Centennial

Peace signs, dreadlocks
hippie flips at Red Rocks
but Death knocks,
Death stalks,
lips zipped to hip shit
we all know how Death mocks.
White suburbanites, trite lives
and fast cars
Shiftless kids scared shitless,
snortin up a couple xannie bars.
Centen actuality, vice turns to
addiction just to drown out reality...
Fuck a mega-church mentality!
Tithing to your preacher
while the hypocrite hides
his sexuality
These sheeple and these lemmings
act so hive-mindedly, jumpin to
their deaths just to follow others blindly.

Paper Wings

With paper wings Icarus
disobeyed Daedalus;
contraptions and doo-dads
flaunting the explicit intent
to soar sky high.

On that craftsman's
workbench lay self discipline;
overlooked by Icarus in his
mad dash for flight...
its absence, perhaps, his fall.

To fly was to be free, a
world on its own!
Grounded life
ain't so shabby, though;
at least it's stable.

To fly forever is
just the illusion of freedom;
to never fly is the
illusion of stability,
a hollow life.

With paper wings Icarus
came to know life and death;
and to think, self-discipline
had lay there on the work
bench all along.

Season of Life

The world is a delicate and new entity;

an earth slowly awakening from frozen slumber

shrugging off the frosty shawl of winter

exposing a once barren land renewed of it's youth.

Spring air is perfume so intoxicating

and sweet that one can't blame hummingbirds or

bumblebees for their lusty pursuit of budding

cherry blossoms and tulips.

Colorado night skies are a little more heavy now

long missed humidity soaks the Front Range while

the oncoming explosion of life, a fragrant scent and

bristling chill, whistles in the wind.

It's my twentieth visit from the season of life

and I meet it with strong emotion, for life is

sweet and constant until a comma, a pause,

a single breath ends what we know.

When will that breath steal me away

from this life? How many more seasons

will I be given? How could I know?

Why would I want to?

All I know is just as surely as Spring came

it will leave once again, giving way to that season

of nostalgia and eventually fading into a

crisp Colorado Autumn.

The world sleeps, regrouping once a again

in the hollow depth of Winter before starting Spring

anew, continuing a cycle that offers to add another year

to my tally for the simple price of living.

So I'll live; life was the only gift ever really given to any of us

and I'll live, confident that comma, that pause,

that last rebel breath knows where to find me

when the final grain has fallen from my hourglass.

When that time comes I'll greet death like an old friend

and walk with the Reaper to the snowy edge of the Winter,

through the forest of the unknown's foggy haze

and into an unfamiliar world to meet another season of life.

Where did you go?

Where did you go?
A simple shell abandoned,
Your soul's schism from it's home,
sent into the dark unknown.
Answers are like opinions:
everybody has one and they're
all probably wrong, yet I'm
still searching.

Because of this, I cannot relegate
him to the past tense. He is not a was,
but an is, an idea perhaps, a concept
I've clung to since. None of this makes
sense, but emotion never seems to
piece itself together into a coherent
statement of eloquence. Where words
fail, I feel.

I would think that I'd feel IT, though,
as a loved one's tugged
from his mortal throne, and yet,
alas, it was not so. Curiously
I still feel HIM, like the soft blow of
the wind against my skin, like the
glow of the sun. Because I'm feeling I know
that the healing has begun.

If Life...

If life was a masterpiece, he was the artist,

and his personality, the paint that adheres

to the canvas of our memory.

For who but Wilson could have created a mosaic

that will be imprinted in my mind for the span

of my lifetime?

If life was an ocean, he was the captain,

guiding us through the darkest of hours with

constant reassurances and natural Southern poise.

For who but Wilson could have calmed stormy seas

with a smile that exposed a shining soul on fire

with a deep and abiding love of life?

If life was a classroom, he was the teacher,

a man who was always there, an unwavering light

exuding happiness and care.

For who but Wilson could have helped me rediscover

the kindergartner inside through his playful

antics and child-like curiosity?

If life was a garden, he was the gardener,

tending to his loved ones with unexpected

intensity, watering each of his relationships passionately.

For who but Wilson could have brought so

many bulbs into full bloom in the midst of

a cold winter?

And if life wasn't life, he would still be here,

but life remains life, that much is clear.

Every day gets harder, comprehending that you're gone

May you rest forever, Willy, in the peaceful waters of Roatan.

I Know This Pen

I know this pen is a life-giving vein: snap it in half...

I don't know where the droplets will land,

I know they'll find a home in those confines

be it college rule, wide rule; blue lines are just bars.

Maybe I'll break this pen. Why should I keep the tip grounded?

It can, will, fly to the four corners of the globe,

or paper, seeing as how I am the writer... in a sense, God;

Since I am God this is a world of my own creation, yet

Perhaps it is my prison. Maybe I'll break this pen...

When did I need it? I've manipulated my existence and

broke the shackles of reality with every inhalation,

meal, laugh, nap. The fine line blurs, the sly lie never does.

Maybe, just maybe, I will smash this pen!

And destroy this world! And piece it back together again

and from the ashes and carbon and time and pressure

a perfect blood diamond will form!

I stare at the currently useless utensil lying in my hand.

A pocket W.M.D, lack of application leaves it barren and sterile.

I still can't help but dream of the lives that shall gain aspirations, dreams,

through the tender caress of each flighty pen stroke, every committed line.

Sixty Second Serenade

I can sixty second serenade you deep into the light baby blue

in my eyes, and the skies, and the hue of feeling me plus you.

Who ever knew when smoldering stars collide the arithmetic

doesn't have to add to one and one make two?

Sit back now, baby, and admire these events soon to transpire

My words are saccharine fire, articulations of dark desire,

white-winged angels meant to inspire, and I call on my powers

hour by hour to seduce the fickle and denounce the sour.

Your seductive glances mingle with mine for some time;

smiles catalyze moments sipped sublimely like wine

yet these intertwined fingers betray our designs,

our intentions towards something undefined but divine.

So I ask you, baby, are you bitter or sweet? Will I reign victorious?

Meet perfect defeat? Will I be reeling in hasty retreat, will I be

falling feet over feet? No lies, no deceit, just passion and heat

but enough of the abstract... lets make this concrete.

Rolling Thunder

Layered like a small child stumbling in from the cold
Clouds tumble tumultuously towards me, overbearing and cruel
Standing below, I look up at something much larger than me
I stare in awe of the streaking bolts of fire searing their way across a blackened sky
The booming thunder rolls in, blanketing me.
Raining down around me thousands of soldiers commit to a jihad, the ground their enemy.

This feels like home.

Truth

Darkness consumes all when there is no light
just as lies disguise truth's plight.
Yet day, without fail, conquers the night
and quashes it with absolute might.

Like a small plant budding from barren earth
I will push aside lies and prove my true worth.
Verity was forgotten, but we await it's rebirth...
Truth brings us smiles flashed in pure mirth.

Yes, Night may fall for hours a day
but it can't stop the sun and it's valiant rays.
Dishonest forces conspire to keep truth at bay
yet truth, as always, still finds a way.

"A" Repeating Motiff

Accept not every hope can be lassoed from the clouds.
Apathy enslaves willingly, so for now I embrace
Aestheticism and
Always jealously eye the sky.
Arizona's natural grace hides in the hollows of
Ancient and untouched desert washes and
Amongst ever-twinkling deities of old.
Abundant ecstasy dwells in the divine Galactic!
And this god amongst men is an
Ant once again.

The Long Second

Could I have, but for the drunk lust
of anger, held my heart in hand
a tick-tock longer?
Wishful thinking leaks seductively
from your mouth like noxious
gas, its blue smoky tendrils
slither towards my tentative nostrils.
A viper in the Garden of Eden can't
make a meal of mangoes, but
certainly of man.

Who are you? Exchanging this
poetic promise over and over
like quarters and dimes;
you must be a drug dealer.
Corner of Heaven and Hell,
you always keep em coming
back, but not me.
Therein lies the enchantment
-ensnaring like a fish hooked tongue-
enamored with my Houdini hoodwinks.
I won't be coming back 'round here
for a long, long second.

8 Line Marijuanalogue

Oh, what a feeling! I love to get high!
I get the "f" out of life, and make it a lie.

It exposes my soul, it lets me bleed out
So I dream of my being and what I'm about.

I spark Mary Jane, and ride the high through
tempestuous times, then start a new.

Be it a joint or a blunt; a pipe or a bong
I rip my chest open, and nothing is wrong!

Supernatural?

A touch that thrusts you into space
Voids filled by a tender embrace
Spells cast with hypnotic blue eyes
pounding heart, a welcome surprise

Not to mention that shining smile
Temple of Sun I could never defile
Eyes as the stars, hair, too, the sun
darkness cloaking all but my one

Aaron the fool, Danger the tool
tongue-tied: your grace elicits my drool
stars collide when I'm with you
It's not supernatural, It's true.