Nobody is born to fly

we first grow wings

and test the tides

The tides gets greedy

consumes our pride

The forge, the hammering

The will to fight

blisters and withers

from rust to shine

As time solidifies,

strength magnified.

The tide we were quondam denied.

Took refuge beneath our arms

We’ve grown to fly

born dependent

Now we rule the sky

Embrace your wild

It’s the ony way to survive

What a fool is a man who inquires,

"Where can I find happiness?"

As his child slumbers in his arms,

Yet we are all dense, hypocrites,

For who among us ages untainted?

Blame entertains two parties minimum,

We often hold the antidote; truth

Yet most let it spoil, sit unused,

Unwilling to waiver infectious appetite,

Truth sets free only those who seek,

Habitual creatures scurry deeper,

Quaffing toxins, fantasies ruminated,

Knowledge scours blinding hot,

Searing throes, but begetting sage wights,

Muscle accrued moiling limits,

Pressure induces reform,

Holding back increases tension,

Though forsaken, verity will ascent victor.

Deep in the Ecuadorian rainforest, shaded forever from light by a dense canopy formed beneath the ever drip, drip, dripping leaves of a thick and ancient stand of kapok trees, rooted in the rotted, but vitamin rich vegetation that lies atop the mud-slick slime that must do for soil in this fetid place, grows a malodorous, mushroom shaped fungi that if ever swallowed by man will prove to be the cure for all that physically and mentally plagues him in this world... if only he could ever find it, and once found pick the slimy thing from the ground, and once picked be curious enough, brave enough, and hungry enough to put the disgusting thing into his mouth, chew it up, and swallow.

If only ever. Sigh...

Dear Universe, I know it's been a while,

but please believe I miss you more each turn.

Foul poison blurs my eyes and dims your smile

while noise pollution warps your dulcet chirp.

I reach for you with hands that have been singed,

for fires rage; my greens have all turned brown.

New tears mingle in chasms that are tinged

with refuse of a staggering amount.

This infection grows more deadly by the day,

so potent I can't neutralize the threat.

I beg of you, send help; please don't delay-

fatigue is setting in and my core sweats.

My tongue thirsts for a speedy remedy.

Love, Earth, your planetary rarity.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Earth, I'll send the antidote at once,

and please forgive my inattentiveness.

As soon as this expansion work is done,

we'll be together- no more emptiness.

I miss your facets gleaming in the rays

a rich, sweet depth no other planet shows.

It saddens me to hear you fight malaise,

so please dispense this tonic I've composed.

Your symptoms should abate with the first dose,

but balance will take eons to restore.

Repeat as needed; culling must not slow,

for parasites will ravage, paramour.

I wish you well in your recovery.

Yours Always, Universe, my sweet lovely!

Neighbors have moved in. I watch them from my window; they are the picture of health. When the sun touches their skin, it radiates beauty; when the sun touches my skin, it stings – just a little. That’s what I remember.

The new neighbors’ skin resemble a pastry baked to perfection; my skin is pale – grey almost – and flaky. It looks like the flesh of a fish before putrefaction begins. I’m diseased. I don’t know if I acquired this disease or if it is a product of my body’s malfunction, but I know I am sick. I can feel it coursing through my veins, increasing in strength with every passing day.

I stand at my window and watch, peering through the spaces between the boards that I’d used to conceal myself from the world. I only venture outdoors at nights, when I’m sure that the world is asleep. And even then, I don’t venture too far from my sanctuary.

Before today, I never had neighbors; but I never risked walking too far from my home. I didn’t want to run into someone who’d walked too far from theirs. I knew that if they saw me, even if it was just a glimpse, they would’ve feared what they saw – they would’ve feared catching my disease. I can’t blame them though; I’d give anything to be healed of it, but I can’t seem to find the cure. I watch the new neighbors and try to remember what it feels like to be whole.

It has gotten harder to do that, remember what it feels like to be whole. Everything around me reflects my disease. The boards that shield the inside of the house, from the outside, are grey and weathered – much like the skin that protects my insides. The desks, chairs, and tables are strewn with newspapers that are at different stages of aging. The air that I breathe, carries an odor. The odor hangs on the air like it’s a conjoined twin. Eau de decay, perfumes every room of the house.

The smell is suffocating, but I seem to resist its attempt to limit my intake of oxygen. I suppose decay can’t kill decay. Rotten things must stick together. Or maybe the odor is mine so it can’t kill its source, just issue a reminder of its presence.

Ding! Dong! My doorbell rings.

I don’t know how to respond to this new development. My new neighbors are at the door. I haven’t spoken to anyone in years; I fear that I’ve forgotten how.

Ding! Dong! The doorbell rings again.

If I don’t answer, they’ll just go away.

Ding! Dong!

I hear a shuffle and footsteps moving away from the house.

It’s night and my neighbors have retired for bed. I’d watched from my window as they busied themselves with their nightly activities; then settled in for the night. I open the door to my house and see a container accompanied by a note, on my doorstep. I open the container first. A plain cake, the perfect shade of brown, greeted me. I smile, I haven’t done that in a while. I read the note: We’re your new neighbors. I’m not much of a baker, but I hope you enjoy our hello gift. Feel free to drop by for a visit anytime.

I have the urge to go outside when the sun is out. I wonder if it still stings.

He cautiously stepped inside, and looked around the room. The room felt cold~ it was quite strange since it was a bright, & sunny day.

‘‘Sire. I have received word from the messenger. He says that the house of Svorth is ready to form an alliance.’’

The Lord smiled and sighed. He took his sword and placed it in his most trusted friend and knight’s hands.

He tried to speak, but his voice was weak. ‘‘I don’t have much time— I need you to make sure that my family is ready to live without me.’’

The knight shook his head. ‘‘There’s still time, Sire. You can make it to see the shaman.’’

The King then heard voices calling to him. He gazed at the knight and told him to hurry.

The knight instead helped the King to stand on his feet. The King chuckled, and said, ‘‘You’ve always been so kind to me my friend.’’

The King tried to keep up in step with the knight. The knight led the King to the enchanted forest.

There they sat by the edge of the forest and waited for the sun to set. The King watched his last sunset. He began to weep and asked the knight to take him further into the forest.

The knight helped the king move closer to the shaman’s turf. They watched in awe as they moved further deep into the forest that each place they left a footprint- a flower bloomed. It was such a beautiful sight!

They soon came across a tiny cottage and before they even stepped by the front door, an elderly woman came to greet them. She beamed with joy and clapped her hands.

‘‘To what do I owe the pleasure of King Tarin the wise coming to seek my advice?’’

The King laughed and then clapsed his hands. He asked the shaman to find him a cure for his malaise.

The shaman began to chant. A gust of wind swirled around the King and he was carried off the ground. The knight tried to pull the King, but the shaman raised her hand and the knight found himself on his knees.

The King felt a wave of energy surge through his body. It made him feel filled up with new strength. He felt the wind’s power begin to slowly fade.

The shaman then bowed her head. Her work was done.

The knight rose to his feet and as soon as he did the King was standing right by his side. The King’s face seemed to be shining like the sun.

When they looked for the shaman, she was gone. Even her cottage had vanished into thin air.

#LaCura.

4/4/2020~Sat’rday

I told 'em life is pain, and I've got the cure.

Life is pain and I've got the cure.

It's nine millimeters wide,

Make's a racket that's hard to ignore.

They say it ain't so bad, you'd best be sure.

It ain't so bad, you'd best be sure.

I said the devil's got few friends,

Might as well give him one more.

Then they'll out me in the cold hard ground.

Then they'll put me in the cold hard ground.

And maybe things will get better,

But I won't know if I'm not around.

Years of aspirations I'll have killed.

Years of aspirations I'll have killed.

And all in the flash

Of a nine-millimeter pain pill.

Everyone had a call. The call of the wild. The call of other people. The call to write. The call to help. The call for a partner.

As everyone set out of their sheltered space, they sent out that call or followed a call. Each one found their call in the least likely places, the strangest places, in the remotest places, or, after searching for so long, in the places closest to home.

Then one day, the calls stopped. The front door simply did not open. An insidious and invisible banner everywhere said 'Not allowed' and that could be in or out of the front door. Now, the call is embedded in every psyche as they yearn for something outside that front door: The call.

It took another form, as if always it was there but so many people just hid under a ton of commutes, competitions, and silly errands that have become a 'must' or some spoiled soul somewhere will not have their daily dosage of something. Now, the call is out of breath.

The call remains human. As people set out in life, they ask the same question: 'What now?" Some say they will discover the world which has been discovered a thousand times over. Some believe they will find the miracle cure. Some think that the next bestseller will be produced by their hand. And some fantasize that that absent crush will one day be part of their daily lives. Some other people's call is that they will change the world.

But the call has been buried under a collective call. All can now do the same, act the same, deliver the same becuase the one common feature for the call is technology. Now, calls can travel faster than a speeding bullet. And in a minute there is a celebration or chaos.

As people went into their sheltered spaces, now considered vaults, they think what is their call. Did they ever send it out there? Has anyone ever received it? Did those who received it respond? Suddenly, the most distant became the closest because the governing factor is fear.

The call that everyone yearns for is the other. Calls get interrupted by mythology. These people are harder than those people. These people are lazier than those people. These people get it more than those people. Then when the time came for everyone to get locked up, none of these people are better than those people. They're just: People.

Where is the call that so many have learned when they were young? Namely, that they are not alone. Namely, that they have a neighbour and they have to be neighbourly to them. And their neighbours have neighbours and they need to be neighbourly to them And as these times have led to a chain reaction, so should have this lesson of childhood done.

Except some authorative entity interrupts the calls, and sends onmiscient messages that they are the grand protector, and little else matters after that. Now comes the time where every little thing else but that actually matters. What matters the most is the call. The call to stay alive. The call to thrive. The call, for the first time in everyone's conscious diary of history, ALL matter.

Differentiation matters little. The poor are poor. The helpless are helpless. The diseased are diseased. Everyone's call now is the same. Is it a miracle? Or has it been there all along, and we have seen tyrants, guised as saviours, ravage cities for domination and wealth and all we could do was to cry out the call? As we have seen obscenity masquersde as humility, tear a hole in humanity's wall, just to raise the call and see those worldly fall?

It's always been there. In our souls. In our humanity. The call was interrupted. Maybe through silence in our homes, we are closer now to fulfilling the call.

when I was 6, not so long ago, I loved bugs.

every school break, I would find myself in the schoolyard, looking for the finest bugs I could find...

and spoiling then rotten- I built them houses with little chais, and gardens, full of lush greenery , and large ” swimming pools”- which I used , every so often ,by taking a handful of bugs, And shoving them into the water, letting them “swim around” as much as they could.

it took me at least another two years to realize that by putting said bugs in my “swimming pool” , I was killing them. But I still loved bugs. I wanted to avoid hurting them.

I no longer made “swimming pools” for little bugs . Instead , I invested myself into learning . Learning-as much as I could -about them.

I loved it .

I discovered , for example, that ants- had whole kingdoms underground!They had queens and warriors, and could even carry food much heavier than their weight! I read in awe ,as I discovered the many wonders of the bugs .I loved them. like a child would love his dog , cat, or maybe even his best friend.

but as I grew older, more kids around me became afraid of bugs. It baffled me. they would torture them, unstoppably, and if I couldn’t rescue the bugs-they died within seconds.

i remember , in the third grade , I slapped a girl- because she was killing ladybugs. I was never naughty at school- So this was a shocking occurance.

when My teacher realized why I did it, she praisend me.

i wasn’t proud.

since then , I only wished for an antidote to hatered. To cruety. I wished there was a pill that others could take, that Would transport them into the amazing world of bugs , and then, they would love them- Just as I loved them. And they wouldn’t be killed. In a way, that dream never faded. And, as much as i can, I try to be my own antidote. By teaching, or learning, wherever I can.

There’s a time for death

and for rebirth,

A time for sadness

and for mirth,

As one story ends

one is retold,

I’ll slay the dragon

to get the gold,

I’ll destroy my world

and then rebuild,

I’ll commit the sin

and atone the guilt,

I’m willing to break

to be made anew,

I’ll crawl through hell

just to get to you,

You’re my poison

and the antidote

You’re the reason I sink

and the reason

......I float