Connections

Where The Autumn Sings


My name is Forest Green, but my eyes are heavy blue. I taste of rust, and smell of smog.

I remember dreaming, but only of one thing.

The sound of the falling fall around me.

And Falling.

And falling still.

And stretching vast under a forgiving sun where I first loved. Where I first found God.

And the gentle friction of rain eroding it all away. Where I became fond of the depths of loneliness, of realities. The somber place where I first lost Him.

I remember the cold autumn snap of my broken heart. I remember daring it to beat again.

I remember the jolt of electricity when I failed to breathe. The erratic grasping of trying to gasp again. The silent calmness when it was finally all undone.

This is the tune of my loss. Its echo keeps me company, but only at times such as these. When my words stir the leaves like the brisk November wind.

I play it out on my walkman, for I cannot afford an iPod.

It is insanity I know, to think like this. To take these meandering jaunts through meadows and mind.

To lose myself, to my meaningless meanings. To lose myself, to you.

Should you ever come to find yourself lost upon a wooden trail? With naught but the relevance of times past to cloud your thoughts. Dear friends, a solemn word of advice. Never attribute the sound of snapping twigs under foot. Unto the collapse of your love.

For will you ever walk reminded.

Instead imagine it as that thoughtless wind upon your back. For as persistent as it may be you will only ever pause to consider. When the occasional gust blows off your top hat.

This is how I came to sit on this old oak swing. This is how I came to tell you my tale.

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It is a strange juxtaposition. This half blazed cigarette ignored in one hand, and the vibrant green foliage upon which I stare.

I imagine the leaves cowering back from fear of an ancient death remembered. As if this billowing smoke represented some engulfing fire from their distant past.

I imagine my lungs feel much the same. I rationalize the thought by my desire to not disturb the pristine living floor with the ashes of my butt.

I dare not add even a tinge of humanity here, especially mine own. So instead I swing. Careful to not let my feet sweep the ground, but eventually they must.

I stop this self indulgence, only for a minute, as I remove my Nike tennis shoes. My socks to follow. Much satisfied I finally allow my feet to come to rest. Digging my toes into the dirt. Like the roots of my oaken ride. Absorbing the nutrients, and timeless memories that only nature can afford.

This is how a man convinces himself he is stoic. That he is one with the infinite beat of the universe.

This is how a man convinces himself to forget why he has come here. If only for a brief eternal moment.

Decidedly determined to face reality. A new moment burgeoning to life. Beckoning a spiraling mind unto the task at hand.

The silt between my toes changes into the beach sand of a memory. A time with laughter. A time entrenched with a playful forgetfulness of nature. A time with her.

It has been so hard, and taken so much time to arrive at the place where I can speak of this longing. Of my very own Forest fire. Pardon the terrible pun.

I have been lost to the springs of my past. The yesterdays that were full of life. It is past time for me to embrace the autumn of today.

Her name was Broadway Lights, and her eyes were of soft iron. She tasted of flowers, and smelt of a cleansing rain

The Depths of Forget


I look out of my ivory tower unto a bustling city landscape. The dreary gray beauty of mankind's creations. These cities have become my exile. A dirty prison where I have chosen to lock myself away. Chosen to forget the marvels of the natural world, because that is where she awaits me. Because that is where mine, hers, and your infinite meanings converge to tell a sad, beautiful tale.

Yet, poorly shackled within me still resides the longing of a man. And there are the nights of madness, memories, and melancholy where I return to that place. My midnight rendezvous with nature. When I daringly set aside my callousness to stride some forgotten park. To vaguely relive some forgotten dream.

These moments are when I pause to remember. When from deep within stirs a life that once empowered my world. The remnants of a sun that for a brief eternity gave life to the cold outreaches of my being. Its swollen shell is the only warmth that remains within my darkened universe. A dying star that now resembles a candle I huddle around. Even as sad as it's dying pulses have become. It's still the only reason I continue through my arctic days.

With this diary of all that is, was, or will ever come to pass, in my calm embrace. I set to the task of putting to words our philosophy that was created by our darling lives. But how does one explain loss? How does one explain the meaning of nothingness, and that which springs from embrace?

I find my merely mortal musings inadequate, but I write them anyway. It is all I have left to give. She, after all, deserves a place in the record of history. We all do.

Even if it is written by merely a broken man.

This great mountain of burden causes my body to shudder. Causes my body of work to bear the signs of its stress.

A fissured soul bears the marks of emptiness. This crevice of unspeakable cries out, to the curious, for exploration. I ignore their cries like a man ignores the wind.

Tis a heavy life. Yet, still I stand.

I have given up, or away, everything I have ever loved. And only that which has returned are worthy of the words.

Tis an old truism. Yet, still they stand.

How does one engage that in which is lost? How does one describe those infinite holes?

Does he exclaim, "It is fairly big, it is immensely deep."

Does he lament, "You should have seen the contents. I remember them only as some beauty lost. I remember only the tragedy of its birth."

I suppose we all come to accept our pock-marked surfaces. As merely some forgotten piece of the whole. Eventually we come to forget their meaning as we trudge forward.

Except, of course, when we are alone.

Alone, I wish to pay remembrance to these black holes of nothingness. These, beyond human understanding, existences that swallow our past moments. Only to spew forth our new beginnings.

I wonder if this is what I have become for you. For us all.

A black wind of erasure. Not the chalk board, nor its proofs. Merely a way to lose the moment, so you may once again be reborn. I shall swallow your yesterdays, regardless of the cost.

What is the price of becoming such a figure?

It is dear, dear friends. Trust in this. For as your memory, I cannot create my own.

I place the leather tome of all and nothing gently on the weathered, cast-iron bench by my side. Like a solemn prayer I close my eyes to ready myself to leave this place. To let the cool night air evaporate these cherished tears. To say some soothing words to coax these emotions back from whence they came.

But the only thing I ever hear is her gently, chiding words, "You loved once, and here I will always return."



My Authors Dream



Her name was Broadway Lights, but I had stumbled upon her in the still, black of night. She was circling frantic, and dancing excited with her arms. All the while reciting some beckoning words that reached back from some bygone age to stir my curious soul. I remember edging closer. Hushed from fear that she would stop.

Her nervous fidgeting belied the steady pace of her dainty, yet firm voice. Like nectar on a cold day.

"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."

It was many years before I learned from where those words came. Shakespeare's Macbeth. I must have read it now a thousand times. I am still unsure why she seemingly rehearsed a man's part. Except to say that she must have enjoyed how it sounded, or was merely ambitious beyond her gender. Maybe it was both.

To this day, when I stop to rest, I can still make out those words. They whisper in the wind. It was as if God had sent some portend for my end of days, that fateful night. Every night I still cup my hands to ears whenever I feel a chilled breeze.

Thus it was that those words were what first enchanted me. Like some siren knowing my precise song. Knowing that I would find relevance in them. Knowing I find relevance in all things.

"Would you like a cigarette?"

She was not the least bit startled by my appearance, or my question. So I knew that somehow she had known I was there. Which, truth be told, startled me. As much as such a thing is possible.

"I don't smoke thank you very much. You shouldn't be out in the park after hours. You could get into trouble you know." She stated as matter of factly as she could manage.

"Your here," I countered.

"Well I have a purpose."

She said it so poignantly. As if she were certain that I had none.

"Sometimes I pace. It helps me clear my mind to think on things.", trying to rebut her unspoken claim.

"Really? What is it you're thinking about at 1:00 a.m. in the morning? Rape maybe?"

I could not help but grin. Nor did I have time to care how she would take it.

"I was thinking about tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. Much to the detriment, I find, of today."

She moved closer. With the narrowed eyes of consideration. To judge whether I mocked her, or maybe if I was indeed a predator.

I can still feel the naked shock in her eyes, "Just how old are you?"

I dared not lie, "I am no longer certain."

"Heh! I didn't mean to offend you. It's not that you look that old really. It's just.."

"I was not offended. It is a simple...truth. I do not know when I was born. Or even if I am dead as we speak. In fact I do not know who, or what, I am at all anymore."

Certain that this would have her scurrying off to find the comfort of some city street light. Yet, she stood stark against my darkening persona.

To be truly surprised in this life is such a rare and wonderful gift. So it was, on this night, I felt gifted by the universe as she rushed over to me. I was too shocked to move. Caught too unawares. She kissed me then. Kissed me unafraid. Kissed me passionately. Many times had my lips embraced another. Yet passion was something I had never known. Nor had any answer for.

It was the gift of life, of creation, given on that night. For suddenly, from the depths of a cold, dark universe, sparkled something. Suddenly warmth radiated from my mouth to warm my face.

She pulled away suddenly, but a change remained.

Smiling brightly to herself, she excitedly pointed up. "Look the fireflies are glowing orange tonight! It looks like the tip top of a campfire. With its tiny embers floating away to become the stars."

It would seem that there were many signs on this night. Yet some I simply choose to ignore.

"They are nice aren't they?"

Her gaze was naive, and as such, perhaps, the only thing that was ever able to penetrate me.

"You must be the loneliest man I have ever known."

She caught my breath. Motionless, reflected, and suddenly deeply, deeply sad, "A title befitting a king I suppose. My cup runneth over, but never out."

This is how I remember our meeting. Or maybe how I paint it in my author's dream.

Some would call our encounter, chance and nothing more. Some attribute it's preciseness to a prescient presence that is all the atoms acting in accord.

I would simply say that in that moment, I was lucky in love.



Where the Leaves Still Burn



When I am awake I do not remember my dreams. I cannot, or I could not bear the beat of my heart. That is not to say, however, that glimmering ghosts do not find their way from hidden closets to haunt me.

And when their unearthly chants for our reunion grows neigh unbearable. I will readily admit to finding comfort where I can.

I slam the glass down hard, because three Jack Daniels in and I can still smell the fire. Still cannot close my eyes without those flickering flames waiting to embrace me.

This rough-hewn, dingy bar reminds me of the medieval tavern where my lips first kissed intoxication. Or, perhaps, that is simply some fantastical notion I read in some cliché, dime store fantasy novel. These days, as our nightly stories unfold, fiction has become to bleed into my waking life. This legend has somehow become my everyday existence.

I know who I was, but not who I will become. Because somewhere, in a distant point in my past, I lost track of the years. In fact, I am no longer sure if that devilishly, dancing inferno has stolen thirty, or three hundred years from my indifferent grasp. For when all of your days are haunted. Somehow time seems to lose its relevance.

I am, however, more than certain this bartender would peg me for closer to three thousand. My appearance dons the soot stained garb of pain. It is a heavy robe. I bend and contort to simply bear it. One thing that a lifetime of memories has taught me. Is that sorrow withers us far more surely than age.

I slam the glass down hard. Bemusing the irony of how with drink one always rediscovers the pride of youth. For I was something, once. Mankind was beholden to me as though I carried a golden chalice. As if my love were the Sun, and they a field swaying under the warmth of my embrace.

And somewhere, lost in the chaos and darkness, I recant, once again, that I certainly did know love.

This is how I have begun to walk in my own unfinished, finished yarn. To groggily blend my modern reality with a myriad of ancient brush strokes.

I slam the glass down hard, and do not despair these long-winded, brittle pages of dull gray scenery which I currently stride. For I know that even these years shall one day pass.

Quill to ink, comforted as my own author. Where love is given power, and melancholy bends time to its will. I am never the villain. For still do I love. I am never the hero. For still do I long.

There is but one thing that forever finds words. These plots may ever ebb and flow, but this fire never goes away.

My only solace in this life. Is the knowledge that six Jack Daniels in and I won't smell a damn thing.

I slam the glass down hard.

My Name Is Patience

Her name is Serenity
but she exists only outside
these doors, this mind

His name is Nessecity
and his chains do bind
He toils and waits. To couple in time.

The unceasing purpose of these words I etch. Can be only labeled as faith. A driving fate that I cannot quite put label to. For God and I have found a mutual agreement in the phrase "Out of sight. Out of mind." Although I must profess to the occasional glance to sky. To the embrace of all that is. And finding something beyond me. It is merely that I find to name such a thing, to give it a conscious soul, is a grave injustice.

For I am not one who can afford to insult fate. For passing as passing scenery suits this lone wanderers life just fine.

But then, there our these words. This recollection.

The trance like state I assume. While swaying to the gentle pounding of tennis balls. Back and forth. Back and forth. Reminds me of my grandmothers old giant clock ticking the hours of my past away.

I call them forth regardless. For they are the life I lead.

October 11th, of some year of our lord. Is the fateful night my faith finally died. A night of loss that eradicated all of my prior gains. I had finally fallen. Finally learned to love. The cold shell of my universal theorems and postulations. All of which protected me from actual experiences. Had come to melt into some distant memory. Locked away without so much as a struggle.

She meant so much more to me than some blazing passion. For her name was Broadway Lights, and the name was apt. It was like I was in some ancient, perfected play. I had suddenly become an actor, and pushed aside was the critic in the stand. She had taken away my unceasing peering into tomorrows and God(s). She lifted her hand out and pulled me willingly into the motion picture that is our waking lives. She left me, left me for a moment with only today.

And for a man whose loneliness had long since breached epic. It was a gift. One in description, it's majesty, I always fail to capture. A gift so haunting that it would forever since. Catch me peering into my yesterdays.

I was one thousand miles away when the flames called to me from across the sweeping plains. Far beyond her single bedroom apartment. Far beyond earshot of her screams. It called back from some recalled memory. Some forgotten destiny.

Thus I was already in tears when at last came that unnerving telephone ring. It drug me out of the serenity of melancholy. Beckoned me back to the day. Her mothers midnight telephone call was the last moment in time I ever held.

To this day it is all I can remember of those times. The image of life's searing fire and the desperate buzzing of telephone rings. There is nothing more, because to remember further would be my final undoing. I am already but one step from the grave.

And that is the day I began to gather the words for this work. To string together a life I barely lived. To find some desperate purpose for these brittle steps I take

Now I must put this journal down. Not forever, but just for now. For I can bare, to bare, no more. At least I hope it is only for now.

There is so much more to say. But you have born witness to the secret of my wasting, wasted existence. My burden of love.


A Fate Of Fates

Before her I was a shallow shell preoccupied by my cosmic relevance. With her I was a man possessed by passion. Engulfed by the present. Left behind was our tomorrows. Ignored was the sight granted by our Eternal. And for this I was certainly punished. The universe aligned to set me back upon the course it had deemed invaluable.

I was supposed to be the one to evolve our faith. Little could it have imagined the catastrophe it's machinations would inflict upon my fragile persona. Perhaps I should have been stronger. Let that pain fade with those locked away years. Perhaps I should have once again taken up those reins and drove the world to our destiny. Perhaps the world should go and fuck itself. For I know longer desire to be a fan of fate.

I stand here now barely a man, and barely something more. That fire melded soundly, he who loved, and he who gazed beyond to see so much more. And even right now, my voice strained with the shakiness of emotional turmoil, I know. That coincidence played as much a part as destiny. And this story I tell plays the exact same part I was supposed too. But that does not allow light to penetrate this overhanging darkness in the least.

Yet there is something left of importance that must still be revealed about this faith. What is left of the man after the Eternal Hand that weaves converges with this hand of mine to become this tattered philosophy you read.

He is left old, and sitting, still on this old oak bench. If you pass him do not judge his eyes. For he is the loneliness man you will have ever known. But he is still sitting, and still left with an occasional smile.

For I certainly did know love.

It is her memory, in as much as anything else, that drives these, my final words. That plots a new course for us all.

Maybe my purpose has been served. Perhaps I can now finally pass, or be free of the burdens of my past. Maybe some answers I am due at long last.

And shall it come to be known. That it was divine design all along. Than shall I forever find fault with God.



Set my name into this cold cauldron. Where many my fathers have passed before.

Set my memories into this vague unknown. Where many my thoughts have passed before.

Should you awake in a world my own. Then shall it be known to where I go.