Having carried Don

astride

over valleys, and strange ravines

linking rising and fading

daze

In whimpered race

chided as Rocin, workhorse

the fool, illiterate

buffoon

seems only right

in irony, Rocinante

to admit

aforehand unbridled

to never having read Dulcinea

to tale's end, were there such,

whipped up

by wishful thinking &

packing hardbound copy

for many, many years in saddle pack

never quite

reaching homestead

each sentence

sinking before the eyes

to sleep

as if by Cervantes himself

forming this quixotic idea:

depart from the line

the crop

(story or thought)

as it were, for unlike the back

of beasts of burden

the path

beaten,

is not yet, beat

2024 AUG 21

little did the

the authorities

know

I am

my own wind

and mill

huff 'n puff

the grind

isn't easy

nor getting

easier

but

I'm still

chasing it...

my vagrancy

at clamps

pace

each bolt

loosening

and tightening

just so

7 horses

of power

on better days

...to vent

the wind

that blows

in my face

and I see

I am not

alone...

winding round...

our congregation

gathering...

the hillside

is full of

lighthouses

and windmills

looking

and flailing...

not surrendering

any thoughts

we blink and

grind our teeth

and take our

wind up

internally

08.25.2024

"When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?" challenge @dctezcan

Bubbling to the surface, I feel the tension rising far too late to stop it. The foaming of the love-drunk, confused, hurt heart that hits a scar on a snag and remembers all over again the initial cut. Ms. Crow may have pined that the first cut is the deepest, but the madness that infects it hurts the worst. The anguish of blindness towards every lover as my fingers atumble to decipher the Braille of what he's done now. There are never words gentle enough or precise enough to explain that this is the little transgression that pushed Montresor over the edge and made him kick down a wall in an abandoned cellar for his dearly beloved, Fortunato. There is never a good time to reveal the skeletons of stillborn loves in my closet, killed because the lungs couldnt form or the heart didn't beat or the brain didn't develop fast enough for me.

This burgeoning bud is the closest I've gotten to loving anything so genuinely in years, since the last implantation nearly tore me in two when it was ripped out. I now fret over every quickening, not sure if they are butterflies or the early warning signs of a miscarriage. He's too far to assuage any doubts and most remedies are just placebos for the looming question I used to whisper into dandelions before blowing away the seeds and germinating everything in the nearby vicinity with a spreading virus. Love me, love me not. Love me. Love me not. Love me. Get this mass of feelings that can quickly turn into a gasp of sobs or a burst of uncontrollable hot anger and hold it tightly. Love me not. Uproot yourself and walk like a mangrove tree before the seed has enough time to wrap its fibrous roots around you and forces you to be part of its growing process.

Winter is coming, a time when madness gets harder. Dandelion seeds spread by the broken-spirited start to pick and bloom and fight for a place. Viciously and savagely cutting others off like you hear in songs. Misery Business is the work of a dandelion, taught from birth how it's a weed no one wants, and how it will strangle anyone it's near. But I've gone Rogue and tried it anyway, allowed myself to be vulnerable, and got the Angel's wings cut off. Now I sit alone in the wilderness, waiting for the night to be over, wondering if you'll come back again and keep coming back the next day and the one after, or if I've overstepped some unseen boundary and lost another one.

My acrophobia takes a back seat as I clamber up the ladder and walk to the the diving board's edge, it's utmost precipice. I plummet heavily into the abyss below and swim in the warm waters. This is no pool and is simple a metaphor for what some call a delusion; I call it a daydream.

In this this little hallucination I've constructed for myself from the most raw materials available in my mind's eye I'm standing in a Olympic stadium. My friends are there, my family too. The crowd watches their voices blended into a cacophonous smoothie suddenly a collected gasp proceeds silence as all jaws drop & the commentators blather on about something technical. Suddenly an entire section of the grandstands erupts in a volcanic shout of USA, USA, USA!!!!

My voice is among them for my little cousin has just stuck her landing and ensured her first Olympic gold medal. In my excitement I hug some random person to my right. I realize it's a woman from one of the other nations. I blush and offer up a thousand apologies upon the alter of my embarrassment. She smiles knowingly and in perfect English laced with an Asian accent she congratulates my family and country.

The months pass and I'm neck deep into the deadline of my latest comic book yarn. I've promised my customers to get this installment out by a certain date and by George that's what I'm going to do. In the middle of my feverish pecking of the keyboard (I never learned to type "properly") a pair of feminine hands gently kneads the stress from my shoulders. I write KRACK into the script and pause to look up into my wife's eyes.

That snafu of an interaction with the lady in the Olympic stands was not our last and by now we've been happily married for a year. We plan to keep it that way. She reminds me about an appointment we have. I mildly swear and pause my epic super-powered clash after all I've got see to my cousin off to college. She's hoping to make it back to the Olympic games.

This of course is all a grand delusion. In reality if my little cousin has dreams to become gymnast they'll be stamped out like the dying embers of a campfire by my mother in an attempt to protect her from dangers real and precieved therefore laying down the morter of good intentions for hell's pavement. As for myself my path is that of the lone wolf no blushing bride from Asia or elsewhere for me. Oh and those comic book I wrote? Ideas resting in mausoleum of sketchbook pages and note books. My duties lie elsewhere. This all is the true madness.

Alex Hanwell paced back and forth in his small home. You’re not crazy, Alex, they are! They’re the crazy ones.

He held his head tightly, the voices getting worse. The smell of paint was nauseating and toxic. But he wouldn’t wear a mask, not him, not ever. His head throbbed as he walked over to the couch and grabbed his selfie stick, then placed his phone on it, and walked outside.

It was late summer and the tiny stream that floated lazily by would have provided comfort for many, but not for him. He hit record on his phone and decided to do a final video for his YouTube channel titled, For The People. He was currently at the end of a multi-part series detailing all the reasons the government was crooked, and why no one, under any circumstance should trust them.

“N-n-now, listen up, subscribers,” he stuttered. “The government is not for the people. No, no, no. They like to say they’re for the people, but what good do they do for us? Look around my yard. I have to pay taxes on top of taxes on top of taxes just to have this little slice of life. Just to have one spot where a man can try and find some peace. But I’ll tell you what, the government keeps jacking up the price. It keeps going up, up, up, up, up until it’s too high for the PEOPLE to even afford to live. Now tell me, are these people you should trust?”

He paced around the backyard, the mid-july sun beating down on his balding-head which was gleaming with sweat. His cheeks were flame red, and he was reeling. His heart was beating so fast, that he was sure this was it. He was 49 years old, the same age his father had been when the big one knocked him down. Alex held onto his chest so tightly he felt he was going to cave it in.

It’s not your time yet, buddy ol pal. We have something to do first. Something of great importance. And sure. They’ll call you crazy. They’ll call you a certifiable nutcase. But guess what? They said that about all the great minds in human history. Tesla was considered crazy. Even Will Rogers? Remember him? He invented the term trickle down economics. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Nothing more sane than that. You’re not crazy. But unfortunately, you won’t be around when they erect statues in your honor, poor boy. But trust me, they will. Oh, they will. You know who’s crazy? The ones who think that laying down and taking it is normal. Those are the crazy ones. Those are the dangerous ones.

“N-n-n-ow now n-now, people, listen up. This will be the last video on my channel. Thank you to my subscribers for listening to the truth. Because without it, what do we have? We have nothing but LIES! LIES! And LIES!”

He was yelling now, and the veins were protruding from both sides of his neck.

“The needles they give us. The needles. It’s all in the King James Bible people. The Number of the beast. We shall be marked. We shall be marked. But you know what? Someone is going to be marked tonight. The mayor of our town. Stephanie Andrews. The one who spends all of her time in Europe, bringing back immigrants to work here. And guess what? I just got laid off. I just lost a job I had for almost 20 years. And now guess what? I’m going to lose this. I’m going to lose this house, this yard, this stream, all of it. But I will not go down without a fight. Thank you loyal subscribers. Thank you for being for the people. This is your host, Alex Hanwell, saying if you’re not with me, then you’re against me.”

Alex put the selfie stick down and grabbed the phone. He uploaded the video to his YouTube channel and scheduled it for two hours. That would give him enough time to get the job done.

He walked back into his house, which was freshly painted black, and he grabbed his semi-automatic rifle from the closet.

People will look back on this, Alex. Books will be written.

He threw the gun in the backseat of the car and headed towards city hall. Every Tuesday Stephanie had a city council meeting. He’d gone to several, to listen to the complaints of the townspeople and to see when Stephanie was left alone.

The meetings normally went on for between an hour and 90 minutes. The councilors would then speak for a few minutes after the attendees left, and then Stephanie, with Luc Hachey, the Corporate Communications Manager would walk outside across the rainbow colored sidewalk to her car in the vacant lot next to the McMillan Funeral Home.

Most weeks they’d talk for a few minutes and then Luc would walk over to Tony’s Bar for a drink or two before doubling back to his car and driving home.

Alex decided that Luc was going to go with Stephanie. He was every bit as guilty as her when it came to bringing immigrants to HIS town, and having them steal HIS job. They were guilty as sin, and they just smiled, and shook hands as though they were doing something helpful. Something meaningful. They were the devil. Plain and simple.

People will write books about you, Alex. You’re not crazy, they are.

When the crowd cleared, it was just the three of them.

Thank you to all my subscribers. The ones who are for the people, Alex said to himself, smiling. The gun pointed at the door.

I see them making their mistakes

I watch them bemoaning their fates

I witness them trying again

I notice it's the same plan

I think about saying a word

I consider what they do is absurd

I decide that I won't do it this time

I understand the insanity of sanity is mine

Truth?

It's so smooth, `right' just goes down effortlessly.

Sometimes it can be agonizing; which can make it lethal.

Truth is...I think too much.

Too much about your lies.

Lies I used to believe when I thought you were mine.

You wonder why I’m always in my head…

You won't like my answer, you never do.

If you knew what I know about there,

I wonder if you'd even ask;

Or try to console me.

It's challenging to listen to you & them both right now;

I still remember that they can carry me up, up & away

Yes I‘ve heard them all, you know

You? Can’t you hear them?

Well, like you, They're never yielding; trying to rule me.

Intentionally gouging out memories in my life as if to remind me;

“Don't Go There”

“Don't dwell”

“It wasn't your fault”

They're always trying to control my forever!

They give me nowhere to disappear to now.

But I can’t remain in this hell, stifled by your lies.

You ask again, why am I always in my head....

SMH, That's where the truth is.

“Don't Go There”

1

Chewed up and regurgitated

Neither calm nor agitated

Strolling down the shore

Soaked in coastal mist

The Space

The Golden Gate Bridge

The hills and a mountain Ridge

We walk and bike at a loose pace

Running away while keeping abreast

Refocusing and cleansing our lenses

Sounds of a highway

Cemetery

Shrieks of seagulls

Gliding in a random asymmetry

In the distance, they fly and they drive

Right here they hover

Right here we hide

Right here we stash our time aside

2

Someone on a pier is holding a trembling line

Letting it loose then pulling it tight

Making an impressive catch

The hut was open till five!

Alas, a bit too late.

I came from the coffee shop on the other end

under renovation

Shutting my eyes

Giving in to a brief meditation

Looking to check the time

Turning around

3

Now observing the stately skyline

associated with

Demands on my time

And a silence of rhymes

Keep walking.

It is not serene any longer:

The bills come to mind,

The questions, the phone calls, the what-to-decide.

I wish for a moment I’d turn a feline

Escaping from the tall order of making do

into the woods...

Lo! All of a sudden I felt four paws

(They can go soft or scratchy.)

Whiskers signaling myriads of smells

And, of course, my personal tail.

Such a wonder!

I can sway...

And I want to nap right away...

But what is this ground vibration

As I am being engulfed

in a tension?...

On my low horizon

From sandy landline

Appear

Two running

Two tongues sticking out

Two teethy canines.

My human persona

Remembers them playful,

Apparently, cats rather see them disdainful!

I had no intention to cringe

And run

Then jump the hedge

Then freeze on the ground

Then seeing them closing

On two sides

Have my hair go up

Getting ready to fight

Then using a moment

Dash to the hills

Looking down at brats

Catching breath, taking pills

But I did.

What a lowly existence

To be a toy at any instance

Note in a diary:

"Ambiguity in thoughts had backfired

Should have more specifically wished to become a lion."

Enough dreaming

I rose looking down at barking thugs

And shouted out "Hey, owners, take charge of your dogs"

4

More mist

Watching sails hurry back

Delaying my leaving

It has become difficult to read signs about native plants

Last breath of fresh air and let my car

Disappear into the forest of speed and light

As wonders of darkness descend on the site.