"the hollow earth between the devil and the deep blue sea"

"the hollow earth between the devil and the deep blue sea"



today i fell into the icy water. i 'm just not cut out to be a fisherman. hell, i don't even like the sea. it was one 

of those days when you can feel the change in the season, a good day for fishing i suppose. everyone was 

right about me. i needed a change, and i thought i would be happy at sea. after my year in medical school the 

sea seemed only a small torture. the weather was kicking up fast and i was reeling just as fast. i thought i was 

chocked  to the deck but that did not matter to the sea god. what a feeling to float off the deck of a boat one 

minute and the next to be in the trough of a thirty foot wave. i feel lucky they got me back on board. 

everyone thought i was lost. they thought i had drowned. it was over fifteen minutes in the rough waters 

before the captain caught sight of me. no one can survive much longer, but something had happened when i 

was in the water. i felt like i had been caught in a whirlpool and sucked to the bottom. the last thing i heard 

was, "man over, man overboard".  the guys screaming from that godforsaken ship.  i felt nothing but heard 

everything. the water was icy and rough and i was ripped into the dark seas in  thirty foot swells. the waves 

would eventually spit me out of the trough back at the very ship it had sucked me off of.   the darkness that 

drew fast that day would burn a permanent hole in my soul.


"we thought you were a goner", i heard jolly exclaim, he was one of the old timers. he gazed into my eyes 

with an understanding that made me shiver. "you will freeze to death get below", he howled. the weather was 

kicking up again and i went below to steady my nerves and warm my body. the ships doctor had worked on 

me for nearly an hour.

the storm was raging and had come at us from nowhere, pummeling the ship like an unwanted predator. i had 

never seen clouds so dark. a derecho that pushed great waves to a turbulent chasm. i had been sucked 

down and had what must have been a vision. a dystopian dream! had that place really existed? was it real 

or just the trauma of nearly drowning?!  like a lucid dream it had felt so real, but the time, the timing did not 

add up. it could not have been real, unless i was caught in a time warp. i thought deeply as my body warmed 

up lying in the ships infirmary. i had been caught in a water spout and sent to the bottom and popped up in a 

cave. as i was coming back to my senses on the boat a curious phrase kept running through my head it 

seems i had been caught "between the devil and the deep blue sea". the walls of the underwater cave were 

visible as if sound waves were causing a constant sonoluminescence.  the glow was blinding  but as my 

eyes adjusted i could see the world. this was not just an underwater cave this was a large chasm. moments 

before i had been in the freezing bering straits and now i was in a tropical jungle. the ground shook and i 

heard the roar of a great beast. i turned to see a T-rex finishing his meal. there were a few other large beast 

grazing, also. my first primitive instinct was to hide and i found cover in the underbrush. then i heard, "There 

he is! there, under that tree" pointing at me i was quickly surrounded by what appeared to be hybrid humans.

"quickly get him behind the rock wall" shouted one of the men dressed in suits that made me think of futurist 

sci-fi movies. once inside all i vaguely remember was being examined and hearing talk of dna sampling and 

how they needed to get rid of me quickly. i forced my mind to alert and waited for my opportunity to run. all 

of a sudden i heard the most harmonic mesmerizing sound i had ever heard. an octave never played.  it was 

on a loop that played continuously like on a mobius strip. everyone immediately started heading off in the 

same direction, and i knew this was my time. i ran in what i thought was the way i had come. stumbling and 

feeling the effects of some drug. i came from behind the wall out in the open chasm again. i noticed the most 

curious thing even the animals seemed under the influence of the music that reverberated through the hollow 

earth. i glanced directly into the eyes of one of the terrible lizards and it came to defensive stance and started 

to chase me. running, running through the dense jungle it must have chased me back to the frigid waters 

where again i was sucked to the surface and spit back to that ship they called the tyrant,  floating somewhere 

between the devil and the deep blue sea.

coming up with an original hendiatris is usually how i begin writing after all omne trium perfectum

my thoughts are scented, my music is colorful, my words are felt. my senses are a metaphor, a circle of fifths.

devil on a beater

devil on a beater

i spoke and who should appear as i hopped on my indie beater,

i take a glance over my shoulder,

the devil is right on my wheel growing colder.

riding to hell on a green roadster beater,

feeling the black road burning up like a meteor,

i made no deal and i wish i could ride with you,

because as they say: "you and me and the devil makes two".

but alas you will not catch me on my green roadster beater

i've traveled that road of good intentions,

my fury and scorn are my own hell of my own volition.

my scarf is blowing in the wind,

and all i want is to feel i have not sinned,

riding in peace on my green indie beater.

a fine epitaph

a fine epitaph: she was an experimental writer known for wielding words with the ardor of a philologist, the fingers of a prestidigitator and the appetite of a lexivore, resulting in novels that exhilarated many critics and enervated others.

my heart and soul are vibrating on that iron string. upon the circle higher than contemporaries lower than divine. ringing true finding my due.

superbolide

super moon so bright at perigee-syzygy

dimming meteor eta aquarid fireballs

climaxing in annular ring to apogee

eclipse brings superbolide falls

fire in the silo

the silo sits alone on the land, like a phallic holding the grain of life. the universe dances like a ballet of fire, the lifeforce particles producing the bread of life. the equation to the mystery is on the others side of light. humans genetically modify the seed of life. nature always takes her strife. those who attempt to control  the food will brake the back.  the circle of sustainabilty comes pure again in the lake. the strength of nature in the golden braid of life will rise like the phoenix from the fire in the silo.

larry from fourchu

there are cravings and then there are cravings. there is no craving like a crustecean craving. the chef of the day had an abundant delivery fresh from fourchu. these were not ordinary lobsters these came from the tiny town of nova scotia.  the flavor is like no other lobster, sweet and briny and engorged with meaty texture. like the oyster and wines or all products for that matter, the terrior affects the flavors. lobsters surely have a meroir. that day the chef made lobster bisque, lobster thermidor, grilled lobster, lobster louie, lobster salad, lobster ravioli. by the end of the day there was only one lobster left. the chef dreamt of steamed lobster with drawn butter and bread. perhaps a simple side of aspargus. he would take this home to his lady with a bottle of veuve cliquot. upon his arrival that night his wife had already fed the children and put them to bed after reading the lucky lobster oh the irony! the two were so heady and engrossed in the thought of their time alone at the table that things got frisky before they could submerge the lucky lobster. the buubles had popped and they were pooped. 

the next morn brought beautiful sunrise in through the house. the chef woke with a start at the time. no time for lobster scramble. when the couple entered their kitchen all three of the offsrping were dancing around and singing lucky larry the lobster. they had him on a leash. chef hurried out the door grabbing larry on the way out. we have all had a friend with the story of leaving something on the roof of their car and finding it after arriving at their destination. i myself have done this with sunglasses and a coffee a time or two but never a lobster. the chef was going fast but not speeding so why the blue lights. he was almost to the restaurant when a police officers pulls him over. he says are you missing something. the chef thinks. i do not think so was i speeding. oh no? it is just that i had to stop traffic back at the intersection. it seems the car behind you saved your friend from a tasteless demise. the chef follows the officer and there in the backseat of his cruiser is larry the lobster. the chef thanks the officer and tells him to come by for a meal. the chef had an easy time removing larry from his carapace. he was so inspired he made a buerre monte and boiled the fourchu lobster with the tall tale. that night the officer and his wife dined on the first butter poached lobster served in yountville. now almost every chef is butter poaching lobster. serving it in a variety of ways. as original as lobster newburg at delmonico, perhaps not, but a true purest way to enjoy lobster. i think larry the lobster wanted to be served with a california sparkling wine. and with vintage dated wine every year it deserves a fourchu lobster like larry. 

i count the tree

i count the tree

looking up to the sun sitting under a tree

density of green in the urban jungle poetry

i count the tree

shadows  reflecting the fractals of life

distributed more to wealth than to those in strife

i count the tree

the landscape tells the story of inequality

the landscape proves income reality

i count the tree

the bareness seen from above runs in circular spectrum

those with the least from satellite seen like brown talcum

i count the tree

those with the most have green parks and lush

the plight of the poor written in the dirt and bush

i count the tree

from above now you can see 

everyone needs a flower of life sanctum

looking up to the light sitting under a tree

i count the tree

reason to rhyme

occasionally my iambic pentameter can be off beat

an ode could become a sonnet sweeping you off your feet

my lyrical epic falls to prose that is sure to move

any reading could become a beatnik groove

the satirical haiku would become dramatic in good time 

but i truly lament an elegy without reason to rhyme