Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream

I called my Dad from the top of the tree on beautiful sunny day in the middle of the afternoon. “I've been treed by a grizzly. I’m in Yellowstone. I just want you and Mom to know that I love you. Tell her for me will you? No, I don’t have a gun - just please tell her I love her. I love you too. Bye.” After making peace, I let go and rushed toward a sure end. As I drifted from the top of the tree to the back of the bear I wondered who was in the tree with me. As my hands clasped fistfuls of fur the angry bear transformed into a lion. Once it was a lion, I no longer clung to it, rather I wrestled. I wrestled for my life in the trenches of sure loss. We tumbled through the forest, the lion swatting and biting at me with the might of its ancestors while I held it’s neck while throwing hay-makers with tornado momentum. Soon the lion settled, and I tamed her. Tranquility had settled in the heart of beast and man.

I walked to a small, unassuming cabin deeper still in the forest. The timber that made the walls stretched out as wide arms welcoming me. I fell in. As I opened the door, inside awaited my friends and family. We celebrated with a jubilation so radiant no mistake would be made, this was a festival in honor of the gladiatorial bout that had passed moments ago. All in attendance, all of you, already knew. News traveled fast here. As we drank and feasted into the night, the only pause was to dance.

Soon I was called back outside. I left the warmth and comfort of my family and friends to meld with the peaceful void of the night air. I walked alone. In the darkest of nights I walked, where a horizon was nonexistent and up was only known by moon holding her, as it led me away and into the valley. It was here, at the center of the valley, in the grey snow of the night I heard my father yell in the same manner he would yell for me when I was a child playing in the woods and fields of my grandfather’s farm. “Tyler - WOLVES!”

And with that thunderous beckoning, my eyes lifted to see hundreds of wolves descend on all sides of the valley. As they approached I did nothing except fill my lungs with the silence. The silence cocooned in my throat before floating away as the beautiful song of the wolf. I howled, and howled until every last wolf was in the valley sitting or lying next to me. Soon three magnificent wolves came from the forest, and as they stood next to me they shed their fur to become human. The middle wolf became a middle aged man with grey hair in a ponytail, and a beard to match. He smiled and his eyes beamed a warm welcome towards me. The wolf to his right became a man my age; it was his son. He too had a ponytail and beard, only black and not as long. He approached me, smiled, and shook my hand. Finally the third wolf transformed into a beautiful blond woman. She was his daughter and her beauty left a radiance in every one of my five senses. She smiled at me, I howled, and we started sniffing one another’s butts. Not in a glorious imagined fashion but, in the same excited stupid circle dogs walk when neither one of them will stop as they sniff. This was my dream.

Ill humor

What lies heaviest is your guess

The cruel, dust, gloom weather outside

Or the ebony, weary heart

A beaten drum in a fog war

Lost

Busted drumsticks; goatskin left torn

Yet lying, beating in the ghost

Still crashes in the mist of haunt

To remain there lies true, heavy

Cost

I find myself a conjoined twin

With the humor, who leads the dance

Was chance in the music as we

Two step on the frightened rhythmic

Frost

Courage spins hope, still unaware

Exits left to be, lucid dreams

The music falls deaf, except mine

Found in the weather, I remain

Exhaust

An Evening With the Bluebird

Let me tell you a story of an amazing night. I got in the car, tickets in hand, ready for an incredible show and night that would soon surpass my expectations. The Coathangers were opening for the Black Lips at my favorite venue in Denver, the Bluebird. It was going to be an epic night of punk, beer, and fellowship.

The fellowship began at the PS Lounge for the pregame beers. I walk in only to find Tore getting a head start on the evening with a PBR and a shot already cemented in his belly. I sit my jittery bones next to his and order a PBR over conversations of expectations and excitement. It came with a complimentary shot and smile from the beautiful bartender. The jukebox was earning it’s keep playing crowd favorites from the Clash, Stones, Cash, Sinatra, Martin, and Redding. We speak only of how excellent the music line up is tonight, and how rare it is to genuinely be excited for both bands on the ticket. After our voices turn rasp as we shout over the crowd - receiving momentary relief only from PBRs sipped upon, coating our throats in sweet froth. After we consume and settle the tab, we commence wandering towards the show with smoke on our breath.

We find our spots, and notice a big opening in front of us. Always the opportunists we strike out to seize our birthright closer to the stage. As we stand 6 feet from the stage our eyes drink in our surrounding peers only to recognize that we are the only ones in the front over 21. I joke and remark on how I just remembered we are at a 16+ show, making us feel older than our spirits as we count the pimples, zits, and B.O. surrounding us. We have made our beds and as the Coathangers walk on stage, we lie in them.

The music spews forth and chaos ensues as the volume breaches my eardrums to the pattern of “Johnny”. Tore turns to me and says, “ok, now I wanna start a girl band.” I laugh, pat him on the back in a manly fashion before getting back into my rhythm showing the best dance moves Denver has seen. I’ll be famous. I’m sure of it. As I dance, sway, and bob soon a tap finds my moving shoulder. I turn to see Tore with a giant smile and two PBRs. I raise my can in appreciation and get back to cutting the nonexistent rug. I only stop between songs, when the music itself needs a breather, to see their signature move of switching instruments during the set. These ladies of freedom play every instrument in the band, and sing lead on at least a couple songs. True performers. True artists. Their set ends all too soon, but not before I raise my can to the band only to see a can raised right back at me. We are all here just to have fun; we are all here to not give a damn. Hallelujah. As we exit to pollute our bodies once more, I have a grin beaming bright into the night. I do believe I caused the helicopter to greet us as it landed next to the venue with my spotlight smile. All in good fun though. I express that I can’t see them play without having a crush on one of them. Tore chuckles and says, “don’t you mean all of them?” Touche good sir.

We get back to it after a moment of revelry only to find a different yet equally amusing spot. Before the music starts two goons are messing with every girl that walks past them. One touches the bottom of his beer can to the top of their head, while the other gives their hair a stroke and rating their hair for them as if he were some sort of expert on fine hair. I suppose we are all experts on something - even if it’s wasting time. I “bump” into them and make eye contact, which apparently is all that is needed to distract them from ever doing it again. Soon the Black Lips take the stage and pour out their craft delivering “Family Tree” and “Modern Art” back to back as their opener. Despite all the regal tales of raunch that accompany the Lips on stage, they were southern gentlemen that night. Their sound was tight and true. I’ve been to a lot of shows of a lot of different artists, but I’ve never seen crowd surfing like this with the exception of the Chariot farewell tour. The crowd was electric and responsive not unlike the guitars found on stage. The stage was buried in beer cans, so it came to no surprise when the next round we got was served in plastic cups. The only smiles and direction to be found was from the ‘Lips themselves. Their smiles burned brighter as their direction became greater than the frowning security - that couldn’t catch a girl as she ran around on stage. The greatest show on earth wasn’t found in a tent, but in a packed theater on a dirty street in the heart of Denver. This wasn’t just another show, but a gathering of boys and girls, men and women, daughters, sons, and orphans here to be free of whatever constraints that have been cast upon them. It was a communal leave from reality. I only found myself taking reprieve to buy more beer and see if the Coathangers were at their merch table. My wayward calculations convinced me they were deserving a round on me after the escapade of awesome they dropped on a mostly unexpecting crowd.

As with all great nights of music it’s over before it begins. I run to the john, and as I exit I find Tore deep in conversation with one of the ‘Hangers. Of what they were talking about I don’t know, what I do know is that when eye contact was made I was instantly a sixteen year old girl at a Beatles concert. All hope had left for normal conversation. This was exactly like the first time I tried to interact with a band I dug and got as awkward as the sum of my teen years, the only difference being this time I had talked to many bands prior (including them the first time I saw them) and was a cool 30. I still don’t know what happened but whatever it was, it took hold and I was useless.

Before I knew it I was back at the PS Lounge sitting at the open bar only to be greeted with a familiar smile and a PBR in front of me before I said a thing. As you do, my conversation was mixed between my companion, the bartender and a drunk man looking to strangers for friends as his girlfriend had had enough of him. We talked almost exclusively about the philosophy of accepting farts from strangers before I passed him cleverly to Tore, smiling as both of us knew of the maneuver I just pulled. My attention was passed to the bartender for conversation, hoping to be accepted as a worthy distraction; thankfully I passed. My attention shifts for the rest of the evening between conversations and the giant, fluffy snowflakes falling outside behind the jukebox crying Etta James, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and Carl Perkins. In the midst of this somewhere is a slice of Heaven.

Soon the bar cleared, and we left only to find a fight outside on the sidewalk of fartman vs a gentleman surely fighting for his honor or different opinion on flatulence. I wasn’t about to break up this perfect moment, after all this was a night of entertainment. Instead like a ring commentator I gave a play by play as I cheered for fartman to give the other gentleman a wedgie mid-fight. Apparently the gentleman thought this was a good idea and took my advice only to give my strange friend the wedgie of his life while swinging away with his good hand. Soon the fight ended and I comforted fartman while convincing his girlfriend that I was 100% Apache after showing a picture of my father. She apologized for not believing me before returning to the side of her man. What separates good nights from great nights is surprise, and I hadn’t received mine just yet. Soon we were about to leave as two more stumbled out of the bar. They were the gentlemen next to us during the ‘Lips set. I said, “there are my Canadian friends,” and congratulated them for driving all the way from Saskatchewan to catch the show. Understandably this drunk pair looked more confused by every word that passed my lips. I fill them in that I saw them at the show and was just being stupid for my amusement. This gets the certain defiant reply that I have it all wrong and he is from Colorado - born and raised. I skoff and tell them I know a Canadian when I see one and that it’s cool, we are in Denver after all. This only gets one of them angry and he charges me with a fire in his eyes only half lit as the liquor has quenched most of it. He runs at me like a bull with arms extended, head down careening for my midsection. I jump a foot back and hook his arms, only to hear curse filled protests of his arms pinned behind him. I smirk and tell him he even fights like a Canadian, which makes him stomp and protest louder, which in turn makes Tore, myself, and his friend laugh harder. His buddy steps in and takes him a few feet away. As they leave I find myself shaking both of their hands thanking them for the good time, and as they turn their backs I shout, “enjoy the rest of your stay in the States!” As Tore and I walk back to my car through the snow I know this night will live on as a night with the bluebird and the reason why I won’t write anything.

A Letter in Transparency

One of the most amazing things about writing, I think, is how honest it allows us to be. Even when it’s fiction some elements of truth and transparency weave themselves into what we write. I think we are unable to remain completely divorced from our creations. With that thought I felt like the most important thing I could write/share with you wordsmiths is a letter I am sending to my Grandparents. Enjoy and keep that pencil moving.

To my Grandfather and Grandmother,

Hi guys! It’s been too long since I’ve wrote, and far too long since I’ve seen you. I miss you both dearly. Regretfully the last time I was in Minnesota I was too sick to be allowed in to visit, but such is life. Are you still buried under feet of snow? I’ve longed to see what a winter like that looks like as Dad tells me he hasn’t seen one like this since the ‘70s. On the other side of the coin though, it’s been warm here. The days reach the 50’s, yet it always seems to get far too cold at night still. I guess that’s March for you though. People are starting to get very antsy for the summer days, and are begging for a weather change. I can only imagine in your neck of the woods that sentiment is stronger. Soon enough the seasons will change and we’ll be dreading how hot it is outside.

Due to the warm weather I have been able to get the motorcycle out, and man has that been awesome. I’ve been able to go for some terrific rides already; nowhere special yet, but just getting out is sometimes all you need. To feel the sun warming you as the air simultaneously tries to cool you is almost indescribable at times. There is such a feeling of freedom riding a motorcycle, I wish everyone could experience it. Take comfort knowing I ride as safe as I can and always wear a helmet. I look forward to some trips on the bike and for the nights to warm as well, so I can take the insurance off the car and just be bound to the motorcycle again.

Work is steady. I’ve been promoted to Assistant Manager (I tell people I’m an ass man when asked!). All that really means is more responsibility and stress with a small increase in pay, but at least it’s honest and steady. I see a lot of friends trying to find steady work or just a job in general here in Denver and I know I am blessed. I don’t think anyone would have believed you if you would have said 10 years ago the job market would be this poor. So it leaves us with very little options, either we put up or shut up, and the family I grew up in would only allow me one option.

I hear you are presented with great amounts of people watching at your new place, and that you are making friends as well. That’s great. I’m glad you are finding joy in the midst of this hardship. I am praying for you both. If I could be there tomorrow I would. I’d love to see you and visit you in your new place. I’m sorry that you two are no longer on the farm. I know it’s for the best, and the treatment you are both receiving at the hospital is far better than what could be provided for you in home, but it’s a strange thought to think that the farm is empty.  As it is certainly for you, it is filled with many fond memories for me. I remember walks through the fields with the family, picking cranberries in the bog with Grandma, walking to the old stead with the cousins, picking vegetables in the garden, spending days on end out there - and ending the night watching a Western with Grandpa, Grandma, and Erica while eating apples and cookies and sipping koolaid. It was there that my love of the Western began and has fervently increased.

I dream on memories of wrangling loose cattle with Grandpa on the four wheeler while Sheba and I ran on either sides to corner them and lead them through the fence gate. I recall feeding the cats and dogs in the barn with Grandma while Grandpa milked the cows, and getting to feed some of the calves as well. That barn was a magical place for me. The other grand-kids and I would play in there for hours. I remember Erica and I going into the chicken coop to gather the eggs and feed the chickens with Grandma, or how we used to play with the chicks, kittens, and dogs. I wonder how many family meals we had at that big table and a kids table in a kitchen? We used to see how much of Grandma’s strawberry jam we could pile on a piece of homemade bread. Through the years we always feasted like royalty, and I am convinced there will never be a better fried chicken than the ones that were prepared for us. The amount of presents that were opened under the Christmas tree over the years are immeasurable, but the true treasure will be those memories. I can’t pinpoint a favorite memory but one that certainly is on the top of that list took place when I was fourteen.

We were splitting wood for the winter, it must of been one of the last winters you heated your home with wood. I remember Grandpa, Dad, Dave, Mom, and Mike all there working on splitting wood. Tossing. Splitting. Stacking. When we were done, Grandpa put his hand on my shoulder and told me to open the cooler. I did. I then proceeded to hand him a Grainbelt Premium as he set himself on the tailgate of the pickup. He told me to grab another saying, “Today you worked like a man, now you drink like one.” And with that I sat down on the tailgate and had a Grainbelt too. I also remember Erica teased me afterwards when she asked why I was spacey - as I think I caught my first buzz then. It was then, for me, that I knew not only was I growing up but that I somehow belonged to something greater than myself. The family. But all things pass with time, and I know I will cherish those memories the rest of my life. It will be something that no one will ever be able to take from me.

Thank you for letting us run wild through your fields, sloughs, woods, barns, garage, and house. It was here, under your watch, that we your children and grandchildren grew. I’m sure we caused our fair share of trouble, but I believe that to be buried by the joy present. If there is anything I could do for you now, you only need to tell Dad and he will let me know. If you’d like me to come visit you only have to ask and I will get on a plane as soon as I can. I love you both. I cherish you both. I think of you often. I would not be the man I am today without either of you. God bless and keep you, and hopefully I’ll see you before the summer.

FTW

The battery connectors are fastened with the gripping touch of the tiniest bolt. The choke is stretched wider than the breadth of the Grand Canyon. The ignition is pressed with an anxious thumb. Sooner than expected the sleeping giant yawns a breath of fire, shrugging off a long rest. Hibernation is over. A saddle is fastened as she purrs her song of jubilation. My confederate laughs and tells me he hasn’t “seen that shit-eating grin in a long time,” as I look his way before mounting the beast. I can only assume it’s quality is equal to the ear to ear smile plastered upon his mug. I’m in disbelief that our helmets fit over our gargantuan displays of teeth and gums, yet we are ready to ride. My rhythms take command as if I was crying giddyup on a molecular level. It’s been a long time coming. Lift off. I feel the neighbors’ eyeballs follow my tail lights as we set out to nowhere. I can only wonder why they aren’t already dancing their jigs between the lines of freedom the road provides. Here we are moving forward with no signs of stopping. The motion is met with a feeling of weightlessness. That’s a strange phenomenon with a quarter of a ton beneath your legs propelling you forward as fast as you want to go. It’s here that you realize there is no place for fear or hesitation. There is only joy and roads.

Despite my obnoxious amount of joy my breath is steady and relaxed, as my mind clears kinda like how you imagine the space beyond space on a starless night - void of thought, action, movement and being. A harmonious union is struck between metal, movement, and muscle. The wind crashes against my chest churning my soul. The violent grind produces electricity coursing through my veins and into the machine. Where I end and the bike begins is lost in translation. My slight movements fire with robotic precision; the shifting becoming so succinct, so slight it’s lost with a blink. My resolution for revolution hardens matching the steel I grip. May the road stretch forever, may the gas never run dry.

It’s here that I realize through my shades that the sky is bluer than I’ve ever noticed. I would be unable to gaze upon it’s beauty without the shades, the sky becomes a solar eclipse of freedom in its own right; should I gaze too long I’ll go blind. It’s then my gaze falls upon the road. The cars parked dash by as if trying desperately to get out of my way as I set out on a mission to here, there, everywhere, and nowhere. There is a grace found in that moment that can’t be contained in words, and a merciful moment every second I stay upward. It’s then that I notice not only is the sky more vibrant but the grass competes. As if to be the yin to the yang, the green shines brighter than can be captured in a photograph. In the midst of this I have arrived in a perfect moment carved for a weary traveller. The sun warms my skin to the temperature of my passion burning within. A furnace that cannot be quenched. I wonder in bliss if anyone can understand what I am experiencing in this moment. At once to my approval I remember I am sharing this moment with another. Though I cannot see his face or hear his words I know he is as happy or happier than I. This is better than any steak chewed, any whiskey sipped, any beer savored, any cherry red tobacco stewing at the bottom of a wooden bowl. Victory is loud, fast, and peaceful. It is a chaotic excitement that I find peace in today. Forever two wheels.

Hold Fast

The end had a name
and it is forgotten
The end has an end
and it shall be called now

stay the course

the keys are in the ignition

hallelujah bye and bye

it’s ready, set, go

gravel roads lead to simplicity or implicit city

the beaten path is set

it’s a stumbling walk and a guessing game

but in the end i’ll walk in between the line

avoiding the grave, all the same

courageous tears fall to shaking knees

speak heart and listen to it’s beat

as the snare drum traps our mutiny

keeping us in line as honesty

pursues freedom and truth

i’ll fly away oh glory

Adventurus

Tomorrow's tenure arrives on the back of today, whether we swim or tread. The island is beautiful, yet lies uninhabited. Unplug the wires running forward to eternity, remove thyself from the oaken table. A comfortable cell is still in a jailhouse. Hold fast to chains that lie in your path, pull, pull, and pull. You may find their rusted hooks embedded in your lovely eyes. Some call it focus, dedication, but it’s a winding path leading nowhere. Don’t look so surprised, you saw them when you weren't looking. Weed the garden, uproot the tree if the fruit is strange. Put it down or turn the page. What will you lose? What will you forsake to be free? Inhale the aroma of liberty and press onto the precipice of dreamt mountaintops. Only one thing remains. Hearken to your decision and hasten your movement, for tomorrow steals today as a thief; coming only in the dark with eyes closed. Adventure awaits; lying in the promise of the sun. Don't let it set! It's out there, blooming in the fields of hidden promises. Don't forget you. Don't forget who you are. Forsake the float.

A Toast Over War

With torch lit, you call out to the dark

Crying the proposition I am wrong

Strike true, wielding a troubling remark

Still can we not dance and sing along

Found in harmony harnessed we march

Hand in hand as stride finds stride

Conflict blossoms grace in the arch

Unity blooms in the death of pride

Forgotten qualms in barren tombs

Pressing on with the company of wisdom

Rest with peace nestled in the womb

Cry clearly, cry victory, cry freedom

To Be Had

Just another Wednesday night

And my feet have found the parking lot.

Found underneath glowing neon

Wrapped in Winter’s silent breath,

I wandered in from the north, from the south.

Staggering with a wobbly axle,

Carrying a perfect penniless purse

You caught sight, with my approach.

As an evangelist you proclaimed

I reeked of tobacco and pomade.

Unholy duo, reach forth and break.

Unholy duo, the curtain calls,

For another.

With no objection to be found or had,

Instruction brought deluge, creating

The overflowing glass, carrying

The virgin-white head.

In the hallelujah cheers

Chorus accompanied proliferation.

Holy trinity joined hands; in hand.

Holy trinity breaches thought.

Holy trinity tranquilizes the heart.

We all smell of tobacco, pomade, and beer.

Why Hello Goodbye

I fear that when I say "my love" I'm speaking to a ghost about folklore. It isn't crying over spilled milk, when you're not holding the carton. We sit at the table with chips piled high and it's in your cards, but I busted. It's my crop in my field on your farm. I'll raise it only to raze it in the end. A crop for the fire. So let's gather it, and we can heap it, and light it to dance around it. We are the halo to the light tonight. Let the fired warmth soothe our skin covering the ache in the bone. Cast upon the fire all the unwanted and undesirable anchors we hold onto. If you can for the night forget the chains imbedded in our skin so can I. I will dance in our tears of joy and grief, as awkward as my conjured thoughts. In the mud we move until the cold of the night creeps over the dance floor eventually drowning the fire.

Alternatives help us judge life like a fuel gauge, so you can conceive how much better it'd be if  I didn't know differently. As I fall asleep next to the smoke and hisses I know I'm getting there. There isn't enough tomorrow for today. I've spent enough time in the company of hunger, exhaustion, worry, and illness. Seasons have an ending, but these hang around like lost children. Orphans given up by others crowd in my shadow, laying claim to their home. Their jaded eyes peek through their window at the evening activities. My eyes are clouded to the color of tomorrow. I see enough heartache behind me for all the beards on the porch in the rocking chairs. I see only trouble ahead of me. Thirty-seven and counting.

As I lie awake in the cold, cloudy, rainy sunrise none of them seem that bad anymore. Like a golfer I take par on this course called life. I want less of the same and more of that health and wealth; please deliver it in stealth. I joyously and longingly watched it fall on others like a blanket of fresh snow, so I still hold on. The lottery ticket prayer uttered without warning is: deliver me or scorch the earth.

Johns aren't Joes

In the mirror you're one of a kind

An ace of spades

Silence the deck when it whispers

Speaking in tongues

Inquire first with the joker

You are a bouquet

But you see a flower

And so the gardener plucks

The wolf's season is over

Hold his breath a little longer

Just another wolf

Just another meal

Mouths remain red

At a table set for a TV dinner

This is breathing, second nature

So many before

Too many after

RIP dreams

Guilty eyes

RIP heart

Never see you

RIP beauty

It's the mundane that drove

And let us out

to view dreams, heart, beauty

love isn't found with torn seems

or dangling from teeth like a cigarette

american dream

american spirit

american nightmare

The wolf's season is over

Hold his breath a little longer

Hold it for him, and it will all be over

We’ll meet in the sunset

And flee to the sunrise

A Long, Fast Night

In the midst of turning towards a six by six saga I danced on the back of a beast. When the moment struck the asphalt like a match on a book, I came alive. It all makes sense when the spark breaks the colonial darkness. Guarded shadows flee as the cherries set chase. The dried out limbs of yesterdays harvest writhe with life as water rushes forth not unlike the gushing of a head wound. It’s here that I respond in the guttural tone of old heartache and tired thoughts.

Trekking down the erroneous one-way towards disability a beggar stooped over a sign creates a rubber neck as I scream by. My mind is filled with a vast, heavy nothingness giving me all the sense of direction needed to change the plot. Hold fast as the ship changes course. Two words is all it took to find my feet travelling in a new direction. Two syllables in two words and I find myself wearing an old hat. It still fits much like the shoes at the back of your closet. Stay the course. And here I thought I knew nothing.

Jaques 57

Just like grandmother made, she thought. The cup brought warmth to her spirit, which was in dire need of mending as this season brought both joy and weariness. From behind her giant mug of comfort she intently gazed on the man who gathered her attention as he strolled past. She remained concealed, tucked away, except for the big soft eyes peering into the outside world. What about this man is so familiar? Something pulled terribly at the yesteryear as he drifted by like the lonesome ghosts many of us are. But what?The cologne. Jacques 57. It reminded her of her grandfather. In an instantaneous manner she was whisked away into the past.

She finds herself sitting upon his sturdy knee once again. She looks around to see the house decorated, and busy with the bustle of people. It's Christmas. Grandfather is sitting with her in his three-season porch, a lit pipe giving the air a tobacco perfume. She sees his cold blue eyes and warm rosy cheeks sitting upon his weathered skin wreathed in hair white as snow. All of which are focused on her, his beloved granddaughter. The warmth in his cocked smile, and baritone chuckle fill the space between with love and joy. Besides his laughter, the only noise to be heard is Grandmother cooking in the kitchen. The farmstead remains covered in the silent snow. There is peace for all to share here.

As the cash register opens she is jolted back to reality to watch the gentleman walk away with his coffee and optimism. She quietly gathers herself as the realizes comes home; it wasn't the cup that warmed her spirit, rather nostalgia. What started with a cup reminding her of her dear grandmother, ended with an uncompromising cash register lay a memory. A memory she thought she could hold onto throughout this season. She had found her holiday spirit.

Christmas Memory

When I was a twelve year old boy I remember a Christmas at my grandparent’s farm. It was tradition for all of us to gather there. There was the adult table in the dining room, and the kids table in the kitchen. We had all come to gather around the tables for lunch, the two grandparents, their three children and their spouses, and seven grandchildren. This memory happened before all of that. I remember, before the goodbyes, before the sledding, before the gifts exchanged, before the lunch, before the common table prayer, I was on the porch.

I was looking over the snow covered lawn. My gaze had fallen past the garage and past the chicken coop. I had fixed my sight, through the crisp air, upon the the barn. It was there that I remember coming to rest as I chewed upon an apple that everything was right. The cows were huddled in the pasture. Their breath blowing smokey clouds from their nostrils as their sides held sheets of snow. The chickens were nestled in their beds of straw staying warm inside their coop. The cats in the barn doing whatever it is that cats do, and the dogs under the table waiting for the meal to begin. It was their in that moment, that at least in the mind of a twelve year old, there was peace. And it is in that moment that I remember Christmas. Peace like that, will be brought to the world, because of a Christmas long ago, that wasn’t in the winter.

And as I sit eighteen years later in my parents’ living room, strapped to their couch by my friend named Flu and his buddy Fever, I yearn for Christmases like that to never cease.

Unfinished

I arrive to the wind blowing sand into my eyes. I've wandered here, not knowing where here is and where there begins. The air is dry, and so are my lips. In fact I’d say the creek and my flask are the only two things dryer than my lips. And a self-issued slap to the face catches me as my hand finds no smokes to be had in my pocket. I’m outta everything and far from anything. Lying all around me are pictures of lives once lived but no longer. It’s as if I find myself on Mars finding evidence of Martians. And I may as well be for all the good it’s doing. All the trees are dead, standing at a measly five feet or less. Their shape seems to indicate every inch of their life was unrelenting anguish, all twisted and thorned like the heart of Bonnie or Clyde. These are the trees that resemble the hands of the Reaper; crawl in and you’ll never leave. I pass by bits and pieces of broken humanity hinting at others wandering this dessert too. I’m not the first, and I pray I’m not the last.

As I look toward the horizon it seems almost laughable. I watch it white out as it meets the sky, as if someone doesn't want me to see the horizon at all; convincing me to move no farther. The only thing I can make out are the squiggly heat lines dancing to and fro. The tempo to their song seems to quicken, keeping pace with my patience thinning out. I have to admit it seemed pretty pointless to get to this point, and seems almost cruel to make it so. That being said, I’m here and you know why. This was the plan after all. This is where this dance of ours ends. Go ahead. Please bend low, reach out, and draw your line in the sand. I won’t move. The die has been cast.

It’s here in this wasteland we meet. Here. Where nothing else walks, where nothing else lives. All alone in the void of life; alone in the absence of existence we meet. It had previously occurred to me you might not show. You know…I can’t stand it when someone doesn't keep their word. Even so, I guess I shouldn't have doubted. You’re rather good at showing up when I’m past the point of reason. I’m here for blood; let the games begin.

So listen, let me cut the shit and just lay it out there. One of us isn't walking away, and you’re packing air in your holster, while I have a cocked one-way ticket home; curious since you set this up. You stand there, waiting in a mirror like fashion of myself. Ready for whatever hell I think I have left to muster in my self righteous reckless quest for truth. You  only smile in that cliche deafening silence. My mind turns into a white walled safe room when I think it should be rioting like cellblock C. It’s time the silence ends. I can’t afford anything more than a scuffle right now, and if there was an option I’m too dumb to see it. A smile won’t settle me this time. It may be cheap, but it’s time to crack those lips and let it flow. For a talker, you sure are quiet. Regardless I heard it’s time for a couple of voices to cause a little trouble. Speak! Can’t you see the creek has run dry?! I need you to give a damn.

I’m done talking, you had better raise a fist. Either you take me out back and finish me off quick, or my hands will find that throat, and wring that towel out. The dove and crow let loose.Between the flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder I knew it was over before it began, but I tighten my grip as my breath matches my resolution to hold fast. I pathetically resemble a wannabe cowboy trying desperately to hold onto the bull for a few more seconds. But I have no one to impress, no one cheering me on, this is just you and me. I will not yield, I will not succumb. Not this time. This time you are going to know you have to answer, that you will not leave here without holding up your end of the deal.

With a cherry red smile, I lie here staring into the sky. I think the feeling in my legs is returning. You’re right, simple answers won’t do. I like to think I got a few good licks in, and for a few seconds was on top. There is a simple yet profound gratification to be lying here, exhausted, doing a back float in my blood, sweat, and tears. I have my answer, and I’ll lie here in the pleasure and the pain of my victory wrapped in my own defeat.

Howl With Me

this is our territory

howl with me

howl with me

this is our territory

with no room in the inn, I’ll drive you into the night

find somewhere else to hide, you’ll only give us away

you’re prohibited from being here, read the damn signs

we won’t ever help you, we have no time, no money

I’m sorry boy, there’s always plenty of pine to ride

flee! flee to the tree line, sing with the midnight choir

this is our territory

hunt with me

hunt with me

this is our territory

there’s a ship in that bottle, leading only nowhere

suns will soon rise without a terrific trembling turn

until then the sting will bare witness, bloody markers

press towards immunity, freedom worthy of strife

lay down on that throttle, full speed ahead, make no sound

forget to break and you’ll find your siblings dead ahead

this is our territory

feast with me

feast with me

this is our territory

our breakneck outfit, jagged teeth will find their duty

feast or famine, in plenty or want, we’ll tear foward

wander the days, adventure lying around the bend

sleep the nights, our bed is where our blistering heads lie

home together, your print’s our print, celebrating howls

drink the milkyway cocktail, howl along, join the song

this is our territory

roam with me

roam with me

this is our territory