The Opening

The Opening

Path to Perniciousness

There is no mystic secret

It is the betrayal of the stars

And the sun that rests over the ocean

Shows only phases of the aging moon


We are barefoot on the path of perniciousness

Uneven footing on rutted brown earth

Sweet whiskey of your soiled lips

Are memories as I lay down on the floor


Last night in the dimly lit bar room

Away from the January noon so long ago

You became unearthly bound

Beyond the stars and stratosphere


I swear at the lies his injustice

Of drying marrow to the bone

I seek to set fire to this truth

Of infinite lies stretching with smiling stillness.

For the seekers. From a doubter. And, from the very beginning. All I have are the memories. Strong recollections that can be touched with lips. A taste, like a grain of salt on the tip of my tongue. On the strength of memories and nothing more, I live as a gatherer. To harvest actualities, truths are tucked away in dreams. They rise, much like tufts of yawing grass stretch their arms for the warm spring sun. Here, truth reaches out like stretching fingers of sun that inch through the deep forest, far from the county roads that gouge the face of this ponderosa forest in Northern Arizona.

In the late afternoon of March 18, 2014, I look away from the computer screen out the window at a late-winter storm. Typical for the southern part of the Rockies. Tender starter flakes toss about by gusting winds. Twenty-eight degrees by the thermometer nailed on the outside wall facing in the window. The wind chill must be lower. This was the start of my journey.

(c) 2016, Ron McFarland,