Saturday, September 13, 2014



I for my amusement rolled a boulder down a hill, not caring who got crushed or who got killed. My enjoyment is the only prize worth having, still there is some regret for there are no more loose boulders left to roll down the other side, my fun only half done leaves me unfulfilled. The cost of fuel to make that mountain top bare is worth it as long as I get to continue to crush them in the boulders path.

Blanket a man dying in a doorway, show him he may die but it doesn’t have to be without dignity. I left a woolen coverlet stamped U.S. Military to warm a a human being and when I asked I learned the cover had gone missing after it had been pulled up to blanket his dead frozen face, for it had some value as a war artifact. It did not matter to the dead one anymore, the ambulance had a body bag for him.

There is a war on poverty being waged. Every war has civilian casualties that could’ve been allowed to live free but the warring parties don’t want to give the humanity, being. The war on homeless humans is lost even though the army of the homeless is always growing. We will arm a nation of aggression with all the weapons we can produce but the homeless army that never fired a shot, belongs in POW camps. That is how society wins the war on homelessness, imprison them, away from the sight of the tourists. In prison camps there is no more homeless army.

We are smokehouse barbecue cooking ourselves with lungs shriveling and the mouths frozen in screams of pain as the spit rotates through the low slow temperature buying us time to feel the softening meat falling from the bone in arguments over the best spices for an end where no one wins, except the eaters of the dead.

© M Durfee

Saturday, September 6, 2014



The threat is all inside his head they said taking him away in restraints to places everyone dreads inside their head. Who after all wants to go to rooms where there are no floors and the only thing certain is the fall through open doors, away from grace, from places out into the furthest darkest coldest places of space that only mathematicians can explain in languages known only to them; them and their theories calculated but undemonstrated.

Swimming in oceans drowning seems like a dream to him now, but the visions of the ifs and the maybes surrounding those night stalkers, moon walkers, picture talkers long dead known only by the pigments left imprinted in the biology of his head. Where are they taking him but to places only the “pay me” Houdini spiritualists say they can answer for him and me; for a fifty dollar fifteen minute half hour.

Living in love is a question to an answer that every dancer knows is possible as long as the music plays on in tunes containing rhythms, riffs and codas that never stop; for motion depends on the love and love relies on music more than any man can know, not that many care anymore as long as there is lust, love is an orgasm.

He wondered, in his deep space restraints, always and forever he was ignorant of man’s ways to say humans needed rules for war? As if it is game someone pondered and decided that killing had legitimate legalized directions. Move the pieces this way and it okay and move them that way to make the game go astray into areas where the loss of life is all wrong. It is not a game but most are willing to play anyway. As long as they are not on the losing side. Not taking that dirt nap, loser’s ride.

He ponders who decides which tribes live and which die legally. He knew that he could free a land but never a mind, he is retrained in restraints so it must be you who takes the thoughts to places where pens are set up for writing declarations of emancipations of thoughts turned away from hate and hells always ever present state of rules for war and every other despicable thing he knew grew from the garden after it’s earth was sucked dry of every clean nutrient.

That is his only known truth; having done what he could do, now you either quit or join it’s also up to you.

© M Durfee

Monday, September 1, 2014



There are so many things I cannot see, that when I see I cannot agree and when I cannot agree I am labeled anything from stupid to traitor. Or both.

I float my clouds in the air and know from where they came and never know where they’ll go for they are my clouds, some filled with rain, some with pain and even a few with silver linings, though most days in the light of the sun and breeze I barely understand those trying to make them disperse, to let me see in no uncertain terms I have no right to float a cloud or voice an opinion aloud, especially in the clouds. Even on the rare occasion when my clouds contain the morbid smell being of politically correct there is a sniper who just recognizing the clouds shape will fire aloud at the evil inherent within it.

Anyone who sends a message into the atmosphere looking for a following to me is a coward with no conviction, I do not need followers for I am no leader. Not one looking to end some kind of weird man made race in first place but seriously I will be heard, even if not taken as anything but one who is deliriously delusional with disillusion of thoughts in what man is supposed to be. I’d love to be a poet king with no lands to rule or a philosopher whose words travel through the ages as sage but I’ll settle for simply thinking out a problem and finding one possible resolution. Preferably one without gun that kill off all of our daughters and sons even if they are told they are enemies of each other and not sisters and brothers.

I read an article written by someone who said I’m a part of the walking dead if I use words like Nigger, Ho, Spic or Jew; their point being that in our wedged apart society there is no clarity that can come from language most understand. I disagree with the pretext because every word, of which clouds are made have a context. Now if I were a part of the walking dead (are there really Zombies or is it just another societal game craze?) would I really be walking and thinking aloud inside my head, when I allow the noise in? Making clouds. Be glad I say that I throw few lightning bolts at them who disagree with me because *fuck ‘em* they have that right. But God damn does every cloud have to be a part of a fight when I look to see the root of most people’s clouds are based in “I only want—what’s right for me!” That I am fairly sure is the definition of pure and simple greed.

I will still send my clouds into the breeze and watch them depart far away from me, not because I am sure I am right but simply because I recognize in my sight that a planet full of people have two capacities; one for extreme violent war and one for heart longing for a quiet, calming peace.

© M Durfee