Rantings, inner banter and other ghost stories...

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Under a sweltering sun.

Heard the thud of a thousand horses marching down the roads in haste. Panic, ominously painted upon their eyes. They rampaged through the canyons and vanished quickly into the mirage.

Unsettling silence, followed by a caravan of hearses filled with all the anger hate, fear and longing of all beings birthed, and all life lost.

Shadows of their lives danced on the lifeless desert boulders, to the harrowing song of everlasting pain, under a sweltering sun.

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Zombie. As if.

Receiving, the world Not really sure how it all Gets chewed or absorbed. I’m not dead today But I’m sure I’m a sleeping wounded lioness Licking and sealing the wounds Of waking slumber.

[brokencrayoninthenight]

pyro-nymph haiku.

imperfect bed with 

sheets displayed under the most

uneven duvet,

mismatched pillows brushed with scents

of previous lovers,

I am looking for something,

someone, something else 

to give me purpose in this  

whirlwind, slow burning

pyrotechnic disaster. 

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Feeling the world, touching its core.

I had forgotten how to smile, how to depend on the only strength that I was given, the fire within carrying me through this treacherous path.


I had forgotten that the world opens it’s petals, unveiling the softness and beauty that exists deep within its fragile and rarely seen core.


I don’t have a mission, or carry a sword. My only defense is my biggest weakness, the shell that I’ve carved myself into, where I hide from anything, or anyone that could touch or see me for what I am.  .

This is a passage written in the vulnerable state of an open soul, feeling the pain and the joy and the fear of others, and seeing them as an extension of myself.

How could I detach myself from my arm so easily? It is useful, and healthy, alive and unchangeable. I must accept my arm, the way it’s always there, as as an essential, inescapable part of my existence, others are there, like my arm, perpetual and inescapable, so I must accept them, live with and appreciate them with their joys and sorrows, their fear and aggression, their hatred, and bad habits, how could I detach myself? If their emotions and flaws are a part of me too.

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Sexual Chemistry.

Intoxicating, omnipotent, omniscient. For as long as it lasts, it is a god, birthed out of incandescent radiance descending from the heavens, filling up your every crevice, flooding you with light. And your cheeks are red, and your heart is warm, your body weightless as a feather in the wind, untouched, yet touching everything so gently.

Elysium, in the arms of a lover. Their sweat is sweet, their hands and tongue and eyes, a spark that could set fire to a thousand forests. 

[brokencrayoninthenight]

November spawned a monster.

Eight days into the 11th month of 1982, I crawled out of my mothers womb, all slime and tears and anger, why leave that safe cocoon of warm water and darkness? I was fine in there, I was safe. I was still pure and untouched by the filthy tentacles of this torture game that we play every day, waking, stumbling, idling around, wearing our bodies out, depleting our innocence, emaciating our souls, in hopes for a break from it all when we are old and tired, gray, withering, retired, from the pointless labyrinth of life.

[brokencrayoninthenight]

20%. It’s only a figure.

The twenty percent of life that we actually enjoy.

The twenty percent of our brain that we exercise on a daily basis.

Twenty percent is the curse, the method, the unforgiving amount of effort (if we are lucky) that we put into discovering ourselves.

Twenty percent is the secret to sliding by unharmed, like a worm through an orifice twenty times too small.

Twenty percent of the population, that aims for true sacrifice. Those who reject the fantasy of individualism, aiming to heal the world.

Twenty percent, an undiscovered pathogen, as well as a cure, forgotten, discovered, neglected, in a cave somewhere in the West Indies. Too powerful a cure for our worldly, man-made dilemmas.

Twenty percent of the dreams we have and will never remember, as they lie buried, frozen and untouched, within  80% of our subconscious, making an iceberg. 

Twenty percent is a cipher from the underworld. Variable, negligible, always different, according to how much you're worth.

Twenty percent is a fatuous number that you wrote in the sand, in the shape of a heart, washed out by the eighty percent of ocean that makes up the Earth.

Twenty percent, if not thirty percent, of the hormonal, pent up bitch anger that you leak into the world. Illiterately, the mighty, rusty sword that is your tongue punishes our ears with redundantly vulgar insults. 

We live this life to a full twenty percent.  20% is also the battery life left on on my iphone, as aimless souls fill the bus that will take me 80% of the way home. 

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Stupor.

Slept under branches

of trees, untainted and bright.

Warmth crept over me

like a sacred, soft blanket.

You've got to be real...

like gravel on strange road

leading to sentience

of clouds and burnt silhouettes

of palms growing strong

towards the end of the world.

You've got to be here,

like a sun burning through me,

revealing the light.

You must be the dream

that I had in the stupor

of bewildered youth;

Blind to the beautiful truth

of your eyes, and hands

touching my heart so gently.  

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Stretched life from inconclusive deaths, seconds of admittance of new truths that bind my flesh and meager soul-crumbs to the ground. 

Dead in the vase, flowers are rotting in the water. Murky wet mess that fed their last gasps. 

[brokencrayoninthenight]

‘Mi Alma es tu Alma’ In a spirited defiance of the grit that you call ‘days’… that haze between impetuous mornings and sullen, late night reveries. The haze, the wasted breaths. Feet drag along the sun-drenched sidewalk unwilling to go in- to the death of your dreams.  

[brokencrayoninthenight]

Sometimes...

I want to be naked and alone. Treading the sand, under the sun like a vagrant from nowhere going nowhere feeling nothing.  

[brokencrayoninthenight]

'You're Lucky You have a Bike'

It was 10:30 p.m. I had just finished work in Santa Monica and had been waiting at the bus stop on Broadway and 4th for 20 minutes, for the 720 a 'rapid' bus that runs every 10.

L.A.'s public transportation system is not reliable, that is a fact. Buses are late and may never show up. So I decided to ride my bike over to Wlshire/4th, the bus always stops there.

An excruciating 30 minute wait later, here comes the 20, the turtle, the slow sister line of the 720. So I hop on, glad to finally escape the raging psychopath that had been yelling homophobic rants into the bus-less night.  At this point my phone battery is dying, so my hopes of habitual, mindless social media, news-reading bus entertainment are pretty much out of the question. 

So I decide to indulge in meditation, a slowly advancing practice that I resort to from time to time. By now i have accepted the fact that I might not get home until after midnight, 'that's fine'. 

3.5 Miles into this bus ride, the driver yells 'Whoa, whoa, whoa!' and the bus stops abruptly at a green light. 'I'm driving a bus!' he yells, at the unfortunate driver in front of our bus, whose axle had just given out at the very middle of the intersection and was asking the bus driver to back up. People start buzzing and asking 'what's up?', people are bummed out. The driver in front of us is stuck and our bus can't pass him as there is a trailer holding a 'DETOUR' sign directly to our left. 

We are stranded, the broken car blocking us cannot be pushed due to the broken axle, so two girls hop out of the bus and attempt to move the detour sign, 'It's too heavy' one of them yells, as I demount my bike from the front of the bus and decide to skedaddle the fuck out of this mess. 

'You're lucky you have a bike' one of the girls says, 'yeah' I mutter, regretting having gotten on this wicked bus in the first place. 

So I ride off, with a backpack full of heavy Kombucha drinks and decide to finish my commute, powered by own two legs, filled with a sudden gratitude for my beautiful vintage Peugeot bike 'Dominique', my health and my unwillingness to feel defeated by the lack of a car in this vast city. 

On the ride home, I passed many bus stops filled with unknowing commuters, who may have been waiting close to an hour, for a bus that is stranded behind a broken car.

So, 'fuck yeah!', I am lucky to have a bike, and I am grateful to be able to ride it 15 miles to work, and a blissful 15 miles back when shit on the bus goes awry. 

[brokencrayoninthenight]

[brokencrayoninthenight]