I can write.

While visiting my family for Thanksgiving I came across a couple of notebooks that I used to keep notes while in Bolivia. A couple of the passages really struck me. It’s interesting to me to read these journal entries five years after I wrote them. Frankly, it’s hard to believe I wrote them. I’m going to share a couple with you. I’d love to know what you think.

My hair fros out when the snare goes out
and the kickdrum kicks like a flare shot out
sandals flippin’ and floppin’
bodies always droppin’
a veces me pareces in my movies at night
just might help the bodies be re-animated
COME BACK TO LIFE AND CHASE ME
Someday I’ll be painted while I sit or while I sat
displayed in a gallery for Mallory
for only twice than less than half her salary
plus one calorie
burned from her hypodermic intake insulin pancake.

Mix that shit up
put it in a cup
then throw a one-way sender all into a blender.
Lose the love of your life thrice,
think twice and go on a bender.
Mind closed off, men working here.
Peers peer well into the well
and smell shiny, twinkly, sparkly glistening darts
of refracted light during lite diets and flying sideways.
Get a grip.
Not manual
E-manuel from the Bible.
A grip of friends?
It all depends if those feet can dig deep
and ribs rise and fall without a care.
Swell.

I want to die running away from someone, anyone
preferably a law enforcement agent of some brand.
I’ll be running slow motion
when their pistols open fire and catch me mid-stride.
My path to glory and supposed destiny will only be
a few visible feet in front of my divide.
I’ll reach out for it with my dying breath,
but will be unable to grasp what is left-
what I wanted to achieve for no more than a few escaping minutes.
The love of my life will, of course, bear witness
to this entire tragic affair.
Tears will be streaming down her cheeks-
her ragged cheeks that are simply exhausted
from loving a man who loves her only second
to the worthy cause for which he has been fighting for decades.
She’s been there since the beginning though
and she knows she is integral
to the fight
that he selflessly continues despite
his family’s best interest.
The tears flow while she tries wholeheartedly,
yet it is indescribably futile
and she knows mere moments remain before everything,
EVERYTHING they’ve both dedicated their lives too
ends in a cacophony of gunshots
and a symphony of deep seeded tragedy and what nots.
She’ll press her hand to the gaping, spurting wound
her face to his to hear his final struggled breaths.
She’ll swoon.
Her hand finds his and interlocks with ease.
He is strong, but not as strong as once before.

Once before on a bright, sun-drenched day
he won her back on a stroll around an algae
encrusted pond in an obscure park
tucked away in a functional-
at least it seemed to them at the time-
suburban neighborhood.
They’d been through the wash
and had each taken a turn in the dryer-
mangling and testing each other’s feelings.
Sending each other reeling
through space and rhymes for various expanses of time.
But they always came back.
Sitting together on cylindrical pylons of cement
watching parents watching their kids play they feel deep within them that that would be them on some distant day.

So they fought each other tooth and nail
resorted to tactics unbecoming of one another
until one day in 2015 everything settled into place.
It seemed that the race was finally over.
The crowd that for so long had played a part
in off-track betting and proselytizing and hedging
and interfering had up and left.
They were deaf
from the silence that surrounded them without a sound.
Finally they were alone.
Just one simple not-so-bright light shone
down illuminating their faces that were already known
and written-more likely grooved into their bones
and DNA strands.
The scents and smells of the other was like a sixth sense-
their very own clone.

Tragically they would not-and could not touch.
They tried at first, thinking it was a cruel joke to be so close.
Finally, physically and visibly within reach
with no contracts to breach.
All the saints dead and alive tried
through prayer
to clear the air
that stood defiantly by and between
unseen.

“Let them know peace,” a voice said.
And it was mine.
I narrowed my eyes
and focused my concentration.
I beamed thought rays from my forehead to hers.
I lost every single one of my nerves.
I blathered and sputtered.
I couldn’t accept the end lying there
in the unconscious eyes, ears and arms of my long-lost best friend.

But just then
I heard
the sound of a cricket chirp which assured
me that the Earth
was still passing by while the universe expanded.
I’m nothing I thought, and exhaled seeing my love above me
smile and recede into sounds of rustling branches
and shaking leaves.

Since then
it’s just been
leaving the sink on
to let the water run, brush my teeth and get ready for bed.
Try to silence the thought marathon
currently running through my head.
Other people fuck and make love sounds
in the rooms down the way.
Can’t stop ’em though.
Feelings on the sidelines are never allowed to play.

Walking a line and drying clothes all at the same time.
Wandering outside, taking it in
Mars has tracks on it from landing craft,
but I can’t keep track
of expanding paths and synapse math.
There’s something surrounded by bone up there
that wants to go home down there.
But where?
I can’t stay here anymore?
I can’t stay here anymore.
Can’t you just stop?
But where does it end?
I have to keep going.
My homing signal has been assumed missing
and while you keep guessing I’m out here in the clear
totally tamped down and flattened.
Sometimes, you see, I’m re-animated by free wit, will and stimulation.
But it doesn’t come without proper accreditation.
Change the laws and just let. Me. Be B. Brandon.
I’ve written my name a lot.
So. Have. You.

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