The Smiles and Sights All Surround | A Yarn of Dawn
Now, there may be some deeper, freeing,
Or somber, or blissful, sappy meaning
In this tale, from these words to your eyes,
But a brain can be frantic,
Curling, even twisting words
Every which way and that
To the very bottom of a snifter’s Lambic.
But surely you may recall
That freewheeling frivolous night
In which the sky was alive
With the spirit of five,
Unhinged, uncompromising friends from the past.
A greedy, but ne’er too freely, —
Won’t you come out for the show?
The smiles and sights, I assure you,
Will share not but delight,
And every fairy, every mermaid,
Every fright of the night! will be here,
Dancing beside, circling around,
Jumping on in to the noon tide,
Abounding through twilight,
Right on through to our Dawn’s first light.
Why the long face?
My friends, we cannot falter this chase,
For ‘tips just ‘round a corner
That we may find the silver grace.
It comes and it goes,
In all manner, hither and throe,
But never will it let you alone
That magnificent incandescent trace -
A trail of smiles, unyielding,
Unending new memories
Or a picturebook of sights,
One not to let escape
But rather enjoy it’s escapade,
For it was on that very night
When all our troubles would be damned,
Castles in the sky might finally land,
Amongst shadows we shattered
With Dawn’s light all that now matters
With our journey alight and the sun’s shine alive,
We unhinged all worry and surmised
these friends from the past were gathered
With the spirit of five.
His relatively larger hands clasped around the gift, reaching and stretching around, grasping for more of the golden turmoil that lay in wait. The snow wreaked havoc outside the window. With each flake, a tumultuous thunderclap of audible pleasure echoed through the double-paned barrier between an unsettling, dull calm and the joyous cries of the ecstatic experience. The barrier wave between the two weaves synced in perfect unison, the casual drift of weather delicately intermingling its harmony atop that eccentricity and omniscient magic. Together we flow betwixt the moonrays that fall from Her Love Above. Together we grow atop a razor’s edge, all-consuming grace be damned. Together we shine.
Jeremiah was a Bullfrog
Think you could spare one them smokes for a crazy guy?
Sure thing, got too many of ‘em.
Appreciate it…what’s yer job here?
Ahh, finance. I do math, mostly.
So you probably went to school then huh? My dumbass never made it past the tenth grade. Dropped out, never looked back. Y’know what it was that made me drop out?
Nah man, what was that?
Y’ever take one o’ those art classes? Well it was this art class, and they put a plant and a stool up on a table and said draw it. But I could only draw miniature, y’know, like stamps?
Like, really tiny, yeah?
Yeah, so I would just draw this little picture with my pencil, and they told me you gotta draw it bigger, y’know, and by that time…well I’m schizophrenic, and the voices were all startin’ to talk in my head…so then I left. That was that.
Never looked back?
Never looked back.
I only took like one art class in high school. I definitely like art.
Yeah? You ever hear of Robbie Plant?
Oh yeah, Led Zeppelin? I love Zeppelin.
Yeah, well my friend, Johnny, my friend Johnny back in Texas was standing on a street corner, and he had this long hair, you know we was Northsiders…long hair, bell bottoms, back then it was a thing. And Johnny was yelling at the bus, just passed him by. And we were always getting into gang fights - gang fights with them Chinese! The Northsiders and Eastsiders, you know…
Yeah, Robert Plant. Well Johnny missed the bus, and after I left…you know they put me up in a mental facility. Kilbourne. Down in Amarillo. Amarillo, Texas. And while I was there, you know I learned to play three songs on seven instruments.
Zeppelin? No, I learned Queen Mary, you know, uh, from Sweet Water Revival? Queen Mary, King Tut, and Jeremiah Bullfrog. Damn, I loved Jeremiah Bullfrog.
We ran naked through a nosebleed forest with a half-baked walnut of golden snow.
It was dawn.
Anyone at the crest of that day would share the spine-rattling splinter of pleasure that shook through to that golden ball of energy at the base of your abdomen. Shwadhisthana. Tan t’ien. The sacral center. The nausea would soon subside as the dawn’s rays fully blanketed the social vista set before us.
We would all feel something this day, no matter the distance between us, we were all part of something powerful, something splendid, something of love.
Life is magic.
Chapped Cheeks, Tired Eyes, Ever-blissful Youthful Lies
Frustration was taking hold. It felt more and more like I was falling back toward tendencies I had at one point scoffed at, though this time was different. I could feel myself letting it happen, justifying the thoughts racing through my brain with the greased ease of a newly oil changed car excellerating into third gear shortly after sinking silkily through a sharp unfettered mountain road turn through the sunset-lit canyon near a home long past. Metaphors aside, this justification came more easily than in the past. Uncomfortably so.
My life this day took a sharp turn toward something sharply skating against the grain I had myself set up years prior. It was in a conversation with my father which still echoes clearly through my brain from years prior in which I first admitted this tendency, or fault, that I was aware of, though never truly saw any clear next step, let alone a solution. I called it, simply: passion. He asked if I was talking about love, and I said no. After clarifying the topic in discussion, he said I was talking about what he would describe as intimacy. This was a realization I had long since tossed around my brain, though this was the only time it escaped my lips. Still churning.
The artistic endeavor between a meeting of the minds may one day fail, but I gave it my all. She was the first person to hear my admission of the lack of intimacy I had experienced during my childhood. The words easily escaped my lips before I had even thought it through, and to my surprise, I realized it was true.
That moment when youthful innocence was shattered. Disjoining everything I blissfully thought to be true of the most the important thing in our lives, the only thing that matters, the only worthwhile experience our consiousness has to offer: love. The only fucking reason. It all became so clear after that. For reasons now grounded in a reality that only just became real, I no longer feared who I was. Who I am. I no longer stood idlely by as dreams whistfully tossed with the wind. I no longer took for granted that many splendid thing in which I believed.
I remember my first hug. I was 23 years old. His smile often still crosses my thoughts. My first real hug.
And in the truest, purest sense, I felt loved.
Miscellaneous Midwinter Madness
Day 357. Hour 1. Minute 4.
The stakeout has been arduous, grueling. I’ve seen madness in the eye and sanity is only chest-high, but there’s no time for faltering now. Shake it off. I am tits deep in enemy territory, and it’s recently come to my attention that Santa may, in fact, be no mere myth. Must push forward.
The chimney is dark, grim; it taunts me with its un-comfort, my butt so carefully wedged tightly between the bricks, with that sleep, however impossible it may seem, would not be so difficult after all. Those logs don’t saw themselves. Shurley, who forgot to invite the lumber-sheep? They’re my favorite neighbors.
No! Don’t let the hour of the night get to you, you fool!
His magic is so strong now. I can barely see through my puffy eyed blurry vision of what my reality has now become. I will, I must. For Shurley. Always for her.
Though its been a long journey, I cannot quite imagine…how is it possible…snowmen are actually, if my readings are correct…snowladies.
Great St. Nick!
The Crimson Beginning
Anything — anything at all on par with the endgame — when shooting for the stars is fine with this starstruck love of what lies above those twinkles bound as doves to an unseen aventure far from here or any normal Now consumed by potential energy found, lying in wait until the time is nigh for it to be unwound.
Light splinters above, a spark from somewhere near, but I hear not a sound nor thunder rumble, for my gaze drifts elsewhere, no matter where it matters not, as the peripheral blur escapes its space. I allow it and must accept it, though there is a semblance of struggle at first glance. The splinter arcs from another bliss, as eyes catch the glare, becoming ghosts of this moment.
For those are what we once were.
A continuance, now; the desire reaches back, drawing outward the fires from within. Into rhythm, now; the fires drone to the beats upon broken beats something steady, something fierce. Become the fury, you tell yourself. Myself. Or I reminded myself. Or I tried to convince myself.
It appeared, perhaps abruptly, not surprisingly, everything was simply a lucid justification for moving on. Though that furious word foreplay, that droning distraction, had purpose, a many splendid promise of what may come — however frustrating the acknowledgment of wanting, of anxiety, can become — it is the very soul of these weaving rainbows of eccentricity, ever entwined, not slowing their dance.
For that is what we are.
Indeed, the splinter’s arc multiplied into the divine dance before us now, the endgame long forgotten. The growing pains — that so fervently demanded attention in their distraction — brought countless yarns into focus, cross-hatching and latching together, a tangle beginning to form pattern, far too complex to predict, far too chaotic for anything but beauty and love. More clearly now. Once more now. Deeper now. The weave begets a weave, and colors unseen are brought into light. A crash is surely on the horizon.
This twilight is not that of the moments before the night, where we might breathe as before, into rhythm. The breath has become steady, a part of the rhythm. Instinct. Patience will soon persevere, and these weaves will begin their discovery. This canopy will soon be overcome by the starstruck slip into the first Crimson Sunrise.
Best to pause now, pocket the last starwish, and let the moon’s laugh strike deep through to the start, where youthful lips curl up to my aged eyes that drift up to meet your silver-eyed gaze, now in harmony, poised with perfect reflection. Steady now fleets our semblance of self.
For this is what we become.
Sir Bastien’s Bliss
Sir Bastien’s final descent into extraneous nonsense, legendary for heroically egregious superlatives and storming proverbial constructs of a flurry of fickle ambitions, instigated nothing more than inharmonious flippancy, congruently complementing his unwavering complacency.
"Let us away!" he exclaimed, with fearless ignorance, not acknowledging nor even knowing the impending catastrophe that lay in wait, as he was, as he had always been, oft in his own metaphorically yonder fog, far from the present, too close to the moment.
And still, the Mirrorman unassumingly perched on Bastien’s shoulder.
innocence in the unexpected
caught by the melodies of an observer
unassuming unwanting unsure
of the the obscure that awaits
blessed by a moment that only they will understand
aforementioned nothings escape to the night
a darkness i’ll never acknowledge
a darkness that will never surely undo the day
without a moment’s grace