Category Archives: Thunder Fire

Table Talk

Heavy envy envelopes objective relatives.

Persistent resistance distances verbal dancers dissing dug in positions with similar stubbornness. 

A win is immenent. 

The brethren can’t conceive concessions. 

Opponents must own their own arguments. Humble tears in tents; A clown smoking cigarettes. 

But who wins at some point with troubling anger on the table among us? Hurt hearts are contagious. 

Grab an ale and a napkin and make space for a feast, cousin. Let go this fight we’re waging. Eating time in session. On the plate is crow. 

We never got where it would have gone. Dangerous angling averted. Where’s dessert, then? 

In Tandem

And this is life: Forward motion.

Time passes and erases heroes with villains, farmers, families, foes. And when they vanish, they are never more we — this preposterous pirate’s crew. 

Loss is our language, our final expression. When friends meet their end, we cry to honor what was, and sign to own the note of their vacancy. 

Many veer off course. We dismiss debt knowing our own anchors too sit on silt. 

So ‘Rest in Peace’ we say. The laughter we shared in the valley’s shadow always proved we could. 

Ahead, we’re broken in tandem. Into the sea that swallows the sun we sail. Full speed!! 

Should, for some silly reason, all possibilities arise, I’ll chose your faith in me to find you.  

And bolstered by your confidence, I will. Lounging on shore. Waiting. Giggling with the good news we hoped for. 


I want to die with my glasses off.

I won’t worry for a blurry world we know goes on without us.

I’ll rest in death with a face that’s free from the weight of the lenses that sit on my nose thrown and steer these gullible eyes.

I’ll lay splayed like a squished cat on cool concrete. Just as I am.

I want to feel the black fog roll in and kiss these twitchy eyelids ‘night. Who can see the end of dreams anyway?


Jesus, Kanye, and the subtle force of gravity

I understand why one might hate Kanye West. 

His ego is obnoxiously large. He has compared himself to Jesus and Mohammad Ali. He has said his greatest regret is that he can’t see himself perform live. And there was the whole Taylor Swift VMA fiasco. Ugh. I’m embarrassed to admit I like him. 

Kanye mug posed on the face of white, painted Jesus.

But I like him.
From “Power,” to “Stronger,” to “Can’t tell me Nothing,” I could call out a dozen fantastic songs off the top of my head. Have you listened to “Good Morning?” Have you given “Homecoming” a spin? “Heard ’em say,” is one of my all time favorites. 
I’m not interested in seeing him live. My opinion: the voice is terrible. This is no Freddie Mercury

He is an artist, though. A true beast in the studio. Check “Mercy,” “All of the Lights,” or “Love Lockdown.” He has 55 entries on the Billboard Top 100

I might not like his arrogance, but in my mind, he’s one of the great artists of our time. I may not like the guy, but he deserves credit for the body of music he’s produced. He just sounds good. A lot. 

I feel the same about Jesus. 

Don’t misunderstand, Jesus is no pompous ass. Yeah, the son of God claim is bold (Kanye-esque?), but the resurrection trick, street cred with prostitutes and followers who died horrible deaths to further his legend and grace, still compel me to spin Gospel records. “Turn the other cheek.” Heard of that? It’s good stuff. Call me a sucker. 

Have you read the “Sermon on the Mount?” Seen Matthew’s “Lillies of the Field?” Heard the story of the “Good Samaitan?” John 4:8 is one of my all-time favs. 

I know it seems I’m playing fast and loose with the sacrifice of the lamb of God. And Jesus. Let me explain: the music of the Bible has always spoken to me, but like Mr. West, the well from which the hits spring is contaminated. 

The Bible is chock full of errors. It’s embarrassing, really. If you’re not familiar with the long list of contradictions in the Bible, here’s a collection, and a few questions to ponder: Is God good to all or just a few? Is Jesus God? Who bears the sins of the father? The Bible contradicts itself on these questions and more depending on where you look. 

And then there’s all the horrible junk in the Old Testament. From bizarro death penalties, to slavemaster’s rules, to testing Abraham by telling him to kill his son, the picture the Good Book paints of God ain’t pretty from where I sit. And I forgot to mention the impossible stuff such as Moses’ age and Noah’s special water ride. 

All as embarrassing as a Kanye West headline. To me. 

I get why someone wouldn’t believe. Why would God kill his son? Why would the fate of my eternal soul rest on whether I believe an unbelievable story and/or worship a cruel father-God? I can’t argue with you, unbeliever. You win. 

Albert Einstein knew the universe was an orderly place. His theory of relativity continues to give mankind a glimpse into the beauty and reliability of the forces that hold and shape our world. And we know our universe is expanding: the Big Bang Theory isn’t just a TV show. What if God was the Singularity, and life was born from His sacrifice? What if he’s not the parental type per se, but is a gentle force like gravity, ever propelling seeds to flower and stars to burst open. Looking to the night sky, I feel humble, grateful.

Sometimes when I’m at church listening to a Kanye record, I feel connected to the real G in the sky. I know the flaws of the package that carries the message, and this message, all too well. 

Ah, but the hits. I keep coming back for more. There is something to this beat. 

Backyard summer

Her legs wrench an extra pillow as my sweaty skull soaks through a cushy counterpart wall-side. 

Loose threads climb in her sleeping ears and whisper rumors of rogue magnetic hairs, spiderwebs, carpet enemies.  

I dream of sanitary plastic gloves on dinner plates. By morning, her shaved head will warm in the sun and calm the subsurface menace. 

We sit in slow motion on newly clean outdoor chairs. My eyelids are clunky garage doors hoisted by an unseen electric pulley. Damn dog. Fucking shit-eating dog.

The boys want lunch, but don’t mind making it themselves. We can pretend a vacay in Hospital City; summer is not lost. 

A breeze cooler than June pushes branches near the fence, then thinks less of purpose. This is a workday for so many. 

We’re skin spots and brain fog. The light shines down. What will the specialist say? Money drips in a quiet coffee stream from a backend reservoir. 

Our white sun pushes salt out successfully through ancient channels. The cut grass sits Berber-style and calls Molly to roll and scratch her back by the root’s edge. Still green now.  

I fade in a quiet moment — accidentally forgetting it all. 

Oh yeah, remember the new world. The unfinished, updated living experience. 

I’ll try fish in coconut oil. We’ve got to get the good bacteria up. 

Andrew’s birthday comes July. Let’s get inside to vacuum before we make calls. 

Maybe in a minute. 

Gut check

Foggy bathroom, black gum on concrete.

Steel doors with a vertical gap one greasy thumb wide. 

Top volume long human hair pieces, one each for Boo, Scooter and Boo Scooter. 

Dang tranny makes me itch like I got cut hair and went laid in grass. 

Who dreams up to rob a hospital? Granny Tranny who. 

But I can’t work at the fabrication shop since Ellen found Pokie on the floor. The chain stretch outside, didn’t see a problem unless rain or Thursday. And fuck the office, Tom. 

Man, I want Raisin Bran. Two bowls ain’t enough; my throat’s dry. 

All I know is lights blinking, heart’s racing and by 10, I’ be shot or speedin’ that car speed to the Blue motel in Carcer. Hot fuck!

Let’s go, Ace! “Live or die don’t try, Mother Fucker.” The mirror is ready. 

For friends and brothers in war

The deceiver is ego.

Two Frost paths emerge in the wood: one rooted in confidence, earned and restrained or assumed and wild, and a trail of self-doubt and shame.

Both sides come around the mountain with servants and lost souls. But the deception all parties face and to which they must succumb or overcome is that one’s value varies by circumstance. 

Our environment and brick-and-mortar selves constantly change clockwise by second and hour. 

Does value move up and down with them? Are metrics based on location? Is there no thread that runs across lives from powerless, curious newborn to broken, failing geriatric daydreamer? No string of self crossing rich to poor, homely to handsome? 

Ego is the variable. Worth is fixed as part of one creation. Value is bounded, measurable, shared. 

Take heart, weary Soldier, comradery is the call.