Sunday, June 24, 2012


Been extracting gold
From each others souls,
Though something more precious
Then stones.
When the walls came tumbling down,
It was be buried alive or get out,
Half of me ran, half of me stayed
And I'm so tired trying to dig myself out.
So I'll leave that piece of me in your mine,
wondering if he is still alive.
Wondering if he is still finding gold
Fragments in the hard core.

I must scout the rocky terrain alone
Search for a new place to dig,
Knowing I won't always find gold
But exhilarated by the hope.

The stones I've carried for you
I must set aside
Knowing only time can erode,
Break them into little pieces
To understand better
What to look for,
What constituted my gold mine.
Examine the weakness of the rocks
That caused it to fall apart,
To help in the crumbling,
To prevent a relapse of collapse.

Those castles built of sand
Are easy to make, and easily break.
Gold is malleable in its purest form.

I still carry gold for you
Hard to spend, hard to share
Hard to make you aware
I want to move past
The trinkets of our past
But every twinkling eye sets
An inkling in my eye of the weight
I carried for you.

I'm apprehensive
This will make cents.

No easy way to explain,
What has been lost,
And the cost to my sanity
If I cannot plant in me
The fact I can live without you.

Dig till I break a sweat
Dig till my hands are blistered
Till my knees are bloody,
Till the lights are barely visible,
till the sky is my ceiling
And the hole is my home.

Safety and security,
Absurd as it may be
Brought when I am strong enough
To be on my own.

Please visit, thanks.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Dear Mr. Zimmerman

Hey bob Dylan 
I feel your pain 
This modern world
 Can really be pain 
And the hours we sweat
 To the dollar we make
 Natures gift
Is all society takes 
Bends it whim and will 
Through the modern age

Hey bob Dylan 
I'm singing your song
 Because nostalgia is the only thing 
Saving our souls 
Now they know everything 
About you and me.
But they can't see the souls the encapture 
With greed 
It is built to big for us defend ourselves

Hey bob Dylan
 They have posters of you
 And movies 
And billboards 
And famous dead people
 Have posters too 
In the subway cars streets and bar 
And stores 
We can't help but to want more.

Hey bob Dylan
 The cause is to far away 
The cure has but silent words.
The greatest trick 
The devil ever pulled
Was making them think
 He didn't exist 
I'm not a Christian 
But I realize the real meaning of this.

Hey bob Dylan
 I'm lost you know 
My Estella was Ice 
Carrying old flames.
I offered her my insolence 
And I deserve her scorn.
 Come in she said 
I'll give you
Shelter from the storm.

Hey bob Dylan
 I can't play guitar 
And my harmonica and me
 Can't hold a tune.
Say hi to Guthrie and lead belly, 
Lennon and Cash 
And Dylan Thomas to. 
I could only hope 
To inspire 
One of you. 

Hey bob Dylan
 Is what we have 
Really worth saving 
The pictures in dust 
And the CDs rust
 Our world is Biodegrading.
 Will my debts have me hung,
In an economy 
that's always failing, 
In these times of change?

Hey bob Dylan
 The ice bergs melting 
Add fresh water to the ocean 
Lowering its total toxicity
 And we cant put our faith 
In what we know 
Can destroy us.
I do not feel that good
When I see it around me 
And realize 
We're the disease.

From Nowhere

      I was riding my bike down the highway, the sun was warm and I had no destination. It was a nice day; cool breezes ran off the lake, the corn fields were knee high. Then came a feeling, I am not sure to this day why I followed it. Just a feeling I guess that led me here.


        At an unmarked gravel road I turned my bike, spotting it as my best opportunity to take a quick naked swim in the water unbothered. As I neared the tree line, I felt in luck, no cottages seemed to lie in this place. Not until I was into the trees did I notice a large red building, two brick stories tall, hiding under a flurry of untamed ivy. There was a hand painted sign over the door proclaiming this to be city hall. Half the windows on one side of the building were smashed, and had been boarded over quickly. Just the look of the place haunted me. I got off my bike to take a look inside. It was locked. I walked around until I found a window near the back of the building low enough for me to peer through. Many of the other windows to this room had been smashed, inside looked dark and dirty, broken bed frames lie strewn all twisted amongst themselves, only recognizable by the few stained mattresses that lie in the corner. I walked back around to the front of the building. "City Hall" was the question on my mind.


           I got back on my bike and continued with my ride into the woods, I came across a clearing where fifteen or so crudely constructed log cabins sat strewed in no particular direction. It was filled with strange silence; I found it odd but let it be. At the edge of what was the community lies a steep twisted road that led down to the sea.


           The bike was picking up good speed, when about halfway down the hill, my front tire caught on a large chunk of broken glass. The tire blew out, I struggled to keep control, a split second later the rim of the wheel dived into a pot hole and bent sideways. I flew over the bars into a pile of brush, and as my luck would have it, a thorn bush. For a moment I lay there in complete shock alternating between pain and anger. How I cursed those aluminum rims with vigor. I unhitched the front tire and threw it deep into the woods. I began to walk back up the hill with the broken bike.


          I had meant to bring my cell phone with me that day, but in my thirst and hunger for sun, I had left with ten bucks and the shirt on my back. If I could find a phone, I could phone my cousin in the next town to pick me up. we would have a few beers and laugh at my misfortunes. I never did get that beer, I never made the call.


           Sweat pouring off me; I came back up into the clearing. Looking in windows, nothing too spectacular, old beds. A big old television with turn knobs and minnows swimming in place of picture tubes. Then I found what I was looking for. Inside one cabin lies a telephone.


           The cabin was in disrepair and inside the dust was thick of years lying. The door gave easily, inside was warm and filthy, thick dust covered everything, from unwashed dishes to the uneven floorboards. One thing struck me as odd, lying on the floor looked to be a child's toy, hand carved and broken. The place was pretty creepy so I made haste to the telephone, an old black turn dial, i picked up the receiver.


             "Can we help you?"


          I almost shit myself, I swung around to face two poorly dressed, blond haired, mid-thirties, examining my every mood. In my shock I dropped the phone, never sure if it worked. I bent over and set it back on the receiver. He was probably thirty two, his eye lids were held half mast, his hair had been cut amateurly to shoulder length, his grin was stretched but friendly enough. She was another story, darting green eyes, skin tanned and pulled tight over her bones. She looked to be almost forty except for the perky breasts which were quite apparent through her white rag of a shirt.


            "Ya, I was just going to make a phone call." I sounded so dumb. I felt dumb.


          They explained to me that none of the hydro was working, and the only place to get ahold of anyone was to go to the city hall. Reluctantly I followed. He carried my bike for me, and she seemed particularly interested in politics and government, she picked my brain over countries and histories of adopted governmental policies. She seemed really interested in communism and its set of ideals. I started to relax a bit.


               When we got to the "City Hall", the man turned to me and asked me if i wanted something to cure my pain. Politely I declined, citing that I must phone my cousin. Then he said something I wasn't expecting.


             "Are you sure you wouldn't like to smoke some marijuana?"


                Next thing I know I'm sitting in the "City Hall" library, on a pile of mattresses, right, talking to these people who are my new best friends, right, and I'm asking them about all sorts of stuff and she is talking all this weird shit about revolutions and pilgrims and pyramids and orphans and just weird messed up stuff. He has this big grin on and I could almost swear his eyes were closed.


             "Hey man, you wanna see the grow room, the telephone is down there too..."


               So I'm Like "okay guy, lets do that then and i wander kind of trippy and i pass some other people and shake hands and everyone is my friend. There clothes are all outdated, but i was sure i saw a newish pair of reeboks, anyways.  We get down to the cellar and he's like


             "Wanna make the phone call now" and I'm like


             "Ya sure, whatever, probably take a while to find the place" and then I walk into the room an I walk over and pick up the phone,  the fucking telephone, the fucking telephone that doesn't work, and they closed the door, and i don't know how long i have been in here and i don't think i can last much longer in this padded room. I hope you don't find this in my state.


                                                                                            Rick Hartman 1979 - ????


My head is totally fucked because I just found this scratched behind a loose panels. Now this isn't a joke any more. It has been 9 days, Those people out there are seriously crazy. This is as real as that crazy tight skinned bitches dirty bmx t-shirt. Good thing I always carry my laptop.






Tragos de Spatziergang (tragady the walking)

>In the winter

>a man walks out of the trees

>sets down his gun

>pulls down his zipper

>and leaves a vibrant yellow on the fresh snow

>he does up his zipper

>picks up his gun

>and continues to walk through the woods

>he comes to a line of tracks

>slowly he begins to follow them

>he walks for an hour,

>following the tracks carefully,

>and arrives back to where he began.

>beside his footprints,

>and the tracks

>is now another set of tracks,

>he carefully follows them

>watching carefully for direction,

>after half an hour he turns around

>raises his gun

>and shoots me.

What is love, dear?

The man turned to his lady and questioned, "What, dear, is love?"

            "I don't know," she replied. "I should suppose it has to do with chemical reactions, fate and timing. Theirs has to be a fair share between laughter and despair. Theirs must be the chaos of two burning hearts poured forth into one beautiful, shared idea.  Certainly one would require both respect for others and themselves. Trust would be another keystone forming their ideals of love. In no case whatsoever can a relationship grow anything but sour over undisclosed perversions, submitted feelings and withheld inclinations. Verily, more then all this I believe love must be believed in, in order to be ascertained. Surely if either party cannot believe in the splendor of love, it would die like a greek god, believed only to be a myth that old ladies whisper of well celebrating decades of union. It seems as time progresses, as well as the lives living said time, there seems to be clutters of ill informed information. "Love is dead," seems so callous and disregarding to the human condition, and yet when it is spoke and repeated and believed, it becomes as real as love could have been. Unfortunate it is for those who are so afraid of the concept of love that when it comes to them, they are so afraid of it's pain that they cannot except the wonderful passion, hope and beauty which it can inspire.  And as to those who have fell victim to false hope and promises, who feel cheated by there emotions, one can only pity that they are so trapped inside the past that they cannot except a future, no matter how superior or changed from their last encounter. Furthermore common interests play an important role in the shaping of a relationship. If partners can't form compromise or share opinions then the relationship may develop into a bland ménage of quiet waiting and sudden outbursts; whereas those who have similar interests and ideas may find themselves lost in conversation for years. Lastly, and most importantly, is communication. For a truly successful love to develop, communication must be truly free and honest, no secrets hid and nothing worth hiding. No judgements….

            He turned away. 

At The Station

Sitting in the station,

Here again, gone again, to return again.


Every time like the last,

Like the next,

World without end.


Looking at life I smile,

All the precious earth at my feet,

Swarmed so thick with air

I breathe freely

Such relief.


Step out of the city, back to country lanes.

Step back to the nurturing nature

To refresh my soul

To relieve my brain.


Oh cold city,

Your cement face

Stone arms

Tied to you and sinking in the quarry.

Oh cold city,

You exhaust men.


So glad to know I can survive

Need a few days free from striving

Or strife.

A few days to remember I'm nice.


Sitting in the station,

Here again, gone again, to return again.

I say farewell, but so soon we meet again

Oh cold city, your shiny mirrors harden the individual,

By making all men equal in greed and need

What have you given him

But unfulfillable desire.


And my desire is filled

Because I choose to be simple

There is ample for me

Because each day is a new luxury

I lust not,

For she is all I need.



The river runs beneath the train

The hills are clotted with trees

The clouds are large and changing

Riding high above the breeze.


The sun is warm, inviting

The grass is soft sweet green

I think of your eyes and realize

Maybe your thinking of me.


What joy to love and be loved

What blessing, what bliss

I can't fin d words for this feeling

So upheaving

In the clouds and trees

In every clod of earth

The harmony of nature rings true

This is the beauty of you and me.


Oh, that we should wander through green valleys

Chase each other in unfettered delight

To know no wet in the rain

But be warm, weak and dry in each others grasp.


There are surely mountains to climb

Paths that lead us back and forth

Holding hands with a universe flying by

Creating a universe, a reality between us

Ours to cherish and glorify.


To take you where you've never been

To go with you where I've never seen

To share something new, like the world has never known

Like time and place and the human race have not allotted

Every day is new, it is always the first time.


Each kiss magical splendid and individual,

Each caress born soft and new

Each moment we move forward

Each moment I want to share with you.


My reality and yours entwined

In dreams awake we play

And poets speak and cry and mourn,

For that which between us has been borne.

And fools, don't realize it's the only thing worth anything.

Post Apocalypse

There I sat in the office. My leather chair musty with the years of disuse.  It was nice that things were finally getting back to normal. The apocalypse was a cruel time for all of us.

Well, it turns out there is a God, and he fucking hates us.  He drove war machines across the world, unfathomable chaos descended upon man and his very free thinking mind.  All the billions of explosions actually caused such a fantastic change in the temperature of the earth that most of it just died. Great forest became engulfed in flame and disappeared under the watchful eye of cattle; the cattle became as dead as their foraging grounds. Famine rolled its way up to the low middle classes in my own city. In those who could survive the famine among the lower middle class, most of them became ill from the toxins that dead bodies and unhealthy people produced. It is said in one part of the country a plague started in a small town where they had been burning the bodies of the recently famished.  Bell boys, waitresses, telemarketers, nearly sixty different people buried on top of people who had lived off the charity of man. The blood ran into the water reservoir.  They couldn't quarantine it. It escaped and raped and destroyed lives left and right. The weirdest thing about the plague was before you died, you would burst into sporadic Hysterics. You would laugh suddenly and uncontrollably, and then slowly it would overwhelm you into panic. The disease was a microbe much like salmonella, and so light that it floated on air, unlike salmonella. Like A humming bird to feeder it would crawl its way into the sinus then burrow itself into the mind. One head drinking off the adrenaline gland while the other head went strait for the serotonin. The two heads would fight each other when they were full of their mental chemicals. When the two heads split it would kill the host by flooding it with mixed signals.  No Zen Buddhists are have heard to have suffered, but many soccer mothers SUVs flew off roads. It could live in a host for days, probably the most ordinary days of anyone's life, unless you liked cocaine. Cocaine users got it worse then anyone. The chemical reaction between the cocaine and the microbe led to its evolution into a gruesome worm. The worm would make not only the split into two entities but also crawl its way out the ear as the laughter began, causing deafness, migraines, and the worst slowest death possible. I had a long book to write in me, but no one to read it.


He l''ked d'wn at his watch and knew that he w'uld be late. He didn't care. He had spent 

his wh'le life being c'urte'usly early 'nly t' find himself waiting a little l'nger.The day 

was seas'nably c'ld and dreary. The N'vember rain was quickly turning the fresh sn'w int' a 

sludgy gray slush. The smell 'f r'tting leaves and car exhaust wafted thr'ugh the air.The 

sidewalk was slippery.
Suddenly he slipped 'n a wet patch. His feet flew up fast, s' fast he 

didn't have time t' prepare a safe landing.
 His head hit the gr'und with a dull thud; 

everything went black. 
When he w'ke up it was dark 'utside. His face and fingers ached; his 

cl'thes were s'aked with the water 'f the dirty gutter in which he had landed. The back 'f 

his head ached, as did his neck.  He sl'wly pulled himself t' his feet. He felt unsteady, 

His knees w'bbled beneath him. He was s' 'ver whelmed by the pain and exp'sure t' the 

elements, he puked int' the rain filled street, watching the v'mit wash al'ng the surface 

'f the water and slide int' the st'rm sewer.  

He l''ked d'wn at his watch. H'w l'ng had he 

been 'ut? But he c'uldn't read the watch face in the dark, that's when it first caught his 


Where are the streetlights? Where is the traffic?  H'w did I spend all day passed 

'ut in the gutter with n' 'ne n'ticing 'r caring that I was there?

He dug ar'und in his 

p'cket, fished 'ut a cigarette, a lighter, and his cell ph'ne. The ph'nes face pr'claimed 

it t' be 2:37AM, and he had tw' missed calls. Lighting the cigarette with a shiver he 

dialed his v'ice mail.

First message:  "Hey, I'm really s'rry, I'm running ab'ut fifteen, 

twenty minutes behind, I'm c'ming but I will be ab'ut twenty minutes late, h'pe y'u get 

this message, see y'u in a bit. Peace."

Sec'nd message: Hey, maybe y'u didn't get the 

message I left, shit, anyways, well whatever, we'll meet up again s'me 'the..." 

The message 

cut 'ff with the s'und 'f a large crash.

Wh' was this pers'n he was supp'sed t' meet? 


c'ntinued t' shiver. He walked briskly sm'king his cigarette gingerly. He  w'ndered at the 

fact there were n' h'use lights 'n. 'nly after a c'uple bl'cks walking did he realize he 

had n' idea where he was. In fact, he wasn't even certain wh' he was? He searched his 

p'ckets f'r I.D. but failed t' pr'duce any. He pulled 'ut his ph'ne and l''ked at the list 

'f names within. N'ne 'f the names seemed familiar, s' he decided t' call Adam.
N' service.
N' service.
N' service.
N' service.

He sat d'wn 'n the c'ld wet curb, put 

his head in his hands, and began t' cry. He felt s' al'ne and scared and l'st. Wh'ever he