Part 2.

We land with nothing more than hope in our lungs and packs on our backs. In line for the baggage I see a familiar face, or hat should I say. Approaching all to apprehensively, so as Americans do, we do. I have come to find none more than a single Aussie also in need of a ride. 15 American dollars for a 4 hour ride to Playa Hermosa sounds like a fucking deal. The wind smelled of pollution and dirt just as I had remembered. Alas this time I was void of plans and worry. On the ride from the buzzing metropolis, through the lush hill that border what you all know as rain forest we trucked. You a blinding sense of motion sickness I would have never guessed, tough right? As you rested your head on my shoulder through the twisting curves and the winding winds, I knew what I was in for long before my mind had decided. Head phones on. Green like I had never seen yet I had seen it in exact times before. Half way we stop. To see the alligators. Fresh water. To remind us only how prehistoric wild can actually be. On this bridge you took a picture. We were here once. It was real. Simon from Australia was wearing the same LA dodgers hat I had so wholeheartedly tried to find before we left. Benny The Jet. A hero of sorts was embodied when I noticed how he smiled. None but to give a fuck. About a half hour later we lad in Playa Hermosa. Simon, From Australia, is looking for a surf hostel after spilling his beans. He was a student in Mexico studying and was sent on holiday due to the infamous Swine Flu. As opposed to how Americans would take it, Simon, he went surfing. Not only surfing but surfing in one of the worlds best surf spots. Oh not yet do I fall peril to my lack of surfing abilities. THe Inter-bus stops much to our elation at a breakfast joint. Little to you knowledge we had slept a few bumpy hours in the air. 8:45 am. Tico typical in full effect. she had never had eggs this way. Tico. Real. With love. I cut the legs of my pants off with my trusty buck knife we had so skillfully stolen from our camping gay neighbors te year previous. It was hot. Actually hot and in June, before hot had hit our "home". After a few minutes deciding on food and severing my cotton ties with the leg wrappings in a jean that bind me to some sort of home or fimilarity.

Caffe con leche. I ordered like I had been here for years. Plantaino frito. Bueno. I was letting go and for the first time in 25 years vacating what I had grown to know. You were not safe, nor am I at this point. Little to your knowledge, time and place, I begin my demise. I love you. Some one I barely know. Someone I wholly trust. What am I doing in the tropic of Cancer?

Part 1.

I had always noticed you. after little planning and even less thinking. Bright sun hit my face as I dialed your number. Backpack packed, ticket in hand. I had not slept the night before thus instant sleep to the droning whirr of the jet engine. Mountain time. I land in the circus tent, take the train across to concourse A in the main terminal. Walking through an airport with head phones on yields interesting judgements and people watching. Wondering what moved them enough to physically move themselves. It hit me. Why had I moved my self and what the hell had I gotten into. I barley knew you. Making my way though throngs to the smoking bar. Looked at like a bleeding wound, my cigarette dangled from my lips as I wondered where you were at that second. The perspiration on a cold brown beer bottle as an old man pulls up a chair. Asks the typical air-port bar questions, where was I going, what did I do, I simply replied and Don the lift truck operator proceeded to buy Jameson. Don told me all about spousal abuse with his ex wife and the like in rural South Dakota being a drunk hick. The hands had moved and time sped up with whiskey as the catalystic fuel. Yet you were no where to be found. Now I am nervous. Time is slipping as I stumble from the comfortable place into the loud dry place, looking. I have no method of contact and am realizing this could be a terrible joke and actually start sweating. As the nausea was setting in after I had realized on the blue flickering monitors it had change from you not showing up to a flight being late. 6 hours of thinking alone about what on earth we could have been kidding ourselves into. The same bartender from life past was starting to worry for me judging by the look on his face. I decent the useless metal moving stairs on to the fat lady conveyor. Then I saw a small hard frame moving through people all too aerodynamically. I knew it was you. In an instant this was really happening. Your smile plays tricks on my fluorescent flooded baby blues and makes me think that this has to be more. Got to be. Your breath was much sweeter than Dons, your eyes much softer and your skin felt nothing like the carpet I had been forced into early hangover on. We held our hand and our breath. Sooner than later we were crossing the tropic of cancer and the equator to an equation not calculated yet. You+me+*adventure-money/not knowing x lust=*unknown variable at this conjuncture.

Mostly Perfect With a Chance of Destruction

I was going to write like a journal

I like being cryptic



Fell to darkness in a loud place.
Shallow breath/deafening heart beat.
So this is uncertainty?
I feel like I have fallen into an Ice covered lake
Half way out
you grab my hand
and the ice gives way to more water
Keep trying, sodden clothes weigh down
There is light below the surface
an obscure hand through the water swipes
can we stop drowning?

The Smallest Kings Bones.

This person staring through
This person staring through the reflective
You've turned and run off with all
to the other side with you
and I know, I know
you try so damn hard to be so happy.
So you say, what do I do now that you are me?
I'll fade with time, just like in the dream.
Inherit my shoes, they were too hard to fill anyways.
I want it to go well for you, start over and do it right this time for me.
Open the eyes, look at this wall and notice the one that borrows and steals.
I do this to myself.
Stick to the side roads,
they help interesting thoughts.
You see what you want to see

Serial killers.

Raining hard
I hope it is passing
along with this feeling.

Rolling in
as ominous as ever
walls thicker than clouds
Waning Gibbous

Not to end as all others
but to begin anew
born of broken

Sewn seeds
growing season
Indian summer foreboding
carrying us to blue water
one can only hope.

Chalk path outlines.

I think that, as life is action and passion, it is required of a man that he should share the passion and action of his time at peril of being judged not to have lived.


To reach a port we must sail, sometimes with the wind, and sometimes against it. But we must not drift or lie at anchor.


Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.
Oliver Wendell Holmes


Many people die with their music still in them. Why is this so? Too often it is because they are always getting ready to live. Before they know it, time runs out.


I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving.


To be 70 years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be 40 years old.


Death tugs at my ear and says: "Live, I am coming"


Oliver Wendell Holmes