oceans have rage

beneath surface

where the meaning of sunrise

cannot reach.


fortune does no favors for the brave

and as hulls cut ripples

into the sea,


what emotions are stirred?




nothing dies for very long

when in fact,

it was only playing

all along.




where mutinies begin are in icebergs

submerged in bone.


captains accustomed to poison

will find themselves Caesar

as mates

revert to legendary tactics.


with blood on the wheel

promotions are granted

rank rearranged

and the depths

accept their sacrifice.



That Experience Anymore

never learned to sit up straight,

stop dragging feet,

stand up tall,

take deep breaths


nor want to live -


gave what there was to give

listening to Ramones

and let fine German steel

cut through a decade

doing for others

who could afford

such luxuries.


went way wrong

to catch

fall of stars

burning hands

too sore to realize


not sure if there’s more to meaning but when something wants to be seen it appears

ready and dressed

for a final moment.


then there’s those who pray

- cupcakes

- kittens

- puppies

- a pony

for well-endowed


who won’t waste hope

on weaker wants


life is long -

only slightly more so

than disappointment’s



the grounded.


without a silence


go on

- boxes

in trunks -

en route

to stranger parts.


there’s no way to exist in




I at Sea

Storm lightened sea in bursts. Close had no current meaning as shore was forgotten in breeze become attack on sails. As each took to a post, a pole, a rope, a task, spread away one from the other and from what lead the ship out this far.


The ‘we’ of the crew has become rhetorical. The teamwork is lost as instinct takes over. Where’s the solidarity in sinking?


Composure kept for the good times can’t be held together as one loses another. As you separates from I. The strength now become multiple singulars is outnumbered by factors beyond control. By elements finding new directions from which to attack.


How awake is one when closest to fears of the end? Or, is it instinct as close as one gets to the subconscious, underworld, underside of the psyche? The mind? Stuff of the Self?


There’s always something to be afraid of. More to fear than thought brought to mind.


Dark isn’t only for nights. It comes in clouds over sails. It comes to shirts mixed in sweat and rain. In will overcome with futility.


Crests fall as rain continues. A captain is not known for boosting confidence. Only for commanding emotions be set aside for necessity of task. For need of one and other intertwined in microcosm of a vessel alone at the whim of water and weather and life incapable of being anything other than what they are – untamed but built for the life being lived. Ready only for instinct and adapting as seamlessly as it seems to outsiders. Observers.

From the Superhero’s Diary by Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia


Sparks of Consciousness is seeking short prose of all kinds. Here’s just one example

Originally posted on Sparks of Consciousness:

From the Superhero’s Diary


Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

No question about it. I’m better than you. It’s what I do. You wouldn’t understand. I should be humble. Pride being a sin and all but I have the other six covered. Not a bad percentage. Better than yours I must say.

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Succeed Better Yesterday – a Lyrical Essay

You wake up or you are trying to wake up. The day is beginning. No alarm today, just the rhythm of the body saying it’s time to get started or maybe it’s the thoughts returning which went to unfinished last night and are looking to pick up from where they last left off. It’s Wednesday. There’s no job to go to today. This is the usual. It’s been this way since as long as you can remember. At this point, you’re so used to this routine and this schedule that you request it off at each new job you get. A certain type of lifestyle didn’t suit you after you graduated college and then after awhile, that same certain lifestyle became too out of reach to even try on.

You look to the left. You see the door, the knob, and the lock is engaged. Separation of here and there feels safe and secure. A feeling to hold onto as you turn over and look up at the ceiling to survey the wood molding and the white paint above for answers which were lost in the questioning that took place while traveling across the floor to bed yesterday. Along with the feelings and sensations making a home of this place comes the return of those feelings in the back, shoulders, neck. Getting up is getting harder each morning but a day off seems to run away quickly so there’s no time to waste.

A day off is the only time to go shopping, do laundry, get to the bank and then really get going on what you want to do. There’s always work to be done. When you’re not at work, you’re looking at other places to work. When you’re not at work, you’re looking for ways to supplement your workday wages. When you’re not at work, you’re doing the work you learned how to do while you were in school. It’s time set aside to create. Time to put that knowledge to work that you learned so many years ago.

You get out of bed. Stretch out a bit. Nothing big. Nothing too time consuming just something to loosen the muscles up and then hope that a warm shower will finish the job of soothing whatever aches still remain. You step over the jeans that didn’t make it to the hamper because they were destined to be worn once more tomorrow. You walk past the chair which gives a couple of blue shirts a place to rest between work shifts. You walk past the table with the boxcutter sitting on it. The table where the key for heavy equipment is also placed along with a pair of gloves. The same table that gives residence to the stack of library books arranged according to due dates. The same table filled with the final notices from any company who can and did send them. You walk past the bookshelf filled with books you bought when you still could afford to buy some books back when you weren’t alone in this place. Back before you were alone with all this. All this to think about. All this to inventory. All this to pack up or leave behind when you can figure out a plan for how to get out of here.

 Then, you go into the other room, the only other room. In the bathroom, you sit down to think, to meditate, to do what you need to do. The first multitasking of the day begins on a cold toilet seat. A few breaths and the mistake of looking up at the hole in the ceiling precedes the initial desire to turn on the radio. The hole from the rain last month only seems to be getting worse and maybe unrelated but now a few ants have been getting cozy around your place too. You made a call last month to the landlord then to the super. Somebody was supposed to come but nobody did and now being late again with the rent you don’t want to engage in the argument that’s sure to come when inquiring again about the hole. You’ve been late every month for as long as you’ve been single now. You’re getting good at paying just before your landlord’s patience has depleted. You know they don’t want to go through the work of finding a new tenant and going through the eviction process and you know that you can pay this rent sooner or later but right now, there’s no way you can put together enough money for security and first month on another place. So, even if you find a cheaper place it’s still easier financially to stay here for now. Yet, you’re planning. You know a few couches you can use. You know of a few places that’ll take you on a monthly basis without a security deposit – provided you have good references. Been living here awhile but you’re still not sure you have a good reference from having put all that time and money into it.

You reach over and turn on the radio. Take a moment to listen to the Writer’s Almanac. Think to yourself about all those classes you took and about how one day you hope to hear someone talking about you and your work on there. You listen to Keillor talk about Hart Crane today and Frank O’Hara the other day and that’s a good enough way to start any day -you suppose.


Well, it’s time get off the pot considering you already did what you came to do. You turn on the shower. Let it run. Get it hot. Get out the rust. Give yourself time to take stock once again of all you have. You think about the date and when you get paid again. You think about how to spread out the money to cover you for the next two weeks. You think about how your rent is half of your month’s wages. You’re becoming a pretty good calculator now. You add and subtract all day long. Not only for the job when you’re doing inventory but also on a daily basis trying to budget out enough money for an unforeseen emergency as opposed to the emergency which your life has become since losing the second job and second losing the significant other. You think of Emerson and Self Reliance and all the essays and books sitting on shelves and how many boxes it would take to hold them all. And you think of all the money spent on them and how much money you might get for them. And you step into the shower and wonder if your best chance at success was as good as it was ever going to get yesterday.


Originally posted at:

Follow Up

Originally posted on Sparks of Consciousness:

Follow Up


Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia

And so, ‘been done’ took the drink from the bar which made a follow up to what hadn’t yet occurred rather difficult. One hand on the glass, one on the wood, those words were there, printed to be seen for any observing – of which many were who would want to approach to get something going.

Coming close to closings, endings are more than apparent. Ended. But, the question of continuation continues. What brought on the end also goes on. Been Done’s been done being addicted to discussion. Nothing else to say. All’s been lost in what one once was hooked on.

In the flesh, there’s nothing else to pick up on but words run across a forearm lifting for another sip as the other arm lets go of old habits.

On the tongue of another is the same or close enough drink and…

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