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


What has not been rendered obsolete

by those who hold the concrete spheres

(the opposite to crystal balls ), those caricature wizards and

magicians who’ve pledged their life to prophecy

and wish fulfilment, 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, pretence — these powerbrokers and players

who preach salvation with one hand and rob you with the other,

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

we call civilization — these false, shallow preachers, plugging the

cold abysmal holes deep inside them with their warm promises,

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 pain that niggles

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 influential 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 it. They suspect it, feel it somewhere deep inside,

a visceral knowledge they cannot put into words; unable to

comprehend the process, how their demise is linked

to the people they cheat and undermine.

Eroding like photographs in sunlight, their image fades,

loses resolution, their grip on their affairs loosens, their grasp weakens,

they falter, dizzy, and waste away with surrender, backed up with regret,

a roil of question-marks spills out their eyes and ears like hooks attached

to lines pulled from faraway hands, pulling hard — the slack is over —

a whiteout of pain borne of questions now floods their niggled brains

and eaten-out hearts, their choices catch 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

that speaks of a child bursting with hopes and magic,

its soul smooth, solid, not yet compromised, un-shredded,

a child that 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, frenzied,

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 save,

save a thorny memory pushing its way through a now forgotten,

besotted, waylaid dream; a reminder that somehow, somewhere,

someone abused innocence, tearing apart the shell where the child’s soul

would mature, destroying the substrate of trust so crucial to its development,

snout clicking, sniffing for livelihoods to feast on, to bathe in,

to sustain its tormented, abysmal, ravening purpose