Rills of time flowing hour glass sand
Struck the veins of futility
A desert of skeletal truth
Receding my fevered brain to silence
Worried on the precipice of thought
Can I return or is the hill too high to descend
Is hope a flagrant flower
Shouting painfully through seducing odors
Aroma of lies or something true
My mind works the blood the rope
Compartment I fight to shut out
Shadow brick wall, zigzagging on the left side
Dividing diagonally the right, my consciousness
The one that is me, not the machine of death
Which is always battering the gates
Cement dust rising
Can you spare some change
Asks a passerby
I look at him and wonder
How do others live
While horror reigns
Tightroping insanity
And a hospital pillow of needles
Waiting to inject me if I fall
If the future be infinity
Though we frolic shortly
On a millisecond of space
Can I break it all to pieces
Or do I stop the fight
And f*** it all
"Rills" - such an evocative word. Time, like pelf, a treasure. Perhaps you only smell too keenly the aroma of lies and only need a nosegay of light to steady the tightrope. Keep balancing and fighting.
Reviewed by luka tomlinson (Reader)
Reviewed on August 18, 2012
engaging piece, both the format and language gave such urgence to this, i could neer keep up with my hunger for the next line, sometimes i feel that some are built of more tender receiving which can both heighten and ruin us both, but given the choice I would not wish to be one of those that thicken there skin to accomodate the outside world, without pain i cannot feel, ... great piece.
The uphill battlements we must detail as we face our day to day firefights where, at some point in the battle we realize we are losing more skirmishes than we can say we've won. When that sad day finally comes, we have no choice but to stand up, one-finger salute the world and say, "Fuck it, I'm not done yet," and charge ahead, quitting never entering our mind.
Like a modern day Dali in words, you occupy the landscape with questions that struggle against the resistance...of your own fears, and perhaps those about to thrust their reality upon you? Or is this swirling dervish of emotions the objective perception you see all around you as you sense an awkward peace, a safety in knowing your despair is not alone, that perhaps such decisions are but a part of the harmony, the objectification of pain? Yes, "fuck it all" for to remain in the molten grasp of despair, is to parish...and then WTF we do for challenging reading material. Grounding is good. Doing it this way is productive and damn, it's fun to decipher. Well done.
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
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