there go those days
washed away just like we wish they'd be.
just like we feared they'd be.

washed away just like we prayed
washed away with ignorant youth and sick greed.

"were at the crest!" we'd shout in the forest, on drugs.
"this is the gut of truth!" we'd spit with yellow teeth and bellies full of our parents booze.

"oh wisdom! teachers of the past!" we would praise and pray.

what did we know of the past.

what did we know of filth.

"this is where I belong!" i'd shout back to the mountain.

"this is what they meant by rough!" brother would shout. brother would scream.

but what did we know of rough.

what do we know now.

then-

a broken heart.
a wandering mind.

a pot full of love and beans.
two men shouting at the sky.
two boys learning what it meant to hurt.

pine needles and honesty.
one blue sky and six white clouds.

two complete skeletons
shinning in the sun,
covered in flies,
wrapped in youth,
and new.

but what did we know of rough.

then-


a hollywood hive,
sick with prostitues.

a soft cock sad about tomorrow,
sad about today.

text book satisfied,
but san fernando valley bent and beaten.

spikes and chills on a porcelain pot,
"where's the ground? "
or "wheres my ground?"

"what's our cash worth?"
two men shouting at a whore.
"how long till the next cunt shows?"
two boys learning what it means to be robbed.

and what time was work anyway?


then-

in between-

fuck these rouge whores
forget these six clouds.

pine needles are the only honesty we've known.

piracy is the only truth we've known.

the hive is the only rough we've known.

and lonely is all we've been waiting for.

well days like these, dont go anywhere.

when your caught up in your head, stumbling like the dead

well you know your wrong, but ya just dont care

well its months like these they last so long

sit wishin they would end wonderin what did i do wrong

i had my troubles then and now i have this song

oh ya cant quit now ya cant give up

stop drinkin your tears and sober up

cause your drunk on lies that youve told yourself

put the cork in the top

put the bottle on the shelf

and its wounds like these, still achin and soar

that a wicked knife did rend, my life it sought to end

weve all been left to bleed out on the floor

and it feels so good, to be so lonely

but its killin him inside, from this no man can hide

i was lonely once and now i have this song

Between the moon and the sun

Was,

And is our time.

A shaking of too many bodies-

An aggressive bobbing of heads-

And the brawl was on.

My already pounding heart wiggled in its cave 

As a close friend took four fists to the dome.

The hospitality of Rumblin' Dyl was shat upon,

and there was swinging to do.

First we attempted rationality-

Impossible,

And a dumb choice to begin with.

The first scuffle recedes into a new shouting match.

I do what I can to separate the equally enraged parties.

Being as im not a fan of shouting I clenched my fists and readied my self for round two.

Across the sea of T-shirts and faces wrinkled in anger I could the Rumblin' Dyl.

Disbelief.

Maybe it was more than that-

Restraint.

But the Rumbler wasn't in any way well known for his hesitation.

A hot head in any circle.

Round two begins and now there are bottle flying.

Hudson Sando Had an arm around his neck in seconds.

Me and two mexicans began working on the strangler,

A shaved head like his laughed at our swings,

But released Hudson-

Now we were the target.

I hadn't yet drawn the attention of an individual at this point,

and now I feared the wrath of this hard head.

Bruises heal but I was far too broke to buy new glasses.

Foolish worry.

The Mexican to right takes one to the gut and isn't fazed.

A shake of the head and a swinging of my sight shows me Monk-

A close ally.

He scans the fray as I was and we link eyes.

Without a nod we both grapple a member of the opposing force,

Tearing at his limbs- pulling toward the door.

Within the chorus of shouters I found it surprisingly easy to discern the voices of friendlies .

'Just get em outside!' A tall drunkard whos name escapes me the second I grasp for it-

A regular and a member of the tribe,

But his name remains strange.

We all begin to push.

Round two and three blended seamlessly but things had escalated.

It was difficult to make it through the crowded opening in the sliding glass door,

but we managed.

Part of me-

Stay out.

Most of me-

Allies are in need of reinforcements.

The cloud of fists and domes was swelling,

Innocent soft fists were being pommeled.

I spotted a group of terrified,

Crying,

Over dressed girls and squeezed them out the door behind me.

'Get in the alley' I suggested. 

They were more than happy to leave.

Back to it.

The door way had cleared and the cloud had moved to the next room-

Still round three and everyone was full of energy.

It was too hectic to now which side was coming out on top,

But knowing our tribe,

There were plenty of willing boxers just waiting to get a hit in.

The bookcase wobbled and threatened to fall

(A book case I had already almost destroyed that night with a well placed drunken stumble)

Things were breaking.

The cloud bursts out the front door-

Only furthering the chaos.

A home made trailer chasse was leaning on the wall opposite the door-

One of our braves was hurled to meet it-

Dome connection.

I began to feel actual fear when the ringing of the steel reached my ears.

Metal and domes don't mix.

Rumblin' Dyl had somehow ended up to the left of me and I was out of the fight.

He was concerned and my fight had done all it could do at this point.

'This shit ain't-' He starts ' No no get the fuck out!' . I hesitate to say he shouted but project- 

He did.

Command.

' Call the cops someone's going to get killed!' One of the twins begged. 

She was scarred but wasn't the type to give up ground-

She was up front with the boys.

I had at this point begun to worry for both sides.

Our town had a way of fighting past the point of necessity.

Regardless of my rage and distain for the bastards who started all of this,

soiling a fairly 'swingin' engagement-

I couldn't wish any permanent damage on them.

' Ya man call em, shits fucked' I agreed.

I saw Monk in the storm and jumped in to assist-

unspoken pact,

woulda done the same.

'Lets just get the fuckers into the street'

We begin shoving and grappling-

launching bodies the second we get hold.

Down the porch stairs-

A body hits a car-

A naked back hits the picket fence.

Round four had begun without me noticing-

and reached a calm.

Calm in average standards-

No.

Comparatively however-

there was a lull.

Space between the feuding parties had grown enough for those who charged,

To cross the void,

Were easily restrained.

Monk and I were now in damage control mode,

stopping friends from crossing to the enemy's side for more swings,

and stopping the opposition from getting back to the house.

The Po had been called and were en route-

The thugs from some other tribe,

these antagonists,

had wandered never turning a shoulder or batting an eye,

into the street.

'We gonna fuuuck you up BITCH!' A tall and furious black directed at me.

He was the roughest of them all.

Hard face- red shirt- yellow eyes- no sense.

They all offered another brawl.

Our side shouted back further challenges and taunts.

Burns if you will.

Creative curses I wish I could remember.

A couple willing acquaintances had joined Monk and I,

On the sidewalk in between our tribe and the enemy.

I wasn't worried about them re-igniting things,

didn't have the desire and you could tell.

Tone says everything.

Monk got the nerve to walk out into the street,

To negotiate. 

It was as he ad approached a wasps nest,

The way the bent and readied themselves,

for more violence.

A quick vision of Monk on the ground,

being bombarded by basketball shoes-

That'd be good to avoid.

So I joined him.

Things were more than tense-

The tension grew every step I took.

I wasn't too worried-

It wasn't fear anymore,

But if I wasn't so concerned with emerging unscathed

my hand could have shook.

It was still and we began trying to reason with them again.

'Look this can all end if you just take off, no stress from us we don't give a shit'

I offered as unthreateningly as possible.

They spat replies that could have been grunts-

Angry and unsatisfied.

No luck.

'Dude no one in there want's to fuck around and were just-' Monk began.

'FUCK you fool' The hard faced black barked stepping closer.

'Here we go' 

I thought it but may have said it aloud.

' Man just take off no ones comin' after ya' Monk said with a compromising tone.

Tone.

Always the key.

Still they spat curse and hate.

They were the type who were used to speaking with their fists.

'Tell em the cops are comin'!' A voice (no clue who) suggested.

' Ey man the cops are comin' theyre close- just take off before they get here.'

I said. They actually paused and their stances changed. 

The idea of leaving was sounding good now.

They run.

The cruisers whip around the corner-

Four.

A fire truck-

Always a surprising guest in altercations like these.

Didn't seem to be a reason.

Maybe they were bored.

An ambulance-

I hadn't seen, or rather inspected the wounds of those around me,

But there was blood on most of the door frames inside.

The enemy had made it to the corner when they were apprehended.

Tried to warn em.

Searches-

Badges walking through halls of shaken wallflowers

Once rowdy and full of shouts-

I sit on a metal chair,

Glad the boxing is over,

and ready for the PO-Show.

They look around,

scanning meaningless contraband.

Pot was un-impressive in burbank-

Anything harder-

surely nestled snug between nuts and thigh-

Cheek and Cheek-

Swallowed by the ambitious.

I did what I could to explain the situation,

In my best Po voice.

Welcoming,

Subservient,

The essential bitch.

Sometimes you just gotta bend over.

Everything cleared and party goers dispersed.

Monk, Me, One of the twins, The Queen

 (Who had been dubbed so this night by searching and finding) 

and Rumblin' Dyl sat upstairs,

Dyl's room.

We indulged and reflected-

apologized as a third party-

and left the battleground.

Blood-

Fines-

Badges-

Searches-

Between the moon and the sun

Was,

And is our time.

I tap these keys as the sun is rising,

the tribe has held its ground.

Between the moon and the sun

Was,

And is our time.

Against You

you said it, you knew it, you saw it comin why'd you do it now

you've lost it now

pretension - you've lost direction we were singin' your songs now were turnin em off

and were sorry because we miss you and the way you sang before.

if i was in your place right now i just might do the same

but id have the decency to change the fuckin name

solo

if i was in your place right now i just might do the same

but id have the decency to change the fuckin name

Last Round

After swinging several punches at the love I've tried to K.O, (for years)

I'm starting to get winded. 

Not that old,

Can still see my stamina draining.

Kid love 

Is where its at.

My child heart was strong as a bull.

Maybe it was a lack of knowing how bad it could get.

Not knowing what it felt like

To be exhausted 

By anothers

Bullshit.

Scoundrels With Smiles.

sniff and ask.

Beg for love.

Laugh at our own pain-

blood cash we pay for the real,

green kind we can waste.

Cretins.

Lovers.

Louder laughs than most.

Louder than the wealthy.

Not poor enough to cry-

 broke enough to swindle.

Scoundrels with smiles.

We feel bad for the well off.

Mud will always be mud

...Peter stayed with the couple for two days. It took this long to get rid of his shiver and stop sniffling. The days had been uneventful- Victor, the Father of poor Brother Isaac, spent his days with a whip in his hand. He brought lumber to the town and demand was high on account of the storm. It was the worst flood most  in the town had ever witnessed. Victor had a large cart drawn by 2 mules. Gladius and Jude. They were steady and never rested. Victor never rested. He worked every day of the week. 

Peter hadn't known this was something good people were capable of. Working on sundays and no hellfire? Peter wondered what it took to be wise. What was the proper angle at which to look inward? He had been looking at some supposed force- and began feeling stupid.

Victor was no sinner. His wife might have been a saint if there ever were such things.

Brother Isaac- A fool, but Peter could sympathize for he too had worn the same blindfold.

Peter laid in bed staring over at his coat again- through its thread to the letter inside. He had avoided mentioning it at all cost and in some cases so deftly diverted the conversation he could laugh. He didn't however once he began feeling sick again. For their future sadness.

He felt well enough to head back to his room in the monastery and started to his feet. They still ached but compared to the initial pain of thawing this was nothing. Peter grabbed his jacket from its resting place near the wood oven and threw it over his shoulders. He couldn't enjoy its warmth once his fingers brushed the letter in his pocket. He had to tell them. He didn't want to see their faces. He didn't want to go back to the monastery.

The sun was peeking through the clouds, through the window into the cottage where Peter stood weary. He drew the letter and dropped it on the edge of the table. He looked at it a second and turned around. Sick. His caregivers had gone to Victor's family  home and Peter's escape was unnoticed. 

Peters thinking was so different- Godless. In his recovery it had all begun to seem so foolish and now standing in the mud it was illustrated. Sung to him. He had dropped his bible on the bank of the rushing stream and could see it from meters away. Blossoming and soaked. Dead. It was never alive. It isn't real. Its pages have turned to oatmeal and grit- but the mud is still mud.

Peter followed the river south and never prayed again. He never punished himself for this foolishness-  he was enlightened. 

Depart and open your eyes.

It is just that simple.

Mud will always be mud

and Bibles become weapons.

the mud was still mud but the bible had become oatmeal