I could have climbed the highest
peaks-
trudged up frozen mountains, relying
on hardened grit and determination-
I could have sailed the high seas-
adrift on those deep waters,
depending on courage and endurance-
we tend to say we could have, as if
we are already dead-
or as if we have no choice-
we tend to reference dreams as random
images that only occur when our
eyes are closed-
we tend to say no before we’ve even
considered yes-
our ship sinks before it ever tastes
the thrill of the wind-
I say that I could have explored the depths
of dense jungles and remote lands-
but I have explored the depths of my
own soul-
I’ve trekked the high hills and low valleys
of my mind-
and swam with the wayward memories within
my heart-
we could spend a lifetime staring
out of the window-
pondering how our lives could be-
wishing a life out of thin air-
and being disappointed when
our stunted efforts lead to mist and dust-
most never strap on the boots and
ascend those frozen rocks-
most never raise their sails high into
the unknown wind-
most never step foot into the thick tangle
of lost jungles-
and most fail to discover the uncharted
territory that lies beneath our skin-
and our desires slip away beneath
the regions that we’re unwilling to
discover-
those darkened corners that we’re afraid to
traverse-
and we wonder-
we sit-
we wait-
we die-
having never known the true warmth of
the sun-
having never known the press of a true
embrace-
I could have climbed the highest peaks,
but I still can-
until then, I find satisfaction knowing
that I’ve mastered the rapids of my own heart-
crossed the glades of my own soul-
and swam with the thoughts that linger
in my mind*

To paint a picture with letters
and words-
a photograph of phrases and crafted
sentences-
a sunset of prose and consequence-
a rising moon pieced together with thought-
how do you capture the body of a
moment-
in random lines and rhymes-
how do you capture the explanation
of time, when it’s as elusive
as a beast in the night,
and as delicate as a dandelion-
gone to seed-
how do you construct a sunrise
composed of memories-
or build a life from
hope and dreams alone-
tell me if it’s possible*

My mask has been the same,
though my road has surely changed-
taking a glance at yesterday
reminded me of that-
looking in the mirror,
I can see what face was worn-
given to me by a reflection-
and once in place,
unrecognizable-
every breath is a reminder,
that through it all, my mask has
been the same-
sifting through old papers,
as brittle as October leaves-
wading through old photos,
as fresh as the grass in spring-
laughing about smiling times,
as sweet as an april breeze-
reminds me that my mask has
been the same-
show me a person, and I will
show you a mask-
often as layered as old
sediment-
sometimes as thin as thread-
many apply it daily-
with others, it’s nearly etched-
every face has a reflection-
every set of eyes has a twin,
and every smile has a façade-
but through it all, my mask has
been the same*

we kissed hard in that deserted
darkness-
passion speaking loudly through our lips
and hands-
we were alone together on a scattered
world-
pilgrims in our own foreign paradise-
away from the clutches of gravity-
away from the marbled tint of reality-
you smelled just as you tasted-
ripe, and rich, and smooth-
and I ingested as much of you as I
could at that moment-
yes, it must be you-
with age comes a detachment from
the urgings of the material world-
with age comes an acceptance of
the shifting of the tides-
the many paths within a road-
the inevitable changing of the seasons-
the unpredictability of the wind-
with that acceptance comes
understanding-
with that understanding comes
assurance-
with that assurance comes the
meaning of your most treasured
dreams-
yes, it must be you-
we are like pilgrims in our own foreign
paradise-
and I brave the open seas to feel your
breath on my skin-
alone in our deserted darkness-
together in our scattered world-
passion whispering loudly through our
lips and hands-
with age comes adaptation-
a magnetism that nudges us toward the
peace that follows simplicity-
the cycle that saturates us with the
flavor of the significant-
all the rest is discarded into that
unpredictable wind-
away from the marbled tint of reality-
yes, it must be you*

“Louer le Dieu de tous, boire le vin, laisser le monde est le monde”

praise the god of all, drink the wine, and let the world be the world – French proverb

ten bucks certainly can’t buy much these days; a measly movie ticket, maybe a six pack, a mess of cheap tacos, or a beer at a ball game.  oddly enough, ten dollars can sometimes buy you a movie.  want to be a filmmaker?  grab your beefiest best friend, a ratty blonde weave, some fur covered fruit of the looms, a few dwarves for a little “lord of the rings” flavor, and get to filming.  that’s exactly what the makers of The Quest for the Mighty Sword did.  vomit inducing dialog?  check.  cookie cutter, fifth grade school play quality, 80’s porn-esque backdrops?  check.  absolutely, incredibly, mindbendingly ridiculous storyline?  you know it.  a dude with a sword that fights robot?  all i can say is wow.  i truly don’t think anyone ever successfully pulled off a conan meets battlestar galactica mix.  this flick takes you down a dark alley that you’d normally avoid at all costs, lest you get stabbed unmercifully.  the film follows a guy named ator on his journey to free his people from a magically evil dwarf troll (like you really care what this movie is about), while battling mythical creatures along the way.  that pretty much sums it up; the key to watching a flick like this is keeping an open mind, and trying really hard not to take it seriously.  surprisingly, director joe d’amato did.  c’mon, dude…this ain’t conan, and you ain’t scorcese.

note – this movie scored a whopping 1.6/10 rating on IMDB.com.  just sayin’.

another note – this is still my brother Khalid’s favorite movie of all time.  i’m serious.

pop on the headphones, kick back, relax, and enjoy the picks. it’s saturday.

broken bells – the high road

broken bells – citizen

clutchy hopkins – giraffe crack

clutchy hopkins – horny tickle

bang camaro – blood red rock

eddie vedder – long nights

eddie vedder – no ceiling

the raconteurs – you don’t understand me

A man told a story once
every day-
with vigor and exuberance-
and it would inevitably end in
laughter, and begin with a
smile-
as stories tend to do,
it altered its shape over time-
normalcy became cliffhangers,
and calm bore nail biters-
endings became beginnings-
until eventually, the tale became
unrecognizable from the original-
an indistinguishable collection
of nouns and verbs
with a guise even the author
wouldn’t notice-
the words made sense-
just conveyed a different message-
the story had taken a different
shape, as all tend to do when
told from a different mind-
there are so many different
incarnations of the same seed-
that it’s up to the reader to pluck
out the meaning-
because something has lost its
shape does not mean that it has
no shape*

Hunger can be the drive that propels, or the force that disintegrates.

Let life take you before you take it.

Shards from the broken bottle don’t only affect the bottle.

24 gone-

Another 7-

Now 30-

Each with a hollow tick-

Possessing those hands that

Traverse the day

Is one pathway to clemency-

There was never another set of

Prints on the road-

Just two-

Planted firmly in the clay

Like earth-

Each detail of every print lingering

Vividly as if it were freshly

Pressed-

Follow-

Amid the warm, swirling wind-

The silt of the day depositing into

The deepest of grooves-

Touch them gently or they’ll

Crumble to dust-

24 gone-

Another 7-

Now 30-

The hollow of the tick, catching

Up to the tock-

Gaining speed-

My lips are parched under the

Leaden weight of the sun-

And the heat fans down over me like

A molten wave-

Several of the prints crack and

Erode from the intensity-

But flourish anew with the random

Drop of sweat-

Hollow hands-

And shallow shifts-

Of the 24 gone-

The other 7-

Up to 30-

And the eventual 12-

Shedding light on those sets of

Prints-

The only 2 on this stretch of

Road*