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Chapter 1: From Monte Carlo to MontezumaMontezuma was always destined to become a warrior. It was obvious from the way he moved, the way he even laughed. When he got old, it was once song by the young that:
On the shore lay Montezuma
With his coca leaves and pearls
In his halls he often wondered
With the secrets of the world
The secrets of the world enshrouded him indeed for he was an evil child. You didn’t have to kill to be evil, and so he didn’t, but later he did. It may seem like an odd choice that I have sat down to even describe this man in a mask, but I am almost certain that it will be read.
I have met Montezuma only once. I was at the roots of one of our great pyramids and he came up to me, put his hand on the top of my head. I couldn’t see him, but in that instant, vision be damned, I could sense who stood beside me.
“You stand at my foundation. What makes you crawl up these grand temples?” he asked.
“The steps,” I answered.
He immediately removed his hand from my he
Prologue - The Railroad that TwistedIt was a hot spring day when the messenger finally reported back about Oliver Twist.
“He’d be building a railroad,” they all said.
“We’ll get to Manchester easier now,” they all said.
We all sat in the shadow of the train stations roof. We’d sat there all afternoon, waiting for the shadows to settle, but here he was, the messenger, messing with our schedule.
“Well then,” one of us remarked. “How far he be?”
“He’s far indeed,” the messenger said, catching his breath between syllables. “I caught a glimpse of him just a few arrow shots from Manchester.”
“Just a few? Boy, are you sure about that? That runt left us here not too long ago, asking about wanting more food and what else kinds of childhood games. He should be a few arrow shots of London, not Manchester.”
“I swear I did, sir. I swear.”
“Bullocks,” another quickly responded. I remember looking at
The Grateful DeadThe Grateful Dead
Among all the flowers, I noticed a rose. It was very uncommon for a flower garden to only sport one rose. I figured that all the others had died long time ago, but the truth, as I'm told by the gardener, is that no other rose ever existed. It grew in the middle of the garden, throwing thorns and other greens of its ever growing body. Even further out were tulips, lilies, different weeds, trees and everything else that you'd expect from a garden this size. It was all finely enclosed by a white fence, and not one leaf crept outside these boundaries. The gardener told me that he'd tried to touch the rose as a child, but he'd never managed to reach it. I asked him if he'd ever touched it since. He laughed at me.
He was an old gardener. He told me that his grandfather once had a bench in the garden where he'd sit and smoke his pipe. It was a nice thought, but the bench was gone now. The grandfather insisted on leaving the garden to itself. He even allowed weeds to g
Banquet of the HeroesOdysseus, the sailor, is stuck again
He saw not too far from himself
"Pray his water to wine," the desperate whine
As his blood it to salt turns to be
He repaired the mast but then soon fell off!
He screamed for help in the sea
But Poseidon just laughed and then sang to him:
"In the blue you were born to be."
Oddysseus swam, but his muscles broke,
broke like the legs of a flea
He speared out his head for just one more time
And screamed: "Penelope, please come to me!"
King Arthur, the ruler, wages war again!
He slaughters the weed, cuts it down
"Place in the gallow, not just every fellow,
for some deserve the shade of my crown!"
He saw not the lance heading for his head!
He saw not the way of the kill!
His head, it rolled down his Excalibur
Propelled to the top of Gods hill
They're separated now, king from the crown
Another one takes on the gold
King Arthur 'the tyrant' lives only on,
'cause history by the victor is told.
At last, Superman, the ridicule
Lives in the books, lives in all
BroughtBy God, he was created
The Devil, destroyed
He still loved his harp, though
that Venus deployed
He played it and guessed on
the future of life
While caped cross crusaders
Pulled out their red knife
His death, it came quickly
in the valley of fools
Reaped by the grim one
with sharp rusty tools
He yelled and he whispered
They heard not a thing
Too busy with hiding
By great bells that ring
And the bells, tolled so loudly
His ashes were spread
They scribed and they signed all
To ensure he was dead
They prayed and they crossed
their fingers in spite
To kill a man wholly,
his soul they must smite
His soul now, sweeps with ashes
It swirls in the dust
The earth is his tombstone,
on which he will rust
Forever and ever
checking both his sides
to cross that one street that
makes lovers collide
Though they meet, in the heavens
he still lingers here
In our age of the Devil
he'll likely appear.
To haunt us and teach us
that harps we've forgot
Remind us of heathens
And the saints that we've shot
Days of Fins and ScalesPlay me a song, oh you wicked one
about the epitaphs of fools.
Speak through me the distance I
need to go to cut the tools
needed for the breaking lose
of this heavy ball and chain.
For I need not another time
To lose when others gain
To play a song that no one knows
is the specialty of man.
Describing why the oceans roam,
and why the mermaids ran
from the book of truth to the one of myth,
taking with them their song.
I do not need to read it in books
to know where they belong
Moving mountains and skipping stones
happens when God, he plays.
Rearranging all the clouds
to banish the shade of grays
He leaves although a little room,
for others to fill in the blanks.
And so the trident hearted ghost
steps forth from nature's ranks
"What would I create?" he thinks aloud
"How can I enchant these seas?"
A memory then came to him
"I know it!" he said and breezed
out to the cliffs of majesty,
where lions earn their crown.
"I know that here I'll once again
make creatures that cannot drown!"
The RagabondHe lives beyond that veil, playing the violin
Painting one rainbow after another
And he wonders a lot, if God exists or not
For he himself grew up without a father
Around his neck is hanged, a sign without a name
Since he is only known as the vagabond
And he wanders a lot, if he should stay or not
For glory seems to drip of the horizon
He begins to pack his bags, fill his pockets, clean his rags
Emptying out the home, he had never had
Tuning out his violin, make it point from out to in
So he'll never forget, where his heart is
And then he ran on off, bringing with him all he owned
So that he, like Noah, could outgrow sin
Then the olive carried doves, made him think of all he loves
But his thoughts came out surprisingly empty
He then found emptiness on the outside, as well as inside
Beating drums that would inspire him
Playing like clockwork in the background, circling around
the poet within that called for him
He started writing, enveloping and then soaking
his own heart, for
Route 61I was waiting for my bus again. It was late as usual. From the bus stop I could barely see the turn in the road where the green monstosity showed itself. It was too distant to be heard, but it soon came close enough.
I spotted an ond gentlemen, who hurried down the street. He was breathing very heavily, and his bones must've been rattling under his sacky suit. In one hand he held a wooden cane that he swung like it was a pendulum, and in the other was a blue umbrella. I looked up at the equally blue sky no clouds to see at all. The old man's effort seemed to be worth it, however, since he made it down to me before the bus did. He made a wide smile at me, while he breathed like a retired locomotive.
"Good you made it," I said to him to cheer him up a bit. Both my hands were in my pocket, as I rocked my body back and forth to the rhythm of the old man's cane. He looked confusedly at me.
"What did I make, exactly?" he mumbled.
I pointed at the nearing bus.
"Well, the bus of course.
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Stranger's funeralUnder the clouds
Under the rain
Staring at the coffin
At a stranger's funeral
We're all alone
Feeling the storm
But not the pain
For he's but a stranger
And the graves around us
Are just there
Keeping us company
During this empty moment
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be part of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frost
and your heart's valves are close to
freezing shut tight
from being devoid of something
Though I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,
warm tears streaking,and tornadoes of rage
that flow uncontrollably through my veins
and out of my mouth,
every breath near you is warm
because your words are so cold
I am a natural disaster at its finest
with bones twisted in painful angles
and a crooked spine
you were born spineless
After our FloodThrough your thoughts and lines, both entangled in wines
Ships dock in your fire that the main co-captain finds
And the slow of the restless live up to tie your binds
Oh how - will I ever resist - just to kiss you?
The street level views that encircle our parade
In this town of old, now by the both of us made
Our masks they are dropped, we've lived the last charade
And now - we'll be bound - to carry us through
Living edges for the last crusade
And the blood bled for hours at the hungry trade
I skipped just that one stone, it a mountain made!
We have finally tunneled through
At the end of it - in my hands - the blue
Out of candlewax and wool, you've strung the main front side
Of our loft bearing fortress in which our hearts reside
Reflected in the moon, we finally steer back the tide
And live - to be nearly - breathing for you
The slow packing sail that unfolds before our sigh
And the wings of the 'gale soaring to the sky
The giants that drank rivers, before your feet they lie
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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