Thursday, February 21, 2013


Mexico is a Catholic country so I thought I would spend my Sunday at the church in Todos Santos confessing. These are normally anonymous but I have nothing to lose by sharing with the world.
The poet grieves so his words may be bitten and bleeding. Beer cans offer no solace to the wounded philosopher. The mountains protected certain Indian tribes from the conquering Spanish but an old gringo sucking in his gut and blowing his nose on his memories has no such bulwark. He is unshaven and haggard and at war with the mirror of his demise, vainly inspecting his chin for drooping fat. He liberates the words of his own delusion so that they might highlight the road to salvation, if not for him then for others who follow in his path. The human experiment is generations long and each family preserves their own traditions or, lacking traditions, builds their own illusions. Affection for the young and innocent is paramount as the roots of trust are planted early and are easily torn up. Throbbing music and pulsating hearts march us to a destiny we might  write down in our own history, painting on the crumbling walls of our emotional caves the hieroglyphs that tell our story or myth to the future. Where does the heart hide when the wounded wolf drags his bloody paws to our door.
Polar Bears survive off of food air drops to Labrador remoteness but the solitary rider awaits the scorpion bite to end his misery.
our branches ever reach for the sun

Creative Commons License
Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.