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, http://www.rottonronnie.com