Potential

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Prospects stir within me

peeking through the murk

of disarming doubts

and missed opportunities

to eye tomorrow speculatively

They venture forward

brushing aside

clinging fragments of fear

trailing shreds of futures

from restless dreams

shedding past selves

and stowing their baggage

in the corner

My possibilities

jockey for position

as they thrum restlessly

at the starting line of my soul

waiting to gallop off

and be chosen

as the one

who could change everything

Storm

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when did

drifting

become so beautiful?

ever before, life’s unseen ringmaster

trained me to run between

unpredictable clouds,

dodging

striating sharp-stricken lightning

dogging at my footsteps & futures

barking, screaming,

ravenous.

but.

since

i decided

to own my skin, my soul,

myself

in all colors, errors + weathers

the tempest has changed tempo

now i ride alongside,

no longer swallowed.

i know, now

how to reach into

the howling drumbeats of chaos

and grab new-hatched rainbows,

storm-forge my own tarnished silver linings,

even if broken, abused fingers

are too numb to feel them

they unspool from

somewhere

half-forgotten inside me

i seize hold of my wonder

and cast it out into the world

Askew

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today

my soul skews sideways

yanked asunder by

unknown forces

today

i feel crooked

colored outside the lines

breath sharp scraping

irregular ribs

pulsebeat can’t find a rhythm

my feet are strange under

wondering toes

today

i don’t know

what has my

heart hung hooked

what could’ve left me

so suddenly slanted

but tomorrow

i may flow freely

Prophecy

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we’ll never know

what’s around the corner

but that doesn’t stop us

from trying to peek.

we consult our inner prophets,

moodbrewing worst case scenarios

like cheap wine,

all too easily

storing them in the

mudshadowed stretches of our mind,

creating ticking trojan horses

that ambush nearby thoughts,

imposing black edged boundaries

until we’re consumed by

fear-strained cocktails of doubt

that swirl blazing red stop signs

into roads less traveled

+ the frightening freefall of chance.

it’s finally time

to break the siege

currently held by

the oppressive oracles of our inhibitions

instead of driving ourselves mad

by speculating in the

confining currency of cants

UNRAVEL: The Beginning

How It All Began

Is this the world we created, we made it on our own/Is this the world we devastated, right to the bone

–Queen, “Is This The World We Created?”

Human culture at 2030 is self-destructing at a more accelerated rate than ever before. Blooded corporations and ruthless business warlord tycoons own everything. There are hardly any small businesses left, and mom-and-pop establishments, bodegas and yard sales are a thing of distant memory.

In 2020, there came The Turning Point. The worldwide economy crashed with a resultant nuclear-level destructive implosion. Apparently it is possible to buy the finances of an entire planet, because that’s exactly what a group calling themselves the Committee orchestrated in a successful, unrelenting and mostly hidden coup.

The most powerful forces in the world– the identity of some an enormous, unwelcome shock to the general public– comprised this ‘elite institution’ and it wasn’t long before they controlled the militaries, medias and governments of the world. They even rebooted the Internet, except now it’s called DigiWeave, and it’s much more heavily screened.

The ruling bodies are made up of a horrifically diverse laundry list of corrupt creatures: CEOs of the biggest corporations from all sectors, the most jagged and shark-sharp legal officials, smilingly noxious politicians, the richest and seediest pimps and human traffickers, arms dealers, drug cartel owners and influential mobsters, the most hated and feared mercenary companies, and those most terrifying of all–the quiet ones we don’t know anything about.

I wish we could call them thugs in suits, but they’re not. They’re efficient, calculating, hungry, dogmatic, unpredictable, brilliant and chilling. Clinically precise in every move they make, even when taking over the entire damned world they never spilled any excess blood, didn’t seem to tamper with fundamental human rights, and were very careful to always be politically correct.

“Look at us,” they seem to say beneath their smiles and hairstyles not an inch out of place, brimming with eager questions you don’t realize are all pre-recorded and rhetorical. “All we’re trying to do is help people. Didn’t we save the economy when the world thought it was the Apocalypse? Are we tyrants demanding your firstborn children, or are we heroes just looking out for the greater good?”

M.U.S.E has had to learn the hard way that it’s much harder to open the eyes of an entire world to injustice when it’s cloaked in the golden benevolence only a true predator is capable of mastering. And it’s even harder when everyone seems to have their eyes firmly shut in an infant’s temper tantrum, or more accurately like a fearful child closing their eyes in the breathless hopes of blocking out the monster under their beds.

Alpha to Omega, Genesis to Revelation/The meek shall inherit but they’re still miseducated/By the colonized mind idolized in America/New people’s era once again break the barriers/To crush, kill, destroy

–Blue Scholars ‘The Long March’

Over the past ten years the Committee has steadily warped the fabric of our society at the seams, right under our noses, without causing many blinks. M.U.S.E members don’t know exactly when our founders started to revolt under the radar, but some of the older ones hint that both M.U.S.E and the Committee both date back far beyond The Turning Point.

J’hela, our founding Council and the creators of M.U.S.E, began to actively recruit from those of us who were still awake. Often deemed outcasts or lost souls by an uncaring society, they gathered us in and showed us a better way: to battle their destruction with our creation. Since my surrogate mother/father TJ, my best friend Isis’s mother and Ash’s aunt Johanna and my occasional mentor Coyote are all Bones– cell leaders of M.U.S.E— it seems inevitable that I wound up a MUSE operative.

I came of age (they don’t allow us to fight until we turn 25) a few years after the worst had passed. For the first 5 years after their world coup, there came a time known by most as “The Gold Quarter.” Those of us who chose to fight back had a rather different moniker for it. For us, those were The Breaking Times.

Hive

photo 25

wishing we could fly

we chose instead

to glide

through a surface

of technology

sinking delightedly

into choice networks

and preferred programs

the digital weave

is belladonna beautiful

stalked by

proudly anonymous

character assassins

a mindfully mindless

web warm connection

echoing between

us all

technically we are

more together

than ever before

then why does it feel

like we’re drifting

further apart

linked by sight

never touch

don’t get lost in

the savage beauty

of too much knowledge

it will reap its cost

and we’ll no longer

be able to

shake hands

with the

rainbow random potential

of humanity

Just

just when you think

you’ve caught a bad case

of chicken little

and the world is crumbling

in jagged shatters

the yellow brick road

emerges + nudges your toes

(where before there

was only overgrown grass

+ things better left unsaid)

it branches off

into paths unknowing

shadows of other choices

intermeshed with the

incandescent heart tracks of people

+ eddies of possibilities

spiral spinning into a

glorious fragmented web

that we can only see a part of

but i know

as i set my foot forward

on what little path I can see

that the ground is firm beneath my feet

the sun is warm on my face

and i am not alone

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Course

There is no of course here.

553073_10100140586944813_1995380846_nWhen pain rules,

nothing is guaranteed.

molten mortal maladies

turning young veins old,

transforming a skip to a stumble.

How do you live?

How do you “stay the course”

when you aren’t in control

of your own skin?

i know tomorrow might be beautiful–

that I may run headlong into the wind,

laughing with the simple joy

of unburdened motion–

but today is unbearable.

Forces

Oh those fickle
Quicksilver butterflies of fate
fluttering in fixed orbit
around future steps i take

doing battle with the
earthgrounded giants of choice
bellowing as they stagger stamp
footprints in opposite directions

both ignoring the chaos chameleons
darting underfoot and idly unweaving
any patterns or prints they can reach

booming bass bellows of
the battlegrounds of life
erupting explosively from my core
threatening to drown out all else

so i make my soul
into a divine dreamcatcher

filtering out the buzz
and tumult of noisy forces
pulsing through the earth’s heartbeat

until I can only hear
my own
and walk free

Promise

Dare I put a name

to that taste on the breeze?

to do so 2094_518382200796_6889_n

makes it real

not to do so

makes me weak

& still i

can’t tell

which option

scares me more.

Bell-like motes,

heady & instantly addictive,

swirl against my skin–

falling, flying–

urging me to

stand & define.

For the first time, maybe ever

I feel like I can take a breath.

For the first time, maybe ever

I choose reality over fantasy.

For the first time, maybe ever

When facing the future, I open my eyes.

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