The Office

        This is wrong to say, but I am thoroughly enjoying this.

The scalpel separates the flesh perfectly and effortlessly.  It is so sharp that it traverses nearly the entire perimeter of the base of his foot before he can even feel it.  When he does, however, the scream is otherworldly.

I suppose the foggy ether of dilaudid and the basic human instinct to retreat from pain has caused him to forget the conversation we engaged in mere minutes ago. I warned him. I swear.

He pulls his leg back to remove it from the blades vicinity, only to receive a quick reminder of the vicious little trick I have played on him with the piano wire.  I wanted him to have the ability to make choices.  He has—to this point in his life—made some rather bad ones and rarely afforded those around him the same opportunity.  It is only fair that he be given the opportunity to minimize his pain.  To be honest, I am hoping he makes all the wrong choices....

The Race

Everything,

That brings the end,

Begins, someday, with death in mind.

It sprouts from nothing,

And blooms into everything,

Primal,

Carnal,

Helpless, and blind…

…falling fast through time.

Grabbing only what it can reach.

Longing for those special things,

Which lie beyond its downward path…

Falling faster now,

The routine whirl ensues again…

Spinning helpless, crying, 

Time ticking, 

dying.

Together

Image by harold.lloyd (won't somebody think of the bokeh?) via Flickr

I shall be as you,
and you as me...


Forever solitary
in this being.
Common only
in our distance.


My existance is nothing,
save the heart
of a soul's dream.
It beats so alone
as to have dreamed of you.

Copyright 2010  Dave Beaver - All Rights Reserved

Room To Run - A Short Beginning To A Long Story

Image via Wikipedia

So here I stand, perched on this tightrope, with death on my left hand and life on my right. I spent my entire life thinking that I was living and never realized that I was actually asleep until death snuggled up beside me. Now—with the opposites of existence singing their joyous songs on either side of me—I can hear the truth laughing at its own joke.

This coma is a gift from God.

Every day that I walked the earth was an n abomination to humankind. The reason is really quite simple. While I was nothing of a monster in the usual sense of the word—I did not rape, murder, steal, adulterate, etc.—I was as arrogant as the ninety-five percent of the people in this world that walk around from day to day thinking that they now what the truth is.

God—and God alone—knows the truth. To think it any other way is a sin against existence itself.

Now my body lies here in this hospital bed, and my mind floats everywhere but there. I remember every detail of the journey that brought me here. The clarity of it all is like a dull ache in my soul. The circumstances hurt, and the participants are nearly enough to destroy—but these are all points to be made later.

For now—as it has been from the very onset of the coma—there is only the description of the darkness to be told. It is a darkness so all encompassing and black in its pitch that it devours all things—including itself—and makes them as the brightest light to have ever shown in the eyes of man. The sun would be blinded by this absolute brilliance. The world exists because of it and would disintegrate were it to be unveiled.

And from it issues a voice before which the likes of warriors and priests have knelt—sobbing!

It speaks to me as if it has known me all my life and—for the life of me—I cannot understand why I have not known it just as long. The words we exchange are like echoes in the womb; they are but the pre-suffering gurgles of a child first observed—and then answered—by the living, breathing, life-force that the understands to be its home. And then the realization that I have been deaf all these years shatters me and my soul begins to weep.

I have communed with my Holy Guardian Angel (the one that we have all—at one time or another—mistaken for the overseer of all the things except that one of which it truly is) and it has laid waste to my preconceptions of the world. I am baptized in a shower of light and love so that I might be worthy of the gift I am about to receive. With that it begins to make clear the parameters of my reception of this gift.

There are three and three only.

Firstly, there are no parameters in the earthly sense. My spirit will be unleashed upon this world—and any other that I may choose—wit the freedom of the wind and the power of a God. There will be nowhere that I cannot go, and nothing that I cannot affect.

Second, if I am so bold as to believe that I—while soaring, all powerful through the very atmosphere of life, and yet still being bound by human ideology and emotions—can accomplish anything worthwhile or, at the very least, can refrain from setting in motion any type of destructive earthly consequences, I will be permitted to record this excursion into the unknown, upon the palimpsest of my mind.

And the third condition is that—should I fall short in my assumption of benevolence—my own hand-written record of folly will be submitted as evidence against me in my trial between this life and the next. That will be the one and only time that I will ever be allowed to recall the words that I am writing at this moment.

It should now be apparent that my arrogance knows no bounds.

As far as my worldly existence is concerned, well, that is to remain a mystery even to a god such as myself. The only information I will be privy to is whatever snippets of wisdom I might glean from the sea of reality that—even now—ebbs and flows around the shell of myself that now lies below me; the heartfelt pleas of my family; the sterile response of the doctors; these will provide my only status report as to my human condition—or lack thereof.

With that said, I can feel the voice receding—slowly, but surely—to a place of quiet omnipotence high above me. Though it does not speak as it goes I know—as I should have all along—that it will wait there—and watch—and make itself available to me on a moment’s notice should I beg the answer to any question whatsoever.

I feel a comfort about me now that I have not known since childhood. Serenity is the reality in this place—rather than the dream.

All of this time-while I was conversing with my angel—the world around me was but a memory buried deep within the subconscious. Now—with the conversation at rest—the world that I have left behind begins to seep back into my newfound vision.

It is bizarre in ways that had I the vocabulary of Logos himself; an explanation would elude my tongue. The reason for this is that I am seeing with my soul rather that with my eyes. Everything is laid out before me as it exists inside that reality that w, as humans, can never hope to understand. It is the reality behind the fiction that we have created to shield us from what we cannot possibly fathom—the truth.

Here—with no earthly shackles to bind me fast to it—I can withstand it. In a sense, the ability to get away from it by retreating into infinity is the only thing keeping me somewhat coherent at this very moment. Were I to face this same landscape peering—as I have from birth—from the confines of my mortal head, I would surely have usurped all heretofore discovered levels of insanity in the blink of an eye. Facing it—with only the limited space that makes up the human mind—would have paralyzed me in one instant, and dashed my existence upon the walls of my skull the next. I see now the perils of not placing restrictions on truth and, in turn, why God only doles out to each person as much as he, or she, can handle.

Truth is like a great beast; it must be studied and understood; reckoned with and tamed; the smaller the room, the quicker it will devour you.

But here—in infinity—there is room to run. Room enough to hold the chair and the whip before your celestial body to keep the beast at bay; and room to run fleeing into the darkness for a quick session of prayer and redirection should the animal prove too overwhelming at any given moment.

The space around me is shimmering with the existence of life. Everything—from the family members who are visiting me—to the chairs they are sitting on—to the floor that supports them—to the air that surrounds them.

Everything is alive!

The Words I Cannot Say

Dyeing there each day,

strangled in their way,

existing in their own,

please, to find a home.

There upon your lips,

and back...

My heart is silent.

Falling useless,

falling quick.

A word,

unheard,

is dead.

A thought,

unheard,

lives...

Copyright &nbsp1995  Dave Beaver - All Rights Reserved

The Demon Press

As I fall into the gaping maw
of slumber's cold compress, 
behind me - daytime's insane law!
In front - the Demon Press!


It's spinning tales of cataclysm, 
as none you've ever dreamed before,
an ever-changing, carnal-schism,
forcing me, my mind, to war.


The battle rages - an eternal flame.
No force of will can, here, deny
that timeless spinsters sinister claim
to what is seen by the sleeping eye!

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Focal Point

Extinguish your burning thoughts, if you will.
For a moment come join us on this cool, shaded hill.
Leave your regrets, and misguided misgivings.
Leave your lost hope with your failed sense of living.


Here we hang rags on our motionless mass's.
This is the place where our hate comes to pass.
Take your head high to the kingdom of nothing.
Take your found debts to the land of lost nothings.


This is the place where the sane crazies go.
Here we sing songs of the things most can't know.
Our rags keep us cold in the blinding, bright, night,
for the warmth is simply the end of the flight.


For a moment, come join us on this cool, shaded hill...
...directly beneath the hopeless man's will.

Wisdom's Pearl

I suppose - you thought - the world was your oyster,

and you, its pearl - would shine on forever!

You were - you knew - the power of brilliance,

and it, your luster - would win the world over!

You felt - I hope - the water eroding.

You saw - I pray - the sludge leaking in.

You had time to await the worlds coming darkness.

Oh Lord! Did you halt the life draining sin?

You And Me

A million miles away,
your memory lies,
in bondage, on the shore
of regret.  Tangled


decisions embrace each
other, to sow the
seed of hate.  This 
love is killing me...  ©

Quote Note Of The Day 01/14/2010

 “Love is a state in which a man sees things most decidedly as they are not” ~ Frierich Nietzsche

How true is this?  Love is nothing short of an alternate reality.  We don't see things that are there, and do see things that are not there.  That one emotion consumes and alters all others as on a pyre.  Love is - all at once - a most terribly beautiful, and utterly trans-formative bender of reality.  There exists no better drug in this world!

Animal Instinct

Clawing its way,
from spine to cerebellum,
the tiger roars.


Bestialities finest hour
ticks its final tock.
The perverse tempo of
marauding claws


has beaten the chaos
drum raw.  Now meat,
for the feeding, drips
its blood on thoughts
tongue.  This feast was


worth the violence and
forsaken virtues.  Like
fucking for applause - 
The rush will split your soul!

Crossroads

Image via Wikipedia

Souls divide,
at this crossroad,
and reap eternal damnation
for their lack of direction.


The chaos chorus rises
to a fever pitch, bringing
the only sanity these
lost souls know - MADNESS...


...and insanity are the
price of true freedom - 
non-refundable, and exact
in its change of faith!

Tether

Image via Wikipedia

Tired and true, these thoughts dangle
at my wits end, hanging above the fire
of my bridges burnt.  They are my
assets, liabilities, and follies.


At once, they mock and flatter,
portraying a clown's sophisticated
manner to the apathetic audience
which lines the shore.  JUMP...


...to the valley far below.  Plummeting,
now--through the rage set fire, and 
foul air these creatures breath--to
the soft, forgiving valley floor.  FREE...


...from the imposition of ignorance'
will.  This temporary death cleanses
the stink of regret and self doubt from
my soul--even as my wits end slides...


...down the canyon wall.  As a snake
it slithers--hissing my defiance.  Soft
and slow--so not to startle--it curls
round' my thoughts, subdued.


Then--with the snap of an overstretched
umbilical--I'm dying, once again,
in the comedy above.  The reviews
are repulsive, and the jeers just the same.


No matter, I've vacationed the valley,
and rewritten the script...

Cadence

In slow motion,
death renders my soul to life.
Realization ignites
denial, and acceptance.


What would be is not
unless taken away!


Denial creeps fast
through every dream wakened.
Furiously, hate
burns passions wings.


What could be is lost
unless given hope!


Acceptance dawns slow 
on each wished horizon.
Uncontrollably now,
the cadence of life...

Heaven

A window opens before him

as he steals faithful eyes

from their view of Heaven--

roiling with eternal pain.

Suffer, here, the wicked.

For they are all that know 

life.  For them, death is but

a fleeting glimpse of Heaven--

in the instant before eternity.

Sustenance

As I kiss you from your mouth

down to your toe's, it occurs to

me, a wish, to eat you and, as a

sweet candy, swallow you whole.

Not in the manner of sexual design,

instead piece by piece, fingers and

toes.  Down, down to my stomach,

even deeper, my soul!

Down there, digested by love

un-denied, as two in one body

we lay side by side, tangled in 

passion, the cold world outside...

from my mouth to your toe's.

The Drive

It's all about the drive.

It's all about the ride you take,

the path you make,

it's all about the stride.

It's all about the step you stroll,

the rock you roll,

it's all about the glide.

It's all about the wants you need,

the beasts you feed,

it's all about the pride.

It's all about the gas you burn,

the speed you turn,

it's all about the ride.

It's all about the chance you take,

the rules you break,

it's all about the drive.

Unleash

So let the silence of your heart
be broken, and the floodgates
thrown open. Let the river of emotions
run swift through the valley floor.


Unleash the tides of love, and hate,
upon your mind's tattered shore...
tis' their erosive waves of fate
shaping, sculpting, your soul's core.


Tear the veins of self control and
bleed the captive life-blood free...
to a swirling bloodbath send
the demon pity's false decree!

Silence Abscence

Image via Wikipedia

The violins played on through the night,

Weeping, mourning, praying for light.

And their sounds fell heavy, like the onset of death,

While every new pitch, gave the dreaming man breath.

For silence, he knew, was the sword of the dead,

And music—the life in the dreaming man’s head!

So the sad, listless, music gave him strength to dream on,

While the others, shallow, fearfull—like their music, are gone.

Dance the dream,

Or dream the dance,

Lest the reaper’s charge you be.

Yet never take a silent stance!

Hope And Desire

Blank stares from me to myself.

Youth has gone to pasture, and

Ambition's fire fades.

All is not well in the land of hope,

for the once, surely, bright future

is now but a dull fog.

Circumastances have painted the

truth of the world  pallid gray, and 

putrescent for my eyes.

Still...dreams splash flowers, and

sunshine, and blood over my naked mind.

DESIRE LIVES!