a stroll down mainstreet.

those almost human voices glide above the concrete. they travel up in waves tangled in helices with the lines of heat distorting the concrete like the image of a distant oasis. a mirage. the asphalt becomes liquid before quickly recomposing itself. the boiling viscous tar is always ten steps ahead. with each step, the world is rocked and ripples cascade through the foundations of skyscrapers and the bases of lamp posts and screeching sagging bottoms of rubber tires. reflections -- of the walking, the running, the hobbling -- quiver and float beside their four-dimensional counterparts in the polished panes of glass. somehow, these vapid distortions of passersby seem a more accurate portrayal than the figures themselves. the reflections, the silently howling ghosts of the living, float on. they are reflected momentarily in those behemoth structures of glass and steel and concrete until they disappear forever. a microcosm of mortality. a sea of simulacra.

our structures will outlast us.
ars longa, vita brevis.

skeleton keys

don't fret
about those fraying strings
those mislaid notes
old fingers clamoring to strike a
familiar or agreeable chord

but these pangs go beyond dissonance
or percussionary use of strings
or acceptable creative liberties

and the sharp notes keep wailing
piercing the air around them
and the flat notes howl
louder than the
silence that precedes death
-- until that treble clef unfurls

and becomes
a straight
black
line.

I fear it's been long enough.

Long enough since some remnants of my fleeting existence have found their way onto paper via pen wielded by an overworked hand -- OR perhaps just text -- an infinite number of ones and zeros arranged in such away that it might mean something to someone.

I find that it's easier to write when I am overwhelmed with an excess of emotional energy. Over the past few months, I've been juggling two jobs, a relationship, and a fairly regimented drinking schedule. I've learned I can't do anything in moderation. Since I moved back to this fair state of Deseret, I've lived about 20 lives. I've gone trail running, traveled 70 hours on a greyhound bus, dabbled in a few substances, learned how to play the melodica, perfected my dough-tossing skills, practiced my French and Spanish with native speakers, and made a heaping ton of mistakes. The question I get asked most frequently is this:
"Are you happy?"

I've come to realize that it's usually myself doing the asking.

I ask myself when I reach the bottom of those bottles, the taste of whiskey fighting with the question on the tip of my tongue. I ask myself when I walk through that looming shadow cast by the temple, when I'm faced every day with a macabre family history masked by a legacy. I ask myself on days like today, when it's overcast and the mountains roar as the thunder tears through the desert heat.

Time to get back to work.