Category: unboxed

Patricide

He fathered them all,
Their blushing mother nursed them,
Balanced them in the gentle sway of her delicate fabric.
As children they loved their Mother,
In awe of the Father that provided all.
From a shared cradle they emerged,
Brothers and sisters.

From above, their Father watched their wanderings.
Illuminating their world with light and life,
As He made His way across the sky.
In four directions His children spread,
Chasing horizons over great distances.
Like seeds on a wind.

The Children of the East, welcomed their Father each day.
The Children of the South, best knew their Father’s warmth.
The Children of the West, danced to their Father’s music.
The Children of the North, grew distant from their Father.
Discovering in the shadows of their Father’s absence,
The cold side of a lonely Mother.

Building walls they turned inward,
Growing pale in their solitude.
Nearsighted through honed dexterity,
Pride swelling with the power of creation.
Linguistic palaces ascended to heaven,
Their father and mother subjugated by name.

They charted the distant stars.
They mapped the earth’s contours.
They mastered inferior races.
They worshiped themselves.
Fair skin easily seared,
By a father made sun.

~r

Kraft the Redeemer (based on a true story)

And cries could be heard far and wide as the hunger set in.  The peanut-butter jar was now empty and echoing the sounds of despair as the knowledge set in that no sandwich would be made this day.  But then Kraft the Redeemer took up the jar of vacant nuts and oils and began to scrape at the walls with an unadorned knife, transforming this simple jar from a useless, hollow item into something hallow.   The cool metallic clanks of steel on glass could be heard resonating throughout the kitchen, as hungry urchins held their breath and stared with bulging eyes.  Witnesses would recount far into the future the fantastic spectacle they beheld, as little by little peanut-butter continued to fall from the jar upon the toasted bread, creating a meal where no meal sat before.  Songs of rejoicing illuminated the linoleum surface and drifted out through the open windows, for today a miracle was witnessed – the miracle of the Immaculately Conceived Sandwich.

Desert Reflection

I understand the extent
of my contradictions
And reconciliation is
why I am here.
A purposeful life is
the reason for being,
Under the sun we can’t
hide from our fears.

Walk so my steps fall silent,

Breathe so my lungs feel power,

Fragmented thoughts fall away,

Without moments of self-reflection.

for the fans..

Finally. Morning. The only day more important to an 11 yr. old baseball nerd than Christmas. Opening Day. Having grown up watching nothing but WGN and TBS broadcasts since infancy, today is like watching the rock move aside on Easter Sunday and nothing less. We have the tickets, which I hold, and park. Mile High Stadium, glorious host to years of Broncos triumphs as well as Bono and the Boss, looms large as the Roman Coliseum in front of me. The Horse..Bigger than life when seen even at at distance, rears in Glory, almost daring my fanhood, even as a child, unknowing of what it really stands for. As the usher takes the flimsy piece of paper that represents all that my young life has stood for, and tears it, I feel a sense of justification. Although my testicles have not yet felt the groan of manhood, I feel something important has passed. Something only the ancients have spoken of. The smells envelope my underdeveloped naustrum as I take in the wonder. 76,273 seats greet me, as though they know what I’m in for, yet daring me to find out for myself. As my young mind swirls in wonder, I sense something bigger than me, something which, although conveyed through tube screens, can never be realized until realized in the flesh. The walk to the seats seems as if in a dream, floating on some weightless pillow of pre-adolescent fantasy.
The first pitch is thrown before a sound is made. In my young mind, it’s all silent anyway. As if all a dream.
Top of the 1st over, Rox come to bat. My vantage point tells me that I’m just close enough to know that I really am here. The players, although no larger than small mammals, seem as though they exist in another plane, yet the moment is here for all to be shared. The moment EY steps to the box, though, it’s there. The realization of the moment. And on a 3-2 pitch, a ball was lifted to left-center field that would change my life. As it left the park, the understanding of every single of the 80,227 fans in attendance knew that Colorado sports had changed forever.

Movement (Spring)

the heart is torn open

indigo bunting and swallows

tatter the bleeding sky.

shade, slow enveloping;

earth at my feet;

it is winter.

the road is glistening with snow

two days old, stretching out.

I wait by the screen door

drowning memory impatiently

with toes across the carpet.

Crickets gestate in the early dawn,

attending summer.

The Buffalo Hills

Full moon rising over the wasteland,
Dry hills harbor dry souls.
Shriveling as bitter grapes,
Tangled vines planted and numbered.
Faces glimpsed but not seen.
In spaces measured by yards,
Untrodden lawns veil chasms.
Grass and rock great waters,
Lapping at shallow coral coasts.
A thousand private islands.
Hidden hearts beating alone,
Full moon setting on shared dreams.

Music

In the grand scheme of things it is most important to make noise thats what we do  get to come home and scream we make noise noise screaming we make in the glistening grandscheme of things we make noise if you don’t like the noise you make change the noise you are making bleeding spiraling thinking spinning witchcraft noise we are making in the innocent noise of noise

we

begin

to

comprehend

what

those before

have

said

Behold the Majestic Tranquility

Follow the heart beat

learn the movement

the blood taste pulsating

live life

be life

stand. Stand Up

heaven touching earth

fingertips praying;

the space between.

We Are

We Are

WE ARE

baby born reciprocal

stand up

we are

born reciprical: peering into ourselves through epiphany, stardust, the balancd

spiralic planes dancing concentric:balancing light: balancing shade

Behold, Behold the majestic,

majestic tranquility

majestic

of yourself

tranquility

behold

tranquility majestic within

within behold

behold, the majestic tranquility

of of OF

BEHOLD

the majestic tranquility of yourself

Housebroken

Soft,

her eyes droop and stare,

watching my every move.

Pupils that speak a language

impossible to confuse.

I toil on my computer.

Ears

perk, jerking back

and forth,

waiting for the next move. My hands

clamor and clink!

in the kitchen sink.

Ex-

hale, her slender snout breathes in and

out with such force that I can

feel her boredom

on the back of my neck.

I sweep and mop the fetid floor.

Perched

on the rug, she observes

and wiggles her wet nose,

soft like baby toes, and

smells the trash

as it walks through the door.

Gray

Are those eyes that wonder

why I occupy my time

doing nothing, when

I could be outside

playing Frisbee.

Poem for a Christian Friend

On our knees we pray to heaven above,
As we fear the hell that’s below.
With the earth in between, to us then it seems,
That it’s here where these poles ebb and flow.

Our Father: he dwells in Heaven most high.
We his Children: hence fallen by birth.
From exile we yearn for salvation-bestowed,
As we gaze up to Heaven from Earth.

But what does it mean when that sight is beheld:
Planet Earth amidst infinite space?
Those glorious heavens we’ve seen overhead,
Aren’t different, appart-from this place.

Earth too is in Heaven, as the sun and the stars,
A space trillions of galaxies vast.
So if fallen we are, where from did we depart?
To what ground can the mind not trespass?

Where then be that Hell, or the angels and God,
If not here? And then what need to rue?
For if all Creation is the Creator himself:
In the Creation, The Creator, is You.

~r