my wilderness

a sharp wind on my face

a scent of cold fury

taste my dry chapped lips

listen to the thud of my skis falling into fluffy powder

see all elements of life

senses aware of their surrounding


encompass our small pack

not a spare breath to speak

leaving an interesting path with handrails on the side

more so divots, created out of arm technology

and trudging feet  that clunk the powder to a hard packed level

clunk. clunk. clunk


my thighs burn

"how much longer till I can ski the fucking thing?"

keep going young soul

i think of the pioneers such as dawson in 1885

with no knowledge of such landscapes

no feel of the snow.
crystals covering his skis with ever step

the sun, shining so brightly on the high peaks

my mind moves through historical references and triggers my eyes to see



dead and alive

but still here

not harmed by pollution. not destroyed for kindling

just there as a gesture

nature over powers


i take a sip from my camel back

i'm here

mountains- the whole rockies in front of my eyes

adore the scenery


anxious to get a reward for my doings

no better then my body feeling weightless

levitating. dancing

diving into every turn

reminiscing the agony. the hardships overcome

for true happiness

Aphrodite's a slut


Aphrodite finds him. Leads him to Elysian dreams. But she’s that cold wind that promises relief on a hot summer’s day, and leaves instead a cut on the top of his mouth.

She turns his thoughts, suicidal, into immoral laughs. With derision, she mocks his protestations with a seductive sneer, “Come on, you’re the one being emotional, that’s not the quality of a true man”.

Bored by her nonsense she searches for bigger prey. The man had no knowledge of her hunt and was not expecting to cross her path.

He sees her. With Hera her mother. Both sitting on swings.

He takes a double look.
Their eyes lock. One whole year had transpired. The thought of a conversation seems illicit.

She leaves her swing. Tears stained, she approaches. “I’m sorry for everything” she beckons. Again. Again. Again.

And he feel the repetition. He’s hear this all before. His vision starts to dim.

She claims, “I still care. You know, I once gave a shit.”

sally jane at 40.

and the sea commits to me

as i give my fond farewell

meanwhile the clicks of clocks, decipher

the apparent fighter

then i start to rain

and claim that i care

even though you are there and i'm here

by your side in the medical institute

when a cold folds into a fever

in the beginning l'hiver

besides my wish to slow down time

come down here and hold my hand

it was always "she's sick"

my arrogant foolery

until the forced reality

this is it

i am her only one

it's enough

i gave her wings

but all what is left are feathers

so the story goes on

with no tale of beginnings and ends

swing wild, that axe of mine

until i realize that nothing bares soul in front

it's just like kicking a habit

and as my mind follows her

i can't help but think of the youngsters

a nine year old and two thirteen year old twins

with no mother to care or bother

go off to sleep in the sunshine

where rest can profound comfort

whie her candle burns so birght

and it will go out against her own might

our relationship devours

the mending of flowers

of cuts and bruises

but in the end the winner always loses