The Sound of Sirens

 “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” ― Edgar Allan Poe

heatherwanderer

I woke with a sweat drenched pillow, the dreams that enthralled me were just out of reach but I could struggle and recall them if I didn’t hesitant any longer and with that thought, I pulled back the sounds of voices, calling like the fine wind and string instruments of lyre and lute. The voices were right, wisdom echoed in their cadence as I found my ship drawn inextricably to their haunting direction. Have you ever smelled perfume? Not the cheap whorish variety that smelled like cotton candy but a subtle scent that lingered long after she left the room? That’s how her voice seemed, a wafting fragrance that captivated both mind and body and caused me to drift aimless but not so misdirected as one lost, for my wanderings found their home in her arms. Ok, now that I wrangled my dreams from their abyss, I can take my sweat soaked bedding and snap open a beer that waited for me in the icy bottom of the cooler. Simple pleasures, intense dreams, cold beer, what more could a man want from chasing the pleasures of his Queen? I could go on but would you be interested in the musings of one who gave his ear in desperation of love, or one who wrote under the influence of acid and heroin? If not for leisure, philosophy would find no fertile ground. How can you think when your body is burdened with heat, sweat and fatigue? Yet, as I grabbed the sweaty pillow, I was lying down, sleeping, and still I sweated with what? Passion? Work? What trick of nature is this? I’m still and yet my dreams bring labor, enough work to leave me exhausted. Perhaps I actually live a life beyond the awakened drudgery of normalcy? Society feels no compassion for the sweat obtained through dreams, and yet, that’s were the miracles of living are brought to a vivid reality. Yes, my thoughts are work, yes, that’s my job, and yes, from it I am weary and sweaty. I’m off to work again, don’t look for me on the street, my tasks take me to roads never seen, and I dance with voices never heard.

Also published in Broowaha Citizen’s Magazine

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Mortal Dance – Engage the Pack

“What we think of as our sensitivity is only the higher evolution of terror in poor dumb beasts. We suffer for nothing. Our own death wish is our only real tragedy.” – Mario Puzo

itsraininguniverse

As I listen, my music carrying me away, I feel death circling. A thousand shards of ice sharp pain brings me its gifts of gray emotion. Inevitably sunrise comes, in spite of my night loving wishes. A blank stare possesses my eyes, and life leaves. Can I be dead and alive at the same time? Is this what’s wrong? Am I trying to move rigor mortised limbs? If feelings are dead, is the blood running warm and blue any life at all? It’s like nothing matters when you look over that edge. I want to peek, to glimpse at what’s beyond. Is this what predators sense? That I flirt with death and sleep restlessly for want of it? They surround my camp with fire lit eyes. I see them jumping, ducking in and out of the light, playing with me, afraid to rush in too quick. One tugs at me, yanking my leg to see if I move. I gasp, pushing away the comfort of mortality to engage the pack. It’s the fight that brings me back to life. Until then there’s no reason, but when the enemies come, that, that is why I live, only to fight. Men have ruined everything else in my life but this I control. When it’s time, I will bring death to myself, no one else will take that privilege.