…Said the prophet.

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Board the crowded boat- then you rock it.
Find the next big thing- then you mock it.
Bite the hand that feeds- then you scoff it.
Mind will hurt and grieve… said the prophet.

Waste the time between- but don’t throw it.
Crush the hope and dream- and you know it.
Move from scene to scene- oh, come off it.
Ego will be pleased… said the prophet.

Laugh at what is said- but don’t say it.
Dues are in the red- but don’t pay it.
Hoard all of the time- then you hock it.
Weaken will the spine… said the prophet.

Make a new mistake- but don’t own it.
Turn again your back- but don’t show it.
Take another heart- then you toss it.
Soul will soon depart… said the prophet.

The girl I used to know

I used to know a child
With red ribbons in her hair
She played with all the boys
For me she did not care

I used to know a girl
Her smile was delightful
She’d flirt with all the boys
To me she was quite spiteful

I used to know a lady
At night she worked the clubs
She’d dance for all the men
To me she would be snub

Now I know a woman
Goes by the name of Honey
All the men avoid her
From me she begs for money

Light within the shadows

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In the gentle autumn breeze
There’s a flicker in the trees,
As the light that casts a gleam
Is splintered through the leaves.

At first you will not notice
Because you’ll find it hard to focus,
As the sunlight burns the retina
While you search upon the locus.

But if you gaze for just a minute
At the shadows trapped within it,
You will see beyond the boundaries
Of this world you think is finite.

Amid darkness there is light
Which in viewing you just might,
Mistaken your own vision
When you gape the precious sight.

For in these spaces never sense’d
Like the places aforementioned,
Lay the fleeting unlocked gateways
To the alternate dimensions.

But by the time you have perceived
This percept within the trees,
Your sight will-have readjusted
And you’ll begin to disbelieve.

This is the place.

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With one hand guiding the key into the lock of my front door, the other hand grips my bag, which is already removed from my shoulder and ready to be dropped like the weight of the working week as I enter my apartment. I switch on my kitchen light and open the fridge door, reach for the beer and last night’s leftovers then prop myself against the kitchen bench as I open both. The cold beer is the first relief from the fifty-plus hours of contrived customer interaction. I stretch my neck and shoulders to relieve the stress of the tense muscles and I breathe, deep, and then exhale on a large sigh.

My mind is already seeking alternative relief from the heavy thought patterns that always seem cloud my mind at this end of the working week. A shower and meditation will kick start the process, and in that order I do both. The meditation takes me on a journey of its own, disturbed but peaceful. I take a trip to the inner depths of my soul, find fragmented ideas, and peace within the nothingness. When I come out I reflect upon my lack of meditation recently, but then I find ease in the thought the meditation works when its needed.
I slump in my chair swigging the beer and focus on my weed pipe upon the window ledge, as though it was awaiting my need for its use. I pack it full, spark of the lighter and breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat. Now the weight is fully lifted from my shoulders like the bag before it, only this time its much more than a few books and some work clothes. Within minutes I am picking up on new thoughts and creative ideas, my mind is liberated from the restraints of the manufactured world, which, all too often demands a lot of my attention and manipulates my thought patterns. My thinking becomes clear and my attention to thoughts is as meticulous or as vague as I desire.

The working week is a distant memory, except for the fact that I now look back on it as a whole, and not as the segmented parts that made it up. I look forward, to the next forty-eight hours, then shrink my scope to the night ahead of me and assure myself that it all starts now. I get a message on my phone, an invite to join friends with the intent of inebriation, and without hesitation I accept, not wanting any opportunities to pass me by. But my mind is still wandering to the idea of a full release of consciousness, to the possibility of a trans dimensional journey to really let go of the preceding week. One trip to fully open the mind, one trip to open my receptiveness to the people, experiences and conversations that lie before me in the night, bathed in the light of the full moon.

With my pipe now empty from the weed, I remove the baggy from the top drawer of my desk, the yellow, powdery, Di-methyltriptamine glistens as the lamplight warms it. I pack the pipe delicately and raise it to my lips, I spark the lighter once, twice, and then press the flame to the crystals. The undeniably unique smell of the burning entheogen penetrates my sinuses and I inhale deep, for the third significant time tonight. The efficiency of the capillaries transferring oxygen to my blood stream and in turn the delivery to the brain becomes rapidly apparent as the sharp edges of reality start to slip away before I have even had the chance to exhale. I place the pipe and lighter on the desk with a sense of urgency, and then I lean back in the chair as I exhale and relax. I allow the flood of billions of years worth of empty space to engulf me as my mind sails free into the conscious abyss, connecting with inexplicable dimensional realms, incomprehensible to the sheltered minds of contemporary society.
I am now completely free from the realm of physicality- this is the place where I learn and grow…

finding inspiration

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My birthday was almost two weeks ago and I had long ago given up hope of receiving any gifts. Not that I’m a materialistic person- and don’t get me wrong, a nice night out with my closest friends is one of my favorite things in life, but, it is always nice to receive a little gift on the one day of the year that you can rightly claim as your own, (except if you managed the one in three hundred and sixty five odds- to share the day with your own mother) to know that you’re appreciated.
Then, totally unexpectedly, I came home late from work last night to find a strange, old, worn but cared for, leather covered box with a clip and a handle, and a ream of paper placed atop with a bow tied around it, sitting on my study desk- under the light of the lamp which was turned on.
As soon as I opened the rustic black case and glimpsed the worn, yet well preserved keys, my heart skipped a little in my chest. Having initially been confused at the presence of the strange box upon my desk, I knew instantly that I was looking at one of the best presents I had ever received.
Then came the note… Beautifully written, wound around the platen and sitting propped above the ribbon, as though my muse above was imparting inspiration in text, spurring me on to sit and write again. It had been a while since I had written anything and my frustration at lack of ideas and inspiration was only growing.
I unclipped the typewriter from its case, removed the box, and then placed it on the desk before taking a seat in front of it. I sat staring for a while at the beautiful craftsmanship of such a magnificent piece of equipment, cut from a bygone era. In awe of it’s well maintained or restored condition, I began to ponder the fingers that came before me, pressing the keys that I sat before, what words had been typed? From whose thoughts had they come? The wonder of the stories told from the thump of the letter strikers against the countless pages that have been spun through the paper roll. Perhaps secret documents had been transcribed, now locked away in archival storage- never to be seen again. Maybe great novelists had pressed the words of stories still told today, stories of courage, wisdom, hope, love, or of war and darker times.
In any case, the mystery of the life of the machine that came to be mine left me in wonder at my worthiness to forge my own stories, to press the stamp heads against the ink ribbon and to start a new chapter in the life of the apparatus that will go on telling stories long after I have told mine.
Of course in today’s society with our technology and computers with spell check and auto correct for the grammatically impaired, it would seem impractical to scribe out the pages of a book or story on such an old world device (as enchanting as it would be). But however long it sits upon the bookshelf with my other artifacts from ages gone, it will forever remain a source of inspiration with it’s perplexing, enigmatic past. And when the time comes for the words worthy of its key strikes, and for pages once more to be turned through the paper roll with the platen knobs, and aligned, ready for the first sentences of a new tale with the light push of the carriage return lever, I will take her down from the shelf and sit for a moment, again in awe of her beauty- rivaled only by that of the woman who gave her to me.