Words of no end


United States
34° 29' 47.4396" N, 117° 57' 36.1692" W

Shattered was the life, before the word came in
Knocked on the door, looked the fates in the eye
And said
What it has always meant but never said before
The action became the verb, and I was born
We flapped away with wings of eagles
And like greek gods we feasted and dined, until the third day
The word did not look me in the eyes, only on the horizon
There on that mount olympian and said
“we’ve never formally spoke, only pillaged and raided in Dionysis form
We had a good run you and I old sport”
And left did the word go, and with it did mine spin out of my mouth
For months I had no lyrics, nor song to lay onto the vacant Earth
And I sat til August, on a tree stump that once gave many fruits
And wondered what if I were not the only one who was desperately in love with words
In desperate love of reading and writing
I salivated a bit as I recalled the joy brought to me by singing with my
Our Minstrels before Dionysus and the gang decided to leave

And before me a swan flew down as if from the sun, the sun I’ve forgotten about
The sun thats burned my flesh as a boy and even now can do so as man
The swan flew as if swimming, finally landing on a branch on the tree I was sitting on
And spoke unto me “write child of the california son. Not for me, not for your
masters or fathers. Write but for yourself. Learn to grow in ways you’ve
never witnessed before you. Mortal” and flew off, perhaps to cancun
To grow. I spoke these words to myself. And before me a laptop flew onto me, and I was
commissioned a family. I looked to the world, just out a 4 by 5 window.
There were other like me out there. That loved with the same desperation I did, that I
still and forever will.
And every birthday of mine I go out to big sur. Eat my ritual burrito. Write a short poem or haiku. It’s a real work out to get to my favorite and hidden spot. I see the tree I sat on in my past life, I look to the west and recall the words I’ve always meant, and to paper like papyrus like stone I give them form.



Line 17 should read "n desperate love of reading, writing, and other gypsy spirits brought on by Melquiades