Dead End Justice

EXT. Nevada Desert 1980 

We open over a red convertible driving haphazardly over treacherous and bumpy terrain at high speed. A deep blue 

showgirls headress blows in the wind. The crystals in the feathers glint in the early morning sunlight. We come slightly 

closer to the convertible and begin to hear loud music coming from the stereo. The vehicle is engulfed in dust trailing 

behind it. It peels out abruptly and deliberately. 

INT. Red Convertible 

The man driving the car is wearing mirror sunglasses, you cannot see his eyes. The dust around the car settles. He 

slowly reaches for the the radio dial. the leather of the car seat shifting is all that we hear aside from the soft but urgent 

whimpering of the showgirl. He slowly begins to turn the large silver knob, dialing into a station playing an ominous piece

of classical music. He pulls a gold case from the right breast pocket of his blazer. He opens the case and selects a 

cigarette. He lights it. He breathes in heavy and then exhales. As he begins to speak the velvet smoke muffles his voice. 

Man 1: 

“Sorry about this Mandy.” 

He says sarcastically. Mandy begins crying and shrieking uncontrollably. He revs the engine and puts the car in drive

with great force and anger. Before pressing down on the gas he turns the music up. We pan up from Mandy’s midriff. 

Her skin is stark white and perfect. Her stomach heaves up and down as she breathes heavily. Her breasts bounce as the

vehicle hits rocks and uneven terrain. We stay there for a few long moments. Just her breasts bouncing and the ominous 

classical music and the sound of the engine. We pan back to the driver, the wind blows his hair as he takes a long draw 

from the cigarette. We look at Mandy, her face is beautiful. Her eyes large and doe like only look more sad against the deep 

royal blue of her eyeshadow. The man looks at her for a few moments, presses down the gas and then reaches out 

and extinguishes his cigarette between her breasts. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I272bQdrTuA&t=2592s

They are all Gone into the World of Light, Henry Vaughnn 1655

They are all gone into the world of light!

And I alone sit ling’ring here;

Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,

After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days:

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have show’d them me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,

Shining nowhere, but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may know

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair well or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes

And into glory peep.

If a star were confin’d into a tomb,

Her captive flames must needs burn there;

But when the hand that lock’d her up, gives room,

She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill

My perspective still as they pass,

Or else remove me hence unto that hill,

Where I shall need no glass.

OM BENZA WIKI BITANA SOHA

My Shower Dream

the world makes art of time
in the old houses.

air pulls at bits of wallpaper and paint
and cushions them with years. 

prying them apart
like the petals of a young flower
in bloom - 

dandelion spores float through open windows-
the light touches their pieces as they spin-

white like an angels eyelashes 
when sunrise hits
on the shore of a still blue lake
at dawn

a sheet of glass hovering over lough gur-

the chapel bell strikes
water glasses on bedside tables in cabins shiver 
 
she runs through the tall grass,
a cashmere breeze lapping at reeds 
all khakis and purple flowers-
down the small hill

the window in the dark
in the rain.

the field in the fog
in the rain.

be careful out there
don't go out alone-

I want to pound at his chest with my fists
as hard as I can
but they bounce back with a terrible metal pop
like the air in a jar getting sucked out when you open the lid-
It makes me feel ill.

Marcie's perfect eyes
sparkling like the ice of an electric blue popsicle
on the dock -

legs so smooth
skin like frosting
baking in the sun

sprinkle hot sand on her back
softly blow it away-

all of their nightgowns are still out to dry-
pale muted colors-
sifting through slow gusts of wind

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4AtbKVoRa0

"At night, when the sky is full of stars and the sea is still you get the wonderful sensation that you are floating in space." - Natalie Wood

The Venetian

Fake Plastic Trees

Blue Rain Stick

The peppermint oil on my wrists smells like a mixture of turpentine
and the hockey rink
and the way sprite tasted from the movie theater in the 90s.

In the hot tub with beer and incense,
the smoke curls over lids
the bubbles shhhhhh together
like a torrential rain in the deep forest
like the edge of a waterfalls end boiling cold 

my body feels invisible in the heat

my earrings float
on the surface of the water
little droplets puddle on top
illuminating silver carvings
in the moon light

I found five stones in the bottom of the pool
I picked them up with my toes

1: selenite wand for charging crystals after they've been cleared
2: cleared black tourmaline resting
3: blue obsidian, rose quartz and black tourmaline charged with intention for dispelling psychosis and feelings of disorientation.

This was specifically set for all of the people in my life and in the world fighting addiction, depression, suicidal thoughts, malaise, self hatred, trauma induced mental symptoms, mental illness, and low self esteem. I know what it is like to be there. I have been feeling it very heavy. Peppermint oil, lavender oil, and smudging with palo santo help. All negative extensions have no place here, they do not enter here. Darkness wields absolutely no power here, ZERO. It is banished and completely obliterated. This is a place of powerful rich bright light, nothing get through it. 

A Room Through a Circle

A quiet field
is covered in a blanket of thick snow.

It is puffy like the sides of a white down comforter
hanging over the edge of the bed
on sunday morning

yet the surface is as crisp as ice
dusted with bits of sparkling snow-
they radiate 
like programmed lights on a synthesizer
in the moonlight.

It will crack like crème brûlée

with the slightest tap of a boot.





The field stretches out
a grand russian ballroom
with walls made of trees
and a ceiling of
swirling watercolor

aurora borealis 
  

I dance through it barefoot -

a body draped in yellow gauze and chiffon
scattering freshly torn leaves of eucalyptus

I polish the silvers spoons-
at the dining table
gather them up in my apron
the screen door creaks
I throw them into the night air-
they spin for a moment there suspended.

starlight traverses their shining surfaces
it stretches over the precious metal
like headlights
on a long road in the dark. 
 
In the fan aisle at the grocery store
I stand by myself in the wind.
the blue placards on the shelves wobble
the packages hanging from hooks sway
like saloon signs 
I close my eyes
let the hum drown out the rest.

I smell a bonfire
and the loose feeling of clothes
drenched in the smoke

running in the dark through the dunes
bits of sticks cracking
leaves shuffling like paper.



A flower grows through a hole
in the tarp
of an abandoned tent

green leaves fall in slow motion. 

El Verano

you look like an impressionist painting,
through the patio table glass.

the edges of your head muddle
in the solid panel
of opaque fog
washed with hazy cobalt 

I see a soft bubbling orange
like the flame of a gas streetlamp
in the snow

it illuminates swathes of peach and blue 
they hover together-
as you move. 

the colors shift like ship sails
in a listless breeze

metal grommets clang gently on masts
sea grass bustles like crinoline on the dune
the wind sweeps your hair
into the shape of a wave 

I reach my finger out to touch the polished convex
sections of glass
 
turquoise - 
yellow -
green -

I tap them all lightly.  


a mosaic beneath a cloud

gaussian blur-

Le Cœur de la Mer

my heart is encased in a glowing menthol veil-
circled by a burning neon halo
of titanium white.

wrap it in bands of wet seaweed
of the deepest forest green.
mantle it in aloe leaves-
shower it with bits of clover
in small doses. 

the fire is dim and crackling near the sea
in the darkness
the waves are coming in

a groundswell surges against a nearby rock
heavy mist spatters
the smallest dots of cool water
over my face.
as if a thumb drew back against the end of a paintbrush
from a ladder above me-
tiny translucent pebbles fall
descending in blankets
over me.

I push my fingers beneath the cold damp sand
as i go it slides like tectonic plates
creating echoing circular patterns of wispy cracks
my skin feels cool
saturated grains of sand push up
behind the tips of fingernails 
I feel alive. 

the waters swirl in the cove beyond the ridge
I hear them softly convene
far from me now.
Let's walk there tomorrow before the sun
rises too high in the sky 
before it begins to hurt my eyes. 

cover me-
keep me safe.
just whisper now

we can wear our capes
we can wade in the blue pool in the morning
and we will look for special shells.

let me hold the stone please
let me warm it in my palm

the wind can't blow us away-
don't worry.   

Let The Static Leave

There is a woman singing about the flowers she sells
in the cobblestone alley.
She walks down the street with her basket
purple, blue and orange
petals of angels silk -
they bend slightly in the wind
she bundled them tightly
she wrapped them up in ribbons
with colorful victorian patterns.
The clarion shrill of the voice falls up against the stone walls

The act is ancient
sounds of voices and stones are meant to meet-

I imagine another voice
a very long time ago-
at the highest peak of Mount Kilimanjaro in a village
carved out of the side of a cliff.
it echoes in the snow
climbs up the tall sides of the rock
looking for the solace
of warmth and long arms

her voice

dissipates,
cast out like fog hovering over leaves.
just after the morning dew-

that opaque place between the density of the white smoke
and the beginning of the leaf-
that’s where you want to go .

just a dew drop resting on a green leaf

swimming in a temporary cloud

I like it when the room is completely empty
and you can still see the markings from the vacuum on the carpet -
when there is no one in the house.

when the fan is blowing on the floor
after it has been mopped
and the room is clean
and I will lay down
with my head pressed to the ground. 

I just want the moss beneath my fingernails
I want the sun setting over petra
I want to fall asleep to the sound of voices humming against stone.

I’ll walk backwards from the room,
to the front door.
The sounds of grasshoppers
lightning bugs
the mellow glow of the porch lamp.
It just rained
I feel the sidewalk wet on my bare feet.

will you go too?

let’s fall asleep on a pillow
in a field of tall grass
just before dusk

the silence of nature fills our ears
like invisible water
as we drift away
together