Were We EVER Ready?!

Death is the date you forget
The promise that time corrects
None can dodge their fate.

Death is the silent sniper
When ready, aim then fire
No one is exempt from this tax collector’s tally.

Death floats in on quiet wing
To ease the final moments’ sting
Into a final peaceful solitude.

Death trails fingers through rough cotton sails
Monitors and machines pump and wail
Roll call sounds through each flatline.

Live by the sword
Die by the gun
Bullets are forever.

For all the posturing and politics
The glories of dynasty
Fade into the sands of time.

No one is left behind
But everything remains, to find
A final separation of man and possession.

A final surprise
In dull empty eyes
Death will literally take your breath away…

As the dive from the beach
Robs you of your final speech
Let the waves comfort you now.

As your shallow husk
Is buried without fuss
Take your grudges with you.

Death makes even religions a liar
The final equalizer
Prince and pauper fall as one.

Chase with desperation the chalice of immortality
Ignore the human fallacy
To waste precious time in futility.

But isn’t Death just a carriage
A taxi you missed today
That may ferry you tomorrow?


Salutate the Rebellious

“No one saves the devil, you know.”

“Hmph, are you expecting sympathy?”

A laugh strangles into a ragged cough cracking abruptly through the crisp winter air. Wet, and phlegm-filled, it echoed with the deadly rasp of eminent decay.

Many may have confused the death and the devil, but it was in this moment that they each appeared as separate entities. And…which had come for the other?

“We do have much in common. I am blamed for evil, you for the end of life.”

“And yet,” Death murmured, “to live is evil.”

“So then, Death, are you truly an angel? And, if so, have you fallen like I had fallen? Is this eternal task your punishment-?”

Continue reading Salutate the Rebellious

Life is what you make it

Fear can be the cement block weighing your feet 1000 ft below the surface.
Hope can be the wings that lend lift to your soul 1000 ft above the clouds.
Despair can be the inky scent of swamp and graveyards.
Peace can be the clean-smelling air after the rainstorm.
Family can be a group of strangers with one accord.
Destruction can be a single word of pain and hurt.
Battles can be a single, spoken “No”.
Surrender can be silence in the face of adversity.

Success can be one step, taken every day.
Failure can be one stop along the way.
Birth can be a strangled inhale.
Death, a solemn exhale.

Life can be fear and hope delving into peace and despair wrapped round family and destruction with battles and surrender striving to make success out of failure and celebrate the birth despite the deaths.

Life can be one second, of every hour of every day.
Life can be a laugh, a smile, exhilaration, and play.

Life… is what you make it.

Coffee #23 – What the F**k am I doing?

“Never permit a dichotomy to rule your life, a dichotomy in which you hate what you do so you can have pleasure in your spare time. Look for a situation in which your work will give you as much happiness as your spare time.” ~ Pablo Picasso

Happiness –if I don’t feel it, I’m doing something wrong.

I can mark, very specifically, the moment that happiness began to drain away.

I can’t even draw anymore, all my creative outlets are practically dried up. I can’t seem to make music, or write stories, or even draw. The only thing left are words and poetry, anger and rage.

Not exactly a recipe for happiness.

Continue reading Coffee #23 – What the F**k am I doing?

Surrounded by Death

There was no need to get so close, I am well aware
Of how short time is and how closer I get -every day- to the grave
That there is no escape and how god is holding this loaded gun to my head
Teasing me with thoughts of futile eternity and imagine heaven
But I just imagine devils and demons and the fucked up existential crisis that boils down to
Hating what I have, that’s backwards ain’t it? Shouldn’t I treasure and enjoy
These fading moments; not concern myself with the thousand imagined commandments
That I be breaking and feeling obligated to say sorry without sincerity -what’s the point?
Not like I’ll live to regret it or expect it, forgiveness, not like fire and condemnation
No, Death, I am well aware of your presence, like an inescapable fetish, compulsion of bodies to die
And imagine a resurrection to a better place where magic makes everything better
Perhaps I am too cynical for heaven, but if so, why can’t I be too cynical for death?

Oblivion… Is there?

Many weeks ago:

“Oh my gosh! Did you hear about Orlando?” my friend asked as I slurped my vanilla-bean frappaccino.

“What, the weather? Yeah, the hurricanes are bad in FL right now…”

“No, the shooting! The one at the nightclub.”She shook her phone at my puzzled expression.

“What?! What shooting?”

“Yeah, there are 50 dead and 53 wounded! Some Muslim guy walked in and shot a bunch of people in a gay nightclub. They’re calling it the worst shooting session to date.”

I blinked. “What?!!”

How did I not know?

Continue reading Oblivion… Is there?

Death is always the Present

Inspired by LIFE Season 1 Episode 10, and CSI Season 3 Episode 10

What did you see?

In that last moment, as the dirt covers your face. As the ice froze your lungs. What was the final synapse? That last flash of electricity as your final exhale fluffed through the dirt.

Like a noose around my neck, this sinking weight in my gut. Like Icarus you soared so high. Like Icarus, you surpassed the final limit. The limit to death.

Continue reading Death is always the Present

Flash Fiction Day #1

Flash Fiction Submission – joining Damon L. Wakes challenge, thanks for posting about it, Sonya (her blog is Only 100 words).

Written at 2pm local time. Inspired by Peaky Blinders (2013).

Bulletin – Bullet In

Home for a bullet. When he put the gun to my head, I thought that at last, the bullet would come home.

There’s always been a home for it …there. Just a matter of time. I’d always thought it was only a matter of time before it came home.

I couldn’t stop smiling. Either way, I wouldn’t stop smiling.

I’d die with a smile on my face.

Continue reading Flash Fiction Day #1

Coffee #17: Dreams and Crushes

“I’m infected with you. Pull the plug already. Tell me before I go, That you’re infected with me.”  ~Infected by Demon Hunter

No coffee in ages. No rest for the weary. I’m exhausted in mind, body, soul, heart, and spirit.

But triumphant. -Ish.

Pull up a chair, let’s talk about life. I can’t wait to share, so tell that barista to shake a tail feather!

Damn it, who put vodka in my hot chocolate? Barkeep-erista!!!

Continue reading Coffee #17: Dreams and Crushes

A Shepherd

Through the lens of internal interpretation, this is how I had perceived the day.

She spoke, words blasted beyond pain. Hollowed from repetition, her fragile facade an onion skin away from crumbling into nothing.

Her words lacked passion. Spark. Vitality’s chamber a dry echo of a long empty well.

I wondered how many times she has been here. On this stage, before this crowd. Saying these words.

These… empty words. Words so meaningful, yet barren of life.

This is not a call to action. This is a funeral.

We remember the smile of a man we never met, the words we never heard him say. We relive his moments, moments that we’ve never seen.

Experience his life, we’ve never lived.

She does a  decent job at resurrection. But, it’s zombified. Distorted. Jerky motion of a smooth existence. Recounting words, through the echo of grief, a skewed mirror of reflection.

Did no one see it? The wraith in her shadow, faded in the spotlights, but still present. Tracking her movements, a forlorn creature of tortured physique.

Could no one see it?

The line stretches away. Shuffle step, shuffle step. We wait our turn to approach. To pay our respects. To pay our money.

Soulless ghouls.

I watch her hands, worn and beginning to wrinkle, as they flow steadily across the pages. Tens of thousands of hundreds. Page after page, I can see her fingers inking the pages, word after word on a sea of white. As I get closer, I spot the weariness in her bearing, like a crushing weight on her once strong shoulders. Her hair has begun to fade to gray and wisps of white interlaced the remaining blond.

I watch her with morbid curiosity, staring with an acute fascination. Is this… is this what suffering looks like?

So vacant. Absent.

An automation.

I’m surprised when it’s my turn, feels like forever in the brief span of time. Taking the book, I slide it onto the table in front of her. She doesn’t even meet my eyes, her hands already moving to begin the ritual engraved into muscle memory.

“What do you want it to say?” The false vibrancy is gone, stripped away. Enamel worn away.

You poor soul. “Write ‘_________________________________’.”

Her hands move upon the page. Mechanical.

I see it now. The wraith. A ghost of her.

She has been climbing that stage for years. Saying word after word. Writing page after page.

Falling on deaf ears. Ears of stagnation, rather than activation.

She’s been carrying her son, all these miles. Bandying him in front of the world. At first, because it felt right. Then, because she was told it was right. But now the conviction’s gone. And she’s tired.

Tired of carrying the corpse of her dead son like a banner before the masses.

Pen stroke complete, Mrs Shepherd hands back my book, her eyes staring past me, to the line of endless book signings, eternal struggle, constant battle.

She will not rest.


Her son… is gone.