Prince of Titan Flowers and the Four Cornered Sun

Clipping branches and spongy dirt chambers stuck to boots. Sweaty palms and bare feet bobbing up and down. Three boys walk hurriedly up to the lime-stone castle carrying the youngest of them. Black spots cover their faces, spots where the sun doesn't shine, shading from the overhead leaves and high-reaching titan flowers. The flowers fight for the attention of the sun, taking it from the stragglers below. But they're beautiful and worth the glory. Right? As the boys walk closer and closer to the steps of the castle, the black spots vanish as a clearing unfolds. The sun in its fullness of gold casts warmth upon their faces. Each young boy taking big drinks as if thirsty for the invisible rays. The one being carried sprawls out his hurting body. His skin lights up and the cells quickly fold and unfold, die and live, in order for the bottom-layered cells to also feel the glory of the sun. The peaks and prairies of the endless flatness that the rays create, the skin taking it all in, a wall of glory pressing. He's let go, falling to the ground.

Red sparkles from his head. A smell of stench from the titan flowers just barely in view, the smell they all despised, like death. The oldest of the boys runs to find the only man he could think of that could make it all okay. The fall was great, yes, but the tree limb seemed like it could hold. And why the youngest of them all? He was light and limber. When they crossed the stream, he could cross the stones without touching the water, practically dancing on the ripples. Was he to blame for this? A mark of shame spread across his brow. Did he corner his brother into such an action? To climb higher than the titan flowers? To be completely covered in rays? No shade. All four corners of light could of been on his little brother. He was beautiful and worth the glory.

No father. No grandfather. No doctor. The only person the oldest brother knew to turn to was the prince. The last chance. Perhaps this man whose castle was almost as high as the titan flowers could make the redness go away. Yelling with panic and hate, the servants quickened their steps and lead the boy to the chamber of the prince. The towering doors sprung open. Inside lay a meaty man, embellished with moss-coloured drapings and a velvet robe, safe inside his corm. "Come hither, prince, my brother lie dying". The prince only stood from his settee and placed one hand out, uncovering a large single petal in his hand. The boy took it and rushed back to his brother, the stench growing in strength. As the stones broke apart the dirt clots on his boots, he looked down at the shining red petal. It seemed worthy of something, beautiful and simple and once alive.

He found his brother, pools of pollen surrounding his head wound. He placed the petal against the crimson clot. It lay there forming an inflorescence of blooming red. The sun giving off its gold again, the brothers lift the youngest high above themselves, a last stretch in search of the four corners of light. The bottom-most cell reaching the kingdom of the titan flowers.

Cosmos Lurkin'

Great Grandma is ninety-two. Her skin wrinkles and tears...or shall I say 'tars". Language to a ninety-two year old is jumbled and messy and low. Chest pain in the esophagus when and after eating, or shall I say "Acid Reflux". Nothing but tars on the finger, tears in the eyes, cracks on the nose and da acid reflux in the 'gus.

She used to watch game shows with her great grandson. He would jump up and down, up and down, yelling "No Whammies, No Whammies" and she would just luf (laugh) and luf in her puffy chair. And he would luf right alongside her, especially when an animated Whammy would come and pour a ton of feathers all over that contestant lady with the red hair, making her lose her prize money.

Great Grandma would care for her great grandson every afternoon after a rambunctious day at Ponderosa Elementary. He would come running, no more kiss tagging during recess, and make it to her doorstep, panting and panting, just so he'd make it in time for the game shows. His mom, being a single mother and all that jazz, had to work long hours at the bank and was gracious for having such an oliving (loving) grandmother. Mostly everyone olived old great grandma, mostly because she would always carry fudge in her pocket, the great grandson always picking off the nuts on top; "Olive you" she would say as she handed over the fudge, alongside a peck of a kiss, a tag he gratefully accepted.

Nowadays, She kir-eyes (cries) and everyone just stars (stares). She kir-eyes saying “I’m afraid of death. What should I do?” Her relatives star and star, mouths sort of half ajar, waiting for her to stop her kir-eyes, not knowing what to say or how to say it. “I guess she’s lost it” people murmur. Her great grandson wipes away her tears, stars right into her eyes, as if running towards the doorstep of her soul. Here, there is luffing in puffy chairs, tons of feathers, and oliving without the nuts on top. Look close enough and hard enough through the stars and the cosmos will form, he thought, some place where the game shows make sense and the winners get the Whammies.

Snow Falls, then Melting

Glamor the sky up,
make it sparkle and glitter.
Whisping energy that collapses and,
gives way to the forces of gravity.

Tongue out, palms placid,
introducing the waves of brisk folding.
Retinas wide,
trying to feel the coldness on the inside of the eyelids.

Placed and balanced,
a never ending snow fall.
Breathing in the moment,
flakes landing on lashes.

Melting upon impact,
getting lost in the condensation equilibrium.
Still hoping to have some liquid on my lips,
as the brisk cold is felt, eyes wide open.

Sparkling Grasses

Sparkling grasses. I'm thankful for that thing that happens as the wind cascades through the unbroken grass blades like the wind a mother carries, calming her infant child. The small hairs moving, vibrating along with the shake shake shake of the Earth-child-crust. The leaves, yellow and changing to orange, acting as parasols for the eyelids and parachutes for the umbilical vein-stems of the leaves. The stream echoes on rocks as the jet engines roar overhead. There is a melody to the whole production, a slight easiness that makes the baby calmer and the pond heavy with water.

My body just an actor in a play filled with actors. All trying hard to act 'natural', to be 'a part' of the scene. I move as the sun moves and as the moon overlooks the sky. The spotlight doesn't shine on just one, but all, everyone and everything.

Simple Sanctuary

Stumbling. It happens. There are times where the body, mind and spirit hit a road where the perspective is that things aren't going according to plan. At least from my perspective, that's what happened. I became lost among the darkness, pathways winding this way and that. Then I remembered the younger days, the days of youth that made me happy, the answer seemed too simple. Go towards the brightness, the love exuding through early days of tears. I found it and the sun is shining bright.

I've found sanctuary in a simple place not far from civilization but far enough. It's Mount Pleasant, Utah and it's home. I'm living with my grandparents, one of which I was named after, Henry. When I arrived I immediately felt connected to the place. The changing colouring trees attracted every pore of my body, the fleshy yellows, oranges, reds beaming as if from a setting sun. The animals too seem to welcome me; white-tailed deer and small sparrows fluttering by and by. Tdwee-tdwweep. I'm amazed by the calmness it all eludes. Yes, I miss the sounds of streets and the go-go-go of city life. But for me, it's an escape from complexity and a focus on simplicity, a good thing.

Escaping the sun

He was not always that something sitting and failing, tied by his hands and bound by one foot. Scratching to get away, biting himself to escape the sun. Looking through his catalogue of memories to find the one that fit best. The loss of entry, the ubiquity of the past and the ambiguity of the future, turning like a wheel together. The pain not even felt, an almost calm. Looking at the patterns of life, the cycle, and always returning to the red, then the pinks, then the yellow. The yellow is what saved his soul. The sun has yellow hue to it.

He tried to look into the monk's eyes. He couldn't, for the better. The shine of the helmet broke through the brightest, white and heroic like a great warrior's horse. Fighting within himself, trying to ignore religious dogmata and just getting to the basics. The buddhist lessons he's been learning and the locked up Mormon ones that pester.

Confrontation is the real story here, or rather the story forgotten, or even further rather the story failed to be recognized. It's all about confronting his fears and making it all real. He could of made so many other choices. He had that job there that would have grounded his place, he could of taken it easy, instead he had to splurge, to cycle; "live strong".

He's in a better place now, with friends and family. Learning from the past and developing a healthy core from which to grow. The seed close to his heart and the daily water replenishing, constant like a wheel.

Riding without training wheels

I've made it to my destination. From Saigon, Vietnam to Bangkok, Thailand I rode. Going through jungle after jungle, grasslands and rice patties, seeing lotus flowers, water buffalo, countless field workers with their hats to protect them from the sun. I rode up Vietnam to the city of Hue, West towards Laos and the city of Savannakhet, South down Laos to Phnom Pehn, Cambodia and finally reaching the temples of Ankor and finishing in Bangkok. With old friends, meeting new friends, remembering the past, thinking about the future, a huge spiral of yes and no, a wheel of never ending thankfulness. I hurt sometimes, those long 7 hour treks over 150 kilometers, going all day, one time pulling over and letting the headache subside, but continuing soon after, grasping the white dot the hardest. I was met face-to-face with reality. The reality of the world, privilege and subsidy. Love and pure spirit. I met a girl and her friends, only 17, limited with opportunity themselves, they go above and beyond to help their community. They saw the child write a big zero on a piece of paper, he had nothing, nothing at all could help him, he didn't know what he could be, want to be, because he was infected at birth by his mother with HIV. It was boys like that, this girl said, that she wanted to give hope. Give people hope to survive and outlast their circumstances and reach their dreams.

I remember one of my first dreams, goals, as a boy. It was to ride without training wheels. I'd go all day and night trying to ride without my practically-ridden until the once wheels turned into teenage-mutant-ninja-turtle-stickered training spikes, the rubber wheels being rubbed down by the sidewalk until just the metal training part remained. I couldn't do it for the longest time, trust myself to ride without these training wheels. Just trying to be okay with trusting that balance, the balance between sidewalk and balancing on the bike, feeling that wind against my face, the smell of the swing set and the taste of clean air. The circumstance that finally got me up, out of my training wheels, was with my dad, Corey, he guided me past that scariness of the road, ran right beside me until I got control of the bike, could feel the wind and could taste the sweetness of air around me, gliding up through the old ponderosa trees, past my handlebars and into my nostrils. It was in a church parking lot by my house that it all happened. I was going downhill, fast, my dad running beside me, I thought he was still holding onto me, holding onto me tight, but then he let go, I didn't even realize it, but he let go and I went flying. I looked behind me and saw that he was gone...seconds later, I crashed, knowing he had left. He came running up to me, ensuring that I was okay. Blowing on my lacerated knees to ensure my sanity. I was okay with him by my side. He got me back up on my feet, told me to try again, not give up, and that's just what I did. I went again. I felt him giving me a push on my bicycle seat, feeling him letting go and allowing me to ride by myself. I was doing it. I looked behind myself again and found myself flying down the church parking lot. Faster and faster, soaring. No training wheels, no more being scared. It's just me and the road now and nothing to stop me. I rode every day after that, in the church parking lot. That night, my dad took off my training wheels and I never wanted them again. I learned to balance on my own and it truly felt like flying!