Fate

Fasten your seat belt
For all is lost
We have dreamt our Dreams
And sung our Songs
And none can ward our fate
A simple thing it was
And what remains...
A simple prize
A piece of the puzzle
Not worth a moment of our lives
But advancing yet inside
Another hope bestirs my mind
The fate of all our lovers
The fate of all our friends
Collecting fragments of our fate
Together in this stretch of time
Lost with each other
on the same wild ride

Open All Night
Bruce Springsteen

Well, I had the carburetor, baby, cleaned and checked with her line blown out she's hummin' like a turbojet
Propped her up in the backyard on concrete blocks for a new clutch plate and a new set of shocks
Took her down to the carwash, check the plugs and points
Well, I'm goin' out tonight. I'm gonna rock that joint

Early north Jersey industrial skyline I'm a all-set cobra jet creepin' through the nighttime
Gotta find a gas station, gotta find a payphone this turnpike sure is spooky at night when you're all alone
Gotta hit the gas, baby. I'm running late, this New Jersey in the mornin' like a lunar landscape

Now, the boss don't dig me, so he put me on the nightshift
It's an all night run to get back to where my baby lives
In the wee wee hours your mind gets hazy radio relay towers, won't you lead me to my baby?
Underneath the overpass, trooper hits his party light switch
Goodnight good luck one two power shift

I met Wanda when she was employed behind the counter at route 60 Bob's Big Boy Fried Chicken on the front seat, she's sittin' in my lap
We're wipin' our fingers on a Texaco roadmap
I remember Wanda up on scrap metal hill with them big brown eyes that make your heart stand still

Well, at five a.m., oil pressure's sinkin' fast
I make a pit stop, wipe the windshield, check the gas
Gotta call my baby on the telephone
Let her know that her daddy's comin' on home
Sit tight, little mama, I'm comin' 'round I got three more hours, but I'm coverin' ground

Your eyes get itchy in the wee wee hours sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, woncha hear my last prayer hey, ho, rock'n'roll, deliver me from nowhere

Oddly enough it is the thing which we fear most that brings us closest to the very essence of life itself. A wolf (any animal really) knows this lesson better than any man or woman ever could. We cower and cry in the shadow of ourselves. I don't deny it. The very letters that I type are personal erected monuments to my own fear, loathing and regret. Death is meaningless beyond our own identity. Life is a state of mind. The imprisoned mockery of persona we display. Who are we to declare ourselves in the presence of something so sharp and so near?

Stupefaction is truly the last bastion the world will posit and therefore possess. "Solace in excess." What other explanation is there for it? What else do we really have to be proud of? Ask us and we will tell you, stupefied or not.
Stupefaction is the key to a life less ordinary. Oddly enough it is also the key to a life less lived.

Here's another one I wrote in my St. Louis days, daydreaming during a class. Goes to show what results not paying attention can yield. I was experimenting a bit with different registers, clumsily I might add. I guess that eventually I'll be forced to stave off my laziness and start writing some new material for this thing. Until then...

Electromagnetic Assertion

An electromagnetic assertion
pretensions slow-wheeling
coaxed into bonafide adventure.
Unlearned compostions propel
the Mystic Continuum.
Glib, but arranged.
Massive, but flaring.
Til Spring we clamber,
in frigidity plummet
both to a groundswell
and a reservoir.
Arise a convincing pioneer.
A benefited narrator.
A quest, a configuration
achieved.

'The true King's murderers are allowed to roam free and a 1,000 magicians arise in the land'

I just finished reading Stephen King's "Eyes of the Dragon." Its strange that so far the books I've liked best by him aren't horror novels at all. This one, which is a fantasy novel, and the other one I really like "The Wasteland," which is a western novel.

Its usually a bad sign if a fantasy novel (or any novel really) has the word 'dragon' in the title. Despite being a little poor on the writing side, this one is quite a page-turner and has a pretty good ending that teaches the value of good manners. The plot makes a point to take unexpected turns on the archetypal fantasy/fairy tale formula, the biggest of which is the Hero slaying the dragon in the first chapter of the epic. The true struggle for the Hero becomes raising his two sons, the protagonists of the story. The true villain is Flagg, the court magician and King's Counselor. The dude is sinister. And sinister in that cold, calculating sort of way. Scheming and manipulative. Creepy.

The book references a line from a Stephen Crane poem that I later looked up. Nothing to do with the book, really. Just thought I'd throw it out there.

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."