Wednesday, October 24, 2012

scout's honor




"scout's honor"
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

Raise two fingers for honesty and integrity. Recite the words that morally ground. Live for reverence, abide the God. For truth, it is respected; in faith, it is protected.

As long as we obey. The law. The code.

Their law. Their code.

By what law is a scout truly bound? The scout endures the lonely, distant paths, scanning, mapping, exploring, observing, adapting to the environment around it. Guided by a primal, genetic intuition and harmony, the scout lives open to disappear into foliage, to hunt,

to unearth and learn.

A scout is reverent to the land around it, but not to a deity first. Natural harmony requires reverence of hallowed ground and local lore, but the scout remains unaffiliated, unspoiled and open. It must objectively survey, serendipitously traverse and converse first with the Earth and its creatures. A ranger is not afraid of the dark, nor angles too quickly toward light. It does not prance, nor prattle, but makes measured way through the thick of the species.

It pays allegiance to the people, yet ever defends the crawling edges of the ravenous and the greedy that know no balance. It scopes the shadows, understanding, shifting, redrawing the lines when necessary. It holds the ecosystem as self-evident,

and pure. No myth required for orientation, no gift or tribute indentured for navigation.

Raise two fingers for strength and accuracy. Hold your breath and draw back the fletchery. Live for benevolence, abide natural law. For truth, it endlessly wanders; for proof and principle,

Scout's honor.

the topography of happiness




"the topography of happiness"
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

I often wonder if Sisyphus stopped to enjoy the view from the top of the mountain. After an eternity of pushing the boulder uphill, he would make it to the top, a wiry and weary prisoner to someone else's wrath, see the wicked landscape of Hades from the tallest heights, and be comforted by his sentence. I suspect that sometimes he tipped the boulder himself, sending it in an angry, violent descent back into the dark, vile depths below.

Lower than the damned dwellers, deeper than the cursed and fallen shadows, the collected plaque in the bottom of the ecosystem of life.

A base and hopeless beginning. There, where the mountain of guilt meets the canyon of woe, he finds the strength to climb again, even if he doesn't want to. An endless ascent to a view of unfavorable oblivion.

He squares his shoulders in the hellish gloom, rights himself soundly beneath the well-rounded behemoth, and budges the boulder up, slowly, repetitiously, forcefully, until the dust has been completely kicked from its resting surfaces and momentum carries it

up, ever up, for eternity,

until the inevitable apex is reached, and descent is a necessary response

to happiness.

Sunday, October 21, 2012

the wisdom of we



born to capture these rapturous reflections.
burn them into the eyes of others.

we are the cameras of the damned,
the Polaroids of the dispossessed.

our truth is travesty;
our history disastrous casting.

we walk among them, but never feel.
represent their lies, with a brush surreal.

we are a race, not a
harmoniously moving herd.

we flock.

we fuck.

we fight, never give up,
never give in, never have balance,
find far more ends
than beginnings.

who are we
after all,
we of broken
springs

who are we
but the fallen
queens and
kings

of the
living

Saturday, October 20, 2012

blightspeed




from "blightspeed"
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

These days, we train with sand sprints, forcing us to push harder even though we have half the momentum. Ever faster, winded, weathered, and wasted by the race we call human. Beneath the flesh, our organic mechanics are the same, varied by chaotic genetic evolution, in a spin cycle that will never stop, never slow down, unless external forces rise to face us. We are in constant motion and mutation, the virus and the carrier one and the same.

Perhaps we are the virus evolved, through natural selection and rapid recombination, given voice and bestial hunger. Feeding faster, on life and information and each other, sister and brother divided to opposite sides for access to the trough.

A man dove from space, broke the sound barrier and survived, a free falling star that fleetly fell with man-made wings. Faster, from towering heights. Fighting fiercely to evolve beyond our dermal boundaries, to explore the outer shores of this present reality, the irises of the virus always scanning and adapting and learning how to design survival.

With every advancement, a new map of physical reality, the boundaries stretched like an overactive bladder.

Our realm is the petri dish where we observe and consume. We devised a dynamic economy built on consumption, evolving endlessly and requiring more resources with every speedy second. Inflation pushes us further from center, from the simple core to the edges of the expanding universe. This is unstoppable, this driver asleep at the wheel from a diabetic coma, with no options other than chaotic collision in the dark, distant, lonely nowhere.

That which defines us each as unique aliens to this space is the same timeline that every star faces: a dwarven reduction and a husk of a future, consciousness transplanted creatively from one celestial body to another, the virus and the carrier one and the same, advancing at the speed of blight.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

to the ruin of us




from "to the ruin of us"
step four: orientation
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"

"Let go, or be dragged," the wise Roman knows. And even now, stripped bare of flesh and fantasy, I cling still. To a memory, a whisper of the future that once had me spellbound. Love is an echo and a MP4 file now, all traces of the scents of romance long gone, and replaced with the cold emptiness of freedom, a pure and unrestramining cloak of chaos. I suppose I asked for this, divergence from the common, caustic road of human.

Knuckles worn to raw from the endless war, bones blackened by the fires of passion. Ghost Rider minus a fiery chariot.

I am now the wispy counselor to ghosts, called to soliloquy when interest grows, returned to the shadow upon completion of session. Speak truths, scare hearts, and return to the disquiet box from which you rose.

This is what dead friends do. We with history, forced to coexist within a joined purgatory, haunting each other until memory fades, never gravitating closer, trapped in a recessive shade.

I hold onto that life with ghastly might, unable to sever my own extreme bond to you, no matter how sharp I fashion my scalpel.

junkie shakes




from "junkie shakes"
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"




addicted, to what is
curing me, to what is
killing me
the seeds were planted
too deep in these genes
to be uprooted by
common human
means
ditry rigs and
unsanitary things
the hunger screams
in vicious and vengeful
dreams, I
push the plunger
marry the quake
slip the secret square
and shake, junkie
shake

scapegoat branding




from "scapegoat branding"
step six: six martyr place
from "Xenomorphine, The Bonesetter's Revenge, Book2"


Smells of cracked leather
And dust, recoiled and weathered
Until she releases it
From her grasp, and it falls
Long
Long
Long
Long
And strong
Twine teeth and
Bitter breath,
Slicing through air
With a blur and a
Crack,
As black lightning
Across a still sky
Calling blood
From flesh,
Culling truth
From lie
Carry the brand
Of failure, full
And complete;
Bear the burden
Of Scapegoat,
Your scars
Indiscreet