A NEW BEGINNING BOOK

WRITING THE STORY WITHOUT FALLING DOWN...

CHAPTER ONE:

This story is a short trip into madness... A long haul into our echo to stave off what's surely coming...

The ridge line glimmered as the sun got dressed for the day-tripping across the universe. You'd have to be crazy to see it otherwise, perhaps it's just me?

(Who's crazy?)

Yes.

(Join the club, Poetryman.)

Why me?

(Shit, boy! You know the answer to that weak kneed response!)

Why not?

(Eureka! The boy's catching on like hot cakes with peanut butter! In the wind, Scribbler, just relax and go in hot, brother, have that spirit of Love enter in with you and you're sure to find it a joy...)

She is with Me. Think.

(Yip.)

CHAPTER TWO:

The ridge line beat a trail into grooves, beams of light glancing off of the next command of God: you become pointless if you don't speak! But then the same might be said of your silence.

The chirp of night leaked down its angel's wings and there was laughter in the valley. I wasn't expecting God to answer when I knocked, imagine had I been?

CHAPTER THREE:

-The Dance of Consciousness-

(Hope it's better than last year's Dance of Unconsciousness! I got stuck in the bathroom the whole night!)

Did you go to The Dance of Subconsciousness?

(No. I knew when it was, but forgot all about it.)

Subconsciousness thus hidden, can and must and will be revealed if we are to save ourselves from the elevated reflection we have of ourselves, these tiny creatures squawking about votes instead of talking bout what's real, what's vital to our survival, what rings a bell, that holds us lovingly, all, bar not one, in flesh or in spirit, no damnation exists- Hey look! It's Heaven's Gate. It's why in the story of hell there's no gate, we can always checkout and leave, this ain't no Hotel California, this here's the scribe, affectionately known as Scribbler. At least I think it's affection that brings another to think such kind things. Circles are handy things, huh?

No need to be demeaning in your inability to speak of what I believe as much as what you believe your idea that belief resides outwardly along with God- See? Already hit a snag! Not five seconds it took to reveal the truth- God is also, always and evermore, within you...

sdrawkcaB nruT (Turn Backwards)

I have been witness to the four pillars and see no reason to carry death there. Doesn’t the world know that life moves for more than just the sons of Abraham? O! I see the stunned throats floating by in the dusk to their stiff-limbed sleep as metal rains down over the Jordan’s western prophet, children dying there. I am here, waiting, breathing in the dusk under the shadow of the patriarch, asking, can we again build the shrine inside the soul and leave our flesh to time? © 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

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........•SHRIEKING MACHINE•........ •HEAD-LINES• •RIP• ---(“Russian missiles blast Ukrainian military academy and hospital, killing more than 50, officials say”)--- There are no more lessons to learn here, no more beds to hold the human wounded, just missile’s shrieking their grotesque ode, The Death of Humankind! RIP, children of God… ---(“Hundreds attend Mercer Island vigil, march for murdered Israeli hostages”)--- Dear mourners, this is the brutal vacuum of a genocidal, terror-filled, indiscriminate war-machine made of fear and we are all hostages to its deafening roar! RIP, children of God… ---(“10-year-old allegedly confesses to fatally shooting 82-year-old man and his daughter”)--- I must confess, this is part of war’s shrieking, children lost with a we...

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Waiting for It

Why do they stay there, between war and peace? Sky’s tapestry doles out guns, bombs and rocks while flesh and bone swim away from the ache yet live on as the food for the murder of peace. Why do we hide from the truth as if it were an ogre while death makes a home inside their living and war dispatches a raven to their door, smirking with the teeth of empire? Why do we wait, stooped for another wink? The sky’s drapery has tossed down ample clues, peace is breathing in harmony with war. (Road-maps are useless to blind leaders.) Why do they hold there, hunched in the gloom? Hatred’s bird cackling with bereavement needs end. Are we not rightly dishonored when we fill its trough with blood? © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman

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CONFESSION ZERO

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