an unholy collaborative effort

p.r.h.

2008-02-01T14:26:00.001-08:00

silent in a reverie that will come to pass
wandering attentive past broken bonds
he muses on commonalities long since detached
and knows that rectifying comes through a Song
with a confidence that borders godliness
and a lightness reflected in his face
he hears a cacophony of fragile mess
and envisions a symphony of grace
he sees through windows to wanderers abated
to a lesser form than that which was intended
he renders himself so that it may be stated
“that which seemed impossible has been mended”

posted by jon havens

a life of juxtaposition

2007-12-01T13:21:00.000-08:00

i have this hanging in the coffeeshop at vintage for the advent conspiracy art show. all i could find was my rough draft so i tried to remember how the finished product went. i think it is close to what i have below.

what new sensation is this? what little can i give that would incur something so great? what tiny thought? what infinitesimal gift? if these hands unclenched their fists and stretched from my body would they reach your lips or would they stretch to your soul? would they belittle your condition or illuminate your sallow cheeks? what is this ocean that rages within me? for too long, i have fought back these waves. i have wrestled posiedon and when weary, my hip out of joint, i have turned to face neptune himself.

how i long to see a different day. a day that holds new burning horizons, a day where fresh blood flows in reconstructed hearts, a day unlike the one that stares at my sallow cheeks. am i the one to give or is it you, after all? i give what pleases my conscience and you give what you are.

but i have come to see that this storm will continue to rage and it is only how i will face it, it is only how i view this cold despondent world that will shape how i respond. this vignette is not a new day but rather the opening of an ancient door to reveal a day that has been here from the start. only these wrinkled eyes have been closed for too long. but with mud and spit they have been opened to see this painting anew.

i will dive deep into the black ink and not surface until this rusted anchor has been firmly planted in a new Foundation. no longer with white knuckles barnacled to the wheel will i battle this storm. i will man the rafts and set out to give what i can: namely myself.

and so, what new sensation is this?

posted by jon havens

the nightmare

2007-10-28T21:05:00.000-07:00

after much time, i finally have something new. it is too long to post so i have linked it here. enjoy! the nightmare

happy anniversary

2007-09-12T12:48:00.001-07:00

a week and a half ago marked the year anniversary of the birth of this blog. it is our hope that if you look back at the older posts you can see a progression and improvement in our writing. though i may only be talking to myself, drew and dani, we are glad that we can share our stories and poems with you and we look forward to another year of writing. be ready for some halloween posts coming in the next few weeks. thanks for reading.

posted by an unholy collaborative effort

yesteryear

2007-09-03T09:44:00.000-07:00

sing that long forgotten rhyme
that warm breeze of breath
trailed by the romance of the yesteryear.
the melody that once came to me on treetops,
on meadows,
on crumbling boulders overlooking distant lands
has melted to a wisp of my own breath
dying fast on the cold winter air.
i smell traces of Your mystery
wrapped in the tenderness of great love
that is drenched in the sweat
of a night of great agony.
my bones ache for Your salt
to alleviate the pressure
of needing to be in unbroken enrapturement.
gather me under Your wings
for mine are weary with flight.

posted by jon havens

a jar of fireflies

2007-08-31T18:51:00.000-07:00

to jules, the boy butterfly, cocooned somewhere in a sleepingbag,
drinking starlight and sleeping under god.
with autumn dust on his feeble eyelashes.
who is teaching me to look past the clouds in the morning,
just before i get into my car to rush off somewhere and wait..
wait..
just for a bit, wait...
to see the geese triangle through the sky kissing the ripe lemon moon goodbye.
i'll send them off north with a wave of my tiny hand,
wishing i knew what that felt like.
to the boy cocooned,
whose materialisms are the sounds of crickets and breeze through the jungle grass.
and the atlantic sweet water falling from the pacifics cotton clouds.
who taught me that its ok to open the lid and let the fireflies go.
for this is an act braver than any i know.
they still illuminate the walls of my ribcage quietly leaving behind trails of delicious light around my heart.
to the boy butterfly,
who is unafraid...

posted by drew carlascio

the molten sky

2007-08-16T11:23:00.000-07:00

as your spheric surface invades the night sky i wonder if those blotches were borne into you forcefully or if they developed over time, with age and fatigue. tired from beholding a world of malice and ignorance, your perfect surface has corroded and the light that you reflect grows dim. was that the plan? or do you still shine when no one is looking, when busy eyes look inward and outward instead of upward?

hang in your incredulous sky for your journey is long and your toils are endless. you viewed our destruction and lamented your concerns to the foggy night sky which hid your sorrows and caged in your fears. eclipse yourself in shadow and never show your dark side. will no one raise their heads? will the blood not move? will the face remain comatose longing for something to make it plush?

stare hard into my jealous skin and you shall see the inner workings of something not yet breathed upon, not yet fashioned. it is making its slow journey into the depths of my sadness. my shell has cracked, interior exposed, an orphan in your light. as i search the heavens for traces of your journey, i am left with a parade of cauterized emotions, an endless labyrinth of choices. maybe our paths are not so different after all?

oh to see the day you found your resting place and reflected your light in freshness for the first time. if i could, i'd sail a tattered ship on your beams through the clouds and dense atmosphere where together we could view this cold cruel world and hope to God that our dreams haven't been shattered in the fallout.

posted by jon havens

embellishment of a friend

2007-08-12T14:16:00.000-07:00

some days iam lucky enough to watch her breathe in life through those mousy lungs. unafraid, or not seeming that way at least, of what goes in. laughter is usually her cup of almond tea in the afternoon. and true there are times when i long to run through cornfields and explore quiet lands, swing out over rivers and hope to god that the rope doesnt break, because i have all my cloths on. but there are also certain times when i would much prefer to watch her quietly drag the cigarette from between those tiny mint lips. seaberry fizz between her blue toes, cold from the ocean. harp string ribs protecting her cotton candy heart. tulip teeth, wonderfully snow caped, cavities and all. music and sugar in her veins. yes i would say that she is intrinsically authentic, thus the drawing in of me to her. shortcake and coffee in the morning, well i cant make shortcake but i'd try. how comically awkward that walk. more like a geriatric shuffle really, you know when you have not one but two cups of coffee, balancing the hot liquid as well as your own thoughts on a tightrope. concentration is key, no matter how funny you look. oh sometimes i would much prefer this over the silly adventures we boys entertain. and perhaps we humans dont say enough courageous things about the courageous people we know.

posted by drew carlascio

the cherry crane

2007-08-03T20:12:00.000-07:00

(this is a quick short i wrote today)

they will gather on the frozen precipice,
soft pearl birds, quite and swift.
i will watch only one,
as the orange star dips under the atlantic.
she will always wait for me, vermilion feathers.
the cherry crane...
i will gather courage and run.
i will run across the gelid ground.
i will rise into the blue open oxygen,
small arms around the scarlet crane.
we will leave behind the colours of hell,
and fly without purpose.
we will be nautical, one mile above the sea.
i will be the child of dying stars.
our eyes bright filaments above the beating wings
post meridian will glow to the east,
the worlds complexity now a gossamer thought,
with courage we will aviate,
we will see things,
and
never see them again
and tears will stream from her golden eyes,
because i will trust her.
the cherry crane

posted by drew carlascio

sorry

2007-07-19T08:51:00.000-07:00

we haven't posted any new shorts in quite some time (my apologies). we are leaving for seattle and will be back next week, and i promise we'll have tons of stuff.

love
an unholy collaborative effort

peregrination

2007-06-05T00:22:00.000-07:00

the wind gathers up the most unfavorable things sometimes. dust blows across my chest covering the white lines, sometimes sporatic allowing vagabonds and troubadours to pass by, other times solid because this, this is my path. that dust, oh you ancient enemy, seeking to cover me in all my imperfections, my weeds, my cracked pavement with fading lines and unseen potholes. how you have proven a worthy opponent. but in your exasperation you have neglected my guardian, slow and steady, ancient and new, soft and proud. i have become saturated in the invisible. and so you are led astray, to my sides you are thrown, you are shaken, you are broken. and though i am not complete and i weave in and out, up and down, i will press on. into distant countries i will stretch like chalk upon my back. through outbacks, under rivers and into broadening sunrises i will unravel to become a better version of my former self. because the shape of my longing stretches on forever.

posted by jon havens

cotton, lollipops and the edge of the world

2007-05-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

there stood the earth,
on its edgemost plane.
and i in this old boat.
sailing across san francisco.
and there is candy growing in the yard
next to me.
dandelion lollipops swaying like yellow hope,
in the cold ocean breeze.
and there is cotton above me.
clouds so pure.
and above that, ante meridiem's
lovely colour.
patchy diamonds across my heart.
to the north lies canada and the wild wood
forests dripping with birds
and
cold waterfalls
and
who knows what.
i am almost there.
past the dense green life
and the primary colours,
layed out before me.
and now earth makes its ninety degree
turn.
towards space.
and as i go over the falls and into midnight stars,
you will find this short account of my day,
dedicated
to
you.

posted by drew carlascio

displaced

2007-05-04T11:34:00.000-07:00

cold, stilled, expectant
awaiting retribution for pain
when the hammer sounds and the doors are closed

anxious, barren, homesick
awaiting redistribution of necessities
when thousands of voices sound as one and the gates of marble are opened

the chanting rhythm of prophetic music
we sing for the peace and freedom
stars dusted across the patchy sky
fog draping over the hills like a curtain
who knew the earth would shake in twenty-one unfurled minutes?

give me water for my child is going to die
the baneful cry of ghastly horrors
recumbent against my neighbors
yet diffident in my ability to love
is this the cry you long for?

each voice has its own tone and story
and the narrative of tommorrow is freedom

posted by jon havens

twilight hum

2007-03-28T16:24:00.000-07:00

it’s poetry,
watching children race after inanimate objects with heavy shoes against a backdrop of blue and gold.
it’s magic,
the way the sun-beams reflect off the water and onto traveling bicycles as their wheels exhaust their strength upon dirt-covered lake paths.
it’s beauty,
hearing the wind whistle from the mouths of singing trees.
it’s laughter,
watching a woman’s legs move and her arms flail to the muted beat perpetuated through the silence. her ears oozed an invisible blood and her bones broke from the pressure.
it’s peace,
lying in knee-high grass as the fireflies cooled the air and drenched the fields in their twilight hum. and as the dying sun sank behind the purple mountains, the wine was finished and the blankets became ruffled.
it’s adventure,
breaking down the walls of burnt houses and then starting on our burnt hearts careful not to bring the whole thing down too quickly.
it’s love,
as our silhouettes swayed back and forth before the headlights of my car and under the protection of the music bouncing off the midnight sky. these are the days memories are made of.
it’s life,
feeling as if it has given us another chance to breathe its air, smell its breath and add our scent to the burning leaves.

but then again, maybe the weather is just changing.

posted by jon havens

pink chalk and eggs

2007-03-22T09:49:00.000-07:00

dreams always taste better in the morning.
after the sun has burned its way across your sheets.
and that seaward breeze has swirled into your room.
adventure on the wind.
god bless the blue atlantic breath.
blowing away all of the worlds incredulity.
and our unwillingness to be children.
breakfast always taste better in the evening.
eggs and toast under the orbiting moon.
a quiet summer solstice in my ears.
starlight on my plate, and in the purple sky.
god bless your voice, that soft pink chalk.
drawing on my lungs.
filling me with such a lovely dust.
life always taste better in the afternoon.
those tall grass cricket voices,
green in my mind,
golden on our sphere.
bicycle rides through berry bushes.
trails made by the children of some other time.
here we are now.
the amber burning heavens before us.
the deep dark atmoshpere of space behind.
adventure on the wind.
just the way it should be.

posted by drew carlascio

cart and canes

2007-02-18T23:57:00.000-08:00

the cold night lingered down the streets and in between the buildings. the streetlights shed what little light they could to illuminate seven or eight cement squares on the sidewalk. the noise of shouting and laughing and dancing broke out from the venue doors and bounced off of the cars and buses. and all the while the wind blew things across my path: papers, wrappers, torn ticket stubs and eventually you, you walking briskly like some sort of businessman late for an important meeting. but there was no meeting and you must’ve forgotten your briefcase. maybe you left it at home on purpose, left it sitting next to your tv as your children sat wide-eyed and your wife packed your lunch. maybe you left it so you’d have an excuse to go home and see their faces for just a few more minutes in your already cluttered day. or maybe you had no briefcase at all and there were no children and your wife was dreaming about a man who would sweep her off her feet someday. but he never came. he just pushed his shopping cart across my path. and so you continued walking and pushing, pushing forgotten clothes and items you dug out of dumpsters, pushing your hopes and dreams away from you, keeping them separate from your mind. some days you would drag them along refusing to leave them behind, not wanting to stop, always moving, moving away from something you feared, something you’ve become or something someone did to you. and so you continued walking, walking away from it all, hoping to turn a corner one day and find what you were looking for. i watched you shrink in the distance, your long matted hair and torn trench coat fading fast from my mind until you disappeared and i fought with my conscience to remember you. did you find what you were looking for when you turned the corner?

i saw you several months later across thousands of miles of land and water in a city full of romanticists and seekers, full of boats and water-ways. outside the square of the saint you shuffled slowly along as people swept past you like laughing hyena’s sniffing out their prey. i, from high above on my indignant steps, watched you. you had lost your cart and replaced it with a cane. your legs looked weak, too weak to walk upon alone. your feet titled inwards and each step looked as if it took all of your energy and focus. with your one free arm you held out a small tin cup shaking miserably. i watched as a kind man walked by and dropped in several coins. he tried to look at your face but you would not allow it to be seen. i wondered if you went home at nights and felt as if the universe were shouting down senseless profanities at you. i wondered if you ever raised you fists at that universe and shouted back, if you wept and wailed upon your makeshift pillow, or if you blessed god for giving you the ability to walk at all.

i saw you everywhere over the years, sitting on the divider cradling a puppy like it was the only thing that you had and cared about in the entire world, the first present you received in years. you wrapped him in your black jacket and told him you loved him over and over again with the joy of a little boy. checking his teeth and wiping his black spotted eyes you held him under your grey beard and rocked him back and forth. i sat in my car watching you and rolled down my window to allow your sound waves to pierce my ears and then my heart. i almost wept as i saw the love in your eyes and felt the heat against my face pulsating from your chest. you’re a good man dave, better than most realize and only God and your puppy know this to be true.

i passed you at the gas station. i searched for something, anything to help you receive a quick release from the pain. i found a candy bar. i put twenty dollars in my car and gave you a seventy-five cent candy bar. you smiled and flashed your decaying teeth and thanked me. i walked away and you ripped the wrapper open and indulged. was it enough? wouldn’t a meal have been better? after all you’ve been through, pushing carts, grasping canes, cradling puppies, wouldn’t a meal and a conversation have been a better fit?

and what of tomorrow? will you make it? where will your next meal come from? who will you share your makeshift pillow with you? who will clean your cane and replace the wheels on your cart? do you long for death or do you dream of a day when all is set right? when you can sit in a field under a willow tree with your love and reference the sun noting how it chased apollo across the sky. or did those dreams slip through the cracks of the cart? did they begin to fade like the strength from your legs? can you cradle them in your black jacket?

did i know it was You all along?

yes.

but did i treat You like it was You?

no.

and i will carry that with me, cradle it in my arms, carry it in my cart, and lay it next to me on my pillow for the rest of my life.

posted by jon havens

an unknown territory

2007-02-12T18:16:00.000-08:00

a few weeks ago, at the poetry/spoken words group for vintage, we all took poems that were written differently than something we would have written ourselves. we attempted to copy their style with our own original piece. mine (exercise) was a poem but i seemed to have forgotten who it was by. anyways, i tried it again, this time on my own. i used edna st. vincent millay's "collected sonnets" as a starting place for this newest piece.

here upon the feet of its vast shore
set on a complexion of green and brown
hiding its dirty skin to be seen no more
its torso wrapped in water yet its head to never drown
stood a man with his head in florescent clouds
his mind engulfed in a sea of mist
waiting to hear the soft sweet sounds
of release while he clenched his fists
the wind blew strong against his back
shaking his knees and cooling his breath
his eyes met the horizon on this culdesac
as the mountain pushed him close to his death
though the earth may shake and poseidons breath blow strong
his release must wait, may it not be too long

posted by jon havens

exercise

2007-01-25T00:16:00.000-08:00

the hearts countdown always end when spring arrives in damp soil. if only the sun would allow the water a place to stretch its wings.

the waiting is faltering and dry with fear.
the waiting is confusion hoping for a beat.

posted by jon havens

droning

2006-12-21T20:57:00.000-08:00

pencils down. beating begins. one! torn papers filled trash disposals. two! smirking mouths with growing grins. three! mile after mile of celebrations that devoured words and engulfed stories into information jammed brains. this is relaxation. this is pleasure. four! doubting futures with uncertain paths. five! aching heads with plaguing questions. what? the mirrors don’t show this.

was it worth it? your life for programs and arguments and ego-driven sensationalists and dull melodies and mud-slinging instigators clothed in righteous indignation? are we dead certain we haven’t evolved? i guess i don’t have enough faith to get what i want.

did your money ask for complacent peers with swollen fingers and zombie eyes? did it demand a recompense of numbness for your hard work? i don’t believe it did. but you received it none-the-less.

and did your money ask for sincere guardians and well-intentioned companions? did it ask for broken reverberations to be filled with a growing harmony? maybe. but you received it none-the-less.

oh to walk the streets of peace and stability. to leave the alleys of darkness where you ring the doorbells of the unknown just to allow its melody to remind you of simpler days. but you’re left blind in the ocean reaching out for something, anything to keep you afloat. you’re on the verge of drowning, you know? the dark shadows of the deep are wrapping around your legs like ivy waiting for the right moment to bring you to the bottom of the seven seas.

the beating stops.

it will start again.

one…

posted by jon havens

rocket fuel perfume

2006-12-19T15:28:00.000-08:00

ralph and jules new nothing of mass ratios, or jet velocity or atmospheric pressure, or the men who spent their long lives studying these equations in smokey offices, behind mountains of nasa paperwork. the boys new only that their rocket would shoot fourth from the earth, carrying their heavy hearts, delivering them into the hands of God, on its way to an infinite season of stars and planets. and so ralph and jules spent weeks building their rocket, adorning it with special decals, so that when it did break through heaven, God would smile upon their creation and allow it to continue on, until it was lost forever. beautifully blue and gold, the rocket rose high. trailing fresh color vapor, smoke and dreams, splitting the wide expanse of the sky in two parts, one for ralph and one for jules. each boy claiming his piece like treasure. up through the trees, burning away every last leaf that autumn had yet to kill. it surged hot sparks, pouring, devouring oxygen, fueling its wild greed to go faster and higher. and with it soared the hopes and dreams of the whole city, heaped upon the children like the burdens of men, sins set free in the cold, brittle november sky. the rocket flew, oh how it flew, and how the childrens eyes held their rocket, like a mother holding her newborn child. gently at first, and then slowly, letting it go, watching it with resignation. ralph and jules stood under the grey sky, eyes blazing, heads cocked, squinting furious, smiling wide, while they let the smoke settle on their clothes, like a strange perfume. and when the rocket held their gaze no more, they cursed both the sky and the ground. for the sky had taken away the only thing the two boys ever loved, and the ground for its harsh enforcement of gravity. they would never see what their rocket saw, or feel what their rocket felt, but every now and again, when no one is looking, when its late and night and every street has been emptied, the two boys will put on their strangely perfumed clothes, and return to the launch sight, staring up at the sky, dreaming high and far away.

posted by drew carlascio

the passing clouds

2006-11-28T20:08:00.000-08:00

his feet swung back and forth and up and down unable to find rest. an unlaced shoe stained with grass and dirt and the blood of invisible enemies bounced against the side of the oversized barbeque.

“that one looks like a pig. no…maybe a mouse.”

grandma, always wearing a peculiar smile, loved this game.

“where? which one?”

“the one with the nose. right there.”

the passing clouds lay scattered before the blue canopy of space. white opaque shadows darkened and lit up the crisp clean air. a dove and its lover flew through their line of sight leaving a streak of silver in its wake.

“where do clouds come from grandma?”

she paused. “they are God’s stuffed animals.”

“does God ever get lonely grandma?”

“oh, i doubt it. but he knows that sometimes we do and so he shows us these clouds to comfort us.”

a ray of sunshine shot between a turtle and mickey mouse. nearby, a cat lay in a rose garden shifting on its back from right to left and left to right receiving the suns breath. flocks of geese arrived home from their winter sabbaticals announcing their return. birds sang. dogs barked. a symphonic masterpiece of life arose from every direction. with a satisfied look the boy smiled as grandma ruffled his dirty blonde hair and turned to leave him to dance wildly with his imagination. he returned his gaze to the passing clouds resembling mountains scattered throughout space and rhythmic time. mountains that ate planes and stars only to spit them out disgusted by their metallic tastes. some days those cloudy mountains would freeze as if posing for some cosmic picture, moving only slightly because of the ache in its knees. and the longer you watched those mountains, the more they would shrink and look less like mountains and more like dirty eraser marks as if god himself continued to refine and perfect his panorama.

many days the boy would play this game with his grandma. their combined minds produced a startling effect of wisdom and innocence. he loved searching the heavens with her hoping to catch a glimpse of the handiwork of an Architect who refuses to stop giving. sometimes she would sing songs to him. songs of children laughing and flying and eating and fighting and exploring distant lands. songs of adventure and un-ceasing pleasure. and if time froze, it would find two children, one small in stature and the other small in fear, refusing to let time rule their fates.

other days, the boy would lie alone on his back letting his eyes pierce the deep blue sea. he slowly would bring them down watching the color fade from blue to grey to white as they rested upon the distant hills. he studied those hills and wondered what travelers forged strange lands to make their homes here. he would draw detailed pictures of them knowing that if he ever moved his visions would be etched into eternity. and all the while the silent clouds passed.

the summer days grew long and peaceful. children ran barefoot through orchards and waded in creeks. parents had picnics in overcrowded parks drinking their wine and toasting to the gods for their abundance of good taste. summer would dissipate into fall and fall would disappear into winter. the sky would be covered in a blanket of grey water and some days those blankets would weep. they would weep for pain, for loneliness, for suffering. and each tear that fell healed the ground. but the boy was never reminded that he was not alone because blankets do not bring about the comfort that he needed. only shape-shifting stuffed animals could do that. so when those winters finally shed away its icy breath and the sun returned to bring warmth to the frost-bitten earth, his grandma would remind him that though he may feel alone for a time, spring would always arrive. and spring always brought about the passing clouds.

time passed and grandma had to move away. the boy grew and grew until he became a young man with a job and a checkbook to match. along with responsibilities came stresses and busyness. and as if the chain only lengthened with more responsibilities, hardships came soon enough as well. it was as if time itself had pulled the rug out from underneath his weak legs and darted off into the distance. some days, he too would weep for loneliness and sorrow. only his tears would not heal the ground but rather flood his drainless world with salty pains and windowless prisons. he was getting older now. getting older makes oneself face the reality of life. people breathe their last breaths and pass into other realms to god knows where. others leave on one-way trains to some unknown future. and still others close themselves off to the reach of one another becoming but mere shells of a life once lived. and so when those days came, and they came frequently, the boy would step outside and breathe in the fresh air. he would stare at the passing clouds and be reminded that spring always came and sometimes it was there and he never realized it. and as he gazed at those clouds, he felt that far away, someone else, someone older in age yet more hopeful and youthful in spirit, was also looking at the passing clouds, being reminded of the days when little boys with large hearts and hopeful imaginations would look at the sky and laugh knowing that they were not alone. and that...that was just enough for him.

posted by jon havens

untitled

2006-11-14T20:11:00.000-08:00

i know a place where people grow achromatic by the hour. they watch the clock spin its tiny, unforgivable hands, and drink to their downfall. and every night, just before reaching cold, starchy beds, they feel the pigment leave their eyes, sucked dry behind the sooty pupils. there are no frescos. there is no such thing as sapphire crystal and orange marmalade. there is no ingenuity. confections are sharp or sour or both and no one drinks up the world through straws. i know a place where no one enjoys the horizon in late afternoon, and soon the space above them is obsidian without much notice. stars never glow warm like small beacons in the night. they never lead anyone home. brilliance lives its short life in the wet shadows, away from all things living. no ones hair grows strong and soft like white honey. no one spreads vanilla across their pillows to dream sweet and long through the dark tide hours. and just before reaching starchy beds, just before the pigment is gone, there is a very small part of them that wonders why...
take heart, i know a place where everything opposite of the above occurs.

posted by drew carlascio

field of substance

2006-11-06T00:22:00.000-08:00

in keeping with the theme of bones...

my bones, like the cracked valley, are dry and splintered. they rest with others on a shattered floor, cold and obsolete. it gathers and collects, then waits and gathers again. some bones are large, like great mammoths of strength wandering to and fro throughout the land awaiting their rude blast. some are small, like negligible writing scribbled on large canvasses of gold. still others shake and quiver from some dream of life; some promise of alteration. and while the wind stirs and gathers its young, those bones wait and remain. and in the stillness, silence screams.

but from the four corners of the world, a sustainable breeze will blow, hard and fast. a hurricane of gale force. a tornado of cataclysmic strength. the earth will shake its atrocious foundation to bring freedom to rusted chains. tendons will coalesce. capillaries will join. flesh, dissipating like spilled water, will run over bones. skin will touch skin and life will run its marathon. the earth will scream and the galaxies ears will bleed.

but a few bones will remain among the field of substance. some big. some small. and as those new beings leave the valley, they will make sure not to crush the strata of the lifeless dry bones. because one day those bones…my bones…will come to life as well.

posted by jon havens

where the skeletons dance and sing

2006-11-04T18:00:00.000-08:00

then, quickly and without warning, the sky went grisly and blood soaked. clouds from white to wild apricot wine without the slightest hint of disaster. i watched the whole thing unfold. i watched my bones shiver, like an old horror movie. the skeletons dance and sing and laugh and make you go cold in places you've never gone cold before. i watched the sky expand and burn. i watched it dipped and damned in the lakes of hell and left to dry, hanging in the heavens. the sky can be a violent place when the sun decides to leave us. who can blame it, staring down on our world all day. who can blame it for wanting to melt us to the core. its last burning march before it dips behind the grey ocean. and who can really blame the sun if it never wanted to look down on us ever again, its molten veil spilling holocaust over the water for the last time. and i watched this all unfold before my very eyes. the fire, the violence, the crimson atmosphere, and somehow amidst the quiet battlefield above me, i felt right at home. i felt comforted, like i could reach up and wrap my arms around the color. i felt myself shiver cold, as the sky spun wide, and the skeletons laughed.

posted by drew carlascio

"the caves" part two

2006-11-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

sorry, it's taken so long. i wish i could say that i've been working on this ever since but that would simply be a lie. here it is...

i must confess, the caves are comfortable. any sort of connection to the outside world became but a passing memory while the presence of isolation filled my chest. the air was not quite as fresh inside. its stale touch gave me the feeling that my lungs had a heartbeat of their own. as i breathed in, curiosity. as i exhaled, truth. but it’s comfortable. a nice change.

as i ventured deeper inside the growing addiction, my feet found water. but it was not a refreshing feel. this water felt old; as old as desire itself. the stillness of my reality was so different from the outside world. but it was a nice change. comfortable.

the sound of my feet splashing through the water brought a thought of adventure to my mind. despite the fact that hundreds had ventured this path before me, i felt i was treading on it anew, like a pioneer tracking across unknown territory. each step brought me further to some prize, some ecstasy of life. something inside me told me to turn back but that voice was silenced by the piercing scream of allure. so, i went on.

the cave began to get smaller and water colder. my feet grew numb and my knees weak. as i passed the narrowing walls, i could see a change in the cave. there were images on the walls; images of struggle but then conquest, passion and then fulfillment, dreams and then reality. people ran but never grew tired. they laughed and never grew weary. blood coursed through my veins and crashed into my heart forming a collision which sent a rush of adrenaline through my legs. the water now came up to my waist as i pressed on.

i had now been in the cave for hours. i could feel my mind swimming, searching, dreaming of more. the deeper i went, the more i longed for it. why did i declare my honor against this? what evil is in curiosity? what is light? what does a bird’s cry sound like? what of the feel of love? it all became but one desire and one passion…to experience all of the cave. every corner. every rock. every desire.

suddenly, without warning, something grabbed my leg and pulled me underwater. in the confusion terror struck me: the myth had now become truth. i struggled and fought with this creature and it begged for my life. its clawed hands dug into my flesh and tore my skin from its host. my head found air as i screamed out in immense pain. the creature had released its hold as i stumbled backwards into the cave wall. my torch was extinguished by water and my searching eyes found nothing but blackness. i could not see my predator but every part of me understood that it could see me.

i gasped and panted and writhed in anguish. blood was flowing from my side. all was still for but a moment. then, the sound of splashing water. it grew louder as the creature came near and grabbed my feet again. i screamed and tried to hold onto the side of the cave. but my strength was no match for my enemy. he ripped me from my only hope of rescue and dragged me underwater. upwards, i shot into the air as i was now being held from my neck, suspended in gravity. i could feel the creature’s hot breath upon my face and heard its demented breathing pattern. in its presence i felt the multitude of death. upon that very breath rested the lives of countless others who dared to venture into its domain. i gasped for air and it conceded as it threw me against the wall.

i awoke in what felt like years later but was probably only a few hours. i found myself lying upon a narrow precipice. how i got upon it i was not sure. my right eye was swollen shut and my feet were covered in blood. my hands showed signs of struggle; like a lone prisoner scratching the wall to hear some other noise besides his own heartbeat. a great piece of my side was missing. i was in shambles. i had not known where my enemy went off too but knew that it was important to depart immediately. slowly, like an elder rising from their slumber, i moved. every part of my body ached. i put pressure upon my feet but collapsed. they could not hold my weight. crawling would be my own way of escape.

my bloodied hands reached for rock after rock upon the ground. i moved slowly and gained some ground. foot by foot, meter by meter, i dragged my mangled flesh away from my disaster. i wept as i crawled. i wept for my cynicism. i wept for my selfishness. i wept for the countless others who went before me and did not make it out alive.

as i moved and time passed, my limbs became less rigid. like oil upon metal my arms eased up and strength returned to my legs. i stood and gazed at my hands in surprise. the wounds had disappeared. i sat upon a boulder and examined my feet. they too were healed. my side was as normal as ever. but my eye was still swollen shut. i dove into the water. as i held myself under, a tingling sensation shot over my face. these waters had healing powers. strange that the very waters which saw me ripped me to pieces brought mending life. as i rose from the water and the blurriness began to cease, i noticed something up ahead: light. the mouth of the cave was near.

i started to run but my legs lost their balance and i fell. i laughed as i lifted my head. but my laugh soon relinquished for i realized that i had not lost my balance, the ground had lost me. the entire cave was shaking and collapsing. i shot towards the light as fast as i could run. all around me rocks came crashing down. i groaned as i ran: not out of pain but out of the thought that i would be lost forever. the light grew bigger and smaller; bigger as i grew near but then smaller as the fallen rocks began to block the entrance. i reached the mouth, climbed upwards towards my last hope of life and dove out in the sunlight. the sound of the collapsing cave ended. i turned and no longer saw a cave. my time of terror had ended. a new day had begun.

posted by jon havens

the forgotten smile

2006-10-23T18:45:00.000-07:00

before i finish my short story, here's a song...

beauty was found in a garden before decay
ate the roots of trees and men
so the earth groans as it awaits its redemption
and so do we

but in another garden the owner of a decayed tree appeared
darkness fled from light
and truth conquered lies
the forgotten smile laughed as the stones shouted

so raise up a wall of living stones that sing
wash the hate in hope and love that blinds the eyes
the forgotten smiles will laugh as these stones sing

if ancient saints spoke in gusty buildings with windows to wanderers
so these stones shall sing of a new day;
how his favor is upon us

may the fragrance of life pour from us to give light to paths of despair
set the captives free, bind up the broken-hearted
the forgotten smile will cry as these stones sing

and just because this quote has haunted me recently...

"adams ghost walks through hiroshima's ruins
giving apples to the dying, begging their forgiveness"
-calvin miller

posted by jon havens

"the caves" part one

2006-10-19T16:17:00.000-07:00

i am nothing more than the dirt i produce. was this calling heavy too bear or do i just prefer the caves? i must confess, the caves are comfortable.

my purpose in guarding the caves was an idea that consumed every fiber of my being. my call was to "maintain and protect." i believed that nothing good lay within that lair of susceptibility. it was my self-administered burden to carry the torch of proclamation against the lure of nothing.

but as people approached, my warnings became but a voice of judgment rather than concern. every craving vagabond that came near had that same desire in their black eyes. like blood-thirsty zombies they would pass as if i were nothing but a mist in the air: the cry heard and the next, silence. nobody would heed my warning. was my desire not as strong as theirs? whatever it was, my voice became nothing but a voice in the desert.

i would stand outside the mouth of the cave, my shadow long and high upon the rock behind me. the sun beat down upon my brow. beads of sweat slid off my face onto the cracked floor and as the sun rose higher my shadow grew longer and my voice resembled the ground upon which i stood. my legs began to grow weary day after day. i found myself no longer standing but resting nearby upon a stump cut off from its family. the days grew strange.

sometimes i would venture into the cave a few feet, lying to myself thinking that i had heard someone speak. but there was no one. they were deep inside. it was the darkness that drew me. the relief from the sun. on the outside i have always declared my allegiance to keep the caves empty. but within my declaration lay my true sense of intrigue and desire. i could not take it much longer.

there is an ancient myth that says that deep within the caves lies a danger that will tear you to pieces. this myth is given not only to invoke fear but a sense of reason within people. but i have never really found reason worth reasoning with. so one day, i lay my torch upon the weathered ground and head deep within the caves.

posted by jon havens

the hall and the armor

2006-10-14T18:26:00.000-07:00

since halloween is in a couple of weeks i thought i'd write a story for the occasion... enjoy!

cole's eyes watered for the very last time as his sad pupils dilated with fear. like two small black planets orbiting a grotesque sun, and losing hope with each slow spin. information voyaging from one part of cole's helpless body to the other gradually slowed. weeks to breathe in, months to exhale, years to blink. the black planets still spinning slowly, still watering. one telephone pole and a black and white sky were all cole was able to see, from his prone position. two steel-blue figures stood upon the wire and laughed horribly at him from their perch. the black planets slowly focused; they were crows. "oh god," cole thought, "how i wish i would have spent more time outside, watching birds, breathing air... living." cole let his eyes unfocus once more, for now it was too hard to focus on any one thing. "you still awake?" said dezzy. "i thought one would be enough, no matter." she plunged another needle into his arm, deep beneath the waves of his skin, and let the submarine release its toxic torpedos into cole's blood. dezzy went blurry and spoke deep. "my guests will be arriving shortly and i cant have them seeing you like this, you understand dont you?" cole's mouth hung open, slightly, and remained that way, and still remains that way. he was just able to gaze down at his lower torso and to his suprise, it was gone. covering it now, was heavy armor, cold and not at all human. dezzy worked silently and then, suddenly she was finished and all cole could see was a sunless landscape, inches from his face. she stood the armor up with great effort and now cole was rigidly upright. dezzy lit a cigarette and smiled sourly at the work before her. the black planets spun slowly, watered, and then stopped. dezzy giggled as the door bell rang. "that must be my guests, cole my dear, you wait here and i shall return soon." she showed her guests around the enormous house, through the marble entrance, and the long velvet hallways strewn with tapestries and then through the dining area. one of her guests stopped, "oh what a lovely suit of armor, my dear, where did you get it?" "oh this, well i sorta collect them, there all over the house you'll see," dezzy replied. dragging quietly on her cigarette, she led her guests on, through the house as their wickedly thick laughter echoed across the long line of armor, decorating each hallway. the sad, black planets stopped spinning and the grotesque sun sank lower still, and cole's mouth hung open, slightly... cold.

posted by drew carlascio

the clap and blast

2006-10-02T20:24:00.000-07:00

...and the frenzy followed us through the iron gates of mahattan, through the barrage, the discharge of silent gunfire. and every amateure, every bastard child, every phony, all those misbegotten, all those waxen in feature, stood aside. frozen by cold, blank by expression, while under every coattail we ran, and believe me, not a single trace nor crumb shall be found. to every charlatan we scream, keep thy trap shut, and oh how they scream right back. my ears ring, my neck the bell tower and my head the bell. the clap and blast humming through my blood, cooking its way to my heart to stun the soul. its only upon the close of each day, and the rise of a purple midnight, that we have time to heal. its only when we close our eyes that we begin to truely see. and the way you make me feel, like liquor on the tongue, on the senses. and oh the broth they brew, bubbling deep poison, like war gas to be thrown the way of their enemies. upon inhalation, a crippling effect. but once healed...once the purple of the night has been replaced with wonderful streaks of orange and fire, we will walk through the barrage again. and the frenzy followed us, and the silent gunfire shaped our steps. some unsure, some fearful, but...then...some resolute.

posted by drew carlascio

october sun

2006-10-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

as the leaves change in the october sun, florescent glimpses of other worlds swim into existence. worlds where images pass like floating melodies of some enchanting song. a song sung only by dreamers and visionaries who see daylight and music as from the same source. and as those leaves fall, those dreamers dance to a new rhythm. a rhythm of change. a syncopated song of expectation. a dance of preparation marking a new melody that will be sung by the romanticists of tommorrow. and as those leaves embrace the earth, the dreamers will quiet their celebration. their instruments of change will be laid aside as the crisp wind of winter flows through the stiff air. and all will be still. because soon the mountains will hide the october sun.

posted by jon havens

flow crush red

2006-09-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

too often we want the clouds to roll back, while divination pours from the mouth of God like a reserevoir, sprinkling our filthy little world with insight. and too often we find our bones weakened by the weight of living on a planet, that at times, seems to fill with such sadness, and then such joy. the combination causing a strain on our joints. when in reality, i think what we want most, is to know that the steel gray of our insides can flow crush red with love and wonder. what we want most is to blush, to feel blood run through every tunnel in our bodies until they swell and burst into every spill-way. but, its more likely that instead of a "we", you'll just find me. standing in an empty, trash-strewn parking lot on a sunday afternoon. hot tears burning my cool cheeks, leaking from swollen eyes as i offer up dynamite to the sky...why? because i can't always understand why, and...sometimes thats just ok.

posted by drew carlascio

cold solstice thread

2006-09-17T22:42:00.000-07:00

somehow i know that while my dreaming mind sleeps; while the flesh closes in around my eyes, and i leave earth, my undiscovered future is threaded into my present by means of which there are no words. it whispers into my sleepy ears, "fear not, for this season will soon end and you will be led into a far better one." and after the cold solstice has washed over me, upon my return to earth, when the flesh rolls back from around my cobwebbed eyes, then will i pull at these threads with a strength you cannot possibly imagine. i will awake and in the blackness and in the quiet i will struggle to uncover the brilliance of each thread until the dawn spreads over my bed and i must face the day. though, the more i uncover the mastery of each thread, the more i realize that there is no real promise that they will wrap themselves around me and carry me from season to season. i cannot guarantee that they will lead me through the most grey of winters and through summer days when the sun rises high and blackens the very land we dream upon. i cannot assure you that when i return to earth and the cobwebbs are cleared, that i will be able to move forward without any obstacles. though for all its worth, it is my deepest hope that you will someday find me tangled in these threads, as i am carried off into the morning with a smile on my face, and all they call "sane" left far behind.

posted by drew carlascio

the city of light

2006-09-16T00:53:00.000-07:00

though death has seen its own defeat
on planks of wood and innocent blood
it's still a cracked well where our trust fell
we await the day when our eyes will see

doubting faces reminiscent of me
and mended wounds that stand before the king

you're making everything new

soon wars will cease and we'll dance on streets
of water and gold, clear as crystal
the leaves of trees will heal cities
and the throne of old will guide the road

then our tears will cease to salt the earth
and the named will sing as we stand before the king

so break these cisterns and give us springs of life

posted by jon havens

monoxide moon

2006-09-08T03:07:00.000-07:00

please oh please
show me the monoxide moon,
hanging low in its monoxide room.
get out your torches
and your brooms,
like a planetoid pumpkin
in the october gloom.
an epoch year for a horrid treat;
the beastly sphere
showering its beastly sleet.
upon our town crimson gold,
myopic mind
beautifully bold.
so hurry hurry harvest soon,
oil the cogs and listen to the boom,
of our filthy wretched monoxide moon.

posted by drew carlascio

an inspiration worth noting

2006-09-06T00:10:00.000-07:00

the bus was crowded with nameless faces seeking some god-forsaken hope. as i boarded and passed each self-obsession, i wondered if the stars aligned to show my fate with theirs? can life be re-kindled after death? it seems as if hope only goes where it is wanted and on this trip, the only stop seemed to be at despair.

as i took my seat in the back, my eyes became fixed upon a man of kindly features. what was he doing here? every person aboard was marked with some stain that seperated nobody. except him. he was different. while his face was marked by signs of struggle and weary, there was a presence about him that showed but a faint glimmer of something translucent. where was his stop?

slowly, i made my way behind him and sat on the only other open seat on our round trip.

"just along for the ride?" i asked.

he turned slowly. his eyes has a distinctness in them that i had not seen in weeks.

"no" he replied. "i'm not coming back this time. i've grown weary of the city."
"you mean to go further?" i pressed on.
"all the way to the mountains. only there will i find my rest."

rest. does such a thing even exist? and yet, something about him quenched some small desire in me. for the first time in a long time, i finally began to relax.

posted by jon havens

vermont

2006-09-03T01:25:00.000-07:00

do you remember, vermont like a drug? and like all good drugs, once it worked its way through our bodies, we could no longer tell who we were or where our legs stopped growing and where the earth began. and like all good drugs, it snowed in our little room, cold and bright and the stars stabbed out twinkling white. and like all good drugs, it pumped and churned its way on through our bodies and with it washed the very trees and hills of vermont. sunlight like a watercourse through every branch and leaf. and the sun rose in our little room and the birds spoke in our little room, and the temperature dropped in our little room, and you smiled wide in our little room, teeth like the snow tucked away in the corners of vermont. and the city lights blazed like people dragging on their cigarettes in vermont. orange and all the colors we love. and when our tongues formed words, but one escaped, vermont.
and like all good drugs, their courses spent, our little room saw no snow and the city lights burned out long ago, but your smile stayed behind, to say thanks to vermont.

posted by drew carlascio

the future of me...

2006-09-02T11:35:00.000-07:00

when god maps out the topography of our lives does he use a pencil or a pen? do the mountains look brown and the valleys green? do the passing clouds shadow our experiences enough to cool our busy lives or do they flood our reality with sorrow? it appears as if the plate tectonics of our world tear through our comfortable existences just enough to remind us that we are nothing but dust. but is that all we are? just dust upon the map of certainty? does this dust gather in corners to create dirt clumps that get swept up by the cosmic broom? or does this dust become some replica of something we're meant to be?

as shadows of the divine, do we acquire just to acquire? why have we desecrated the hills where we once gazed upwards at the fireflies resting upon the waters of the universe? and why have we taken his springs and dug our own broken cisterns? why have we polluted his air to advance our dreams? are they our dreams? or are they dreams of a dreamer who wants nothing more than to see this map torn to pieces? as we stand on the brink of insanity, we must ask ourselves, "can this map be repaired?"

posted by jon havens

i have often wondered

2006-09-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

i have often wondered what people will think of pictures in the future, when grandchildren ask their grandfathers, "what was it like to take photographs grandpa, and why did you love it so much?" then grandfathers will reply...
my dear child, watch my child, watch the blackness of midnight streak across the film, streak trails of light, and color and noise across my open eyes, until they water and burn with beauty. then time would kneel before my shutter in great wonder and as i captured the world around me, i would gracefully bow back in hopes that time would somehow allow me to continue...because i must find a way to continue through the pollution, through every depreciated street corner, to bring to life what has never had a chance to exist, accept to every dying eye. then the world will rise high like a wave forming at sea, like a crescendo, electing its audience to stand in awe and brilliance. then the undertone of every tree, every house, every breathing soul will cast a glow upon my life, my dreams, my years and my thoughts, however insignificant.
and...then...when the black sky has been captured, stolen from behind its white clouds, then will the world rise high like a wave, like a crescendo, like all that we once held charming.

posted by drew carlascio

a vanishing whisper

2006-09-01T22:04:00.000-07:00

as the creeping sadness took root, he could no longer feel pain nor joy. a vague numbness began to settle in his formerly poetic mind. what was once a fight now turned into a full-blown surrender of his will. would anyone care when this disease took over? would but one head turn or one tear fall? no. a weeping dirge will not be sung for him. no one will look twice. those shadows of self-indulgence cared nothing more than the glory of their own stomachs and pockets. he would recieve no help. where there was once a glimmer of hope was now filled with his own twisted idol of despair.

hope was now but a vanishing whisper. there was no future in his path. it was that same path of rocks that led him here. to a place where the line between right and wrong, love and hate, truth and lies became a sea of sorrow. the waves of doubt crashed into one another to form an idea that was as false as water itself.

he looked at his hands as the disease began to eat what had once built dreams. these hands worked hard for years helping to shape the future of lives and families. but those people who had once supported his dream now became blurs of distance. laughter and grief began to fade from his withering mind. this sadness would stay.

as he shrank smaller and smaller into some form of godliness, he no longer saw any beauty. no light screaming off the suns rays. no rain dancing upon the moonlit lakes. there was nothing but darkness. fear took complete control. his despair was finished. he was now a part of the diseased.

posted by jon havens