Once Upon A Time In Montezuma

A burning moon above our heads betrays the season; dead of winter and here we are, soaked in a strangers sweat and the breeze blowing off the sea is trying in vain to dry us off but only makes the coat of salt on our skin that much thicker.  Stinging.  Burning alive. But: we are alive. A dream.  Sleepless.  Pumping blood through our legs which carry us down a dark road of insomnia; vague surroundings.  Ocean on one side.  Jungle on the other.  Moon above.  Gravel bellow. We are three.  Three sleepless travelers.  Three busted bicycles carrying us from the neon town to where we will rest between an island and a cemetery.  Sleepless in our sleep; dreamers without ideas.  What are we doing here, finding ourselves, as it were, on the other side of the world, pedaling, stinking, not sleeping but dreaming none the less?   Ocean on one side; vague moon-soaked everything on every other side.  We are three as we leave the town. The bikes, they have no lights.  The moon is our light.  The salt on our skin is our compass. The cemetery and the island are an hour out of town as our legs will go.  Somewhere in that hour I fall into a dream of sorts.  Not sleep.  There is no sleep where we are.   There is a light.  It isn't mine.  There are no words--that is something that I own. We were three, but now I am one.  The jungle on one side takes over the ocean on the other.  The road stretches out ahead, illuminated by a light that isn't mine or the moons.  I ride on, alone, illuminated by phantom light, myself, the burning salt on my skin screaming under the scrutiny of glowing eyes peering out of the jungle.  And then I was one, lone-wolf, and I still, to this day...I don't know what became of the other two. Are those voices behind me, or is it the sound of the jungle eyes peering at me from the night?  I can smell the sea, I can feel the rust of the bike chain on my salty skin.  Sleepless, a tired voice speaking to me from a hidden angle: Fear not the absence, it says, fear not the absence of eyes on your burning skin.  It says fear not the absence of your legs, the moon it says is hiding in your eyes.  You are not alone it says you do not see the way, the ocean, but it is there. It says.  You are not alone. Jungle ahead.  Moon above.  Road bellow.  The sea.  The sea somewhere not here and I am lost.  In my eyes, burning, salt and tears: the sea.  Voices behind me; the sea and the stars guiding me to here, with the voices behind and the jungle and the eyes all around.  The moon, the stars, the sea, guiding me with the voices behind.

Twelve Hours Later:

Slow fade to a beach at high tide.  The camera pans right to show three pale and naked bodies laying at the tide-mark.  Pebbles stick to their skin; crabs crawl up there arms. Dehydration sings over the crashing waves.  The three bodies are still alive, but barely. A cemetery sleeps behind them; an island shivers off the coast. The three are one: Insomnia. The Moon is asleep. They found the sea after all.

(I am body #2)

Body #1: Do you have any more rum? Body #2: Yes. Body #1: 'These violent delights have violent ends'. Body #2: O' teach  me how I should forget to think! Act 1, Scene 2. Body#3: (digging in the sand and producing an unsheathed knife, holding it to the sun) Shall you leave it upon thee to fetch the blow?

Scene fades to black.

I dont think people really understand or appreciate the impact they have on the world, no matter how minute a difference it makes. Listen to people, talk to people--especially complete strangers. You don't know what interaction could inevitably alter the course of your life.

Eyes Of The Sun

The sun stares me down in matching glasses that halo her eyes in a burning song. She see’s me going the way of shadows-- to the bowels of the earth to greet hidden desires that build me up just to take me down

the light dances over the earth and my skin blossoms a layer of white flowers that will rain their pedals from dark skies so as to make the world look new.

And as the sun stares me down I stare right back, with my eyes to match the sky dressed in black, together we watch as the shadows pour from my eyes and then wander away, wander across the earth with us always at their backs

Hunter S. Thompsons suicide note

Machu Picchu

A city in the clouds, lost to time,

there I was, panting, doubled over

on the border between anguish and ecstasy,

myself an enigma in time,

diminished but not broken,

beaten down but not defeated,

a true conqueror of the world,

hidden in the clouds--

like those celestial things, the world

changes shape,

as does this city,

as do I

Gust

Where the wind blows there is life

Uncontained, exhaling

Leaves and letters, tumbling

Through the summer sunsets, awake

Finally, alive

To witness it all

Where the wind blows I will find myself

Scattered, scanning

The pages of a book

About living, loving,

All scattered and all meeting

Back at this place

Where the wind blows there be no smog,

Just the streets among other streets,

Hearts beating within beating hearts,

Silence, music, wind

Blowing,

All coming back to this place

December 2018: in a little town on the border of Colombia and Ecuador

The narrow street burns with the noon sun, gentle music, thousands of faces each reflecting a galaxy of torment and joy. Where am I in all of this? Lost within the overlapping palpatations of curiosity and the terror that comes with being human. I find myself, sheltered in the soft shade of an almond tree, absorbing the warmth, the music, the faces--oh, the faces. How I simultaneously adore and shudder away from them. An invisible barrier a thousand feet high stands sturdy in my heart. What is this, this feeling of guilt? A lack of connection, perhaps, but certainly not, I hope, a lack of compassion. I hope the corridors of my heart aren't as narrow as these streets.

Ever since tumblr announced the NSFW ban I've been getting followed by more porn-blog bots than ever. Goes to show you how effective censorship is.

Somewhere over Cuba

24/11/2018

Spanish Moss

Like moss hanging from a branch, my heart drops at the sight of the still water, black as oil, a reminder of the fire that still burns behind my eyes

this is where we last met, on this stone bench flanked by two lions, you with your hair tangled like moss; me with my eyes burning, and the air, clogged with sulfur

in a moment it all stops, a moment that persists forever, a ceasing of everything all at once, all forever: the wind in the oak tree; the grass that always grows; the lions mid-roar; the season with its soothing heat; the fire that never stops burning, until now

like moss hanging, my life is as old and ageless as the trees in their silent swaying. Perhaps today we will meet again, next to the water and under the trees that will never die

the other half

I exhale and the sun stops over a field where a seeping wind hurries through all the blades of grass touching me, touching my hands, my hands touching something that cannot be held

a light internal, an everything superimposed over nothing, a wind that speaks but not in a language that I can understand-- it carries within it an inflection a reminder a memory of that time you and I stood side by side, miles apart, a void beating with the excitement in my heart

awakening from a dream, I breathe and the moon begins to sing in my blood as my blood courses through my hands so as to touch you, you who cannot be touched, and then through my feet so they can carry me to you, to you who cannot be found

a voice eternal, a song humming out the tunes of this verse, my eyes, flowing as they are, see what cannot be seen-- a thousand years in one, an answer in absentia, a question which no words can form. I see the question and the answer all at once, the space between the sun and the moon which is where you are, somewhere, somewhere beyond the realm of understanding, yet somehow, I know.

when you spoke, there was thunder

the silence bothered me not so much as the light reflecting off the beads of tears pooled on the lawn; the wind moved through the trees, and torn strips of paper tumbled over my resting feet-- all was silence, eerie, yet somehow natural, as if that last spoken sentence had long fallen and settled in my stomach, and I knew it

facing a wall, I clenched my fists, my eyes too, that gnawing truth eating its way through the silence, that uncomfortable void between two questions that had no spoken answers, and I knew it

the tears accumulated, with the heat of the air they would soon become clouds, holding enough rain to blur all the images and words that I knew were behind that silent wall. again, I asked the question, knowing all too well that an answer would never come, I knew this, all too well

the vacation

Time has a way

Of ending,

Of running out

On us,

Just like everything else

And we have a way

Of looking back

More than we look forward

The Pain

Our voices break--and now our whispers falter

It’s a cold night, inside and out, the cold, it hurts, and now, we are screaming, broken voices, oh, the pain

oh, the pain, the pain of arid deserts, the pain of nighttime void of stars, oh, the pain of losing our way

the pain of seeing with broken eyes, the anguish felt in worn-out limbs, the emptiness of our arid screams

already spoken, shouts into whispers, the silence, not so quiet, it hurts us, inside and out, it hurts, the pain, and now we are screaming

those hard, hard truths

The world changes beneath my feet and before my eyes all those who once were are now not, little more than echoes and footprints

a time that ended before it’s time, a hard truth to be accepted: by and by, everything must die

from across this empty room, you smile, and it is returned. you are still breathing, and so am I. one breath shared, one dream had, what separates us now is nothing but distance. very real, very vast

the world changes beneath my feet, not for want, nor desire, but for need. to you I have given my love, breathed my laughter, I shared the days with you, those days that felt as if they had no end.

but that time has ended before its time. by and by, even love must one day die.