Wandering through Wonder

He wandered over to the patch of gnarled trees in this odd Meadow of the Riverview Cemetery. He felt like he should feel invading, but he didn’t.

There was one tree surrounded by a ring of trees, or maybe they were all one tree. He stood in the spaces of the trees and wondered, as he did with every tree he shared the shade with, what the trees’ stories were. He imagined the roots holding the bodies of unmarked people, unnamed ghosts suspended in the vacuum of the soil.
There was a spider on the tree right at his eye level and he jumped a little bit.

He looked at it, as he did with every spider he saw, and wondered what it was like to be that spider in particular. It did not move when he poked it’s long leg.
“Are you alive?” he asked aloud.
Even though the spider did not move, even though the trees did not speak, even though no ghost heard his question, he knew the answer in the silence of his curiosity. “Of course.”


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Town of Tradition

Once upon a time there was Tradition.

In this little town called Tradition, there were laws. They were laws placed down by the forefathers and foremothers that guided the dear children into narrow channels of thought. Laws that said “No! Never! Thou shalt!”.

There were always the laws on what not to do, where not to go, how not to be. Never had the inhabitants of Tradition thought of what to do with themselves, but rather instead they were too caught up in what not to do with themselves.

Oh the minds of the inhabitants of Tradition! Why were they so reluctant to see the morning sun? Why were they so unafraid of suffering and unnecessary turmoil?

I think, it is because they knew not how to live their lives. They only knew how not to live it.

So, of course, when one dreamer woke up and asked himself what he truly wanted, what it truly was to be, what the laws were there for, and if he could live his life beyond “you shall not”, of course the inhabitants of Tradition made him an idol. Of course they did this only after he was safely put away in the ground.

In Tradition, there is an illusion. There is the illusion of freedom, first and foremost. You’re free, but only if you live in Tradition, by Tradition, with Tradition, under Tradition. Only the birds could be above Tradition. The laws set parameters, the parameters set Tradition.

The people created gods who created the world which created the people. In this circle, they trap themselves with belief. There is never just the river which provides for the town. There is never just the garden which feeds the people. There are names and names give people false hope of control. They call the river Arthus and thus they feel secure. They call the garden Lopitat and thus feel as tenders to the fruit they eat.

Pride comes from that for which you work. But pride leaves you beaming and drunk of your own self. It clouds the people of Tradition like Irish fog. The rabbits that had lived in the garden before it was Lopitat are now thence treated as trespassers and are killed or run out. The wasps, which had built their nests before human was even building its loincloth, are now thence burned with fire (a discovery humanity treats as, due to pride, an invention).

In Tradition, with the river and the garden, the people drowned themselves with drinking. They suffocated and choked themselves with eating. The sky was heavy for he who came about to question beyond the words “thou shall” and “thou shall not”.


Words, words, words.

Trying to find the next one like trying to find the perfect girl. I look around the dictionary in my mind like I glance at the girls passing me on the street. I’m not looking for your body, I assure you. I am not remotely worried about sex. I search for something much deeper, something much like poetry.

Just like I dream about the perfect word, the perfect string of English droplets, I dream of the perfect girl. Nay, the perfect companion. Society has told me (in fact, all of previous evolutionary bodily desires tell me) that I search for a girl. At this point, I would want for a dog, a bird, a man, a child, an elderly lady, an alien life-form from Jupiter’s moon Titan, an octopus, whatever! I simply want for companionship.

The melding of souls like the smelting of gold. In a bowl, we spill our consciousness and drink. Through words, we manifest what the heart is already telling us. Through poetry we blossom, from the earth of our love, different colors of flowers. And understanding runs deeper through our bones than fear runs through the shivering of darkness.

Words, words, words.

That is all that I am doing. I word here, I word there. In those rare nights that I find open ears to my words, words, words I feel drunk from talking. I talk, talk, talk. I word here and then there. Too much, I think, sometimes, that I word. Because I feel, feel, feel!

Weddings are the most delightful game. Last night was I sitting in the lavishly decorated chair, besides close friends, watching a less-than-known friend tie the knot of companionship. Fascinating it is that I watch this exchanging of souls, this melding of spirit. Like stepping into the theater an hour late and having the whole beginning of the story to simply guess from what is happening that moment. The two characters looking like restless stars in the night, bringing the darkness of night to life. They look into each other’s hearts through silvery tears. They are alone, just for this moment, in this fellowship of family and friends (and in my case, friends’ friends).

Reverberating through these words, words, words is that face the bride made. Those twitching hands, begging to touch his own. Those eyes almost straining in their gravitation to his gaze. How I cannot wait for those eyes to be seen in some other skull staring at me. How selfish I want to be and steal that look she is giving the groom!

At that moment, at the altar, sharing the same traditional moment that millions (billions? trillions?) have shared throughout history… at that moment when all expense leads up to (camera man clicking away with his device of capturing a timeless moment, flowers singing their colors into the sunset, mother and father in attire that they itch in discomfort, beer and wine tapping toes for the ceremony to finish)… at that moment, nothing ever matters besides that look she gives him. That look (I assume, for I could not see his face) that the groom is giving her.

I was stirred, even though games and tradition make me ill. I was humbled and danced under the fleeting friendship of the beer and wine. I talked of words, words, words with girls, men, women. I explored with littler humans. I was joyful. I found something. Games are all that there are. They are not to be scorned. Why hate the game? Why hate the players?

All there is, all there is meant to be, all there will ever be, is a game.

And that’s just a word, word, word.



            “You can learn to talk with anything.”


“Not with words, of course! No! Words are strictly human. Well, you need to ask yourself what is fueling those words. Then, find what is beyond human and speak with the world anew.”

She remembered these words as if they were knocking on the back door of her mind. This was so unbelievable, and so she didn’t believe it.

“Ha!” She laughed into the face of her illusion. Her shimmering incarnate of insanity.

“Almost,” it said. “Ha—eel. Ha’el. Now you.”

“What the hell,” she said to herself.

“Not hell. Ha’el.”

It was a demon. She knew. A manifestation of some deep dark part of her madness. Oh how sick she now knew a madman really was. How unreal his reality.

“You’re a panther.”

“A jaguar, yes.”

“How am I speaking to you?”

The cat laughed with a thought, but yawned with its jaws. “This is getting old. I thought you had brains, hue-man.”

“I wish I didn’t,” she murmured. There was nothing more that she wanted than to wake up.

“Use it then.”

What Was Once a Great People

            Mankind was renamed.

Windless, the mountains called them. Coatless, the mammals said. Gods, the small ones realized. Anything else, though, called them nothing at all, for calling something anything was one of the inventions of man. They broke themselves down so often, like the shattering of a great mosaic, that even the child looked through eyes that called themselves by a different name than the grown man observing from the wooden pedestals.

I know not what they called themselves. These names that they gave themselves. I know only that they were intelligent. Words are magic, so my father thought. They can be given to (let’s say) a tree, yes. But the magic is that words can then bend that tree. I have experienced that magic first hand.

The Poet, my father, gave me a name. Isis O’cyrus. I am the only one with a name. He was honored and called the Poet only after his death and his books’ success. Nobody knows how to read. Nobody speaks. Words are gone in this world. I write this in vague hope that somebody will learn the magic of language and can change his world. To others, this is secret and it is mathematical and it is sorcery, so therefore it is forbidden.

            I don’t name anything before I write it. I give these a title only a year later. That’s the freedom of a blank page. It can became whatever it wants to.


My Ability on Love

            There was something pulling me from my aunt’s house today. No, it was pushing me. It was smoking me out. This feeling of nausea, this broken desire to do absolutely nothing. I was so incredibly dissonant today, I got my book, grabbed the labtop, and I sparked the ignition of my broken car. That poor steed.

He took me from North Dakota to here, Oregon. He saw mountains and lakes, grasslands, meadows, desolate fields, sunsets, sunrises, even the Garden of a Thousand Buddhas, he and I shared the sight of. He bed me for the nights, kept me safe, kept me warm, and now he was pulling me from my den into the uncertain order of societal Monday afternoon.

Through the showering of falling leaves, as if they too were growing stagnant in their homes, I dragged my steed. He is so tired, and I’m sitting in the tire store with the mindset of a mother waiting on a sick child while he is on hydraulic pedestals getting examined and probed by aliens that call themselves man. It’s a good thing I brought my laptop to ease this pain.

He’s back! I rest in his shelter like he’s a tent and I am his homeless man.

I found this park today. Well, sorry, no it is called a Natural Area. I said, fuck yeah, and pulled over to the curb. Sorry buddy, you don’t belong off the roads. I walked and met people with curt nods and shallow h’lo’s. Then, the trail spilled into a parking lot. Goddamn it, I thought. Alas, I was saved by the game trail that led from the asphalt and carefully placed stone trail I was s’posed to keep my feet to.

This was my moment as an author. I crept with my head low and my steps whispering, pretending that they will hear me, they will find me, they will do bad things to me. Or the wolves are out, be quiet. I love pretence. You can feel the shivering in your spine when you do this. With no sight of road nor sound of car, you are really there! Who says that there aren’t wolves or dragons or monsters?

Or snakes!

Adventure was always imagined, never did I actually hear the howling of a wolf. But when I stepped over a log and saw the tent, I froze. I shook, yes. The wind was blowing and it felt alien to my face. I pulled my jacket closer to my self and I almost turned away. Most would have pivoted their heels and squished the yellow and brown leaves into the soft soil on their way out. I didn’t. I don’t know what I wanted, but I knew this is what I was s’posed to be here for.

“Is there anyone here?” I call, creeping toward the camp. My voice sounded harsh and I realized that I had become the wolves you kept quiet for.

No answer.

The tent flap was open and I saw feet cocooned in a blanket.

“H’lo?” I asked. The word wasn’t hollow this time.

The feet disappeared and became a face.

“What d’you want?” the beard asked fiercely.

I realized I didn’t know.

I told him my name and realized that is just what a cop would do before he said, “Get out, you can’t be here!” Or even worse: I sounded like I was pitying him! Oh, lord.

He relaxed, though. He smelled of cigarettes and damp clothing, but it wasn’t an unpleasant scent. I sat cross-legged outside the tent, aware of the scurrying-off of critters. With the look under the dirt and grime on his face, I realized that I sent off his friends.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to scare you, if I did. I just—What’s your name?”

God, my voice is too high pitched, I sound like the prissy white woman who is about to tell you off in a nice way!

“I don’t give my name out to people.”

“That’s fine. I was wondering, actually… What’s it like?”

I saw the muscles in his face relax. “Well,” he said in a mountain-man voice. “It’s not like anything, really. Just nothing. A whole lot of nothing.”

I’m not going to write what we talked about, because to be honest I don’t remember the words as they were laid down. And I would hate to remember them falsely by making them up in a dramatic rendition. So, instead, I’ll tell you how I felt about him. About meeting this remarkable individual.

Because I can remember in crystal clarity how something makes me feel.

I had no fear, whatsoever. I never did have fear. I could imagine this man laying there drunk on this Monday afternoon, perhaps even approaching me with a knife and telling me to give him all my clothes and money. The thing is, I would have done it. But not without a, “You know, sir, you can take my clothes, my cash, my life… but talk to me first. Let me know what you want the world to know. Give me advice you wish you would’ve followed. I will die with a smile in my heart if you could grant me this.”

The connection I had between this man was what I feel for a dog or a cat: unprecedented love. There was nothing in the way for me loving him. Not his faults, not his odor (though he had none), not his lack of property… nothing. I saw the love he had for animals, sharing his precious food with any and all, and how he treated the insects that moved in too close (he very carefully picked them up and moved them away). He was calm, peaceful, perhaps sad. I was moved by him. I love that man, though he probably thinks little to nothing of the boy who stumbled across him, with the nice backpack and the pack of cigarettes he gave. I didn’t want them, he could use a smoke much more than I could.

Contrastingly enough, when I found the paved pathway from here to there in perfect order as I left it, there was a little lady. She was looking into Johnson Creek with eyes of a child, eyes that we all have for nature, eyes of love. I connect so easily with love, so I said, “Such a beautiful day, eh?”

She murmured something, instantly losing the love in her eyes.

As she moved away from me, I sort of picked up my pace, smiling still from my encounter with the angel in the tent in the woods.

I said, “I just moved in from out of town, I’m new here.”

She picked up a brisk pace, moving away from such an uncomfortable situation.

“I just wanted to ask you,” I said, pretending not to get the hint. I guess I was sort offended with her and my courage was talking proud.

She obliged with reluctance. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to ask you what your favorite place in the city was.”

“You just moved here?” she asked. “Do you work?”

“I have a job with my Uncle down in Aurora,” I replied.

The relief in her eyes pissed me off.

“I thought you were homeless or something.”

Can you imagine! I had just shared such an unbarricaded conversation with the most remarkable man who just happened to be homeless and this lady, with her ear rings and her purple, spotless jacket, this lady with her raised chin and nose as if smelling the wrong end of a dollar bill, this lady had a fear for the homeless.

“I see,” I said as pleasant as possible. “Are they bad here?”

“They’re everywhere! You have to be careful.”

We went on talking, mainly for my curiosity into this fascinating contradiction. She told me how kids move here with no jobs lined up (oops!) and bum off their friends and family for living (haha!) and are what make this world cringe and deteriorate.

I think I proved her wrong (albeit having checked off each of her little opinion-boxes), for when I left to answer my phone call she asked my name and reached for my hand.


I made an impression with both sides of the spectrum today. That gives me hope on my ability in love.


We have walking around with us creatures that slither out of the shimmering twilight of our dreamlands. In the golden chills of a perfect harmony, a musical druid comes into our hearts and tickles our ribs with warm laughter.

But I digress. Words are meant to be harvested and prepared in a way that nourishes our hungry hearts, but recently I’ve been in the fields strangling them with iron teeth. The chemicals that I try to put into these words leak into my lucid days and poison my appetite.

Moments where a light opens inside me and my fingers twitch for the keyboard… these moments are slippery. Contemplation is my mistress and music is our bedroom. At the dusk of my sentence, if there is no crescendo in my heart nor applause in my mind, it gets burned by the sunset of my delete key. In the beginning there was a blinking line. Then, a voice opened the void and said, “let this blinking thing write!”

That is why I stopped my train wreck of thought above.

Characters dance between my ears from the familiar notes of a loving melody. The concordant dance between tires on asphalt and speakers on silence is my ballet. I am merely an astonished audience as full scenes are produced behind my eyes and between my ears. Lights reflecting from the black of the streets bow to the shivering ballads that tap on my ear drums.

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