When entering the Gorge, leave behind all preconceptions. Let yourself be carried off on a stream of consciousness that tickles the heavens as readily as it grinds down stone.

Chagrin Of The Contractors


Fallacy and folly. The slippery ground ahead.

What has not been rendered obsolete by those who hold the

concrete spheres — the opposite to crystal balls — the caricature wizards and

magicians who’ve pledged their life to prophecy and wish fulfillment, yet

somehow fallen prey to an array of dense illusions and appeals that cannot, do not,

reach beyond their needs for wealth wealth wealth and material growth,

derisions and pretense — these powerbrokers and players

preaching salvation with one hand and robbing you with the other,

they’re everywhere, minding the economy, the politics of the world

you call civilization — these false, shallow preachers, trying to plug the

cold abysmal holes deep inside them with their warm promises and their

foul plays, their addicted and broken mindsets, junkie souls on junk treadmills,

chasing ghosts, highs, other people’s achievements and a child’s welfare,

chasing anything that will satiate their vampire blood, their thirst for death,

(their only way to live, the death of the innocent — they unleash their snouts and

suck dry the souls of those opening up to them, issuing apologies while doing

their business), agonized, callous creatures, lost inside their porous interiors, desperate

to alleviate their frayed minds from the insecuring pains niggling

at their brains, nibbling on their hearts and souls,

tearing up their childhood dreams,

tearing up their precious schemes and aspirations — along with

everyone else’s — tossing everything out in the grey cold, a frenzy of despair,

rushed adulthood, scorn, foul air,

fallacy, folly, these poor foul creatures suffer from it — they suffer and let suffer;

rendered broke, sore and festering, diseased and incomplete by their

own hand, they die slowly, stealthily, and they don’t realize;

they feel it somewhere deep inside, a visceral knowledge,

unable to explain it in words; they cannot comprehend the process —

the way their demise is linked to the people they so readily undermine.

Eroding away like photographs in the sunlight,

their image fades, loses resolution,

their grip on their affairs loosens, their grasp weakens,

they falter, dizzy,

waste away with surrender,

backed up with regret, a roil of question marks spilling out their eyes and ears like hooks attached

to lines pulled from afar, in the distance, pulling hard — the slack is over — a whiteout of pain flooding

their niggled brains and eaten-out hearts, their choices catching up with them,

time, errors, catching up with them, all systems compromised, all but one:

the memories of what was lost, what could have been, so precious, yes, it was;

the bittersweet burden of a faded memory speaking of a child

bursting with hopes and magic, its soul smooth, solid,

not yet compromised, un-shredded, it dreamed of being happy and righteous

and well-placed in the world, well-intended, yet somehow, this poor child found itself on

the paved road to hell, ending up in set, adult, cemented ways far too soon, too alone,

wrapped and coated in conceit, deceit, hushed circumstance,

rushed importance and regret, bubbling regret at not having taken a little more time

to grow up and understand what that meant, how life works. Instead,

the child grew up in a rush, all too needy and frenzied,

frightfully all-important, ending up trapped inside an armor of power and mandate,

weeping with rage,

going for broke — for broke! —

every detail obsessed over,

every stroke applied with care until there was nothing left to care for,

nothing of the child to be seen save a thorny memory pushing through a now forgotten,

besotted, waylaid dream, tainted and no longer viable; a reminder that somehow, somewhere,

someone abused innocence, tearing apart the shell inside which its precious soul

was maturing, destroying the substrate of trust so crucial to its development,

snout clicking, sniffing for blood to feast on and sustain its tormented, abysmal existence.