Musings of the Cynics

Stand on granite
and you'll weather any storm.

Stand on a foundation
something that is static, will never move

never shift.

Stand on your beliefs,
solid as granite. These are intangible
but to gunfire and all things physical
immune.

Stand. Don't slip.

Don't fall for smiling eyes, for failure.
Don't fall for anything
though the storm rises against your windows
bar the glass and watch outside
at the lightning.

And if the windows crash inward
with the shining of a thousand diamonds,
stand against the onslaught.

It'll be over shortly.

Then spit out the shards and wipe your cheek;
against any storm, any foe,


I'll stand.

I really like that man. Awesome.

There's a time you realize
-that is, you admit-
you can't do it alone.

You need someone standing by
ready to catch you
should you fail
or fall.

Then you stand by someone.
Catch their tears,
calm their fears
and send them on their way.

That's when you realize
'I can't do it alone.'

alone.



My heart is steeled
against fire and wind and snow.
An armor of ventricles and atrium
pumping napalm through my veins
and sending fire from my eyes with every glance.
My skin is riveted to my bones,
a true man of Iron
who stands against any foe.

My skin is riveted.
My heart armored.
My eyes burning.

"I can't do it alone."
That's the truth.

You need a spear to fight a foe.
and with that my companion, my faithful pen

I fight.

For now
I can do it.

There's a time you realize- that is, you admit-
That you can do it alone.

And that makes the difference.

Watch me climb.
The cliff is sheer; sun baking the stones
as tendrils of vines wither and shrivel up
under its heat, still clutching,
clutching the rocks.

There's white chalk on my fingertips
and a grin on my blackened face.
Some call the look in my eyes
'maniacal.'

I call it energized.
I can climb again- climb to the skies
high above me.
Relish not the heights, nor pity the depths
but enjoy the limbo
of hanging by an arm
over a valley. And love the breezes
that herald the blustering winds of change.

My pack is packed,
stripped of excess-
the memories, the laughter-
and filled with resolve
to be all I can be, to climb higher than before
than anyone before.

'Great things come to those who wait.'
That's a bold faced lie to me.
For great things come to those
who stand up from their depths and shout "MINE"

and drag their chains so long as it takes to throw them off
and while they clatter; run like a cheetah
and take their dreams.

Let us climb.
The chalk is powdered, the skies are clear
and the stones are warm as hearts.
Your neck gets sore from looking up at the trial-

so what next? Hold this for me.

I've got to run. Summit before sunset
and daylight's wasting.

Another night alone.
Cool bedsheets warm me
like blankets of ice.

The bed is built for one
but recently held two.
It seemed to fit that way.

Now I realize

I CAN STRETCH OUT FOR ONCE!!!!


But the sheets are cool to the touch,
scratchy even.
And there's no inclination to go to bed.

No conversation, no smiles in darkness,
nothing like love.
Merely a pad on which to recharge
for another day of making ends meet.

Love to me is but a memory.
To my future, I cast furtive glances-
more questions than answers.

I'll fly high, but will it be solo? Doubtful.
But when will the damn copilot show up?
The plane can fly without her

and it will.

But for now, I bide my time
with cool sheets
and days packed with action
that keeps my brain sparking and my heart
scratchy.

But those warm sheets I miss
started out cool and scratchy once.
Thus the cycle begins again...

Shifting gears
the transmission clicks, spins
and the ratio changes.

I surge forward.
The road laid out before me
like a wedding carpet
leading to an octane alter.

The wind over the chrome
makes a gentle whistling.
And the lights splay out over the asphalt,
illumination of the road to come.

Just as soon as I see it,
I pass it by.

Shifting gears.
I surge forward.

There is no rear view mirror,
so I don't see where I've been.
I know it.
But for now, my eyes are steeled
on the road ahead
and the gas pedal.

I'm not running away.
It's the destination I'm running to.
And I don't know where I'm going,
but I know where I've been.

And from where I've been,
I'll see where I'm going.

Shifting gears.

Knives on solid water
slicing and dicing, a pirouette of grace
with the slap of wood on metal,
flesh on Plexiglas,
helmet on helmet.

This isn't a peaceful poem-
it's full of slicing ice and yells,
coordinated attacks and desperate defenses.
I'm up on the walls, screaming
part of the noise they work so hard to blot out
as they practice their craft.

Christ, I love hockey.

Everyone jumps up when there's a fight-
"you're not at a game until there's a few punches thrown."
So I condone a little violence-
and so do the refs-
and they sit in the penalty box and stew for a couple minutes before they're let out on the ice again.

Near the end of it,
I noticed they'd abandoned their net
to add a man to pass to as
they tried to reach the goal.
Their net lay forlorn,
open,
inviting the puck
to skitter across the ice on the wings of a slapshot
and make the red lights spin.

When you reach that point,
that you put everything into reaching that goal
and forget what keeps you alive-

then you realize as a spectator
how desperate the situations get.
And you yell your head off
as your team tries
to take advantage of their weaknesses.

But you're silent as you watch your peers
do the same.

Watch the speedometer on your heart.
It goes from zero to cardiac arrhythmia in seconds
and revs at the slightest sight of caring or skin.

It's knowing were to look
and knowing where the brakes are
that let you slow down
and see where you are, where you're going, where you've been.

At the same time, it's knowing how to get your foot
off the brake.
Let gravity take hold
and roll you down the mountain, let the wind whip your hair
and let yourself throw your head back and yell
in the sheer exhilaration of the experience.

Seeing the journal entries from the past
I smile at them, analyze this, analyze that,
let go of the brake, and break out the champagne.
Never drink and drive.

Drinking and riding, that's OK.
In moderation. Don't drown sorrows,
but rather, relish them
and relish the success inherent in each one.
For you learned something new each time.

And to that, I toast the experience.
As the needle goes to redline.

Start the machine.
The lights go green, gears grind and spin
cords are pulled tight, rollers roll
magnets spin to revolution, the display flickers
and runs diagnostics on the machine.

The operators listens to the noise,
the slightest anomaly leads to chaos-
a gear out of place, a pin snapped in two.
But the purring of metal on metal is pure and smooth.

A man is the machine, and the operator,
listening to himself, starting himself, running himself.
Some are good operators. Some are good machines.
Some are both. You survive as one

but thrive with both.

I don't remember who I was.
It's odd, really
to see an old picture
of you with your braces
and forced smile at the camera
and think wow-

that was me.

I've gotten older.
Not necessarily wiser
but I look back at my ignorance,
my need to be seen,
and I think-

some things never change.
I think.

I remember events,
climbing mountains, scaling shattered highways,
looking out over a sea of bobbing acne-studded faces like mine.
These I remember, but not me.

Who was I? A boy
confused with the world and his place in it,
standing on knowledge and falling off ignorance
into the depressive abyss? Was that me?

And on the back of the picture is scrawled
in a younger hand than mine,

"me, 1999"

I've never been one to write musical lyrics. To me, rhythm is a cage by which rhyme must coincide. But tonight, after a phone call with a girl I once loved, I found that it was the easiest meter to run with. There's a tune I'm thinking of here, I hope you can figure it out.

"Shouldering Skeletons"

That wasn't you I heard over the phone,
The voice the same,
But different tone,
The passing of time has changed you so
And I'm alone.

I say I'm fine, I live my life
For the fun and the laughter, the hardship and strife
Is nothing more than the spice that makes things
Interesting.

My mind's a network of firing bolts
Of lightning and thunder, the power that jolts
Me from my sleep and haunts my dreams,
The songs of my happiness morph into screams.
And I go on this dusty road
Shouldering skeletons, bones are the load
That I bear- I don't care- travel on.
Travel on.

I remember the sunset, the swims at the lake,
That old beat up Saturn, our very first date
To the mini golf park- you followed me through the twilight.
Then you got in that car and drove far far away.
I trusted you, hoped against hope that you'd stay,
But like logic goes, you floated away
And I picked up more of these bones.

My mind's a network of firing bolts
Of lightning and thunder, the power that jolts
Me from my sleep and haunts my dreams,
The songs of my happiness morph into screams.
And I go on this dusty road
Shouldering skeletons, bones are the load
That I bear- I don't care- travel on.
Travel on.
Travel on.

So I'll set my mind to work, solve the problems of the world,
And try to forget that angelic girl
Who in the pile of bones on my back
Is growing horns and cries like the devil

Bringing hell to my mind, firing bolts
Of fire and brimstone, I'll harness these jolts
And set them to anvil and carve a new life
And try to let go of all of my strife.
And I go on this dusty road
Shouldering skeletons, bones are the load
That I bear- they're still there, but they'll someday be gone. And I
And I will travel on.
Travel on.
Travel on.

Circumstance is a cruel mistress. I miss the way things were, but I know there's no reverse on the hot rod of life. So travel on.

I fly a starship
cross the skies and stars above.
No plans, no direction.
Merely flight.

Weightlessness.

I am always working,
calculating this, fiddling with that,
but all in all, my direction is arbitrary
to my desires

those which I do not know.



I sail a caravel,
furl the mains and let her fly
cross the emerald ocean
merely travel

to no destination.

I am always working,
ratcheting pulleys, trimming the sheets,
but all in all, my direction is arbitrary
to my desires

those which I do not know.

To sail the stars and fly the oceans
with no concept of time nor direction.
Man should be so lucky in the worlds of today.

And to my desires,
those which I do not know-
who are you to direct me?

Here's a testimony
to Human resilience. The spring-back inclination
of resolve.

The power to absorb one punch,
then bounce back, and

Wham.

then bounce back still again
like one of those dummies
that roll and rebound.

You can't keep them down.
And so the same are some individuals.

You cannot keep them down.

The beauty of the situation is, however,
that while resilience is observable in every face,
every wrinkle,

you still feel weak.
you still doubt your own resilience.

And its during these times
of weakness,
that you can test yourself,
sound your ship.
And with that-

realize your own resilience
when you wake up in the morning
and you're looking forward to the trials of the day.

And as such,
when someone doubts themselves,
they look to your face,
your wrinkles,
your eyes.
Your resilience.

Remember that, dammit.

Jovi on the speakers,
grease on my hands, the blood
of a silent heart; she lies cold and dormant in the garage.

Wrenches on the ground,
the grinder beside them; abandoned for a time
while I breath.

She ran beautifully, purring the highway
like a tiger on the grassy knolls, she flew.
Now she gathers dust on her green skin.

***

A proper tap, a few new fittings,
and the heart under the hood sputters, roars-
resurrection. No lasting harm,
a wire and a few cranks,
one or two beers to take the edge off,
and lo and behold, suddenly
she rises again like a phoenix.

There is nothing you cannot fix; it is a matter of sight
and a matter of willpower.
For now, I drive.

*Started this a week ago when I was sure my car was headed to the crusher, writing on a napkin, fixed it two days ago.*

For that first one. You stand in a storm. Ill be underground. lol