There was Angel blood and fire dust in the wisps of heaven, blown by the currents of passionate havoc. The molecules escaped history and slipped into the slit kept secret by the future, now red with remorse at the loss of clock-tick virginity. Somehow the folding of hope and loss gave life to a seedling, with roots of immortality and stems of divinity. She rose from fertility with soft eyes and strong bones held tight beneath pale skin. Every time my heart beats, she blinks and I feel the breeze.

Deep within the crevasses of books, within the curls of grass blades, within the folds of jean pockets, lives tiny, tiny fanged creatures. 

They are mostly shades of gray, fluffed to look like dust—but sometimes, a gritty brown to mimic dirt. They cling to students, and teachers. Tiny eyes, hidden by tufts of fur, never blink. These creatures are eager to devour their pray—pencil erasers. 

As they get closer to their prey, fangs click with excitement. They will suck each eraser dry—Yet, students never weary, teachers never stop, mistakes are allowed to be made. 

Nothing can stop pure written creativity.

Beautiful earth cherubs

looked askance

from perches of mirth.

Rosy cheeks and innocent air

belied the erosive damage

they all were committing

to the sacred Mother

who birthed them

and nurtured their bodies.

Sobbing Mother Earth

lamented as she watched

her sweet cherubs

throwing their trash

on her beauteous land,

using toxic poisons

to fertilize her beds,

washing her fair face

with noxious chemicals,

emptying filthy sewers

into rivers and oceans

cutting her verdant forests

leaving them fallow.

The bereft cherubs wailed

as they realized

the damage they had done

but it was too late.

Mother Earth was no more.

Love is a man with cold, dry hands;

Love is a woman with ample breasts;

Love has a scythe

And a pretty green dress.

Love is the one who takes

And breaks

And turns to ash;

Love is a lullaby.

Love is the one who gathers the dust,

And plants the seeds

In water and warmth;

Love is a flame.

Love is the music that continues to play

As we dance and dance and dance.

Love is closing empty eyes

And a rush of relief as the infant cries.

Love has five letters

And four letters

And four letters

And four more,

But ends with seven

Or sometimes six.

And love has all of us,

Future and past,

Until love itself is no more.

Fine lady in 

the dappled dress

I see you hover

at the door. 

How long before we

see you no more?

The ball is over. 

Not long, I think. 

As you may guess

I fly to the

call of instinct. 

Lady please tarry,

I would wilt

and die of bliss

to taste

a single kiss. 

Your hasty wish 

is granted. 

Hear my spell:

'Nectar drunk,

prince enchanted'.

As the clock

strikes the hour,

words are spoken. 

All mortal bonds

are broken. 

The magic's done:

the prince a flower.

He glistens on,

one more lordly bloom

frozen in the lady's bower. 

Why'd we use the word “quest” to abbreviate, better nullify our concept of “request”? Fancy ending up suspended between supply and demand, targeting the out of range?

Just like our hero who never departed into the journey of being at some point on target, he will fail at reaching it.

As excruciating and useless as it must seem, we will imperatively reveal to him the illusion of triumph. Lazy heroes get what they have asked for: interiorized challenges. Happiness is but an order placed in the timely manner of serendipity. “Wanna bet what destination will become valuable, predict the sempiternal?”

Once there was a girl who didn't like to talk to people. She much preferred spending time by herself in the forest. She would spend hours sitting in the trees, listening to the birds. No one minded much; she was so quiet they hardly noticed either way. Sometimes someone would look for her, but she could hide from sight in the branches.

One day the girl was sad and decided to stay in the woods forever. No one could find her; they just heard the leaves move as she passed. If you listen closely, you can still hear her sometimes.

In the beginning, all was sound, cacophony. There was no rest, no reprieve from the endless, swirling vortex. All beings ambled through life with hands over their ears, adding to the clamor with their cries. Children were born, lived and died in anxiety, dissonance and bedlam. 

Until one day, a single man stopped, sat, and was quiet. One by one, each person who passed settled themselves next to him, closed their mouths, opened their ears, gained a new reprieve. Gradually, the world became still, the noises dulled. They learned to listen and breathe, in and out. Thus, silence was born.  

The first mother carried her child on her back, soft skin wrapped in rough cloth, arms free to find food in the earth. The first child slept on her stomach. The world was large and wild, and those moments of sleep were enclosed in love, in warm arms, the smell of newly picked fruit hanging low in the air.

Yet days end, and children grow, and the world remains large and wild.

Too soon, a stomach is no longer a place for sleeping, and the first mother weaves the first blanket for her child. And threads enclosed them in love.

It is said that the universe and everything therein came

to be in six days and that on the seventh

there was rest. This is the story that The Seven

tell. When all was Said and Done they gathered, beaming,

full of joy at what they had created. They celebrated.

Jealousy was born in the heart of Storm. Surging, above

creation, he struck with bolts of light bringing fire. Wind

was caught in the waylay and the heavens shook, that

which was once pure became sullied, frail. Next time you

see clouds and a rainbow, know that a battle rages.