I'm Home

I am old, worn, twisted, broken, tired, and bitter.

I burned all the bridges that led back to people who betrayed me. Beautiful fires. Why stop there? So I burned all the bridges that led back to people who might betray me. Mmmmm. The flames. Still not enough. So I burned all the bridges. Yessss...

Now, I  find myself alone on an island. But I am not alone. I realize this is my island of childhood terrors, abuse, and forgotten dreams. The landscape is nothing but different shades of darkness. There is no angelic glow. There is no demonic fire. There are no shadows here because there is no light. Only an empty void of black.

I can finally lay my head.

The Flash

Smoke rises to mingle with the clouds. Weaving a blanket of grayish tendrils to cover the night sky. The sliver of a moon dances in and out of phase, playing hide and seek with my senses. Her whispers drift on the zephyr wind...

...teasing  like the gentle caress of a lover.

Walking down a lonely road

Untethered threads of chaos hang

A river I could not cross

Only you, the rest is silence

 (flash)

Gaze once

(flash)

gaze twice 

(flash)

Enchanted the third time.

Taunting mountains to rise

(flash)

Tempting seas to boil

(flash)

Beguiling all senses

(flash)

Inviting kingdoms to crumble.

(flash)

The storm is upon me...

"Light 'em up" Charlie

I got a lot of time to think as I drive. And I'm just remembering a few of the characters in my life.

1985

"Light 'em up" Charlie. A black gentleman in his mid sixties. Well spoken and always sharp dressed. The only thing that seemed out of place was the patch over his left eye. One rumor has it that he lost the eye in the game of poker. Another claims he caught a finger in the eye as he was sliding into second base. No one knows the real story except his little brother, Jimmy, and he ain't talkin'.

Charlie would always light up a cigarette and hand it to you. I thought that's where his nickname came from until I saw him stand on a pitching mound. He could still throw a 90 mile an hour fast ball.

His best friend's name was Frosty. No one knew if that was his birth name or nickname. He was just "Frosty" to everyone. I think it was his snow white hair. There are legends that Frosty rode every train in North America (that includes Canada and Alaska). He claims to have met Casey Jones, Jack Kerouac, and a bastard offspring of Cornelius Vanderbilt. That would put frosty in his late 80s to his early 90s. But I tell you, he was sharp as a tack and could weave a tale.

I met them both under a bridge near a railroad in Colorado Springs, Colorado. 

...more to come

No More Lies

The darkness has returned. Suffocating. Shadows confine my breath to a claustrophobic panic. There is no one there, yet the silence offers a deafening roar. Taunting. Begging for blood. A rhythmic chant to end the chaos. Will tonight be the night that I silence to howling winds that stir the ashes of madness? 

Love was always someone else's lie, but my truth. A thief of hearts. A stealer of dreams. Warm lips offered a promise of truth. Cold steel offers the truth of a promise. No more lies. 

One is not destroyed with the truth of a cold steel sword. One dies by the warm promise of a lover's  lie.

Texas State Board of Examiners of Psychologists

I have a question for the Texas psychology ethics committee. 

How often do you overlook a married woman sleeping with a married man while she is supervising him getting his LPC license. And said forty years  old man is also cheating on his wife with a seventeen year old? 

I am just curious. I sent letters, emails, and other correspondence, as well as phone recordings between the two. It was all ignored.

This is far from over. I will take it as far as I have to. I will bring down your board if necessary. 

15 years ago, money gave them the advantage. Now, time has tipped in my favor. 

1974

I once knew a boy who was eight years old. He existed in the murky, unsettling waters of a nightmare. He was ugly, scrawny, and stayed to himself. He was beat up on a daily basis because he was white. As he grew, he failed to realize why his skin color was a curse.

He loved history. The tales of the Arabian Nights. King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. He believed in love and heroes. His aspiration was to become a hero. He knew he would spend his life trying to help people.

One day, he was at his nanny's house. All the other kids were younger than him, so he was allowed to stay up and help the nanny prepare snacks. 

Aunt Coot went outside to hang up close on the clothes line. He heard a noise from one of the back rooms of the house. He went to investigate. Two teenage black boys were doing something to a younger black girl. She looked over at him and started pushing the two boys away, telling them to stop. Even though they were bigger than him. He thought this was his chance to be a hero. He jumped in the room and told them to leave her alone. He did not realize they had no clothes on.

The two boys turned their attention to him. They jumped on him and dragged him to the floor. The young girl walked by and kicked him and called him a stupid white boy. Midway through their physical and sexual assault Aunt Coot returned. She had a broom in her hand and started beating one of the boys. The assaulted boy grabbed the brick that was holding the door open and hit the other attacker  in the head. Aunt Coot gave him a little checkup and doctored him up a little. She apologized profusely. She asked him if he could not tell anyone. She told him that child sitting was her source income. She was very poor. 

He mentioned it to one other adult and was told not to say anything because it would divide the town. He kept it to himself for years.

That little boy was me.

And there began my infatuation with death and suicide.

I don't want your fucking pity. I'm just letting you know why I stand where I do, protecting children.

Room 2A

Finally, the long drive was over. Detective P. Bear pulled into the cheap hotel where he had tracked the killer. It was going to be a long night. 

The sweat of 800 miles of asphalt, with no AC, to wash off in the shower would have to wait. First a shot of Jameson. Irish whiskey had been his sidekick since his partner had been shot 10 years ago. The cold-blooded bastard, Jeffries,  had killed  his partner his wife  and their daughter.  For what?  For a stereo  and a little silver. Or that was the story that was released. Bullshit!

As the warm whiskey slowly crawled down his throat, the cold rain fell outside. "How poetically...perfect," he mused. Phineas upholstered  his Sig and laid it on the nightstand next to the bottle of Black Label on the off chance Jeffries went hunting before dawn. Methodically, he placed his knife near the Sig, before removing his fleur-de-lis pendant given to him by his son. 

"Damn it," he thought, "why hasn't she called? It's been 2 days." He had met the woman of his dreams 2 years prior and they had fallen in love. "Focus, man, focus! The times finally here! Ten long years I've awaited this moment. I hope I don't have to shoot him. I want to hurt him real bad, and then let the judge have him." Phineas took another sip of whiskey and relived the memories of he and his partner touring in Central America and the late 80s.  They've been through High School, boot camp and the jungle together. They had decided to remain a team as law enforcement officers after their enlistment was up.

P felt migraine coming on. He grabbed the bottle of "amber answers" and tried to get to make sense of it all, but he knew there was no means to justify the end of life. He had seen enough death in the jungles of Columbia.

Written Dec 31, 2017