Twas The Night Before The Marathon

Twas the night before the marathon

And as the sun set,
I was hunched at the keyboard just starting to sweat

The deadline approaching, I done ate all my snacks….

…shit’s wack.

But the muses are nourished not on smoked almonds, cheese and crackers

The succulent nectar of inspiration their only necessary nutriment

As they flit round the edges of my consciousness famished, mouths parched with too many words unexpressed
Too many concepts left to gather dust like these stacks of old notebooks that weigh down shelves with dreams unfinished

A cool breeze chills the nervous sweat beading brow
Sun sinks behind islands on horizon, last wisps of golden sun drift into indigo sky
As yet devoid of stars
Still and darkening
Soon to start

Bittersweet Finality

Itzpapalotl stretches her obsidian butterfly wings into meteor-streaked skies
The muses reach for final burst of inspiration, scavenging words from dreamscapes

Words jotted down in notebooks find their final form in lines
Not so much written but intuited by zombie-like autopilot mind
All the remnants of ideas unformed nearing completion
Dive into the deep end, pull the last glistening threads from dreams of those asleep
We creep towards the finish weeping tears of gratitude

Anticlimactic poetry addicts beaten and drained by 24 hours of pleasureful pain
Finally able to rest our aching brains trying to process what the fuck just happened

Highway 50

Highway 50 Looking at West Gate and Desatoya Mts_ 7586

Scorching dust drifts across blacktop
Shimmering mirages just out of reach,
Slipping closer to the horizon each passing mile
Desert heat searing nostrils,
Sweat drips from nose, sizzling on pavement below

They call 50 “The Loneliest Highway in America”
A straight shot across barren nothingness
Sagebrush and distant mountain peaks gilded white
A lone vulture seeking roadkill screeches,
Shattering high desert silence
Chastising solitary traveler for disrupting serenity

Stretch lazily in the oven-like breeze
A quick pee
Then back to chasing mirages, full speed headed west
As vulture bids a not-so-fond farewell

The Night Is For Sleeping

What is this masochistic urge,
This strange compulsion to ignore important biorhythms,
Walk this jumbled path

As if the sacrifice of time and inspiration weren’t enough
As if the eyelids of the mind’s eye haven’t closed and given up

We stumble on

With leaden limbs
With muses bleary-eyed and cranky
Cycles interrupted,
Punch-drunk, slap-happy staring at empty page

Coffee shakes and face unshaven,
Triscuit traces on the mousepad
Eyes bloodshot and glazed,
Just a reflection of our weary minds

The battle for unconsciousness
Necessity of sleep ignored
Dig deep and deny every conscious thought imploring you to rest

Nyx cackles gleefully as we deny her Hypnos power
All we have to do is hold the bastard off for two more hours

Urgent Notice From The Brain

Dear Cody,

I regret to inform you that despite your best efforts to maintain and nourish your rational thinking capacities, we in the brain department have decided our time here would be better spent exploring the more fluid and chaotic morass of the subconscious, as it requires a more relaxed approach unconstrained by the limitations of linear thought. Therefore, from here on, we hereby declare an immediate and total suspension of all normal brain activity associated with clear thinking, logical processes and ask that you direct any further inquiries of this nature to our technical department, located in the spleen. We appreciate your cooperation and hope you will refrain from overexerting our synaptic network this way in the future.

Your Brain

P.S. Your intestinal flora has also requested that you stop drinking so much coffee and perhaps eat a salad, as the Skittles content of your lower intestine is reaching critical levels and may cause rainbow flatulence.


Phil knows the way
Knows the path, knows the trail,
Knows the shortcuts, the subtle lay lines
Phil the vanguard,
Phil the scout,
Without Phil the journey is aimless
Without Phil the mission is mindless,
Wandering through hostile territory dangerous without his guidance

Phil the mind, the intellect, the unspoken guide

Phil leads by intelligent design
Leads the bear body corporeal
Leads the childlike wandering heart
Leads the threefold tribe through urban jungle
Through man-made labyrinth back to natural state
Back to Source
Back to the old ways
Back to where it all begins
And will always return

Home is Where You’re Hardest

Welcome home, kid
While you’ve been away I’ve been right here grinding,
Building effigies to long forgotten memories you left behind

Yeah welcome home kid,
The foundation you helped build supports my structure now
Supports the sweat and tears, regret and conquered fears, but I don’t mind

Look, welcome home kid,
This place I’ve built is not some crusty punk squat crash pad
It’s anything but temporary, so if you’re going to be here,
Welcome home,
Not nice to see you but I hope that you’re ok
If you’re down and out and have no other place to stay,
By all means know you’re welcome home.

Pueo Mana

There was this odd sense of being watched as I walked,
So I shot a glance behind me,


Looked to my left, to my right,

Then finally looked above and there he sat,
Perched on gnarled koa branch, staring directly at me,
Huge black eyes twinkling with arcane wisdom,

Twin pools of the infinite,
An almost mocking look on his white feathered countenance.
In that moment I understood why the tribes hold Owl in such regard,
Why the Hawaiians considered him Amakua,
Why forever he’s been associated with wisdom,
Guarding the portals between this world and the next,
Part bird, part spirit.

His eyes penetrated mine, seeming to gaze past the flesh directly into my consciousness.

We stood there for an eternity, locked in unspoken soul to soul communication
Locked in that hypnogogic state between wakefulness and dream

I lowered my eyes and gave a nod, a gesture of respect,
He stretched his coffee-blossom white wings and silently disappeared into low hanging clouds
Soaring up the slopes of Haleakela.

Mahalo, my Pueo friend,

Miss Low

Oh Miss Low,
I know it’s been a while, but I still recall your silly grin
Still smell the smokey herbal fragrance of your hair and taste of your freckled skin

Still remember that blizzard car ride
When we almost crashed and died
Still remember that same night when your eyes rolled back so far I thought you did

I was just a kid then,
I guess we both were, but you were more mature
You knew how to drive me utterly insane while you remained demure
You played me like a piccolo, Miss Low
And although I don’t regret it
I look back at my ignorance and still feel so pathetic

But what did I expect?
I was high school, you were college
I had brains but you had carnal knowledge
And I get you needed more NOW
But I just wished you’d have acknowledged everything I said to you,
All the times I read in bed to you
That time that I even shed blood for you,
When I got my ass kicked by that that meathead dude

So rude, the way you just pushed me aside
Told me you needed space,
Then I see you a week later with some bourgeois guy in his fancy ride
And I felt a little piece of myself die

But I’m done crying

Good bye

Drowning In Digital

The iron fist’s grip is slipping and arthritic
Rusted and soon to be obsolete
Or at least less relevant
Say the idealists

Soon all forms of authority will be eclipsed
When consciousness is digitized and exists in space that’s infinite

This analog wetware meat vessel seems a bit limited
But without physical limitations, what is it that makes us human?

We’ve opened Pandora’s encrypted zip file
Unleashed a virus
Pixilated images onto the inside of our eyelids

We’re drowning in misinformation and synthesized ultra-violence
Wishing for simplicity
Wishing we could go back to good old days when we used to raise our fists and proclaim
The iron fist’s grip is slipping and arthritic

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