creative writing

Spelunking

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If you’ve reached the highway, you’ve gone too far.

Off the beaten path,

finding the entry

among the boulders.

Descend with sure footing,

and with friends–

you all keep your senses sharp.

Don’t lose focus,

help will be hard-pressed

to find you here.

Curiouser, and curiouser,

your whispers echo above your heads,

graffiti disrespectfully lining

the interior, sparse now.

Few and far between are those intrepid enough

to venture here.

The sound of running water,

trickling from above, splattering on the ground

the air is electric,

undiscovered.

Torches aloft,

cavernous,

closed off, wide open.

Verdant moss,

refracted through crystal pillars

jutting out,

shimmering scaffolding and glowing obelisks

in the underground oasis.

Barren and full of life,

keep your wits about you,

you are here,

where no one’s been.

Horror Body

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Unwrapped, noticeably blemished all over

you have seen too much,

the true form

is hard enough

to comprehend.

Watchful pupils, scanning sniffingly

up and down, over and over,

“doc will be with you soon,”

those eyes have seen enough

to know.

They say, imply,

“good luck.”

Good luck with that.

Same color as raw chicken,

let me hide away,

from the poking,

the prodding.

Enough examination,

because I am as God made me.

Corrupted.

You have seen enough,

writhing, throbbing and enflamed.

New growth springs forth,

talons, tentacles and praying mantis scythes.

One half shrieking, swinging, making a scene,

the other scurrying up the wall,

into the vent,

undetectable.

You have seen too much.

Cliffs

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Windswept, chiseled over millennia –

monolith, monument to forces far beyond

our domain.

Lonesome giant,

against the cavernous sky.

Outcropping to outcropping,

alongside trees gnarled in crevices,

I scale the sun-bleached walls.

The wind is at my back,

falling rubble

meets a fate only it can withstand

tumbling from near-heaven, careening against

the side of the cliffs.

Little stands between death and I,

turning back, is no longer an option.

Surefooted,

may my hands guide the way,

the sun beats down on my face.

To the sky I announce,

“I will meet you in the middle.”

The summit seemed impossible

until it was in my grasp.

Now, how to get

back down?

Wrung-Dry

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A little pressure with a twist,

might seem painful at first,

but maybe it will do my soul

some good.

What’s the worst that can happen?

The tension acts upon you more,

the longer you carry it.

And catharsis takes shape in many different ways,

but it’s never a walk in the park,

never a spring breeze.

It won’t come easily,

but if it did,

would it be worth it?

Only when empty

is the vessel most useful,

put down what you carry

if it has become too burdensome.

You are stronger than you know,

without what holds you back.

If it must hurt,

and sometimes this is so,

know that the pain is so much better,

than what preceded it.

On Hope & On The Future

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Pandora’s box

did not

come with explicit enough

instructions.

Read it cover-to-cover:

three pages,

two words,

“hang on.”

Goddamn it.

I try – and fail – to not overthink it.

The sky is red again today.

But I know that

right as I’m about to crack,

I will break through.

Sure enough,

it all cleared up.

Time for a change in direction!

Cassandra pleads with me

not to go through with it.

Lays out every uncomfortable truth

about

what I’ve done and yet to do

in immaculate detail.

What is certain to

occur, in divine mathematically-precise

tea-leaf readings.

I can only doubt her.

Spent the next few days

on fool’s errands,

running directly into

the current,

asking every one going the opposite

way “how about that weather,”

and they smile and nod,

going about their day.

I never saw it coming.

Anyone

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You were never the same after

any time we met

face to face.

Irreplaceable, you

nevertheless had a knack

for adaptation.

The pattern shifts,

fades to black,

and you vanish in the night sky.

Where are you?

Footsteps 20 paces away

have I gone —

I shouldn’t say.

There you are,

done something new

with your hair?

The more things change

the more they stay the same,

you hide in plain sight.

Can’t shake this feeling

that I’m being watched,

at least have the courtesy

to tell me whether fight or flight

are reasonable.

Unbelievable, you

the same acrid wine

with a new skin for every

day of the week.

On Trusting

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You could, at any time,

crush me

inadvertently,

with a look

or a phrase.

Yet,

we find ourselves in this position

by way of

invitation.

Step right up,

take your coat off,

stay a while.

Unvarnished,

and in confidence,

our inner machinations

laid bare.

I could,

at any time,

disappear.

But there’s nothing to

run from.

I see the rust in your joints,

you ascertain that I

have bugs in my software.

It’s in our nature

to ask until we know,

but knowing isn’t understanding.

Trust cannot be simulated,

or substituted,

only experienced.

In so doing,

we could —

without realizing it —

lift each other up,

just by being ourselves.

Beelzebub

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Air abuzz with whorls of

black fog, thick diesel smoke

composed entirely of

highly aggressive horseflies.

He has arrived,

the infestation.

Mandibles gnashing,

fitting perfectly,

purpose built like lock and key,

into exposed skin.

A manifestation

of discordance,

the smell of carrion.

They land in your hair,

flap beside your ears,

brush against your arms.

Their presence felt

even when you don’t feel them

somehow elusive,

and ever-present

at once.

The morning star looms

in the dawn.

I bat the flies away,

but that only seems

to anger them.

Chaos for the sake of it.

How do we know

when evil has lost,

when evil has no plan?

Creature of Habit

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Wake up,

and follow the rut downstairs.

Check the wall

of broken clocks,

and go to your favorite haunt

when the time is right.

It’s an acquired taste,

repeatedly smashing your head

into a brick wall,

but eventually you see

what the hubbub

was all about.

But you grow weary

in a moment of clarity,

and decide to spice things up.

You always do this.

Locals gather at the watering hole.

You take a big swig,

notes of minerals, calcium

and chlorine.

The bartender cuts you off

after 9 glasses

and an hour and a half

in the bathroom.

You spend half the night pacing,

reflecting on what you would have

done differently.

Wake up,

and follow the rut

downstairs.

Corruption

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Cooked books adorn a silver platter,

brazen.

Watch for trap doors,

and red herrings

that lead you down spiraling pathways

to dead-ends.

Birds of a feather,

buzzards, stick together,

so long as they all

get a little piece

of the rot.

Charitable of them

to self-deal

with their cronies.

They all move

in the same circles,

overhead.

They let you navigate

their maze, sniffing,

dare you to chase them away,

then become untouchable,

chickenhawks.

A blurred face

need not be saved.

I cannot tell

whether they’re turning a blind eye,

or looking

right through you.