he picked the spot of his final resting
place-
a quiet little piece of earth next to a
lazy, bubbling river-
a green, calm area surrounded by
dark trees and rich growth-
the kind of place where you can
stick a chair and sit and stare and
think for hours and hours-
this lively place, full of character
and grace-
would serve as the last place that he
would be remembered-
the very end of his journey-
take me to the place where i can
see, he said-
where there are no more clouds to blur my
vision-
no more partitions to block my path-
where there are just enough
droplets left to quench my thirst-
this linear world
will swallow you whole,
he thought-
look beyond, into the depth
of the low, smoky clouds-
look beyond, into the craggy
zig zags of the distant hillsides,
he reminded himself-
look beyond the stillness of
our single dimension-
and create an expanse wide
enough for your thoughts
to stretch free-
let the rain streak your face
like wild tears-
let the thunder tremble your core
into a state of calm-
and let the lightning illuminate the way to
different fields-
those wandering times are
a wayward sea-
he smiled to himself at the thought of
this-
with us adrift on its swift
currents-
is there an end beyond the
horizon?
we all watch it day and night,
like fascinated children,
a giant sun bursting eagerly
over the starting line-
and falling back wearily beneath
it-
it’s a secretive moon that casts its
shadowy glaze before descending
quietly below the surface-
those wandering times were
a wayward sea,
with us adrift on its swift currents-
he relaxed, content, and
smiled to himself as he closed his
eyes to rest*

in the vein of magnificent but severely under-recognized pictures that emerge from the bowels of hollywood, here’s another iconic performance that was more than worthy of the industry’s top honor. a soldier’s story was based on a pulitzer prize winning play by charles fuller, about the investigation into the death of a black sergeant in WWII era south. the film’s antagonist was seargeant waters, splendidly played by the late adolph caesar; he was in fact nominated for a best supporting actor oscar in 1985 for the role, but lost out to haing s. ngor (the killing fields). at any rate, his hauntingly conflicted role of the gruff, abrasive seargeant waters is indeed one for the record books.

in the never ending slew of chunks that are ejected from the churning gut that is hollywood, there are a mere handful of gems that get considered for awards, and an even smaller subsect that are worthy of the whole shebang but are left empty handed. such was the case with val kilmer in 1993; he delivered his performance of a lifetime, playing the role of legendary wild west pistolier doc holliday, and was questionably passed over for the genre’s biggest prize. he delivered the role of sly gambler and clever gunman with aplomb, coupled with a humor and wit that sticks to the memory like good stew sticks to the ribs. his use of flashy one liners such as “i’m your huckleberry” made for a cool tempered ride in arguably one of the most enjoyable westerns filmed.

They played in the sun-
deep, orange, citrus sun-
laughter singing in their ears like
an old record,
familiar-
as if part of a soundtrack-
how many years returned in those
precious moments-
how it must have felt to have the breeze
drift through-
and to feel the sun drip down like a honey sweet
cascade-
they drank like they’d never been able
to before-
drank with both hands
there was such a thirst-
that day was their hydration-
they believed in something that was
just beyond reach-
and they were never afraid to keep their hands
extended-
knowing that one day their fingers
would touch-

cliffs – karen o and the kids

Loose wires and random bolts-
cables, plugs, and circuits-
programmed to the serenity of an
empty pond-
the day is overcast-
the air, sharp-
that sweet November air
dancing into my nostrils-
it’s all in my head, this daydream-
this world of thought as grand as a
galaxy, but resting comfortably in a
tiny speck of dust-
a universe of fantasy resting in a grain
of sand at the tip of my shoe-
but oh, how beautiful it looks in my head-
loose wires and random bolts-
cables, plugs, and circuits-
programmed to the serenity of a
green countryside-
jarred by the shriek of an alarm clock-
it was beautiful in my head-
wonderful while it lasted-
like a mechanic, I tool away at
the screws, solder the bits, and
turn the knobs-
attempting to send signals to exotic
destinations-
and receive them in the proper place-
I toil all day in this bucket of parts,
piecing together a picture of functionality-
weaving a dream that decides to stick around
in its original form-
some of them work-
others get tossed for scrap-
others I save for quiet days and solitude-
funny how a smile can spark a wildfire
of creativity-
fallow fields become ripe vineyards-
and shallow ponds become oceans-
all with a simple gesture*

How does it feel when all of the forward
momentum seems to set you backward-
how does it feel when the walls around you
crumble like old clay,
and the world around those paper walls
shatters like a fallen mirror-
how does it feel to take a barefoot walk
through hell, and have it go unnoticed-
life pushes-
but where can one lean-
how does it feel to be a pillar,
when you don’t even feel like a part of
the structure-
it’s like hearing nothing but thunder
when all you ever wanted was a gentle
whisper-
just beware of that road, if you choose to
pursue-
you will be engulfed by the same cloud,
drenched by the same rain,
and stricken with the same persistent
pneumonia-
it’s like hearing nothing but thunder when
all you ever needed was a soft whisper*

How many pennies can you milk from
a dollar-
how many hours can you get from
a bulb-
how much water can you pour from
a bottle-
how many minutes can you squeeze from
an hour-
each breath we take compresses and
expands-
but we all know that one day that motion
will cease-
there’s only so much gas swimming in that
tank,
and there’s only so much road to travel-
it’s only a matter of time before the engines
stop-
but where one engine stops, another revs up-
where one heart ceases, another begins-
one bottle is emptied, another is filled-
a penny gets spent, but a dollar is made-
each breath we take does compress and
expand-
that’s the cycle that we’ve all chosen-
happiness is a gift not guaranteed-
success is a joy not freely given-
grief on the other hand, is a false ally-
it plays the friend when an ear is needed-
it plays the lover when loneliness rules the
air-
it plays the senses when all around us have
failed-
that’s the cycle that we’ve chosen-
if gold is in your hand, don’t be afraid to
close your grip-
don’t be ashamed to accept your worth-
don’t be afraid to walk the green grass
with bare feet-
a smile is daunting if all you’ve known is a
frown-
there’s only so much gas in that tank-
there’s only so much road to travel-
it’s only a matter of time before the engines
stop-
but when they do, that’s when the real
road begins*

time is funny-
it, like life, continues taking steps whether
we like it or not-
whether we’re ready,
getting ready,
or not even close-
there is no “wait a minute while i prepare”-
there is no “hold on a sec”-
there is no “wait just a minute”-
it goes and goes,
whether we like it or not-
what do we do then, to counter this?
we adapt-
we adjust-
we accommodate-
we emulate time and keep moving-
we mimic life and continue taking steps-
whether we’re ready or not-
there will be a tomorrow, if we’re lucky-
we can’t stop the train-
or slow the wind-
all we can do is sit back and absorb-
absorb the limitations that come with
acceptance-
accept the reality that is as consistent
as the beating of a heart,
or the tick of a clock-
time is funny-
and we’re all in on the joke-
we’re comedians on our own stage-
spinning our lives like sketches-
and we don’t need an audience-
we don’t need applause,
or laurels-
a sense of humor goes a long way-
being able to laugh away tears-
and smile sorrow clean is a must
in this game-
time gives us winners and losers-
and at some point we’ll be both-
on top of the world,
or bearing the weight of it-
time is funny-
it won’t wait-
none of us can slow the wind*

what happened to the boys?
i ask myself from time to time-
cold christmases and warm smiles-
careless love-
spent like pennies into a fountain-
but what was it masking-
each boy bore his own private hell-
each carried a void left unfilled,
like a pack stuffed to the gills with
unmentionables-
each item shrouded in the trials of the
day to day-
each one never properly going back to that
place-
never revisiting the source-
never fully acknowledging the grain
of dirt that served as the X to mark
the spot-
each boy dealt with the hours in his
own way-
each drifted slowly,
exponentially from the warmth of the
original love-
if you could see them, you’d see a man,
proud, but wounded-
bleeding a slow dying-
but masking it with words-
crying a slow crying-
and concealing it with smiles-
what happened to the boys?
what sludge slowed their engines-
what rust coated their shine-
there are roots beneath those hollow
oaks-
they grow still-
shadows shrinking under an ascending
sun-
faces fading into the earth like
murky dreams-
they lay dormant-
locked within the compartments
necessary to endure-
locked within the compartments
created by quiet afternoons,
and sleepless nights-
stolen by the man that they stared
at in the mirror-
what happened to the boys?
there is shine under those years of
tarnish-
i wonder if they’ll ever truly see it*

valley of the shadow – thomas newman

i first caught a glimpse of this movie in the 8th grade, and it was just as poignant back then as it is now. the boiling tension surrounding the murder trial of a young kid, 12 opinionated voices attempting to reach a unanimous conclusion, and the strength and simplicity of the story that empowered it with an electricity that keeps it relevant. they don’t make them like they used to!