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A Sleeping Witness

Dreams are the harbingers of prophecy. They are the conscious decisions made in a world of subconscious space. Within each wafting glide of wind and dust, sand and religion collide in trust—deciphering visions of abstract states, encoding tomorrow’s future with the promise from a forlorn and forgotten state.  Application of belief transforms the deepest realm—where the flickering sands of altered terrain become placemats for each inspiration we awake unto.


While the many doors we traverse abed, may never unhinge their paths, momentum, nonetheless continues forth, where through such forward action, thrust upon this life’s fate, our nerves becalmed by the understanding and the knowledge, that no matter the hardships our physical beings must bear, our minds shall persevere—each strain of burden and every stress of fractured straits—the tumults ever hovering near, creating an alleviation of sensation and a today that serves as bridge, between a bountiful future and each impossibility our yesterdays had just explored.


The Mustang and The Cobra

The mustang is a beautiful beast.

It is wild, free and caresses the air

As it roams the unconquered plains

The cobra is a perplexing creature.

It hides amongst the branch and brush,

Slithering with purpose.  By nature, it’s

Species is damned at birth.  Yet, fate

Bears no bounty upon its ability to survive.

The cobra dreams, as does the mustang, of a never-ending

Day filled with idealistic skies.  It may not have the speed or the strength of the untamed beast, yet it has its own power, the ferocity of its silent strike, the ability to think.

Some say the mustang cannot be stopped once it achieves full stride.  I do not know if this is true.  Yet, I am certain, that if a mustang is galloping like the wind, across the open fields, if, by chance, it tramples over where the cobra lay, it would take but one bite from the fork-tongued fiend, to bring make the heart of this magnificent beast to permanently halt and cease to beat.


If the toes betray the head, walk with the heels.

If the ankle betrays the head, crawl upon the knees.

If the legs betray the head, inch forward on the stomach, ignoring the stones that make it bleed.

If the ribs betray the head, will thy chest’s direction, completely ignorant if in fact it still remembers how to breathe.

If the shoulder betrays the head, let the arms carry forth your stride.

If the neck betrays the head, you will still possess the head itself,

from which, one will find direction; the body will then follow,

to where it is that the head shall lead

Of a Scientific Mind (set) Found as Free

ST(rings) and
Contraction’s known
In cSerial delectability’s milky wayeight

A vague understanding of everything is generally enough information to carry one’s self adequately when attending the socially structured artifice known colloquially as the Cocktail Party.

½ odd
integral spin—
statistical relevance
when drawn composites—
hypothetically sprawl their
quarks about, submitting
charge to the
sea quench sequential
flavors shown

(U)p (d)own
(s)trange (c)harm
(b)eauty (t)ruth
as alike are
none two

An assertion made out of guttural instinct, is just as likely to stem from indigestion, as it is, to originate from some psychically charged state of dalliance born adrift from experiential view.

Madcap rationales are but separate forms of bias. They are, can be built upon, either stacked instrumentally or charged electrically; from beneath the flesh, it may tap deep into the realm of something along the lines of soul-stich, yet, it is also possible to balance the unexplainable explanation through impartments bestowed.

In such cases, as could be found in this, the latter possibility, one is advised, that if travelling down such pathways is an absolute necessity, then, to simply cite sources close to the situation, without abdicating any pertinent details of any kind whatsoever. We advise such discourse, simply for the factuality that is inherently absconded through the academia(s) of belief, where ghosts and apparitions, no matter their ability to be maddeningly informative, are instant routes to discretization.

Here within uncertainties pronounced, afterimages, as they linger, rest upon the rungs laced in Déjà vu.
Please, be kind to yourself, for boson’s will certainly grow overactive in their affection towards quantum (st)ate. Upon listening to these “soldiers of scholastic bigotry,” a composite reaction may turn from void to null, breaching the realities of solutions self-absorbed.

Dynamic prisms…crack, scratch, claw and whinny
Whence pondered upon in discourteous lights
Administers requisitioned from anecdotal times—to instill a sense of structure to stories born sans-wisdom—
often goading its ratability from special places, the kinds often reserved for mystics, cynics and weavers of the fountain stick

from the bellies of allegory, storytellers recount and reanimate, the songs once spoken of. Here that juvenile sense of wonder is revitalized, where even within the callously benumbed, a rekindling of innocence is once more elated to the magical realms of dreams, found, even with, no, especially for, all their flaws, where

Lose rigidity
Through fragility;
sensitivity slakes
It’s sated tongue, with
The feelings allowed to
Then therein flutter free—

Then think again.
Think. And generally you’ll get by…but

When you can no longer tolerate the drab and dry, then perhaps
It’s time, if one can accept the possible consequents to come, to
Think again(st)_________________________WHY, WHERE, WHAT, HOW, IS, CAN and WHEN….questions, such as these, are, can be, a freely operational mind’s best of friends—
A septet whose inquisitions shall always offer dialogues that never end.

This piece was inspired by Anna Montgomery’s Meeting the Bar Article and Prompt, which she posted last week on D’Verse

In Defense of Vultures (Revenge)

In defense of a vulture,
I stained me sweet,
as not to be a detriment
to the sincerities you keep

In defense of a vulture
A plague you must obey,
as not to lead astray
lest to the minions of carrion
administer you as prey

To cutthroat similes
rot we must…
unto the amphibole’s of
lethargy, displaced we’ll become
grown gnawed to larcenous ideals
when rationality is alive in seed

In defense of vultures
I beg of you now…
please admonish your misguidance
for such rancor soon breeds foul
In defense of vultures
I stained me sweet
as not to be a detriment
to the promulgating gluttony
our pride relinquishes posthumously

Revenge is but a bitter coin
that can be tossed into fabled fountains,
in an aim to gleam… the promises of wish

Revenge is but a bartered die
used to uncover what’s never been discovered,
to which, the new and dangerous are not yet judged, let alone unjustly tried

Revenge is but a cornered beast
burrowed deep within the abscess of one’s self
offering alternative resolutions, to problems born in pride

Revenge is but a bitter coin
that can be used to find mostly anything
even foundering a forgiveness, we never dreamed, we’d reach again

Revenge is but a vulture,
I…we…must try
…to defend

In Lethal Doses

In Lethal Doses, we find out the art of doubt…

Pyrenean high, yet bound to collapse—
to-bleed in brooding salves of artlessly acted self-infliction—swelling, parlayed for temporary ambiance—climbing us back—upwards, upon crags of insurrection—dangling by design—for if should fall, would be the solvency—SHALL we acknowledge, HOW, it got to such a state of never ending questioning?
Let us examine…

Lien, foreclosure’s cradle en-
Slaved—dry, so dry, but push
We may, until blood conforms
The eyes reading corrupted signs,
Soldering the ends to bray—WHY

Cloistered reins of fiery pasts, bisecting whole its eyeless scads of insolence—participating, without armor, falling upon the swords left in honor, over Dover’s drift, a rarity unobserved by patiently disgruntled emotional appeal, falling, falling and falling over—the cliffs of enmity, awash in the sprang rhythm of the imbalanced obfuscation—the clang and wrung—broached of delicate sentience—the heart, the hearth that erupts its shining glorification upon the countless harassments of haranguing quilts of mimicry ashamed in variance—

Those of the Torrid spoke, spew a spigot, full off spoken blame—unchartered distortion, a voice with only speechless words—sung in tune, yet deaf their notes and citations fall the fate of the same, shy, shy, and shy away, from a world
So bemoaned, it’s identity’s turned a dullish
Cold and broke fragments into ashes that scatter
Across the graves

Fidget, portent, aimless and calm—
How can one’s aim be so wrong, when the collapsible panels within their version seem uncountable and unattainable to our
Cyclical evolutions of command—

Failures breed hypotheses—distance drains hypotenuse

Colors mingle incoherently, fade, fade, refresh—tumults wake, pour the liquid we create, in toxic disillusionment—fingering the delicate denials, with a fervor of fever slaked in static states—numbers and digits incorrigible and dagger-like, the types of notable disconcertments that endlessly striate the ghosts within, before the harp begins to pluck its strings…try…. but why?

Whence the governed become the unifying force, will condemnation ignore its frailty still?

Apportioned liberations are left in want, searching pigment’s unashamed sense of efficiency, destitute for lack of tarried tales, bare-heart, busted knuckled beauty, an artistry unto itself, and the canvas, in all its bloodied abasement, may be the masterpiece we’d been pining for—the question is not why, but how we devolved to such a state, where devastation bears more interest than fate…then faith itself?

I never understood why people wear their hats sideways. It makes not a shred of sense to me—haven’t we learned anything from our feline friends, where whiskers span the face and out they sprawl, in order to direct the body’s ability to transfer their estates through the most limited of space—and these eyesores, with their side-held statements of fashion-ever brimming upon society, as does the cold, gray sky that ever looms above an over-populated tract of earth— again, I ask, why

and it is not merely the hats that find them parallel to the soil. There is this growing illustration that is constantly thrust upon us, the unsuspecting and diligently disregarding public, where handguns are all the rage, held in hand despite isms, laws and the like, but not just there, is this at odds, but the dignity of it all, why are these pistols being shown at all as held, let alone fired, while being held to the side—it makes no sense, I can’t contrive explanation, nor am I prepared to waste the time to attempt bearing understanding

Sometimes I feel as if my mind tangents into untamed space, and occasionally I believe you’ve been the cause of this breaking state of cranial escape, for far too long you’ve existed outside my immediate realm. You do things I cannot digest, yet allure me the same, draw me in like a magnet to metallic space, and yet wear no tread upon the patterns I so consciously try to create…. and so I pretend, I conjure scenarios of impending fantastical delusory context…spending much too many moments encouraging such deceptive and damaging appeal…. forcing the thrust of adrenalin, into the soul of this junkie, one time I saw, once I saw—ravaged by a self-induced stanchion of invisibly deigned parapets of ignorance—binging ever so graciously—in spree, alongside the dwellers of nocturnal cabernets—hunting, pecking, seeking, searching, ever searching—for sera’s out of reach, for trained ambiguity, left with but a solitary recourse, a drip to vein, a solvency that keeps, the flesh from eating itself internally, gnawing and gnashing upon liquidity’s infused pseudonym…finding that the end is not always the end of things

Frayed ends don’t always have to snap, but they are forever weakened…that is undeniable (and confusion’s rigor inhales deeply, purging the atmosphere, only for exhalation’s bellowing roar to perforate the scars to which you care)

Salve of Touch

With a smooth dalliance of silk,
lingering its adhesion on, every
fragment, all relics akin to the
stretch of thought enrapt within

Iron’s hot. Pressed.
flesh to skin, stray a bit longer,
while the body confuses your pores
for my own, commingling in excuses
we’ve only just begun to truly get to know

As a sculptor does, mold we shall
your artistry upon the easel of my soul,
tracing every outline you’ve ever made
simply for sensualities sake…in you
A haven I have entered…in me, I can only
hope, you’ve found a purpose for direction

A world is scattered in the simple space—the imaginary
boundaries born between your form and the one I claim
as my own…press to press, fire’s blaze…passion stares…
until the madness fades…yet when it refuses cease its dance…
then…it’s then, and only then…its time you acknowledge—meeting
one another was much more plotted than we could deem…yet deem, in
such a case, and solely in one as such, we must account the consideration that perhaps this docile passion afire cannot be tamed, for it’s love can burn a forest of deceit with but a single sweep of breath…and needn’t speak as much as other unions may…for in each other’s eyes, chapters evolve as only precious intricacies might…meeting you, one another fresh anew, was never something we can simply chalk to chance….for this strand
inoculations turn in fear
as this is the love
our parents warned
us of, if lucky, we’d
walk into, unarmed,
despite knowing
when it was near