What is the importance of a final day-
a farewell to the old?
the stereotypical hello to the new?
what does it mean to move forward
or back,
like the tick of the clock,
the sway of the wind,
the rising of the sun?
what must we make of it,
and do we have a choice?
what questions need to be asked of the past,
in order to give the present thought, and
in order to make the future think twice-
what is a last day but another attempt
at a beginning-
one turns to two,
night turns to day,
seeds blossom,
seasons blend,
life will flower,
thrive,
dwindle,
and then dim-
whatever tomorrow is, it will come-
whatever tomorrow brings must be accepted
with open arms-
whatever must be done, must be done
moving forward*

Sam threw open the doors and we darted in as fast as we could, and before we knew it, he was rigging them back up with the clinking heavy link chains.  Sally and I hurriedly chipped in and fumbled with the chairs and the tables, and did the best we could to re-create the makeshift barrier that those in the bar had created to shield themselves from the chaos of the outside world.  Sam weaved the chains in and out of the double door handles as securely as possible, and joined the whole steel pretzel together with that monster padlock.  He jiggled the whole thing a few times just to make sure, and it clanged and jingled with a low, ominous resonance; from the look of it, it was as drum tight as a bank vault.  And for whatever reason, we were now safer behind it.  Sam took in a long, slow breath, looked out the window, and then looked over at us.  “Frank Dorchester…fine time to finally make it in for a drink, huh?”  He reached out his arms and flashed me a frugal, tight-lipped smile, and pulled me in for a hug; he was a good friend, and it had been too long.  We clasped each other and he gave my back a few hardy slaps before he pushed back and took a look at Sally.  I introduced the two, and Sally shook his hand and thanked him for what he did…thanked him for saving us from those fucking thugs out there.

We both blurted it out at the same time before we realized that we’d spoken over one another, “What the hell is going on, Sam?”, Sally and I both asked in unison.  My hands were still shaking from the shock of what I’d done out there.  What the hell would the consequences be?  I was a fucking murderer now…I mean, I killed a man…men.  But wasn’t it self defense?  I had to do it, right?  Before I could finish the horror of that thought, Sam was offering us a drink, and walked us over to the bar.  We gratefully followed.  Five or six people spread out from the shadows and quietly greeted us from a distance, all patrons that had been drinking at the bar when it was attacked by the kids outside; now prisoners in this mess that we were all entangled in.  They all looked fucking shell shocked.  We greeted each one with a hello and a nod and took Sam up on that drink, and he twisted off the cap and took a long slug of whiskey.  He explained how the night began as a normal night…what night doesn’t begin as a normal night, right….and how a guy came in bleeding and screaming and frantic out of his mind.  Behind him were two or three friends that had carried him in, pleading for somebody to call the cops.  The guy was apparently pretty busted up, so Sam got on the line and dialed the sheriff, and two deputies showed up not long after.  “It was a mess, Frank”, he kept saying, then trailed off into silence.  “They um, they bit Bobby, Frank”, he said, before he trailed off once more.  “The sheriff, you mean?”, I had to ask, just to make sure we were on the same page.  “Yeah”, he replied…”Those kids out there…they…they uh….they ate him”.

We made our way forward and the first of them barreled through the rest like a drunken frat boy, wailing and whining and clawing wildly at the rain.  What was left of his shirt was a torn, knotted wreck, his tie twisted around his neck like a noose, the remains of a sweater hanging loosely in the wind; from the look of him, he’d been in his fair share of scrapes that night, and ended up on the losing team more than once.  A vein of lightning pulsed across the sky, and I caught a glimpse of his face, wracked with pain and fury and a grimace that came straight out of a scary movie…he came at us as if there was nothing left in him but the will to maul anybody that stood in front of him.  He came at us like a madman, hell bent and blind and raging, stumbling over his feet as he staggered toward us flailing his arms.  I raised my pistol, took aim, squeezed, and sent a hot one flying right at that mean mug of his.

The thunder exploded overhead, and I didn’t even hear the bang of the gun…all I saw was the guy go down like a bag of bricks, crumpled and still on the pavement.  I can’t tell you how that felt; I can’t even begin to describe it…it was a fucking awful feeling, but my will to keep us safe trumped everything else.  Sally clutched my hand and arm and we inched our way closer and closer to the bar.  It was like the OK Corral out there at that point, as I emptied the clip at the whole pack of the bastards.  One by one, I hit them with lead, and some of them kept at us, and some slumped into the puddles with a splash, kicking water up like a black geyser.  I shot a red path right through the group, and we slid right between them as fast as we could;  they lay on the ground in a quivering pile, dark shadows squirming feverishly in the night.  We skirted right past them and their screams were deafening, even through the storm, and we finally hit the door of the bar and took a glance back at the carnage.  To our surprise, a few of the guys that I’d plugged dead on were dusting off and getting a second wind.  A second fucking wind?  How the hell was that possible?  Were they wearing some sort of body armor or something?

The seeds of the dandelion
slept quietly on the twirls of the breeze,
swirling lazily into the warmth of
September-
make a wish, and heave them along
into the unknown,
swimming into the depth of the air,
carrying a payload of hopes and dreams
and expectations on their wings-
I sent a great many of them soaring into
the void,
roaming the lands with my thoughts in tow,
like Arthur’s knights in search of the holy
grail-
how many delivered their cargo?
I drifted along with them,
aimlessly-
if you’re going to float along indefinitely,
you’d better soon learn how to fly*

Earth, for all its beauty, is intent on its
own sustained destruction-
home grown demolition, fierce and consistent
and severe-
whirling winds and pulverizing plate shifts-
barbaric waves and the terrifically brutal spew of molten
agony,
painting the landscape like a spirited artist with a palette of
hot orange,
black billowing smoke,
and fire-
the earth is angry-
that’s just one point of view-
a living mass of bound and shackled energy, bursting within
itself in a magma soaked rage,
the personification of angst and frustration with
no outlet but fury,
the elements of its true core still a mystery-
organically sustained destruction,
yet still fulfilling a predetermined purpose-
for each disaster, there are a thousand
seeds in bloom-
for each reaving of the landscape, there
are innumerable discoveries in waiting,
each exit creating a new beginning-
there is no end to its regeneration-
earth-
the great tortured soul,
the original self-immolator,
the flagellator of the ages,
concealing its guts with such a beautiful
mask-
stoned relentlessly for eons,
battered by its own children,
a lone voice among silent brothers,
eloquently patching over the steaming turmoil
boiling underneath-
earth-
take notes in her symbols-
where is hope, then?
in the bowels of the sea,
in the claustrophobic canals worming through
the core,
in the depth of the blue above,
each revealing signs of perseverance,
adaptation,
evolution,
and the ability to overcome-
take notes in her symbols-
in the wooden arms and rustling
fingers of the winter trees,
pointing the way to heaven for those whose
eyes have been downcast too long-
for those who’ve forgotten which way to
look-
but again, that’s just one point of view*

“Why the fuck are the lights off, Sam?”, I asked frantically.  “What the fuck is going on around here?”……I think asked that one at least three times in a row.  “Who the fuck was that guy?”  I was shaking…was it the cold?  The words spewed out of my mouth like puke, fast and hot and forced, and I’ve gotta say I felt like gagging after seeing that mess of a corpse outside.  Before Sam could answer, he quickly went to chaining the front door; I glanced around and could see that it was a rush job…there were a few random links of chain, a giant padlock, a table, and a few chairs shoved up against the doors, forming a sort of mini barricade.  Whatever was going on around here, Sam felt the need to hole up inside of his bar like a hermit.  “Sally”, I said, as I grabbed his arm before he could seal us in.  I pointed to the rig and flung the door open, and was greeted once again by the great cold whoosh of the storm.  The rain felt icier than before; I could feel it trickle down the small of my back, and it made me shudder hard.  I reached the truck and could see Sally looking wide eyed through the window, and I ran harder.  I reached the rig and threw the door open, and Sally spilled down into my arms, warm and dry and lovely.  She threw her arms around me and squeezed tight, and for that split second, all the troubles of the world just melted down into a pile of nothing.

Sally frantically explained that she’d heard what sounded like a gunshot, but couldn’t be sure with all the thunder, and that she couldn’t see a damned thing in all that darkness; she’d tried to call, but I told her my phone got smashed to pieces and soaked.  I helped her down from the truck and told her to follow me inside the bar, and that I’d explain the whole thing once we were safe and sound behind the barricaded walls of Sam’s new fortress.  So I left the rig running and as I shut the door and turned toward the bar, we both saw the rest of the dead guy’s buddies trickling toward us slowly from the back of the joint.  I could feel Sally’s hand squeezing mine tightly.  It was too damned dark to make much out, but from the movement I did see, I knew we were outgunned.  Except that I had my pistol…but was now the time to use it?  I’d just seen Sam blow a guy’s face into mist, but I guess killing a guy wasn’t something that I willingly saw myself doing.  I figured now was as good a time as any, though.  The only way to get back into Sam’s was forward, past the mob that was growing in front of us.  I looked down at my pistol and turned off the safety.

Every kid wants to be something important
when they grow up,
something significant
and larger than life-
kids are amazed by firefighters
and entranced by police officers and
soldiers and inventors and athletes-
dreams turn into goals though, and then
life washes over them all like a great rogue
wave,
scattering some, binding others,
and ultimately altering the landscape-
I always wanted to be an archaeologist,
much like Indiana Jones; basking in adventure,
zig zagging the globe, kicking Nazi ass, and making
prestigious discoveries-
I always dreamed of being a scientist,
spending my days theorizing and analyzing
and experimenting-
I always considered becoming a biologist,
dissecting and researching and peeling back
the many layers of our reality-
I never was able to become those things,
but oddly enough, I did-
I did become all that I’d wanted,
in my own way-
I never got to explore long forgotten lands,
but I have explored the deep caverns of my
thoughts-
inside are my pyramids-
inside are my shattered tombs-
inside are my moss covered golden palaces,
just waiting to be discovered time and again-
along the way,
people became tangled passageways,
and mistakes became burial mounds-
fresh experiences became new formulas,
and each smile became a new species-
I have encountered habitable worlds
and distant planets,
new life, and ancient ones just the same-
and I have barely scratched the surface-
sand dunes and temples and dried out
remains,
jungles, and bounty and golden artifacts-
all inside-
I have yet to hack my way through a
sweltering jungle, but I have mapped the
landscape of my soul,
tirelessly hunting for my ground zero,
tirelessly seeking that point of origin-
my own big bang,
my own God particle-
my catacombs are lined with achievements
great and small,
failures, grand and insignificant-
and I have barely scratched the surface*

You can’t outrun it-
it’s just too quick-
fear-
fear is a sprinter-
fear is a bulldozer,
an earth mover-
if you choose to line up with it
it’ll blaze your trail for you-
fear is generous-
fear will give back to you what you feed
it-
once the race starts, fear will pace you,
side by side, neck and neck,
then toy with you a bit-
it’ll slow down and jog behind,
then dart ahead and turn around to
wave at you,
always 3 steps ahead,
paving the path that you’ll have to
tread-
you’ll end up running the trail that
it carved just for you-
don’t let it gape at you, smiling,
with you trailing behind, huffing and puffing and
thinking that you can sprint beyond it-
take a sharp left,
dart a quick right…and keep going…
then stop and wait-
fear is a detective-
it’ll sniff you out, and when it does,
look it right in the eye,
and stand your ground like a stone-
fear is also a coward,
and the mere whiff of your determination will
set it running, fast, in the direction that
it came-
find your own road then and don’t look
back-
fear is bold, but fear is a quitter,
it runs from you when you stop running
from it*

I backed away a few steps and drew the pistol right on the guy; that shit was gonna end right there, with him tucking his tail between his legs and running off.  I had the gun on him and was screaming at the shit head…demanding that he just get the fuck out of there.  Run away.  Anywhere, I didn’t care.  It’s like he didn’t hear a thing I was saying though, and he just kept on coming at me, slow and steady…walking, and oozing, screaming, and making a fuss.  This wasn’t like the movies where the guy sees a gun, starts crying, pisses his pants, gets on his knees, begs, or takes off running somewhere…no, this guy, for whatever reason, meant business.  Was I about to shoot this guy?  Was I prepared to take a life?  I dunno…killing wasn’t something that I was ready to do; and apparently, I didn’t have to.  I heard the rattle of chains at the front doors of the bar, the turn of the lock, and the next thing I knew, Sam’s barging out into the rain with a shotgun.  It all happened so damned fast.  The guy in front of me heard the racket of Sam opening the door, and like that, he went from snarling at me to stumbling at him, but he didn’t get a chance to make it three feet before Sam sent him to his maker missing that busted up mug on top of his shoulders.

The quick blast of his shotgun lit up the night for half a second, but you could barely hear it over the roar of the storm.  The guy took the hit directly to the face, and what was once a head disintegrated into a spray of bone and gristle and fragments of mush.  He dropped to his knees instantly, then crumpled chest first with a big watery splash into the pavement. I looked down at the guy, stunned off my ass, and saw nothing but a red disaster where his head had been not 10 seconds before; he laid there, face down in a puddle, all that screaming and growling just a thing of the past.  I stood there, probably with my mouth open, for a few seconds before Sam grabbed my arm and shoved me inside the bar; it was pitch black in there, and dead silent save for a few voices and whispers behind the bar. Sounds crazy to say it under those circumstances, but I’d never been happier to see old Sam…my head was ablaze with shock, confusion, and questions, but the only thing on my mind was getting back out there to Sally before whatever was happening in this town swallowed us all whole.

There’s power in the dawn-
radiant energy in those ribbons of red,
and green, and yellow,
and immense strength in the dependable
persistence of the sun-
billions of us plug into the grid each and
every day,
drawing upon the vitality of that infant
beginning-
there’s so much promise in those early hours,
before mistakes are made,
milk is spilled,
accidents occur,
and before the phones start ringing-
there’s still the promise of great things-
those fresh and eager hours are as malleable
as wet clay-
how then will we shape our day?
will we engage it with the mastery of Rodin,
bold, and courageous and unflinching,
or with the playfulness of a child,
whose goal is not perfection, but whose
work is perfect in their own eyes,
and if not, can easily be started again
from scratch if need be,
or will we approach it with the frustration
of the quitters, never satisfied, never complete-
jaded, and as rigid and unchanging as clay
left out, forgotten, and abandoned-
who we are,
who we will become that day,
is our choice alone-
the day is the clay,
our hands, destiny-
you’ll never know how bad you were sleeping
until you’ve rested well,
and you’ll never know how well you’ve slept,
until you’ve woken up*