Thanks For The Poetic Warning

By Justin Cude

What strange times we’re living in. 

The times they have-a done changed, old friend. 

Thanks for the poetic warning. 

A scene far stranger than the governments anti-psychedelic propaganda campaigns of the sunshine years. 

Only the lookers could see this coming. 

You can’t unsee this madness unfolding.

You don’t come back from this trip.

 Neither might the world. 

What an abstraction on the horizon. 

I’ve seen light from the cracks once or twice. 

Leonard told us to notice.

Gold even poured once before. 

The mind’s alchemy says twice, and might again. 

But concrete dries quicker than it mixes, and they mix it quickly, don’t they?

And, I might be gone a long ole’ time. 

That’s the way its been feeling. 

Ghosts from the past made human again. 

Sleeping with those still more recent. 

Darkness dies to light then has its revenge again before its over. 

A worthy opponent who shocks the crowd with each landed blow. 

An underdog for unknown reasons with blood in his eyes from years of irreversible attrition. 

The only fight worth a damn to hands untouched. 

The birds still fly south though we’ve confused them. 

It’s harder now to know the way. 

I’ve slept under clear skies with no stars. 

But have held the sun in winter til dawn. 

The world needs her then so I must stand to go despite the cold. 

Wild poppies provide rich and vital blood for the fields they devour. 

And color when you chose to look at life for the way she moves.

Once Again

By Justin Cude

I’ve been out 
there 
in the 
burning
wind
the ground 
roaring 
under
and 
I’ve seen 
it 
and felt 
it’s 
power
it’s 
rage
til it’s 
end 
and I don’t like 
new
to
begin 
when I can’t 
see
can’t see
back
over
where I’ve
over where 
I’ve 
been
who does?
who can?
who 
than?

But I’ll turn 
either 
way
so it goes
now 
to the wind
burning 
as it does
so it goes
Once again. 

Don’t you know, 
now, 
by 
now
you’re 
my 
friend, and 
always you
always you have
been
and
I’ll be there 
without, 
without 
all this,
we’ll see, 
seen,
seeing,
pretend 
and I’ll know 
you 
from back
when?
but we won’t feel 
like that,
no
not like that, no
not
like that
then
again. 

So I’ll turn now 
to the 
wind
burning with
and 
within,
against
until 
faced
with 
as it will
we’ve seen 
Once again. 

I won’t stop 
turning
and the wind
it 
wont stop 
we learned
burning
and I 
won’t stop 
trying
no,
I can’t stop 
it’s
trying
So I’ll keep 
turning
And I’ll keep 
trying
and
I’ll

Turn now 
again 
till the 
and its
end
to the 
still burning
and trying
wind 
once again 
friend. 

The Books We Read

By Justin Cude

I’ve read tons of books lately. Hold on. Bear with me. I don’t say that with any type of pretentious. Its just a way to start this piece. But, seriously, lately I have read tons of books. From Self-help horrors to border-line erotica novels. From the lone pessimists attempt of optimistic existentialism to the bonding painted along a band-of-hippies psychedelic rove. Books which reign the top 100 to ones spawn from the endless graves of underground novella. I’ve read deeper into the works of authors I truly love, and have flirted with the lines of authors I’ve only just met with a glance. I sat down yesterday and read a whole damn book. I’ve only done that once in my life, years ago, and it felt wonderful to experience this again. But, this piece isn’t about the number of books I’ve read through in the last few weeks, but rather about what I have noticed, as I have before, by doing so.

The books we read influence us. Greatly or subtly, it doesn’t matter. They teach us. They touch us. They lead us and they push us. Some can hold you back. Many will move you, either which way. The ones we love, we do so for many reasons. There’s not just one reason we read and continue to. We read for many. And, we keep reading because those reasons are always further affirmed the more words we finish, the more pages we turn, the more books we try. We know why we read, individually, and our knowing of that is enough to continue forth. Every book I have ever read has provided me with at least one line of life; life learned, understood, challenged, gained, lost, made aware of, or changed. Even if only a line. I read for that one line. That one line that provides the life I needed to experience as to allow my own life the right, or the acceptance of, to just be, and for me to just be along with it. For life to be what it is, at any given moment, during any given experience of its provide. And, for me to be who I must and who I choose to be in response to and in demand of that greater providing.

I read for that one line. And, I read for this one life. Because, the books we read provide the life of others, while we’re out learning and living towards the writing and the sharing of our own. There’s wisdom there. There’s trial and error. There’s love and the exploration of its layered and endless complexities, along with it’s simplicity. There’s death and our questions. There’s wild stories from all walks of life, and there’s devout peering into the uncertainties we face. And, there’s us, reflected in the words so humanly placed. The books we read are shared closely with the lives we live. The lives we live are steeped in the richness of books we read.

So, I encourage you to read on.