La última playa

I have been given a gift, though I cannot receive it anew, as I've owned it all along.
A gift and a curse. A spell I am under, a hex so complex and contrary.
Cursed by this gift which my soul is longing to forgive. I cannot tell you what it is, for I do not want to spoil the surprise. Nor may I define it, yet I cannot hide it from plain sight. It is quite obvious, simple, and completely inexplicable, like a rainbow in the dark. I do not really want it, but perhaps I cannot live without it. The closer I try to look at it, the less it can be seen or understood. While the more I try to ignore it, the more it appears as light of day in all things great or small. Just when I think I have it in my grip, I realize it is beyond my reach and quite uncontrollable. And the farther I run from it in fear and loathing, the easier it becomes to demonstrate with precision and manual dexterity. Each time I wish to give it away, the more intertwined it grows into my very fiber. And when I attempt to own it, more of it slips through the cracks in my foundation. Hoarding it only brings souls in need to my doorstep. With it I can predict the future, or correct the past, yet I remain cursed as a grain of sand on the last beach.

Veinte-Nueve Pisos

29 engines drone on the highway
29 birds sing out in the sky
29 prophets preach for my salvation
29 years of heartache pass me by

29 babies crying for their mommas
29 soldiers fighting their one last stand
29 days until spring is over
29 dollars left in my right hand

29 dreams every night expire
29 truths will never be seen
29 empty bottles and I'm still drinking
29 step program couldn't keep me clean

29 times I'll say I love you
29 clouds pass by without a sound
29 lives I'd trade for just one with you
29 floors between me and the ground

Ducking Fogs

I thought I would get a jumpstart on spring cleaning today, which in these parts it does not seem a minute too soon, as it was a beautiful breezy 76 today. So in spite of my typical sleep deprivation on weekends, I unfolded myself from my makeshift pallet at 6 this a.m. I figured that would be easier than launching another sunrise counter-offensive on the loud-ass m.f. barking dogs in the Azalea Vet. Clinic kennel that has taken over the morning serenity behind my backyard, which I now refer to as the Gaza Strip. My stockpile of bottle rockets, black cats and whistlers is in need of replenishing anyway, and I wanted to start this Saturday in a happy place for a change of pace. Though I must admit I get solid satisfaction in micro-bursts when the puppy prisoners are silenced for 10 seconds or so after a barrage of my fireworks litter the sky just above their cages. But on this morning, I had another agenda, and I would awaken prior to their incessant group-yapping commenced, which would be drowned out by my jukebox jam for the duration of the day.