite thick with salty accusations.

The entropy which held his corroded soul?

Only his own beautiful and despairing wiles,

his mental contortions and poorly calibrated machinations.

Knowing where to breach the wall starts up a new trip,

destination target of personal acceptance where he wouldn’t have to be so slick.

So out the fingers onto board,

let introspection guide–it’s time–

now to scour honestly at what really is inside.

The good, the bad, the disgusting and the brave.

Let’s turn the light where it should shine,

come to love yourself and be unafraid.


Written during an interlude to personal evaluations that have been a long time coming. It’s not all black or white, and that’s how I’ve looked at it for so long–either I’m a good person or a bad person. Reality is I’m a good person who has done and does bad things wrapped up with a bad person who does good things as well–happens to support the delusion that while I’m doing one I’m not the other. I have despised myself, been hopped up and arrogant, placid and timid, confident and sincere, dishonest and truthful–but I have never really sat down and recognized the individual parts of the whole to welcome them in and actually come to peace….my hope is that for whatever reason, that process starts today.

Actually doing some of the work for once instead of just expecting understanding to shit brilliance on me at some random point.

This runs in conjunction to me getting back into treatment though I never thought I would and despite still (poorly) struggling with the old demons. And, while terrified that I’m just wasting oxygen while doing it, I’m finally engaged with a full PACT team of recovery specialists to help give me a pathway and outline to work within to get healthy mentally and spiritually–become a viable member of the community instead of a pariah.

Last thought I suppose, because I know I’ve ground out so much vitriol here on my vomit board over the years–self indulgent and caked with inconsideration at many points–unappreciative of much that happens around me because I don’t understand the workings of the world nearly as well as I once pretended. Today I’d like to express some gratitude for the strange things that happen, both the uncomfortable and the “saving grace” moments. Times when you find that missing pot which vanished, or you forget to turn your headlights off for two hours but your car still turns on, your friend just happens to be there right when you turn the corner, or that any of us find love to begin with. Thank you and my gratitude to the invisible universe that makes it all happen. I’m going to marvel at the beauty of it more and perhaps be less confuzzled and distressed by the parts I don’t understand.

Much love, and thank you for reading.

-Melting Neurons

Ghosts of words and men on Bourbon St.

Image credit to Destination America

Older man now still chasing the speed of youth,

that magic release it felt like when finally

words would reel off the end of mental tongue

hang lovingly over the thought of pausing

crash headily into a flock of fuck-its

on a once clean and crisp page.

Chase that dragon and his friend,

slavishly bursting with a desire to create

fabricate, detail out something grand.

Have people questioning their perceptions

wondering where time has slid off too

drop by drop, carpe diem, another glass fragment

shifted out the bottom of the hourglass.

There are no epiphanies though,

no monumental Staffordshire bulldogs of arousal

that fucking bark and yap to be released in a crescendo of brilliance.

Just a desire for words it seems.

Something to quell the silence, push it away

give the erratic husks some movement back inside

where all those fiend spun neurons lie gasping.

Deeply depleted, running on random jolts

and chemical cocktails of enthusiasm,

diving for the closest rush of emotional splendor

so that I can etch away its finery

longing and pisspants whining for the chance at joy

but always refusing to bask in happiness.

Because all the words at my beck and call,

And it turns out….

….no, no, no, NO, not another one of these baleful fucking tunes.

Let them slip slumberous and scantily clad,

banshees at a jazz show on Bourbon St.

wailing in satisfaction that they are free and alive

settle down to some post-mortem beignets

a fresh cup of chicory blasted caffeine sludge

one last “hand grenade” to balance the boat

skin those yapping pups into submission

waiting for the dark to creep back in.

Blessings past death and the holocaustic ruin

peppered across an ignoble pursuit of the end of everything

weak-kneed, monochromatic, repetitious cycle rinsed and repeated,

a prayer to consistency and predictability

stability held dear during the wildest storms

even if just to dig one more shovelful.

You carousing, pithy skin sacks of arrogance and shame,

I see you there, you aren’t forgotten.

Clockwork paved roads that seem to spill wheels and gears,

springs and mechanisms all across my feet as I unwind another,

stumbling, less regularly, less urgent the staggering,

less is there that violet hue of madness thickening the air

glossing out the glow that once we all embraced in ourselves,

saw in everyone, sought to share with each stranger.

words and a face shattering grin,

perfect tone, chuckle, and off-kilter phrase

each syllable an expression of fireworks

ruptured too early and spraying fearfully shiny things

spontaneous wonderment at existence.

The belief that if I just keep writing,

The words will lead me inward and home—

—and I’ll finally have something special to share again.

Bones and Flowers

All credit due to MacSeam for the artwork.

Spacious and widely set are these woven walls
stinging nettles wrapped firmly around whipcord center
a promise of pliable willow branches,
carefully soaked switches
cut green, bound in beautifully colored leaves thick with thorns.
Laced with the fabric of breath, desire, mystique,
keeping the luminescent beyond–
–beyond.

However, in those laced moments that the air stirs first languorously,
then rising to delight in how it can twist and whirl
a joyful movement of shifting scents
breeze spraying aside the curtains
they, no heavier than dreams.
Rolling across the stones laid intricate with care
drifting to cross the lone pond.
Glassine and undisturbed as puddled silver
thickly magick and deeper than deep can be known–
–as the air quenches and remakes.

Where tendrilled branches cast ripples,
serpentine gashes play at being rivulets of liquid
cutting once pristine layers
on which reflections lay.
Alive and shedding mirrored skin,
sloshing possibility and promise
as ancient hearts cast aromas in the air,
only as decayed wood left to rot can.
Dust and brittle powdering husks
broken down from their heights to furnish food and fuel
that the next generation might cast ramparts of growth
riding high on the bones of the Old.

Silently they sit.
Gazing down at the scarred and skittering pool,
beaming hope in darkly radiant intensity
from behind eyes set deep with focus.
Reflecting, and wishing fitfully,
that as it calms,
they will find relief from their personal tempests
peace through the restoration of waters
returning to their unblemished state.

A cauldron of insight,
slickly metallic and alluring
where they might at last catch sight of their foes,
drag them into the shaded glen,
bleed them onto the stones,
leave their corpses ragged and torn,
that they can be reborn with the changing days.

Blissfully drift into their thoughts unfettered by care,
smile indulgently at the colorful cacophony
as it unfolds behind their drooping lids,
Oh!–what flowers Spring would surely bring.


Obscenity Cavern

Obscenity cavern,
plastered with fucks,
gives rise to the new age
raised to bow low
keep your head down,
duck, tuck and roll.
Whispered in stories,
like the day it last rained,
awash is the removal
of freedom from failure,
honesty and blame.
Turncoats and bastards
(that’s what they cry)
mirrors twisted and cracking
impossibly contorting
as futility sighs.
At long last there is sense,
(though it echoes too loud)
in the canyons of absence
where each of the dead
is everlastingly proud.

Jack-o-lantern Man

Jack-o-lantern grin showing the way light from behind can play off the emotions carried in its face.
Smile, always smile.

Jack-o-lantern grin on a soil soaked face
brings a gleam to the eye,
sickly off color oceans sweetened with flint
surrounding coals sunk deep,
always to be diamonds forever unpressed.

Invert your beliefs despite all the tears,
blessed by devils to love
gruesomely wishful, they call themselves angels
sent from above though their stories are fake
always spinning tales out of mud.

Shackle that spirit into iron bound blocks,
wither your freedom away until it sounds
desperately weak with a voice
that falls empty on stunted ears and emotions
no longer caring, and even pretending.

Blaspheme your values and lay in a trough,
where the swine plunder for pleasure
dig deep in the mire
suckle like beasts on that sick, sweet, distortion,
all while minding the cross.

Dangling promises to release your mind,
kept partial and broken
sentenced to time after time,
words carefully chosen
to leave you feeling less than divine.

Where the road crosses and breaks in the dark,
trails leading past peaceful places
handily strewn with spent dreams,
delusions of grandeur and half glimpses of faces,
all of them wasted, missed chances for safety.

Memories and hopes on the battlefield lost,
reclaimed to a tune that warmed off the frost.
Singing songs of cast rays from the sun way out there,
rainbows breaking on storm’s end
embracing adventure, barking laughter, always finding the fun.

Limp and crumpled between all the worlds,
a traveler beneath the weight of mental fissures deeply cracking
out way beyond where he started his feet land where he was hurled.
Giants lurk out there in a mezzanine layer,
reality is a sure thing until fact and fiction are swirled.

Rise up and break down those glassy illusions,
smash down the oppression (he thinks to himself)
that would handily break you under flurried confusion.
There’s a joy to be found and happiness born,
love to be shared, thoughts to think, great lessons to be learned.

Memories hurt like jagged rocks in the side,
but you’ll never go back, forward though not always straight,
no matter the rivers rush or how frightening the ride.
Loss can stain clothing, grief stain cheeks,
but the future is brighter ahead then behind.

Jack-o-lantern grin on a soil soaked face,
in mercy you’ll be pulled from the gates,
yanked back out of the chaos and dusted off sharply,
lips with compassion and renewed desire,
lay on you words of beauty and a kiss to inspire.

You’re insides are gone,
replaced with a flame,
one beautiful fire,
let that light be your name.







The Middle of the Story

Where our main characters find themselves journeying apart from each other into adventures and places unknown in the hopes that they will reunite as realized and complete individuals on the other side….so we begin in Reno, NV…..

S & H at Taco Loco

Transcribe the hope I feel
into optimism and other such essential stuffs.
Imbibe the flow of sweet spirit
that drips from off our lips and out our mouths.
Believe in dreams meant not to fade
even if the road has twisted uglier and uglier still.
Hold tight to goals we shared
as our footsteps drift further and further apart.
We’re still in love,
and this journey which so profoundly changed us
is not at its end yet – just an interlude.

Wistful Short One

Sing me songs of vitriol all laced in melodies of love,
shame my wisdom gained by years of pain,
tell me that sentience comes from somewhere up above.

Mock my broken harpsichord that I played with as a child,
tone deaf ears on loosed strung strings twanged hard
milk savagely the loneliness we all feel as calling from the wild.

Forever more the notes will keep as a heap rotting in my memories,
the smell of favored sympathy and dulled attention,
what once was beautiful to the ears of youth is deadened by perfection.