Motorcoach careening off a cliff from a desert highway. The hum and grind of engine and gears and grease permeate the auditory landscape of orange / tan powder, dust, and sand (and rocks). And all the driver says his foot on the gas, all the way down so that the pedal is even with the floor, the bus accelerates in such a fashion that the hum of the engine crescendoes with each passing gear, until it is at fever pitch, humming straight on second to the right and well, straight on ’til morning. When the cliff comes and the bus becomes Wylie Coyote momentarily standing on thin air, the noise cuts out. And before the bus falls, there is a groan of metal and parts, as if they know what’s about to happen, a last dying breath on the wind of the damned, exasperated and annoyed, for this is not what they were supposed to be used for. But maybe also tiredness, like how this driver is tired. Skating Peppermint Patty in jacket, hat, and scarf and (mittens). The wreck is loud and fiery.


Struck down by hand and kicked by foot. Violence pervades my psyche right now as I imagine bungee jumping from the highest peak of the Himalayas. Sno-caps in movie theatre thin cardboard boxes before tickets cost you your firstborn child. That childlike sense as a kid of everything being right and good in the world – It is illusive perspective, yet better than the alternative. Raspberry red carpet rolls out like a tongue of a carnival arcade game, or the last hole in a game of mini golf on the rooftop of the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk, where I begged my parents to let me tried shaved ice because the picture on the cart looked so good. They never relented. I never had it.

Struck, like a shock. Like a “I-can’t-believe-this-is-happeneing” flashpoint light bomb tear gas nightmare. Terrifying PTSD nightmares with no end confirmed. Searching outward, never ending. I see the flat palm, like Batman hitting Robin in those memes. It is swift and decisive. Like a karate chop hand cut across. Rolling dice on the pavement. Moving the wind with that chop. It’s not nice. It’s rude and unkind.


Liar slithers through as a vine unfurling and blossoming into poisonous buds. At first going undetected on the forest floor, but soon finds a tree to climb on and elevates itself so that it has become one with something it is not. Black magic smoke. Coughing and gagging while purple pixie dust sprinkles down from two clapped hands as a smoke screen diversion from the main event. I am marvelously gutted. I don’t like the way lies make me feel. I don’t like this depressive fatigue, this cloud, hanging heavy, belly swollen and full of rain. Through a parade with two baking / cookie sheets being slapped together in makeshift simples, cymbals – The trust, the truth will out. Shakespeare sloppily jotting a line as he’s heading out the door, shoving a piece of toast into his pie-hole. The quill scratches and is nearly out of ink. He pulls on his shoes one at a time, jumping up and down. Late for school. Playing hooky. Scraped knees and sugar pervades the day. Crevasse, pitch blank and narrow. It is uncharted territory not on any map. Uncomfortable knowledge in silence and not coming forward. It is reverse Clockwork Orange in terms of its own morality or lack thereof.


“It isn’t fair”. Equilibrium Libra justice. The center. The verdict doesn’t feel right. Not fair. Cheater, cheated, cheating, cheetah runs faster than any animal I have never seen with my own eyes. Fair as in campground, carnival tent with calliope music on a forever spinning carousel. Knee-deep in cotton candy and popcorn. Silly surprises and prizes. But when I lose that arcade game, it just isn’t fair. I feel wronged. The world seems to have misplaced its axis. Stone steps of a courtroom, imposing, impressive, and terrifying. The body rattles like it’s in the arms of a baby. Shooting star in the sky demonstrates lost dreams. A hopeless comets, whizzing across star-studded sky. Can you ask her what her favorite ice cream flavor is? Bird seed mad dash from the yard. Tripping over untied shoe laces. Not getting the car. Not getting the girl. Getting a bad grade. These high-school lensed perspectives seem like the most realistic time for me to say those types of juvenile injustices aloud.


Path – A word so loaded I’m not quite sure what to do with it. Joseph Campbell and The Early November sipping victory tea on a wooden coffee table. It is large and round and made of oak and mahogany. The lighting is warm. Dirt roads. Sir Gawain and The Green Knight. Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table. They each took a path through the forest that was their own and not yet claimed, for it would have been non-chivalrous to adventure forth on a path someone else had already set, already created. We are all on our own path. We must make our own way. There will be triumph, and despair, and helpers. There will be distance covered and many suns and moons traversed. We can do big things, accomplish big things. Barefoot on the dirt, softly following forth. Like an old Alabama road in the early morning hours of summer. When in the dark, you could imagine that the dirt is moon dust and this is not Earth anymore, Toto. The holoship. Star Trek: Insurrection. Mild encompassing everlasting tribute. The films that will not be forgotten. A Greek naval vessel. Spartans and Athenians. I have so much yet to learn. There is so much yet to be covered. Port Authority Transit Hub.