He arrived on a black horse,
wielding a blade of bone and sinew
hewn from the soldered fragments of
splintered sentiments
and shards of shattered dreams-
he rode gallantly into the stillness of
the frigid night,
dead leaves glittering past like
confetti-
the light frost reflecting bits of moon
and scattered stars-
plumes of mist steaming from the nostrils
of the galloping steed like smoke from a speeding
train-
it panted heavily under the strain of the
rider’s swift and aggressive kick-
i stood firm as I heard the horse round the
distance-
a mighty rhythm-
i’d dreamed of this moment,
this final moment-
was I dreaming now?
the cold seemed to crystallize my blood,
or was it fear?
or both-
i stood firm,
inhaled the crisp air,
closed my eyes,
and readied myself-
i thought of a passage from the past-
the only thing that had changed was my age-
the message, one of paralysis and solitude
persisted-
a message of atrophy and of fear-
a record broken long ago-
a broken record, spinning its jagged tune
to a deserted room-
a dusty piece of music heard by two ears
and a long darkened space-
for so long, my shield could not resist the
blows, they were so constant-
for so long, my sword could not parry
the strikes, they were so consistent-
and for so long, I gave in to the struggle-
was worn down by the strain of battle-
left panting on one knee in the stillness of
the dense frost-
my shield covering my face as the hymn of
the sword glanced off of it-
I endured this war, and the fury of
my hollow assailant-
often, I bled-
each wound torn open by my backward
steps-
each wicked thrust drove me backward-
only in time did I realize that I was
striking myself-
inflicting savagery and blinded by my
own pain-
lost in my fury-
I swung wildly and hit no one but myself,
and I bled-
tears of blood-
tears of life from the deepest interior-
tears of innocence from shining days-
tears of love wept from eyes long since
dried-
life moves-
days tick with the consistency of a
fine clock,
a timed bomb anticipating its
final moment-
the hooves struck the ground with
purpose, a thunderous repetition
that rumbled ominously on the frozen
ground-
I was ready for this fight-
but would it be the last?
I stood still as the rider rounded the bend
at full speed-
his armor glinting in light of the full
moon-
his arrival heralded by the whistle of the
wind in the reaching trees-
his shadowy visage made eerie by the
starkness of the white frost,
and the dead leaves that waved like
flakes of snow-
I never saw his face as he rode toward
me, rough sword drawn high over his
head, readying his blow-
I lifted my shield and welcomed his
challenge*

steve jablonsky – a man named fred kreuger

All of the words and phrases-
siphoned from the dusty volumes
of hard teachings-
filtered from the mistakes and triumphs
of the first hand-
all of that knowledge, gathered like
wild fruit, collected into barrels,
gleaned from experience,
and poured like rich spirits into my mental
decanter,
where it has aerated for ages into
a cloudy, scattered brew-
mixing and swirling with my own
spices and imaginings-
fermenting into a stout and bitter potion,
ripe with flavors and shifting sediment-
yet it has never been properly sipped-
it has never been sufficiently tapped-
no vintage samples have been given,
its potential masked by a stubborn
cork-
all of the words and letters relayed to
me-

all of the teachings laid dormant in my
comings and goings-
all of the lessons catalogued and categorized
in my soul for the day that plug is pulled,
and the final product savored and enjoyed-
the aroma will be sweet*

It’s a dream that roams our brainwaves like
vagabonds in search of themselves-
a thought-
a layered touch that protects us from
ourselves-
the greatest times can be had
in the busiest of rooms-
rooms so loud that you can’t hear yourself
or others speak-
but what does that matter when
there’s just enough solace that you
can discern your inner voice-
it’s a crime to ignore it-
anonymous-
like the girl of the uchter moor-
hidden from the world but so very present-
a nameless set of bones and skin known only to
history,
but there all along-
sisyphean hopes-
mixed with long forgotten struggle-
a painful and mysterious cocktail
that can be all too familiar-
did her demons die with her,
conjoined with her joys-
or did they sleep with her in a preserving embrace
for the duration-
were they her steadfast companions,
there in the pitch-
a constant chatter that refused to cease-
a persistent voice wailing for a light
that never seemed to appear-
darkness for over two thousand years-
was it bright the day you entered-
was it warm the moment you slipped
beneath the peat,
and to your destiny-
there was no helping hand-
no layered touch to protect you-
no conclusion that can be solidified-
merely assumptions,
known only to you-
the only certainty is the darkness of your
liquid crypt-
the stillness of the ebony deep-
and the echo of your final seconds
reflecting off the mouths of those who
cast you into eternity-
your lonely voice-
pinging off the sides of your grave like
sonar-
a dream that roamed like a vagabond
in search of himself-
a dream that wafted on the soul of
time and refused to die-
fused with our brainwaves like a stubborn
thorn-
a layered touch that refuses to decay-
in a room so quiet that yours is the only
voice that can be heard*

We rode our bicycles freely on that
warm july day,
our feet hanging off of the pedals as if we
were flying-
sailing the swollen land waves into a sea
of laughter-
an ocean of fluid moments,
swirling like a tempest,
and drenching us in liquid smiles-
each droplet collected into our minds
like watercolor photos in a well worn scrapbook-
meticulously quilted like random stamps
in a well traveled passport-
if we had sails, we would glide the surface
to our blue destinies-
if we had wings, we would soar to those fabled heights
and free our souls from the cryptic dust
of the top shelf*

Hollywood screwed up on this one (as it usually does); Tim Roth was the DUDE in 1996. Rob Roy was his diamond encrusted role of a lifetime (unless you consider his role as Ted the Bellhop in the hilarious 1995 comedy ‘Four Rooms’), and the guy was literally on point from start to finish. Don’t get me wrong, Liam Neeson did a stand up job as 18th century brigand Robert Roy MacGregor, but you literally end up hating Tim Roth by the end of the movie. I didn’t just hate Tim Roth’s villainously villainous villain Archibald Cunningham, I hated Tim Roth the guy. I hated him, and I hated his face. That’s how you know a guy has nailed the role to a wall. The calm, yet deceptively evil crooked grin, the ease at which he dispatched his enemies, and the ruthlessness at which he exacted his hatred were incredibly and deliciously detestable. Which, in all honesty, makes you love the crap out of his performance. The awesomeness of his abilities didn’t go unnoticed by the powers that be, as he was nominated for an Oscar in 1996, but lost to Kevin Spacey (who won for his role as Verbal Kint in ‘The Usual Suspects’). But let me tell you, the dude was robbed. I could go on and on, but watch this action and judge the coldheartedness for yourself.

Go find happy-
like a child seeks out the first clandestine egg of
easter-
go find happy-
like the ‘it’ man in a good game
of hide and seek-
find your place, like the drill
finds the secret, buried well-
find your meaning, like the scientist
discovers the invisible-
find that treasure beneath the sediment
that has been lost so long from the human
touch-
find that sunken goliath that has laid
unclaimed at the bottom of the murky
deep-
find that spirit within your bones that
seeks nothing more than the quiet of a
blue sky-
find it and reclaim it-
capture it and restore it-
recover it and cultivate it
like an ancient artifact concealed under
centuries of dust and webs,

doubt and sand-
raise it from the secluded depths of
the unknown-
the time has come to make it known-
the time has come to seek out-
to cast out-
to find that mythical place-
go find happy-
go resurrect yourself*

Is this it?
the carrot said to the cucumber-
to grow and be eaten?
to reach a height, just to be cut
down?

is that all?
the cucumber was silent for a moment
as he mused the carrot’s dilemma-
at length, the cucumber replied,
is that not life?
a beginning and an end?
a start and a finish?
some lives end much sooner than yours,
my friend-
the sun rises and nudges your lips day
after day,
and you marvel at the moon and stars
night after night-
in between, you inhale crisp air,
listen to the world,
and all the while,
grow-
when your time comes,
it will come-
that’s what it is-
you will go on to sustain others,
as bodies go back to their origins
in a perpetual cycle-
your purpose is clear,
and the cycle will go on
until the very last day-
there is always a beginning, a middle,
and an end-
you can’t help your beginning, but you can
make the most of your middle until
your end is decided-
that’s all there is to it-
the carrot thought about that for a long,
quiet while
as it swayed softly under the gentle breeze,
and basked calmly under the warm sun-
it nodded in approval*

what is flesh, but a creation-
a limited fuse lit by an unseen hand-
can it heal?
yes-
can it grow?
yes-
and we don’t have to lift a finger-
what is flesh, but a wrapper-
a covering-
much like a candy bar-
or a tiny mint-
a mask for something more defined
and complex-
a shirt for our thoughts-
socks for our feelings-
a jacket for our innermost workings-
we can spend years crying tears of all
colors-
or smiling moonlit smiles-
with or without the courage to move
forward, or backward-
with or without the strength to stand on
current ground-
what is flesh, but a creation-
what is creation, but a thought turned into
action-
and action, a collection of concerted
effort-
it heals-
it grows-
and all we have to do is continue to
breathe-
the sun always shines*

Memento- David Julyan

So if you’ve ever perused this blog, you’ll by now be made aware of the fact that I am a huge fan of foreign films, be they good or bad. I’m fascinated by the similarities and differences of American versus Foreign, and how the blending of the cultures creates an overall appealing movie. People are generally the same from continent to continent; the same gripes, hopes, dreams, and setbacks. But the subtle cultural differences seem to pop creatively on film. My latest pick is a bad boy out of South Korea titled “A Better Tomorrow”, which is a 2010 remake of the original 1986 Hong Kong classic that featured shoot ’em up action titan Yun-Fat Chow. In short, the film centers around two brothers, separated at a young age, that end up re-connecting years down the road. One brother chose the police force and the other followed a life of crime, so we can predict the inevitable clashes that arise with that; in addition, we have the usual double crossing bad guy that you end up hating by the end of the movie. While I’m generally opposed to remakes and ‘re-imaginings’, this is a solid version of a true gem.

A Better Tomorrow – 2010

A Better Tomorrow – 1986- and yes, the music is ridiculously cheesy, so it’s perfectly ok if you bust out into uncontrollable laughter. It’s not every day that you get to see gigantic explosions and blazing guns while listening to sappy Hong Kong power pop.