The Final Touch/ Le Touche Finale Synopsis and Chapter One: Moving the Right Piece

Synopsis: John Taillon has been offered, by a well known friend, to move once again with him to a different city and leave behind another past. Though when he arrives in New York half wasted with nothing, he can’t find his Virgil to guide him through this city, and instead is malnourished with only stories and leads about him that he must follow to try and make some sense of his purpose in being there. He knows no one, can trust no one, but must depend on everyone. His only confidant is an old Jewish chess player who seems to have no past, and also who seems to have no connection with the present. This story is a dialogue on relationships and a meditation on purpose.

Le Touche Finale:

Chapter One: Moving the Right Piece

‘’Mikhail Arent is manipulative, devious, ingenious, practical, dangerous, charming, paranoid, cynical and a deceitful person, partially for those reasons he perhaps is my most trusted friend; for I am also most, if not all, plus or minus, some of those things. Along with that, I can say Misha (diminutive of his first name) is also the most consistent person I know, and that above all, subdues the latter.

A few oddities that make Misha a target of my continuing fascination are thus: he has hand written into a twelve book collection (and growing) all of his text messages from the past 10 years; secrets, lies, insults, promises, all print the many pages of those journals. Every morning he checks the radiation levels of whatever city he’s living in, watching it flux only slightly over the passing hours. He also listens when people are talking, and listens more when they’re not.

Inadvertently, Misha takes some responsibility for the greater percentage of women I’ve slept with. His bag of survival gear, some of it in which he doesn’t understand the exact purpose, is always packed. I’ve also never seen him read a book, but nevertheless he’s generally informed on the subjects of art, religion, history and war. I’ve seen him draw his knife on three friends and half a dozen strangers, but none of those situations worsened due in there abrasive demeanor.

Despite his curious appearance, he has no problem courting the women he takes interest in; he also makes people laugh whenever it’s necessary. I’ve seen him pry overtly into people’s personal life without leaving a trace of their own curiosity to examine. He lies honestly and is modest about it. His transition between these contrasted qualities blends so flawlessly that it’s as if you’re viewing a flipped coin, and seeing both images transparent, you can never finger which one will be final, or if they’re separate at all.

When we were younger, and I’d just met him through mutual acquaintances, we were both busy with the day by wasting it at a café. When night drew closer he asked my plans, and when I responded with none, and asked him his, suddenly, as if it wasn’t until I asked that he considered the days existence beyond this cafe, a realization gleamed across his face. ’Shit, it’s my Birthday’ he said, then huddling his laugh close to his chest, he continued to shake his head at the ground. I could tell this was no lie because true shame will not show through a lie, a lie is opaque, but his shame was transparent, and through it on the other side was a man whose mind was too busy with other matters to remember his birthday.

Reluctant as I was to become familiars with somebody whose memory resists faltering like a feather fights against the wind, I followed him to Bob’s party right near Pine st, a main street running parallel with Main st, along with Downtown. Keep in mind, that Bob is not a fictional name. I would never be so bland to have, in all my creative prospects, fathomed so dull a name, despite however small his role in this story is.

You could smell chlorine from the pool when walking towards the front door. The tall pine trees did their best to filter, with the warm breeze of June, out the putrid toxins permeating from behind the long stone wall carving the backyard out from its counterparts, back alleys and street. Bob answered the door, and a more comical, dopey and innocent person couldn’t have welcomed us; this is also how you know his name is in fact, Bob, it was fabricated by god to fit his exact intangible demeanor. He mimicked both Janus mask’s, and though his sadness seemed layered deep beneath the smile that held warmth and care in abundance, it troubled me. I felt he was not trying to convince outwardly his happiness, but instead inwardly to himself, and instantaneously his fragile sense of hope had birthed my sudden remorse for him. For a quick moment when staring through his eyes, I gave him an equally dualistic smile, one neither real, nor false. It had turned out he worked with the handicaps of the city. His associate, who was always beside him, was an equally off kilter individual, Pete. The odd thing about both of them together was that they loved giving out hugs, it seemed somebody was always being hugged, or smiled at, the pair could take on a passive and crowded room.

Bob and Pete…entire fairy tales exist about their character in some other story.

Anyways, so it was, a crowded room at nightfall. But the celebrated`s company had mainly come for the day bbq, and now purses were being pumped full again with pieced suits and towels, most sandals were slipped back on, the remainder went barefoot because this side of downtown was less riddled with broken glass. Between Misha and I, we decided to invite all the acquaintances we knew to replace the empty backyard, and slowly the new onslaught commenced, the crawling short arm of the clock snuck across days hours into nights, and all possible expectations of it that had confidently been procured before, were slowly dissipating with our money that siphoned into more booze, more cigarettes, more poison.

That night finished as I would have had it, drunk with the drippings of each garbaged and forgotten bottle poured into mine, my head hanging below the diving board’s horizon, and body strewn out across the rest of it like a dribble of water snaking it’s way back to the pool. Misha had eventually locked me out of the house that was neither of ours, but before doing so, he accompanied around the pool a topless women, half swimming and half dancing to the music. Before her tits were coerced into being introduced, Misha pulled me aside. His own eyes trailed her legs that encompassed ebb and flow into their steps; with us so drunk, her grace seemed inhuman and an event to witness. His smile was that of Judas who’d already secured his prize, gold in hand; he drafted guilt to the shadows which waited in the future to be more pontent, he persisted without hesitance.

‘I will betray you someday, don’t look up to me, nobodies worth that, especially not me.’ Again, his laugh was soft and freed into the air without any specific direction or intention applied to each soft syllables.

His hand had appeared to the space beside his head, it formed crooked and dismantled like its shape was degenerating, its last breath was a stretch at the dark sky. His eyes took back the fading clouds, which appeared almost instantaneous with our attention to them, as if we caught the sky in an act of voyeurism, and it began to blush white.

‘’This is just how things work al…’’ He cut the next word, and mouthed a couple more, which I assume were synonyms.

Finally he finished ’…sometimes…’

I felt he meant this is how things ‘always’ worked, but he forced out the sometimes for my benefit, his intimidation was intended to be slight. Though, and he couldn’t have known this then, that I, without contemplation had always assumed all people were meant to destroywhat they cherished and protected most, and this was the natural cycle of things; to experience the creation, and witness the destruction.

He quickly switched channels, walked towards the naked women and guided her inside by the nape of her back, locked the doors, I didn’t see him for a couple days after.

I found out weeks later, through friends of his, that he was planning to sleep with that woman for some time, and all were surprised that he succeeded. It was however, not the type of surprise we express when caught being a fool, but instead like when a beautiful women cheats on her boyfriend; which the topless women had done that night with Misha as her sole accomplice, and me, John Taillon, as his sole witness to protest against any future accusations.’’

Birth of a Dream

Chapter one:

Rain Drops…

Chapter two:

…Rain drops, rain drops…

Chapter three:

Is that what they were? Rain drops? They must have been…

Chapter four:

It’s hard to tell if you are awake or not when shrouded by darkness; it is also difficult to decipher the two when blinded by light. I am sure I’m awake, even though I cannot see anything, or feel anything, I can’t seem to speak either…but I’m sure… I heard rain drops… I swear they were there.

Chapter five:

I heard them again. I must have been sleeping when they sounded because suddenly, once I realized their presence, they escaped me, along with it also dissipated the dream.

From attempts at moving around, I cannot distinguish texture, there is only give or not. Circles I’ve probably walked thousands of times, thousands of lifetimes ago. How long have I felt hopeless? I hardly can remember. How often have these thoughts replayed themselves, I can barely fathom a plausible number. In that endlessness I find a strangling anxiety. This feeling doesn’t hurt though, for I don’t know if “I” am, or if “I” exists. When I press against, what I’d assumed to be my body, there is only not give. The pain, if I can call it that, acts more like an air that is hard to inhale. (Though even this analogy fails because I can’t determine if I am actually breathing.)

Chapter six:

Rain drops… louder now… and I’m sure it’s rain drops.

Chapter seven:

I must be imprisoned. Why is it I must be? I don’t understand. What grandeur beast would manufacture something that harnesses perfect despair? A place with so much uneasiness where nothing can be discerned as truth or false, but only as there, or not. Even if I was to lose it, where could I go when already I am lost, I am as lost as possible it is to be lost. I am weightless but yet I feel incredibly heavy. I am close to everything, seemingly part of everything, but yet nothing can I truly feel, or understand. I have a recollection of all memories past, but my interaction with such events, I feel enormously disconnected to.

Chapter eight:

Incredibly overbearing, they resist letting up. The pounding is inescapable, because even know I have no defined body, this vibrancy has created a contrast, an echo, to the darkness surrounding me. It’s a pulse that’s fueled by a vessel of which I do not know the feeding conduit. Though the pounding is quite distracting, any company in this eternity of moments is well appreciated.

Chapter nine:

The beat of rain has slowed itself, it has stabilized and created a pleasant, and quite calming sound to be saturated in.

Chapter ten:

This rain is the only example of feel or hear I have acquired in this cage.

But there is something else I can sense, something I believe has been watching me during the entirety of my implantation here. It seems perfect; I only estimate that to be it’s primary attribute because I feel it is everything this place is not. It is not darkness, for I can feel it like fire. It has an aura consuming all doubt and fear, all that this prison has soiled me with. The simple existence, of whatever it is out there, puts me at ease.

Chapter eleven:

It’s there and ever present, a soul, I can feel it, I can feel it, it’s conscious…it’s alive, so subtle and brilliant, though it takes all my focus to connect to it, it demands nothing of me and would easily not exist if I choose it to be so.

Chapter twelve:

I’ve lost interest in searching for answers, for obviously all my efforts have been fruitless.

As I seem to solve one problem another is breed, and in it’s death, another  succeeds. I now pass endlessly the time away by enjoying the fine company I have procured. The rain marvelously displays the beat of life into every crevasse that is, consistently, ever appropriate, and never with dismay or despair. The soul I feel caress my troubles out with ease and persistence like the unending tide that tends to the sand, this I’ve had visions of, this the soul has allowed for me to remember. It is a light, that whenever I allow it to blossom like the rose flame sketching out the landscape beneath the new dawn, it reveals to me the bud of true wisdom.

Chapter thirteen:

With the showering presence of the soul I have let the delusion of time shed away. I recall children laughing carelessly, an embellished happiness only possible by the faint touch of naivety unto the heart. I hear the heartbeat of past lovers moan onto each other’s chests, it echoes vibrantly and subtly like a whisper carried for eternity through the dessert by the gathered angels of wind. I understand how a star is a candle lit with a wick that burns in parallel with all life. Compared to on lookers the stars life is expansive, but to the universe peering inward, the star extinguishes always too soon, but is lovely in its death. Like we watch inward at what’s around, animals, plants, ourselves, and we think that life is always too short. We must, every one of us, except that what is out of reach, is not so because it is greater, and also just because what lye comfortably in our grasps already, is not less in worth because of it.

The soul is no longer hidden, and the beat of rain is no longer shrouded in questions, for the beat of rain is the heart at work, and it has comforted me for all existence, this also the soul has showed me with wisdom clear, so pure in fact, I doubt its purpose can be divided into any other reason to exist.


Chapter fourteen:


Blind I have been so, and I do not dread this occurrence, for all this time do I have to think and not be distracted. I’ve lived a million lives, and have experienced and seen every face, kissed the base of all lips, murdered and birthed all creatures, loved and have been loved by all species. It is clear to me now, with the heart as my tempo, and the soul as my instrument, that I am all threads weaving the conscience memory of this universe, and all its beauty is mine to bare, as my existence is for the universe, a witness to its baffling extravagance, and we exist in part to each other, connected and constantly exchanging energy through a massive web of conduits like Alternate Current does with Direct Current, the ultimate dance, and purest waltz.

If I had not all this emptiness and dark space, how could I fill it up like I have done with self-fulfillment? If it was cluttered with light so distracted I would be with its glare, and the shadows that are born from beneath the umbrella of matter.


Chapter fifteen:

A loud and exhausted screech has sounded from a mysterious source, I am not aware of its origins or the purpose of it. The rain has quickened pace, the soul…. I have lost its guidance, a constant has been disrupted.


Chapter sixteen:

The rain has been racing now for an indiscernible amount of time, other echo’s have revved up, and only for moments, like a flint sparked in the darkness, can I feel the presence of the soul, it is a concerning idea, the fact that it may be dying, or dispersing. An existence without a soul would create a void, leave one in yearning and handicapped from enjoying a desirable time in the consciousness of the universe.


Chapter seventeen:

Yes, truly I am lost again. Lost in the contrast of silence, I am chipped away at by a cacophony of sound, or of echoes, I cannot decipher an original source from it’s contrast. Screams, of a rising and dissipating volume have chased off the soul, the heart beat is pouring itself into a vessel I cannot depict nor imagine, I fear it may not hold out too much longer.

Chapter eighteen:

I feel a slight chill…I…There is definitely an “I” now, for I can now decipher a contrast with my surroundings and place myself somewhere between the extremes. Also a bright shard of light has cut into my surroundings, I feel it accompanying the breeze, and I pair them together. I have been so distracted by all of this, no longer can I remember the epiphanies the soul once showed me… the soul… is that what it was…


Chapter nineteen:

It has fled, somewhere inside of me where no impurities can reach, it has gone to preserve itself till I have acclimated to this new world, till it can be sure of its safety.


Chapter twenty:

The shard of light has grown tremendously large and is swelling. As I stare out, all is a blur at the pinnacle where brightness clashes with dark.  The abyss I’m being dragged at is nothing short of pure insanity and I’m feeling so distracted by these new experiences, barely could I slow my thought enough to explain.


Chapter twenty-one:

Objects and figures, reflecting into my centre, back out again. The colors… colors formed in patterns I’ve never experienced. A feeling of disconnect has warned me, but hardly can I even focus.


Chapter twenty-two:

Rain drops gone, the other, gone, I have been taken over and barely could I even gather their old meaning…scents, feeling, taste….all in contrast with new diversity, these senses born into consistency, never did I understand their existence, but now….I’m lost in them…now…I forget what else there was…


Chapter twenty-three

Rain drops…yes… that’s what they are, my eyes open to a window in harsh attack by the outside storm, drops at an unimaginable speed and flux dividing on contact with the pane of glass to a million pieces.

… yes… raindrops… that’s what they were, but for a second, I swear I mistook their vibrations for something different, something much closer to me…but something so far in the past, something so distantly familiar in an odd strangely unfamiliar way.




This is a vague theory on what the developing mind of an infant may experience before birth.

The Right Book (working title, unedited)



Just turning eighteen, I revisited the library in my hometown; I had retired from it many years before that. My grandfather and father pressed it’s necessity on me when younger, creating in me a naïve distaste for it, and whether or not my logic was infallible, it stood justified and natural like any hatred does.

Walking in, a flow of exhausted memories flourished renewed inside of me, I felt a slave to my flashbacks like a prisoner walking past the prison he’d been allowed to escape from.                        

This is not freedom, being able to go back to a dreaded place by time’s forgiveness. Reminiscing is not freedom, tied to history, simultaneously living in the present while forced to think of the future. Surely also, the library is not freedom, its purpose to trap and preserve against the natural wrought of time, the fact that all life deteriorates through dehydration is one we arrogantly forget too often.

I had gone here with little intention at all, to brush through the shelves, my mind touching upon authors I’ve read, heard of, or been meaning to interact with, each name spurring a thought, to an emotion, back to a thought, and repeating again. Eventually I took a seat with the center of the room in my sight. The book I had no intention of reading lay idly beneath my languid arms, and I sighed, a consumed breath of awakened dust, torn paper, and the air of a consummation from an ancient ritual we’ve been performing for thee entirety of our existence.                             

 It felt alien to me though, watching people disappear into the pulp, that strangers before them had fallen to, that the author had disappeared into before all; an accusation started to mount inside me. Feeling detached from this room, I felt sick, I saw maybe 50 people sitting down and quiet like they were taught to, reading books they were taught to read, and even reading like they were taught to read; it felt forced, like a kiss against lips whose eyes hope to see another’s when reopened. Regardless of this common anxiety, I watched, stuck in adversity, judging some pointlessly, and ignoring some others that just seem lifeless.                                                                                                   

I took the book from the wooden table with a motive to only stare at its pages, to feel it’s thin presence, the dried futile stain of art; to simply check it’s density and absorb it’s function as a piece of something, apart from the words in it. The spine was weak and tired, not flexible like youth, but abused and broken. It’s ended up here. A place, that at my young age, I was deservingly unhappy with.                    

Rustling the book about a bit more, I start to notice eyes breaking so easily from the pages around me, the soft friction I was creating sounded like leaves dead from the Fall, toppling over each other in the wind. I am quite still, but like the first raindrop breaking the tight skin of a tranquil pond, my vibrations were felt immensely in comparison to the silence of my surroundings. From this crowd of homeless, the adults and their restrained children of compressed movements, and the Mexicans and blacks using the free computers; only a pair of eyes did I notice that didn’t notice my own.                                            

His body was stout like mine, but showed more potential. His posture was tight, and didn’t slouch when reading, or when repositioning to mimic the enthusiasm rising and falling in the book. His grip was firm against the pages, but creased not a tired line in them. His fingers brushed against the porous paper like a ballet dancer’s feet skirts the stage with ease, each movement of precise measurement and consistency; any book within his ownership would never decay in time like the one I held at that moment.

Young as this child was, in his eyes cradled a wisdom earned and achieved through personal trials I was unaware of. This gaze is something I am only barely acquainted with. I myself have seen wretched things take a terrible precedence over my life. Witnessed  them create beauty later after my immaturity had settled, and the grave for denial had been mended by soil, rock and seeds of time. But even still, I didn’t wield a glance comparable to his, not in that timeless fashion which radiates humbleness so pure.   

Due to my astonishment, my charade ceased, and all movements stopped. Slowly the drones had reset themselves like a trap realigning, preparing for sacrifice without thought, like all good machines do. The boys look would not break from the book he held naturally like fruit sprouting from a branch, his eyes exchanging sap within thin air, his attention seemed a solid to me that I couldn’t ignore. I was almost jealous of his captivation by something I had just been toying with mindlessly for cheap entertainment. My anxiety had all but evaporated and been replaced with inspiration, but to do what with? I hadn’t any idea. My legs stiffened and I arose by reaction, grasping for a breath that would calm my nerves, they were charged and I felt inexhaustible.                  

Leaving the book dead at the table I put emphasis into my stride, seamlessly moving unhindered for the door, taking one look back, I hadn’t seen the boy’s figure posed anymore, I stopped for a moment, but had to continue. The mark he’d left upon me, I was now carrying, and couldn’t be held up searching for the vessel in which it was transferred from.




















The steps weaved through the marble halls, in collection, added to about a hundred. The incased wood cut from the surrounding area, and interior facades illuminating with brass inlay, all defined this Gregorian style building. Entering this triple story historical library, I was seduced into returning as often as I left my house on Marquam Hill. In just arriving to Oregon, I rarely felt any adventure needed to be more than just a walk somewhere new, or to read something I hadn’t, somewhere I haven’t been. Without effort the presence of this Library struck me in awe every time, but the residency coinciding there alongside my own, realized nothing new, for I suppose to them, nothing was.                                                                                 

The homeless lived in a self-produced squalor. Offered in Portland were public showers, food, and clothing at any given corner when the rain held it’s tongue. No one went hungry, and surely so few had any reason to be unhappy, but inevitably, regardless of the quotes banality, “where there’s a will, there’s a way.” A person, despite the raw materials they’re immersed in, will disable himself to whatever end just to comfort an idea they believe in; that’s not the power of a human, but the power of an idea, people are weak, that’s why we sway easily to the whims of almost any idea.

Besides the smell contributed by the homeless to this Library, its value of magnificent esthetics are compared to none I’d seen before it. A dozen times over again I would pull a book from the miles of shelves threading the interior, walk around the floor, reading small passages from it just below a whisper, and return it to its home. Over a hundred years old, I felt honored to roam so freely through its halls, and in a hundred more years, it will be the same; or I suppose unluckily, maybe it’d be destroyed, but so rarely does such a beautiful artifact relinquish its impression made upon humanity enough to where we justify its destruction.                                                             

One day I visited this Library, but was very tired, and had drunken enough coffee to fend off the symptoms of exhaustion. Taking a seat in the hall of the third floor, I attended the 2nd day of a ritualistic Sand Mandela being constructed. Watching each Buddhist drop the dyed stone into its proper place, rested me for moments, while the next couple injected a spontaneous dissidence between my exhaustion and the prior nights drug abuse, consisting of coffee, booze, cocaine, sex etc. This confusion within my body propelled tension in my abdominal region, tightness throbbing throughout my arms and legs that could not be stretched, or worn thin. Moments later, it’d faint again, and dwindle off slowly like a storm dissipating over the mountains, how it calms the weary traveler being now able to rest for moments.   

Tired of this coin toss, I arise with means to depart, to find a distraction more aggressive, but I notice before it’s possible, a figure across the hall on a bench similar to mine, the child I had seen years before. He seems clearer now more than ever. Ironically our distance is greater, and I catch his image for only seconds between the monks weaving each other like tree branches swaying steadily, his figure like the sun shining through from behind, giving them animate life. His stature is a variable I recognize indiscriminately. His focus and youth hadn’t left him. Each grain of stone placed within the Mandela was a fragment of light reflecting into his iris that he felt wholly, penetrating each time as if it be the first. A feeling similar to the first encounter started to function, but the jealousy hadn’t this time accompanied the joy, nor did I feel the need for escape, but instead, I mimicked his appreciation for the Mandela, observing his innocence which sparked a meaning of life into the sand.   

 I sat and watched till the Mandela was completed, and then destroyed, walked silently with them to the waterfront as they lay to rest the silent stones, the river washed them clean of their false dye, and they drift at home with the other pebbles slowly dissolving into sand.








The flesh binding these pages together absorbed little attention when compared to the bathroom with a line down the steps into the hall. The smell was oppressive on either side of the door, and meant little difference whether or not you were inside walking the cracked linoleum, or outside, upon asphalt and concrete, deafened by a cacophony of sirens, yells, beeps; everywhere in this city you’re imprinted with a splintering tyranny to the ears, body and mind.

Cheap aluminum railing with nails half unraveled from it, corner the steps back towards the bathroom. These roads outside are also old like the brick flaking from the obverse side to the interior of this library, showing its crumbling face of torture to its residents. Sleeping no more than blocks away, I sympathize, and wear a similar mask that barely displays the ability for revival.

Inside the Library stuck on 24thand Mission, I find a lacking of livelihood that I’ve witnessed nowhere else. Magazines are read, and computers are used, but not a person could find the focus to occupy a book, or have it occupy them; this is where books come to retire

I take a seat once more, like I’ve done so many times before, but the disgust and regret in my stomach are too great to retreat from; so I sit, soiled with the hopelessness that this cities created, soiled with the dream America’s promised to those born less fortunate, and those more so, carrying the real fortune away from the rest. This is what happens when culture’s are meshed together forcefully, those who brought more to the table, walk away with more, and the others just walk away, alive, and are expected to be content with that; so we find a way to be. I look around seeing nothing of value, the flesh casing dead author’s experiences are caskets where words are nothing but ink on a tree’s backbone; and we are nothing but sealant in between bricks keeping an empire erected that we’ll never see the top of.

I see nothing, and staring around, I know there will be not a child in here recognizable, for I need him most now more than ever, his innocence to give me hope; but he couldn’t survive here. He would never come here, knowing his death would be slow, and chipped at by the dead who miss their dreams, or miss who they were, before arriving here.




























“Is this church newer?” She, caught in steps away from my own, stopped, showing annoyance by my interruption. “Cathedral” I point to the biggest building among the small town near Switzerland. “Nuovo?” I said. She giggled, giving her elderly body a spark of life, “si, si.” She turned back, overseeing the building like a monument more so than a Church, her eyes staring at it precise, gazing at it with respect, “mille anni”. I reciprocate her giggle, “ a thousand year old church?”. “no, no, no” Turning back at me, like a grandmother who’s been disappointed, she corrects me, “un bibloteca.” I replicate her, sharing the glance given to the building before; she walks passed me, a bit eager to continue the routine of the day, turning quickly back, I yell towards her “is it open?” She continues on, hobbling along the stone city built into the hills of Northern Italy.                                 

Ascending the first set of stairs, I take an easy pace, enamored by each piece of art dated a thousand years plus, and the art work below my feet, dated around the same. Any piece of this city would easily be accepted as a milestone of creation by myself, and I appreciate it as such. The handrail I follow carries in it’s still current of life, a chill that only porous stone could, it leads with unmalleable strength to the stone room concealing books of rarity. The appearance strictly resembles a castles stronghold, and I enter slowly in order to not disturb it’s currant occupants.

Sitting, a grown man encapsulating his exuberance and pride is reading. Eyes gently drawn to the pages, he flips them caringly like a breeze would cuddle with its touch, a feather to the ground. Upon seeing him, before even conjuring my opinions, I felt inferior, scared and terrified; to see a man so at ease within his power is a sign of a tortured life that has had peace made with it. He, in his simple stride, would seem to pull the earth beneath his feet into orbit like walking a treadmill that’s turned off. Despite my attempts to be quiet, his eyes propped up suddenly, as if broken from the words, his gaze seemed obstructed, and he didn’t know where he was suppose to be looking, but he knew looking is what had to be done. Inside my belly I wanted his attention, but in my mind, I feared it most.

When finally he went to reset his poise, he stumbled suddenly, and stare directly back at me; and I’ve never seen a pair of eyes mirroring so oppositely the integrity of my own. In them held everything I’d lost, everything I’ve left behind on my travels, his eyes lacking my weakness and contempt for the world around; for I had been blaming it rather than myself. Immediately I fell to my knees, expelling tears that found their end with the stone ground, and I crumble, dissipating along their side, wondering how I did stray so far from my path of grace, of perseverance, that would of led me here regardless, but instead like the grown boy sitting strong with his independence, and not crying weak with the floor alongside myself.






















Across the path of many stone,

I’ve seen myself inside the bark

The dirt, the earth I’ve roamed.


I’ve cried of love that’s lost,

But have tried again, embracing the ripened bud

That’s been strengthened by the frost.


Weighed to the earth by riches delight,

I’ve been also a broken child

Blessed innocently with imaginations sight.


But now just a wanderer I stop,

Watching a still pond for rest,

And a young boy stronger than I, gaze out,

I catch his sight by the moons defilement of the night,

Her boisterous and revealing light.


In his eyes radiates forgiveness

If only I give up the fight.


I whisper for myself to come near,

I say “To rest forever my dear”

And by those words I finally lay,

In that pond forever I stayed,

To sing this song of the child,

Who dreads the adult

Who misses the child.

Trinity to All

The child and the snail

The road always seems to have no schedule or pace; stubborn in only that one conviction. So walking along it the child had lost his temper with the sun who began to rest.

In the moments consumed by dusk, the child strayed off the road towards a stretch of beach. The beige sand took on reflections from the sky in battle with the sun, bleeding pinks and purples inside its depthless and stretching canvas which lay against the earth far into the indiscernible distance.

His back rested against a large cliff spanning high above which carried the road on its shoulders, and the beach by its waist. The child stared out at all three and his vision lost focus before noticing a change of terrain. He turned attention into the oceans depth, its length, and assumed everything carried this endlessness in common.

Dusk brought the cold, the moon in full gown brought darkness, the stars brought loneliness and the child brought fire. The flames were young, but enough to chase off symptoms of a night in full rotation.

While easing a divot into the cliff with his back, he recounted on a story his grandfather told him. One of the 2nd war where his uncle was lost beneath mud and bullets. In the hospital he visited his brother, and while holding his coldening hand, and sharing his last breath, he heard his last words. “be patient brother, I will be with you.”

The child remembered tears and candle light, aged aromas of cigar smoke and rye whiskey, all scents and visions so far away now. Those words though, he kept close, painting something concrete near his heart.

Sleep took the child and eased him into the realm of thoughtless thought. He opened his eyes and in them stared a snail, quaint and motionless, resting on his knee. The child shifted his head slightly in confusion, and the snail dittoed his reaction.

“You are a walker? You walk for walk sake? You do till death?” The snail understands nothing of hesitance and is steady in his pacing of questions.

“No to all.” The child responded as nicely as possible.

The snail, not convinced, slid a bit closer to him.

“I have just caught up, you passed me some time ago. Your walk is like a walker, slow and steady. You seem not angry or happy about this activity, and when you rest, you rest like me, calm. How can you not say you are a walker just walking?”

The child ponders for moments, and then does nothing for some moments more. He finally responds,

“I am, but that’s not all I am, I am just doing so currently.”

The snail does not understand his hesitance, and begins to back track his path down the child’s leg. When reaching the sand, he twists back his eyes, and continues.

“you should come join me, I think you’d like the life of the snails. We move everywhere knowing no end, knowing no strangling ambitions, and having no concept of past or future, which seem to bother humans quite a lot.”

The child could not disagree with the snail, but still, if he disbanded his path, he felt something would be unfinished.

He stared at the snail, still thinking. Finally the snail, bored, turned away and continued his path to leave. The child calls out to the darkness that had consumed the snail,

“Be patient brother, I will be with you.”

The snail didn’t respond.


The young adult and the hawk

Tucked in all around by rust with dirt and dehydrated pine needles bellow him, the teenager had sweated his tears by getting here. Open faced and six feet high, he cuddled with a brown and green tarp sitting bellow the passing air in the cart. Fast and constant the wind wrapped the cargo train as time slowly passed.

He was calm, though. These moments treaded across his mind softly like a feather in descent drifts across the skin of a breeze.

The valley he was travelling through had acclimated beautifully to a storm that’d just passed. Shedding the tarp dimpled with rain, he arose and gazed out over the season of harvest. The golden wheat fields molded like sand to the imprint of the wind, the rice pools swelled with nourishment, the whole earth seemed well satisfied. Looking around he saw an abundance of life glimmering with joy, saw his path unmapped, saw himself at peace. So many nights spent without solace, alone cold, hung out with no cover. Thinking the entirety of his life was bad luck, he realized self truth is much harder to identify. He saw now the wheel of fate, and its mistress spinning the stars like a roulette game. Immersed in a vision of absolute tranquility, he felt all of life at his nerves, attached to him. Instead of just seeing oil on a canvas, he felt the texture on his skin, the shadows cast from the sun on his heart, felt the intention of whoever’s creation this was, becoming animate inside his soul.

Resting back into the train car he lowered his head to the jostling cart. He watched the ants build temporary homes alongside his own. Saw them gathering dinner from the crumbs of his meal like he had just gathered water from the clouds. He counted the ants, giving them each names, but soon found his eyes in conflict with his will to remain conscious. They collapsed together and the world went black while dusk concluded.

A hawk above took the wind in strokes gracefully while roaming the crisp night. Catching his eye, the young adult put his intention to the flank of the sky, a rainbow fully in dress was pressed to the web of stars. The hawk began descending, tracing the arc created by the crescent beam.

“What are you doing here?” The hawk hovered above the young man, calling with strength, a voice that broke the stressed air.

“I am moving without moving. And you?” The hawk lifted his chin at the young man’s forwardness.

“I have just returned from removing the flame out from the cage in the sky, I bedded it in the ocean to take on it’s daughters hue, it must become blue before I put it back.”

Struck curious from the hawk’s smooth cadence, he listened further, hoping he’d continue.

“Do you not also perform your tasks for the Earth?”

The young man felt ashamed and lowered his head, for he couldn’t provide the Hawk with a definite answer.

“ I do not know, if I do, I am unaware.” The hawk swirled in circles above him, filling the air with exuberant laughter.

“You are quite funny. How can you be unaware? How can this be possible? Your very existence suggests otherwise.”

One wing draws across his eyes, wiping away moisture into the air behind him. Regaining his path near the young man, he continues,

“You would make my life more delightful, child. You should come with me into the sky, then to the sea. We will birth you wings like fruit sprouted from the heavenly tree. Oh, won’t you please come with me.

The young man had no answer, so he kept silent, feeling his path was true already.

“Do you think the way you live to be more important?” The hawk inquired with curiosity.

“I do not consider one’s value more expensive than the next, for I have only this path to measure from.”

The hawk held silent for moments, then answered.

“I will ponder on this and return tomorrow child, if I can disprove you, then will you be persuaded against your initial choice?”

The young man felt more convicted in his decision every time the hawk persisted.

“No hawk, I will not, I am sorry, but this is my path, the one you found me on. I move without moving, age without growing, I am young and disobedient. This is how my life will be.”

A sudden squawk breaks the young mans testament,

“if reason you disregard, then I will let you be, your more stubborn then the flame in the cage.”

The hawk speared upwards suddenly, his wings propelling him, rotating his body like a screw.

The young man calls out to the darkness that consumed the hawk,

“be patient brother, I will be with you”

A roar from the shadows collapsed on the young man,


“Maybe child, for some things wait, something’s don’t and something’s won’t, but it matters nil, because all things end.”


Equestrian Eyes

A sobering flash of light
the first one of that morning
came through our yet to be fixed,
living room window.

We had not made love prior this sunrise
for the mulch of passion was then

Understanding this
I withheld my advance
knowing the fruit possible to yield
would be sweeter if I choose to wait.

Together after awakening we stripped tires
opperated on bikes
drank tea
I contemplated whiskey…
but we drank more tea

Leaving my house
that sobering light had multipled
by the millions
sewn itself to a thick sheet
now covering us
as we mounted our bikes.

I saw her eyes change
throughout all of this
but her smile supporting those feelings
was consistent
gentle, always a bit embarrassed
as if she’d never smiled before
and wasn’t quite sure if she was approaching it correctly.

Her eyes now
as we were riding
grew distant as we weaved eachother.

Her equestrian eyes…
I could see their canter
her soul behind them
swallowed back down
into the valleys where it rested safe,
where I drew upon its infinte sorce
the night before.

First things last

At noon I woke up
told myself to make some sense
of the world

of war
of love
of peace
of hatred

I begged myself to make reasons
for these things

But then I was distracted
by thoughts of an unpaid dentist bill

taking a shower
I contemplated about women I’ve loved
and those I will

Half way through it
as my temperature rose
I quickened my pace, I had work soon
so I had to rush,
plus I had a bill to go pay, a late fee to
Talk myself out from …

I shut off the water, lost steam,
And cleaned myself haphazardly
cause i couldn’t finish

Walking out the door I thought about
Hatred and war
I thought about how little they mean to me
how little the energy that society put into those words
was affecting me,
I thought about how useless they were
when I couldn’t even pay my Dentist bill


strive to return to the world one day. unchanged in resolve, but reborn of all flesh and belief. cut down once and consciously raped by inevitable loss, some broken thing drug through the dirt. now unknown to all.

forgotten to toil in misery alone. trapped in place by poison thoughts and empty words. let darkness and solitude work miracles. accept transformation, dig deep and hold on. nothing lasts forever, no hope can ever die.

dream of light, remember love. know the pain best of all, call torment by name. ebb and flow, hills and valleys unmake the strongest of minds. do not wear shame in the open, but keep regrets ever near. all shadows were born of brighter things.

time becomes caustic, years rip lungs apart. avoid suffocating on the stale air. beware of the clock, it counts no man as a friend.

keep one eye glued forward. forsake the other, turn it backwards, nail it down.

burn alive when the cold is unforgiving. breathe deep when the fires start to climb.

above all else, dig your dirty nails into your palms, grit your fucking teeth and smile so full that it ignites your hollow eyes. all horror is drained from this life, let it fill to the brim of your soul.

-John Landini

Your First. The Only.

Let her every kiss
be the last every time
its the only way you’ll be grateful

Like the road you’ve traveled times before
Forget the memories
that you have but stored

Let it remain a path of ash
that with every moment
like a breeze,
wipes your footsteps
from its caste

Let it all be your first
let it be your only.

Reaping fruit you’ve sewed

She was lost,

We entered this game as opponents
and I played as if she was one
not as a women I was attracted to.

You shouldn’t treat a women like a friend
unless you want only a friend

You treat her as an object
if thats what you want
Or a lover
If you want love

But don’t treat her as a goddess
and expect any romance
besides the romance of that idea

Goddesses don’t mingle with worshippers