My eyeballs are hurting,
Those turbid, fluid sacks!
They've been staring at the blue light
All the work day through!
And they've had it - they're on strike
Now I'll never get my rest!
They'll picket all night!
And have sit-ins all day!
I should have never let my eyes unionize!
What a fool, fool, fool I was.
To hear them out so well,
And to begin to sympathize
With their cause and plight.
I've never had trouble
From my ears, nose, or mouth
But those damn eyes!
They know what they want.
I should have never let my eyes unionize!
And now I'm blind
Because my eyes got hurt!
And I can't see
Because my eyes don't work!
I have to quit my job and run
To meet their demands.
Never look at a computer screen again
And find something that actually means something.
I should have never let my eyes unionize!
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Silence
The silence evokes a manger peace,
Resurrection at the birth like death.
Goats of the tempest day
Have stopped bleating
And the night loiters
In deceptive Silence -
Always deceptive,
Impurity universal,
Someplace, somewhere
The silence.
My four walls wore me in.
Out of this world connected for
Floor boards as paths for mice,
Ways to live remotely,
Lightning silent lightning
Thunderless earth
Wrapped inside.
Knowing the
Silence.
Perfunctory routes
Drown the notes
Of Music earless
Heart hard
And growing
The tree awaits Golgotha Day
Homeless, accosted dreary
Alone never in death
Exposed desert life
All are walking
Away to see
The day of
No silence
Forever.
Resurrection at the birth like death.
Goats of the tempest day
Have stopped bleating
And the night loiters
In deceptive Silence -
Always deceptive,
Impurity universal,
Someplace, somewhere
The silence.
My four walls wore me in.
Out of this world connected for
Floor boards as paths for mice,
Ways to live remotely,
Lightning silent lightning
Thunderless earth
Wrapped inside.
Knowing the
Silence.
Perfunctory routes
Drown the notes
Of Music earless
Heart hard
And growing
The tree awaits Golgotha Day
Homeless, accosted dreary
Alone never in death
Exposed desert life
All are walking
Away to see
The day of
No silence
Forever.
Strength
In diamonds there
The fairest pressure
The deepness of hell
Can suffice
The beauty of empty
In desolate vision
Serene forgetting
Forgotten
Till the quiet earth
Unfathomable depths
Consciously holds
In the fire
The sorrow of morning
The wake of life
The wintery strength
To hold on
The fairest pressure
The deepness of hell
Can suffice
The beauty of empty
In desolate vision
Serene forgetting
Forgotten
Till the quiet earth
Unfathomable depths
Consciously holds
In the fire
The sorrow of morning
The wake of life
The wintery strength
To hold on
Solemnity
Where the break force winds
Return to the womb
Cradled in essence to the blankness,
The versioned delight of human heaven
Colliding in lesser light than soon;
Where all the rocks speaking to dreams
Are condensed in memory –
The land where speaking is nothing
And the fall is less than long
And the north aligns with the mind;
Where to return would be a sin
But the sin would be God;
Where seasons collapse in fragility
And dark salvation greets the worn
That is where our sails take us
In the urge to be reborn.
Return to the womb
Cradled in essence to the blankness,
The versioned delight of human heaven
Colliding in lesser light than soon;
Where all the rocks speaking to dreams
Are condensed in memory –
The land where speaking is nothing
And the fall is less than long
And the north aligns with the mind;
Where to return would be a sin
But the sin would be God;
Where seasons collapse in fragility
And dark salvation greets the worn
That is where our sails take us
In the urge to be reborn.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Hyperion in the Fern Garden of Never
Dream Hyperion, I would take that job at the aquarium!
The sound of the Garden came softly in chords –
The height and veins, blemishes and tragedies,
All in remembrances long past from the season of accuracy.
I’ve known the windows at the edge of this sanity,
Have looked into the glass and seen stormy clouds
With lawn chairs on their hills and ferns in their valleys.
And did I crawl through the window to sit on the chairs,
Or to crawl in the ferns, to bear with me now?
I don’t know. I couldn't tell you.
But where the fern valley moves is where I goes,
Where the stars, in the woods, are made into ice cream
With kaleidoscopic cataclysm in the fourth degree,
The fern valley is where I goes to be free.
Don’t freeze, Hyperion, know thy word!
And speak it well!
All the world crumbles
So where else can you stand?
Hold on to me flaming moon, let me down lightly
Or never throw me away – never.
I do not wish to consort with the criminals, the aborted babies
Broken into stem cell cigarettes without approval from Congress,
But can I have what I need? I’ll have what I need, nothing more, nothing more.
Never, never, never, never, never.
To the tune of the witless General I shall have my day, Hyperion!
No? Never? Shall I never have my day?
Why do the important things wander while the trivial stay?
We are all the myrmidons
Swinging at the tendons,,
Swapping sweat for the bucket,
We are weird beyond ourselves,
Finding the last to be never
And never to be always.
We cry out ‘Sanctuary!’
And never get it, we never do.
Find my foot, sad king, and I’ll show you how to walk –
Away from Cordelia, those losses so dear.
I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats,
But the way can be made for a fresher start in today
Where all things become new
Can I smell those grasses too?
The Garden is my answer; the window is my sword.
The sinking my defense and silence is my word.
Upon the rack of this tough world we are stretched
To the limit of all plausible points as they converge
Into one infinite spasm called death and no return.
But the fantasy of music and song continues
And the parade marches on to celebrate the scalps we collect from dust.
And so Dream Hyperion, I would take that job at the aquarium.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Anti-Christ I
Placid, unsettled night - you shimmer under the surface
With potential resurrection for the day fallen short.
I am not the one aquainted, I am child heir apparent
Screaming at the stars as though I could make them my own.
The hollow marauders keep warm by their fire.
The sultan miscreants lay down to try death.
The unfathomable beast wanders the desert alone
With lust heavy eyes and passion's long breath.
It is too late, the time is nigh,
We're all done come sunrise.
The clock has rung twelve times;
The chariot turns pumpkin as the apocalypse flies by -
On Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen.
The Beast is upon us, we do not run.
Fly by you fat red apocalypse,
Bring the pedants presents and give the iconoclasts coal.
At least we heathens will be kept warm by our punishment
While the righteous will be cold, and then dust like us all.
Stick by your leisure, children!Don't go to the desert.
The beast will stare back and never let you go.
Death Valley will be yours if you wait long enough.
I am California, Knighted, combined with the stupor
Of all the drag balls given each night.
The rambling hobos and whores will wonder though,
Whether they'll be picked up too in the rapture tonight
Or if a cop will pick them up
And they'll miss the second coming.
I'll be listening to my ipod in the car so I don't care.
The Gasoline frenzy hits the fan like shit,
As the water pressure goes down while the floods go up.
California burns and the Terminator sits
Awaiting his throne by the beach in heaven,
Where coconuts will guide him on every front.
"It will never come," preach the cats in the alley,
Though it must be acknowledged
They got that message from the fish at the market
Who came from the deep sea, delivering news
From where the Titan's lay dormant,
But whispering secrets -
The main secret being that black holes are all.
But wait! Look!
Unexplained, equivocal signs in the sky
Mean its coming, the apocalypse, its coming. Oh no!
The signs in the sky are reflected in signs read on the streets
Who beg for Jesus and/or money with hype implored.
But lets face it now, once and for all -
Messiah's are unreliable and given to extremes.
There's no forgiveness but our own,
No salvation except for what we can save.
Come down, down, down London Bridges and World Trade Centers,
Come down, down, down Saddam and Osama,
Come down, down, down Blagojevitch and Putin
Come down, down, down Obama and Bush
And Kennedies and Nixons and Hitlers and Stalin.
Come down all ye tragedies and comedies,
These are all nothings that make our clocks tick.
And so deep in time, rearranged into motives
They become the sad mantles of blood shed for naught.
We shall go further until our thoughts become the stars.
09/09
With potential resurrection for the day fallen short.
I am not the one aquainted, I am child heir apparent
Screaming at the stars as though I could make them my own.
The hollow marauders keep warm by their fire.
The sultan miscreants lay down to try death.
The unfathomable beast wanders the desert alone
With lust heavy eyes and passion's long breath.
It is too late, the time is nigh,
We're all done come sunrise.
The clock has rung twelve times;
The chariot turns pumpkin as the apocalypse flies by -
On Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen.
The Beast is upon us, we do not run.
Fly by you fat red apocalypse,
Bring the pedants presents and give the iconoclasts coal.
At least we heathens will be kept warm by our punishment
While the righteous will be cold, and then dust like us all.
Stick by your leisure, children!Don't go to the desert.
The beast will stare back and never let you go.
Death Valley will be yours if you wait long enough.
I am California, Knighted, combined with the stupor
Of all the drag balls given each night.
The rambling hobos and whores will wonder though,
Whether they'll be picked up too in the rapture tonight
Or if a cop will pick them up
And they'll miss the second coming.
I'll be listening to my ipod in the car so I don't care.
The Gasoline frenzy hits the fan like shit,
As the water pressure goes down while the floods go up.
California burns and the Terminator sits
Awaiting his throne by the beach in heaven,
Where coconuts will guide him on every front.
"It will never come," preach the cats in the alley,
Though it must be acknowledged
They got that message from the fish at the market
Who came from the deep sea, delivering news
From where the Titan's lay dormant,
But whispering secrets -
The main secret being that black holes are all.
But wait! Look!
Unexplained, equivocal signs in the sky
Mean its coming, the apocalypse, its coming. Oh no!
The signs in the sky are reflected in signs read on the streets
Who beg for Jesus and/or money with hype implored.
But lets face it now, once and for all -
Messiah's are unreliable and given to extremes.
There's no forgiveness but our own,
No salvation except for what we can save.
Come down, down, down London Bridges and World Trade Centers,
Come down, down, down Saddam and Osama,
Come down, down, down Blagojevitch and Putin
Come down, down, down Obama and Bush
And Kennedies and Nixons and Hitlers and Stalin.
Come down all ye tragedies and comedies,
These are all nothings that make our clocks tick.
And so deep in time, rearranged into motives
They become the sad mantles of blood shed for naught.
We shall go further until our thoughts become the stars.
09/09
The Anti-Christ II
You beast of democracy,
Destroyer of Virgins,
Canonizing triviality in the name of fair love!
I abhor your indifference,
Your rough riding spirit.
Go away from my window,
Leave my accounts alone.
You can steal my identity
But never my heart.
It extends beyond what you can document and control.
I sing for the power democratic from the self-knowledge view,
That loves generously and rightly
All the wind through the grass,
And every hole in the trees;
The power who feels sunlight on the iris,
To be intrinsic in reedeming the mind.
Lavish halls of lavish dancing
In the Garden of thought
Weave through a cornucopia of breeding
In the loquatious night of self-serving intellectualism.
I love it all - every shallow, hollow word
Feigning to be deeper than the Mariana Trench
And more profound than the moon.
I love them because they are trying to be something,
Because they are from voices of people I love -
Creatures of flesh who think as they live
When approached by and witness to things
Not understood that yet glow.
But the dark abyss of information
With its unruly angler fish bioluminesent hunt
Angles us in to disconnected devouring.
Are we yet dead? No, just in the stomach of the fish,
Flirting with its acid and mingling with wires.
We are thoroughly modern Jonah,
But no God will save us -
We wait for Pinnochio in the dark,
Disconnected, alone, hoping we'll be made real too.
09/09
Destroyer of Virgins,
Canonizing triviality in the name of fair love!
I abhor your indifference,
Your rough riding spirit.
Go away from my window,
Leave my accounts alone.
You can steal my identity
But never my heart.
It extends beyond what you can document and control.
I sing for the power democratic from the self-knowledge view,
That loves generously and rightly
All the wind through the grass,
And every hole in the trees;
The power who feels sunlight on the iris,
To be intrinsic in reedeming the mind.
Lavish halls of lavish dancing
In the Garden of thought
Weave through a cornucopia of breeding
In the loquatious night of self-serving intellectualism.
I love it all - every shallow, hollow word
Feigning to be deeper than the Mariana Trench
And more profound than the moon.
I love them because they are trying to be something,
Because they are from voices of people I love -
Creatures of flesh who think as they live
When approached by and witness to things
Not understood that yet glow.
But the dark abyss of information
With its unruly angler fish bioluminesent hunt
Angles us in to disconnected devouring.
Are we yet dead? No, just in the stomach of the fish,
Flirting with its acid and mingling with wires.
We are thoroughly modern Jonah,
But no God will save us -
We wait for Pinnochio in the dark,
Disconnected, alone, hoping we'll be made real too.
09/09
The Anti-Christ III
The thing I worry about most
Is the night when I will lay down in bed
And realize just how meaningless
It all really was.
09/09
Is the night when I will lay down in bed
And realize just how meaningless
It all really was.
09/09
The Anti-Christ IV
You Beatnick Scallywags! I'll deny the whole lot of you.
This opprobium will not be forgotten.
You rigidly moralize your fears into laws
Calling upon Jesus and righteous indignation
To collaborate with malleable minds in stupid plots
To destroy the poor and demolish the beatitudes.
Jesus would have none of you, I say, and its been said before!
He was no capatalist or communist, he was a free agent,
Beyond the opulent customs of a generation thats always a decade behind.
Where are the archaic angels who steer the walking castles,
Or the Cloud Kings that knighted Einstein with a broom?
Can the whole world be broken enough to be fixed right now?
The dinosaur democracy ate all the livid protestors
Who would sit out in rain with drenched cardboard signs
All night, relighting candles by the White House in hope
That a president would look out and see the light and know peace.
But nothing ever comes except rain and other unchanging things.
The soldiers of futility have fallen into the dust.
They've made homes among the coffins with windows,
They have children who pick at their scabs for fun.
Widows weep diamonds on the Equinox in alligator black, leather.
They scream at the hiccups from the world's hottest core.
I laugh at the thrones that are empty or burning
And yet the sight makes me sadder than crying could say.
I'll leave this old town, with its unpaved roads and dead horses.
The saloon looked like a cathedral when I first got here.
Now I see the Saloon is the Cathedral and the Cathedral is a facade,
With emptiness, no rapture, just emptiness,
Because the rapture has long been gone.
You've lynched me, mad mob and I'll never forgive you.
You can tar and feather my body but never my mind.
You can castrate my life but never my love.
If you crucify me, I will only come back stronger.
There's no way to beat change, it comes all the same.
Have at your hymnals and read your cheap Bibles,
Pray for the stasis that so many of us fear,
But I will have none, though looks can be decieving.
I am no Anti-Christ, I am Christ and you are Blind.
Come weary children to the hope everlasting
To the bottom's up gully of humility's sleep.
Friend not the friends who say they're your friends,
Give in to the homeless who beg for your help.
Go chant in the steeples, pray in the Alleys
Worship yourself so long as you're sincere.
Hold up your babies and let down your old,
Ascend or descend into night's quiet keep.
The quiescent bat gargoyles scream in their worship
On lonely beaches where the water needs the moon to survive.
The forests grow thinner and further from heaven,
They lack the hiding powers that once made them live.
The monsters are revealed now, naked and bare,
They sit in the monoliths of the modern age fair
Across from the valley, far from the ocean
Where the demons parade a light known to few
That captures the essence of God in a crystal,
It looks like a dollar but is red, ruby red.
And the night, once aquainted, holds fast the constitution
That preaches the freedoms of the America I love.
Where freedom to freedom is freedom indeed
With guns fully loaded and votes fully flung,
And pockets fully filled and prescriptions written out.
But then comes the freedom that Jack talked about,
And its beaten into nothing and told that its wrong.
The flags are lowered and white flags go up.
The Cannabis Society believes it will win someday,
But everyone else knows prejudice is too deeply rooted
In animals of higher reasoning who think that they're more.
Hahahaha. Freedom! What a thought!
So sweet in ideals, so hard in practice.
I once thought I knew freedom,
But it was just apple pie.
Freedom - what it is is too easily scary
What it isn't isn't disturbing enough.
There's no way around it,
You have to look:
Freedom is the smoke coming off of a car accident,
Its the blink at the center of every orgasm.
Nothing can control it or move much beyond it,
Everyone is subject to its ruling denial.
So have at me world, you angry, lofty mob!
Give me your electric chair and injection,
Every car bombastic day.
I'll still take you and hold you,
You are mine and I am yours.
By the crow that flies,
I love you and will keep you,
Pray for you and hate you,
Know you and kiss you,
You are mine, you are mine
I am yours, I am yours,
Shantih, shantih, shantih.
09/09
This opprobium will not be forgotten.
You rigidly moralize your fears into laws
Calling upon Jesus and righteous indignation
To collaborate with malleable minds in stupid plots
To destroy the poor and demolish the beatitudes.
Jesus would have none of you, I say, and its been said before!
He was no capatalist or communist, he was a free agent,
Beyond the opulent customs of a generation thats always a decade behind.
Where are the archaic angels who steer the walking castles,
Or the Cloud Kings that knighted Einstein with a broom?
Can the whole world be broken enough to be fixed right now?
The dinosaur democracy ate all the livid protestors
Who would sit out in rain with drenched cardboard signs
All night, relighting candles by the White House in hope
That a president would look out and see the light and know peace.
But nothing ever comes except rain and other unchanging things.
The soldiers of futility have fallen into the dust.
They've made homes among the coffins with windows,
They have children who pick at their scabs for fun.
Widows weep diamonds on the Equinox in alligator black, leather.
They scream at the hiccups from the world's hottest core.
I laugh at the thrones that are empty or burning
And yet the sight makes me sadder than crying could say.
I'll leave this old town, with its unpaved roads and dead horses.
The saloon looked like a cathedral when I first got here.
Now I see the Saloon is the Cathedral and the Cathedral is a facade,
With emptiness, no rapture, just emptiness,
Because the rapture has long been gone.
You've lynched me, mad mob and I'll never forgive you.
You can tar and feather my body but never my mind.
You can castrate my life but never my love.
If you crucify me, I will only come back stronger.
There's no way to beat change, it comes all the same.
Have at your hymnals and read your cheap Bibles,
Pray for the stasis that so many of us fear,
But I will have none, though looks can be decieving.
I am no Anti-Christ, I am Christ and you are Blind.
Come weary children to the hope everlasting
To the bottom's up gully of humility's sleep.
Friend not the friends who say they're your friends,
Give in to the homeless who beg for your help.
Go chant in the steeples, pray in the Alleys
Worship yourself so long as you're sincere.
Hold up your babies and let down your old,
Ascend or descend into night's quiet keep.
The quiescent bat gargoyles scream in their worship
On lonely beaches where the water needs the moon to survive.
The forests grow thinner and further from heaven,
They lack the hiding powers that once made them live.
The monsters are revealed now, naked and bare,
They sit in the monoliths of the modern age fair
Across from the valley, far from the ocean
Where the demons parade a light known to few
That captures the essence of God in a crystal,
It looks like a dollar but is red, ruby red.
And the night, once aquainted, holds fast the constitution
That preaches the freedoms of the America I love.
Where freedom to freedom is freedom indeed
With guns fully loaded and votes fully flung,
And pockets fully filled and prescriptions written out.
But then comes the freedom that Jack talked about,
And its beaten into nothing and told that its wrong.
The flags are lowered and white flags go up.
The Cannabis Society believes it will win someday,
But everyone else knows prejudice is too deeply rooted
In animals of higher reasoning who think that they're more.
Hahahaha. Freedom! What a thought!
So sweet in ideals, so hard in practice.
I once thought I knew freedom,
But it was just apple pie.
Freedom - what it is is too easily scary
What it isn't isn't disturbing enough.
There's no way around it,
You have to look:
Freedom is the smoke coming off of a car accident,
Its the blink at the center of every orgasm.
Nothing can control it or move much beyond it,
Everyone is subject to its ruling denial.
So have at me world, you angry, lofty mob!
Give me your electric chair and injection,
Every car bombastic day.
I'll still take you and hold you,
You are mine and I am yours.
By the crow that flies,
I love you and will keep you,
Pray for you and hate you,
Know you and kiss you,
You are mine, you are mine
I am yours, I am yours,
Shantih, shantih, shantih.
09/09
When The Gun Is Pointed (A Psalm)
I am waiting for the gun to be turned at me
So I can say "Yes,
Take me to that dream, that motorcycle dream,
Where danger is the road and the road is always free."
My Saints are all Saints because of how free the road.
And how inaccessible they feel to me now -
Kerouac, Gingsberg, Vonnegut, Dylan, Thompson -
Come release me when the gun is to my head,
Help me say "Yes" to the motorcycle dream,
Exploding all things quiet while slaying the dragon
Then building it all again to tear it down once more.
Let there be no brilliance in it,
No prophet-seeing knight.
Brilliance is unseen; resilience is known and matters.
All it takes is to be in no way dead,
To shake the sun for its worth and pick up the change,
Find the center where gravity will hold you up
And never lose sight of your feet in their shoes
On the wet rocks you traverse while time tries distractions.
I remember all the things I've seen
And the one time I came closest to Sainthood
Elevates me still today -
The biggest waves I ever saw
Smashed into the cliffside boulders
Outside of Cascais, Portugal.
I climbed down a perilous, stone way
Onto the boulders where the violent ocean abused the land.
The rocks trembled at each wave's impact
And I felt erosion in action, the decay of titans
The weathering of earth
All underneath my feet.
I could have died that day with one misstep,
Fallen to a scraggly doom
In the crevasse between two boulders
With the ocean pounding my carcass,
Ripping it apart so to never be found.
But fate had other plans,
And I did not perish.
I had approached the living power that resides
In the gut of the ocean;
Tasting that force I never will forget.
I lived on and climbed out from the cliffs
But the taste of danger that flirts with doom
In the powderroom of freedom
Was forever emblazened on the lips of my soul.
I cannot forget it.
It haunts me to this day.
Looking over the edge into chaos' animosity
And coming back alive is enough to inspire a lifetime of being lost.
I'm trying to be found and becoming tame, I think, instead.
Saints, I implore you, let me know freedom again -
That vast freedom that lurks so close to death and the territories.
Come into me, fresh as a salmon, electric as light.
Get me down on my knees in front of thrashing nature
To see the abominations we protest but can become.
Stop ye Global Warming woes, arrest the glaciers still,
When the gun is pointed (and you know what that means)
Let me say "Yes,"
Let you say "Yes,"
Amen, amen, amen.
09/09
So I can say "Yes,
Take me to that dream, that motorcycle dream,
Where danger is the road and the road is always free."
My Saints are all Saints because of how free the road.
And how inaccessible they feel to me now -
Kerouac, Gingsberg, Vonnegut, Dylan, Thompson -
Come release me when the gun is to my head,
Help me say "Yes" to the motorcycle dream,
Exploding all things quiet while slaying the dragon
Then building it all again to tear it down once more.
Let there be no brilliance in it,
No prophet-seeing knight.
Brilliance is unseen; resilience is known and matters.
All it takes is to be in no way dead,
To shake the sun for its worth and pick up the change,
Find the center where gravity will hold you up
And never lose sight of your feet in their shoes
On the wet rocks you traverse while time tries distractions.
I remember all the things I've seen
And the one time I came closest to Sainthood
Elevates me still today -
The biggest waves I ever saw
Smashed into the cliffside boulders
Outside of Cascais, Portugal.
I climbed down a perilous, stone way
Onto the boulders where the violent ocean abused the land.
The rocks trembled at each wave's impact
And I felt erosion in action, the decay of titans
The weathering of earth
All underneath my feet.
I could have died that day with one misstep,
Fallen to a scraggly doom
In the crevasse between two boulders
With the ocean pounding my carcass,
Ripping it apart so to never be found.
But fate had other plans,
And I did not perish.
I had approached the living power that resides
In the gut of the ocean;
Tasting that force I never will forget.
I lived on and climbed out from the cliffs
But the taste of danger that flirts with doom
In the powderroom of freedom
Was forever emblazened on the lips of my soul.
I cannot forget it.
It haunts me to this day.
Looking over the edge into chaos' animosity
And coming back alive is enough to inspire a lifetime of being lost.
I'm trying to be found and becoming tame, I think, instead.
Saints, I implore you, let me know freedom again -
That vast freedom that lurks so close to death and the territories.
Come into me, fresh as a salmon, electric as light.
Get me down on my knees in front of thrashing nature
To see the abominations we protest but can become.
Stop ye Global Warming woes, arrest the glaciers still,
When the gun is pointed (and you know what that means)
Let me say "Yes,"
Let you say "Yes,"
Amen, amen, amen.
09/09
Grumpy Poem
I feel grumpy today.
Don't come near me,
I may turn bear on your ass
And rip you to shreds.
My eyes feel heavy,
Not even the blue sky fair weather
Averts my mood to safer grounds.
I am salty, too salty
And my mind feels bad.
I can't even muster pretension
To make this poem sing.
No, I'm just a grump
Forced to do things I don't want to do
(which is the source of all grumps
You know that its true)
I want to complain and holler
Then cry in secret pantries,
Think about Sylvia Plath,
Then cry some more.
The world is imposing itself
Too much on me today.
I wish I were an island,
Far, far, far away.
8/09
Don't come near me,
I may turn bear on your ass
And rip you to shreds.
My eyes feel heavy,
Not even the blue sky fair weather
Averts my mood to safer grounds.
I am salty, too salty
And my mind feels bad.
I can't even muster pretension
To make this poem sing.
No, I'm just a grump
Forced to do things I don't want to do
(which is the source of all grumps
You know that its true)
I want to complain and holler
Then cry in secret pantries,
Think about Sylvia Plath,
Then cry some more.
The world is imposing itself
Too much on me today.
I wish I were an island,
Far, far, far away.
8/09
Everyone Knows the Disconnect
I.
Everyone knows the disconnect
Between the rugged day hours of mingling with dust
And the simple night hours of peace in silence.
The two are so disjointed there's comfort in them;
They remind us of ourselves and the faces we keep,
How we're never one creature but a myriad of hosts,
Denying some always while wearing a few.
We are disconnected from ourselves as night is from day,
Cut in half and divided again with every definition.
II.
We are monsters with many heads and many arms.
We sit at tea parties making our halos
With glue and good deeds and smiles and hygene
And some halos work - as the Saints will attest -
But most are just trash that we try and wear above our heads.
III.
I want to strike down my sham halo and what it represents!
I don't want to be the good person people think I am,
Because I'm not that person, its just the glare from my halo.
I've read the tag and it was built in China, not heaven.
I am trapped in expectations under the title,
"Good Son,""Good boyfriend," "Good guy," "Good lover," "Good pawn,"
But I'm bigger and better than those labels, deep into imperfection
And rising above all my faults to try and form a sincere being
Worth knowing, worth having around, worth studying.
But I get yelled at when I'm honest
And shy away from what I fear.
No one gives me the benefit of the doubt or leeway or time to think for myself.
I'd rather be honest with myself than have money in the bank
But honesty is cheap and you're forced to make a living.
IV.
And so we roam on into time,
Calling day and night a unit of twenty four hours
When they are sides of the Universe at opposite ends.
And we find ourselves fragmented, somewhere in between,
Knowing wholeness makes no sense,
It is unobtainable at every angle.
We are always Richard the Second standing in front of a broken mirror,
Privately humbled to know we do not know ourselves.
08/09
Everyone knows the disconnect
Between the rugged day hours of mingling with dust
And the simple night hours of peace in silence.
The two are so disjointed there's comfort in them;
They remind us of ourselves and the faces we keep,
How we're never one creature but a myriad of hosts,
Denying some always while wearing a few.
We are disconnected from ourselves as night is from day,
Cut in half and divided again with every definition.
II.
We are monsters with many heads and many arms.
We sit at tea parties making our halos
With glue and good deeds and smiles and hygene
And some halos work - as the Saints will attest -
But most are just trash that we try and wear above our heads.
III.
I want to strike down my sham halo and what it represents!
I don't want to be the good person people think I am,
Because I'm not that person, its just the glare from my halo.
I've read the tag and it was built in China, not heaven.
I am trapped in expectations under the title,
"Good Son,""Good boyfriend," "Good guy," "Good lover," "Good pawn,"
But I'm bigger and better than those labels, deep into imperfection
And rising above all my faults to try and form a sincere being
Worth knowing, worth having around, worth studying.
But I get yelled at when I'm honest
And shy away from what I fear.
No one gives me the benefit of the doubt or leeway or time to think for myself.
I'd rather be honest with myself than have money in the bank
But honesty is cheap and you're forced to make a living.
IV.
And so we roam on into time,
Calling day and night a unit of twenty four hours
When they are sides of the Universe at opposite ends.
And we find ourselves fragmented, somewhere in between,
Knowing wholeness makes no sense,
It is unobtainable at every angle.
We are always Richard the Second standing in front of a broken mirror,
Privately humbled to know we do not know ourselves.
08/09
Just the Trivial Details
I have found the charade
In the backwater house
Where I feebly write beatitudes, feet in the tub,
Consumed by fake love in systems of night,
Wrapped in a fire I don't care to touch:
The lost shall stay lost! Don't deny it isn't so.
There's no help coming.
We're on the roof all our lives.
I can see the sunset but do nothing to stop it.
The Green Earth dies a little in my eyes.
I don't know what I'm good at
Or so the choir sings
And I don't know what I'm good for
Or so the choir knows
And it fast changes to thinking I'm good for nothing
Or so the choir shows.
I might have tried jumping from the Universe
But I heard there's no gravity in space to get out.
And therefore my house is filled with junk,
Copious refuse from hell.
No one will let me find them.
I'm covered in bees.
My storm doors don't hold,
My oven doesn't work,
I have chlamydia and my birds ran away.
I'm stuck in a Nicholas Cage,
Looking for the Renaissance renaissance
But I have found no clues for where to dig.
There's nothing to hold back,
Now the veil has fallen
And the miserable bride's become artifact.
I hate Noah's arc for where it left me.
My wooden cabin home holds skis and mounted fish;
There are empty bird houses, old board games,
And three Bibles that have been opened too much.
The rain falls when the sun shines.
It makes no sense.
There's nothing to do.
Twiddle your thumbs.
We're all deterministic nightmares headed for shore.
So globalize my ass, all the insincere fucks!
The day is an anchor that sponges up hope.
I'll do away with it all someday
When my pot runs out of knowing
And my dog finally turns on me.
That will be the end because I'll be so frustrated.
After I'm gone, keep playing 'Halo'
And making dips with a base of mayonaise.
If Jesus comes back tell him I waited
But left five minutes before he came.
These are my beatitudes - simple and few,
The lonely thoughts of a once desperate man
Who peaked into the abyss and didn't like what he saw -
Mostly it was nothing, but thats scariest of all.
Satan was there too, I'll admit,
And must I tell you he was sitting in a chair,
Smoking a pipe and reading a book.
I think it was something by Cormac McCarthy,
He didn't laugh. You knew he was thinking.
Regardless, its nice to know Satan is an intellectual.
Ah, but these are just the trivial details...
Reform healthcare or Goddamn you all.
08/09
In the backwater house
Where I feebly write beatitudes, feet in the tub,
Consumed by fake love in systems of night,
Wrapped in a fire I don't care to touch:
The lost shall stay lost! Don't deny it isn't so.
There's no help coming.
We're on the roof all our lives.
I can see the sunset but do nothing to stop it.
The Green Earth dies a little in my eyes.
I don't know what I'm good at
Or so the choir sings
And I don't know what I'm good for
Or so the choir knows
And it fast changes to thinking I'm good for nothing
Or so the choir shows.
I might have tried jumping from the Universe
But I heard there's no gravity in space to get out.
And therefore my house is filled with junk,
Copious refuse from hell.
No one will let me find them.
I'm covered in bees.
My storm doors don't hold,
My oven doesn't work,
I have chlamydia and my birds ran away.
I'm stuck in a Nicholas Cage,
Looking for the Renaissance renaissance
But I have found no clues for where to dig.
There's nothing to hold back,
Now the veil has fallen
And the miserable bride's become artifact.
I hate Noah's arc for where it left me.
My wooden cabin home holds skis and mounted fish;
There are empty bird houses, old board games,
And three Bibles that have been opened too much.
The rain falls when the sun shines.
It makes no sense.
There's nothing to do.
Twiddle your thumbs.
We're all deterministic nightmares headed for shore.
So globalize my ass, all the insincere fucks!
The day is an anchor that sponges up hope.
I'll do away with it all someday
When my pot runs out of knowing
And my dog finally turns on me.
That will be the end because I'll be so frustrated.
After I'm gone, keep playing 'Halo'
And making dips with a base of mayonaise.
If Jesus comes back tell him I waited
But left five minutes before he came.
These are my beatitudes - simple and few,
The lonely thoughts of a once desperate man
Who peaked into the abyss and didn't like what he saw -
Mostly it was nothing, but thats scariest of all.
Satan was there too, I'll admit,
And must I tell you he was sitting in a chair,
Smoking a pipe and reading a book.
I think it was something by Cormac McCarthy,
He didn't laugh. You knew he was thinking.
Regardless, its nice to know Satan is an intellectual.
Ah, but these are just the trivial details...
Reform healthcare or Goddamn you all.
08/09
The Madness of Joy (My Sweet Georgian Bay)
To feel the madness of joy
Torn away from the body
Maddens me more, but its void of the joy.
I've left my Bay,
My sweet Georgian Bay -
The land of dead mountains
Raised from water as the island
Stone faces of nature, desperate, beautiful;
Now she will sing the sad tunes of winter's keep,
Hailing the ice to come and cover her changes
As her spirits rise up to order new summer songs,
To allow welcome for the travelling few
And make peace for the joy she revoked.
I wait in vain for next summer to arrive
When I can be taken back to the madness of joy
And feel the warm knowledge of purpose divine
In the crass wilderness of God's deliverance.
But for now I am sundered; Torn from my Bay.
When I finally wept I held my fists to the sky
To threaten the dim stars of my light polluted home.
I spent thirteen hours birthing back to the life
I hope and pray is not the reality of my dear time -
Where cage after cage holds joy at bay
And freedom is a flag that says "Label me Nothing."
Georgian Bay, I look for you every day,
I smell you in phantoms off the banks of the Charles.
You beckon me always to find the still waters
In a soul that knows nothing but waves,
And I never can have peace without you.
This time with you, this summer's span,
You showed me your secret and I wept for it aloud.
While boating to the Western Islands
Our caravan of motors stopped in open waters
To jump into your cold, blue embrace.
You took me into your virginal depths,
The darkest parts where no man can live.
I looked into your beauty abyss of water and saw the blue nothing
Staring back at me.
Then I looked up and saw blue sky's expanse,
Reaching over and under
Staring back at me.
And the horizon of water and sky blended into infinite blue nothing
Staring back at me.
And I heard your secret whispered:
I float alone in eternity
But my purpose is exact -
to keep floating on until I am horizon too.
Back in the boats we continued to the Westerns,
The wind from our speed raced to dry my hair,
The sun bleached me blonde,
The islands came closer
And the madness of joy came and drowned all my fears.
That same night the Perseid Meteor Shower
Rained on into blue morning like diamonds fleeing caves.
All was quiet then, or maybe it was alive with the voices
Of drunk teenagers drunk on the rampant stars.
There was no wind to deafen the visions of escape
And my heart felt stretched over a thousand nights
Convalescing more pain than I'd like to admit.
And I know
f ever there is a time
When I think I cannot have greater love
I am defeated and it ends there.
I've left my Bay, my sweet Georgian Bay,
The madness of joy is gone all at once,
But I will try, I swear, to cling to the joy
And forgo the madness I've been stuck with before.
My sweet Georgian Bay, I've left you for now,
For now I have left you, I've left you for now.
08/09
Torn away from the body
Maddens me more, but its void of the joy.
I've left my Bay,
My sweet Georgian Bay -
The land of dead mountains
Raised from water as the island
Stone faces of nature, desperate, beautiful;
Now she will sing the sad tunes of winter's keep,
Hailing the ice to come and cover her changes
As her spirits rise up to order new summer songs,
To allow welcome for the travelling few
And make peace for the joy she revoked.
I wait in vain for next summer to arrive
When I can be taken back to the madness of joy
And feel the warm knowledge of purpose divine
In the crass wilderness of God's deliverance.
But for now I am sundered; Torn from my Bay.
When I finally wept I held my fists to the sky
To threaten the dim stars of my light polluted home.
I spent thirteen hours birthing back to the life
I hope and pray is not the reality of my dear time -
Where cage after cage holds joy at bay
And freedom is a flag that says "Label me Nothing."
Georgian Bay, I look for you every day,
I smell you in phantoms off the banks of the Charles.
You beckon me always to find the still waters
In a soul that knows nothing but waves,
And I never can have peace without you.
This time with you, this summer's span,
You showed me your secret and I wept for it aloud.
While boating to the Western Islands
Our caravan of motors stopped in open waters
To jump into your cold, blue embrace.
You took me into your virginal depths,
The darkest parts where no man can live.
I looked into your beauty abyss of water and saw the blue nothing
Staring back at me.
Then I looked up and saw blue sky's expanse,
Reaching over and under
Staring back at me.
And the horizon of water and sky blended into infinite blue nothing
Staring back at me.
And I heard your secret whispered:
I float alone in eternity
But my purpose is exact -
to keep floating on until I am horizon too.
Back in the boats we continued to the Westerns,
The wind from our speed raced to dry my hair,
The sun bleached me blonde,
The islands came closer
And the madness of joy came and drowned all my fears.
That same night the Perseid Meteor Shower
Rained on into blue morning like diamonds fleeing caves.
All was quiet then, or maybe it was alive with the voices
Of drunk teenagers drunk on the rampant stars.
There was no wind to deafen the visions of escape
And my heart felt stretched over a thousand nights
Convalescing more pain than I'd like to admit.
And I know
f ever there is a time
When I think I cannot have greater love
I am defeated and it ends there.
I've left my Bay, my sweet Georgian Bay,
The madness of joy is gone all at once,
But I will try, I swear, to cling to the joy
And forgo the madness I've been stuck with before.
My sweet Georgian Bay, I've left you for now,
For now I have left you, I've left you for now.
08/09
Her Accessible Heart
She was not so angelic, but that smile could always take me down.
When she was drunk it would sneak out
Though it pretended to still be hiding.
Sometimes her smile would go away,
Then the nod of a head or a well timed word
Would cut me so deep I could feel embarassed like I'd never return.
We did not see eye to eye and we never talked about it.
There was no fake lightness in her being;
Her image of Ohio was a tornado wrecked town.
Her confidence was like a dying tree
When the bark is brittle
But the inside is soft from water.
I only saw the inside once or twice
But from then on I knew it was there
And I treasured those faults of confidence
Like they were admissions of trust,
And perhaps they were.
I remember when that Summer came at our end,
And we were going our seperate ways,
A tear or two rolled down her cheek.
This surprised me, I was taken aback,
She wasn't one to cry or give hints that she could.
I became strong and held her like the night holds the moon
But when she left minutes later I broke down in sobs.
We both knew our time was up,
Anything after would be faked.
We saw each other a few more times
But I would never see another flash
Of her accessible heart.
I think of her now, on this raining day,
Not because I love her still but because I never told her I loved her,
And I'm not sure I did love her,
But that I don't know makes her seem more perplexing.
She lodged herself in corners of my life and now she's gone.
She took off forever when she left that Summer's day
When nothing needed be said and that was enough.
07/09
When she was drunk it would sneak out
Though it pretended to still be hiding.
Sometimes her smile would go away,
Then the nod of a head or a well timed word
Would cut me so deep I could feel embarassed like I'd never return.
We did not see eye to eye and we never talked about it.
There was no fake lightness in her being;
Her image of Ohio was a tornado wrecked town.
Her confidence was like a dying tree
When the bark is brittle
But the inside is soft from water.
I only saw the inside once or twice
But from then on I knew it was there
And I treasured those faults of confidence
Like they were admissions of trust,
And perhaps they were.
I remember when that Summer came at our end,
And we were going our seperate ways,
A tear or two rolled down her cheek.
This surprised me, I was taken aback,
She wasn't one to cry or give hints that she could.
I became strong and held her like the night holds the moon
But when she left minutes later I broke down in sobs.
We both knew our time was up,
Anything after would be faked.
We saw each other a few more times
But I would never see another flash
Of her accessible heart.
I think of her now, on this raining day,
Not because I love her still but because I never told her I loved her,
And I'm not sure I did love her,
But that I don't know makes her seem more perplexing.
She lodged herself in corners of my life and now she's gone.
She took off forever when she left that Summer's day
When nothing needed be said and that was enough.
07/09
To Night,
To Freshest Night,
Forthcoming I know,
I wait for you, tender lover,
To be wrapped in ghostly smoke
When the fringe taste of liquor
Can be sensed in the still air
And the trees weep moisture
So every breath feels clean.
I will kiss you then
With each footstep released
Like an echo crystal,
The sound of the stars.
The moon will be so close
Like in 1969
When man walked, as I walk
In synch with the Virgin Spring,
The frail line between experience
And the myth of tomorrow's words.
I will hold you there,
Where breasts are ever fading
And love must be made quick
Or the moment will be lost
Forever in regret.
I will take you night,
Whatever you bring.
07/09
Forthcoming I know,
I wait for you, tender lover,
To be wrapped in ghostly smoke
When the fringe taste of liquor
Can be sensed in the still air
And the trees weep moisture
So every breath feels clean.
I will kiss you then
With each footstep released
Like an echo crystal,
The sound of the stars.
The moon will be so close
Like in 1969
When man walked, as I walk
In synch with the Virgin Spring,
The frail line between experience
And the myth of tomorrow's words.
I will hold you there,
Where breasts are ever fading
And love must be made quick
Or the moment will be lost
Forever in regret.
I will take you night,
Whatever you bring.
07/09
West Would Be My Direction
If I were to be fired right now
I'd hit the open road,
Go as far as $1,000 would take me.
I'd buy a tent and some cans,
A map and some gas,
And plan nothing other than places
I've wanted to see,
Know I must see
Or have seen but want to see again.
West would be my direction,
Putting manifest destiny into action
Like I've never done before
Essential stops would be the high planes,
And the Grand Canyon's vast low,
Yosemite and Yellow Stone Parks,
San Francisco, San Diego, Tijuana,
And to touch the Herclaen Pacific
And taste its salty brine.
I'd collect dust of America
Underneath my worn-out sneakers,
Fraternize with pill-popping truckers
In the midnight McDonalds haze.
The open road would be my God -
My moving bedside, masterful in expanse.
Identity and truth would fade into nothing.
When places move so fast into distance
You need know nothing but know you live
And the air, be it frozen in freedom
Or car-drenched in pollution,
Will tell you every day you live,
Because living is change with the hope to adapt.
07/09
I'd hit the open road,
Go as far as $1,000 would take me.
I'd buy a tent and some cans,
A map and some gas,
And plan nothing other than places
I've wanted to see,
Know I must see
Or have seen but want to see again.
West would be my direction,
Putting manifest destiny into action
Like I've never done before
Essential stops would be the high planes,
And the Grand Canyon's vast low,
Yosemite and Yellow Stone Parks,
San Francisco, San Diego, Tijuana,
And to touch the Herclaen Pacific
And taste its salty brine.
I'd collect dust of America
Underneath my worn-out sneakers,
Fraternize with pill-popping truckers
In the midnight McDonalds haze.
The open road would be my God -
My moving bedside, masterful in expanse.
Identity and truth would fade into nothing.
When places move so fast into distance
You need know nothing but know you live
And the air, be it frozen in freedom
Or car-drenched in pollution,
Will tell you every day you live,
Because living is change with the hope to adapt.
07/09
A Blind Catamite's Dream
A blind catamite's dream evades fear:
Going home in June, killing love,
Making new order proud,
Questioning reason's sour taste
Under vicarious wind's xenophilic
Yearning Zeal.
07/09
Going home in June, killing love,
Making new order proud,
Questioning reason's sour taste
Under vicarious wind's xenophilic
Yearning Zeal.
07/09
Street Light Amazing
World Destroyers,
Infinity Armageddons,
The fire curtain sheets the walls from downtown.
The loose track takers,
The wall face embracers,
Shoot the tracks
Of the Nintendo railroads.
The backbreakers,
The Zebra racers,
Fire storm tornado shooters,
Milk the cow
In Machine Gun Night,
Rip cemetary gates open,
Hide the children,
Seek the strong.
Korea is done,
Shake the wife from your boots.
All ships away,
Point the torpedos,
Send them off with a 44 cent stamp.
Fear your gun #1,
Outsource resource
Inside the van,
Kick the junky,
Who's the good looking bum?
Are stars fading?
No, just clouds.
Street light amazing,
Grace in sight:
Midnight licking
Electric cock ring,
Sound the alarm,
The hell town is back.
Come to basements,
Ever cleansing.
Clean words
Tatooed on back,
Short faces
Lineup for photos on the bus.
Screen saver,
Cross crucifier,
Not abundant
Mineral cache,
So we are desert.
The sand is hot
On sidewalks the same
As before.
07/09
Infinity Armageddons,
The fire curtain sheets the walls from downtown.
The loose track takers,
The wall face embracers,
Shoot the tracks
Of the Nintendo railroads.
The backbreakers,
The Zebra racers,
Fire storm tornado shooters,
Milk the cow
In Machine Gun Night,
Rip cemetary gates open,
Hide the children,
Seek the strong.
Korea is done,
Shake the wife from your boots.
All ships away,
Point the torpedos,
Send them off with a 44 cent stamp.
Fear your gun #1,
Outsource resource
Inside the van,
Kick the junky,
Who's the good looking bum?
Are stars fading?
No, just clouds.
Street light amazing,
Grace in sight:
Midnight licking
Electric cock ring,
Sound the alarm,
The hell town is back.
Come to basements,
Ever cleansing.
Clean words
Tatooed on back,
Short faces
Lineup for photos on the bus.
Screen saver,
Cross crucifier,
Not abundant
Mineral cache,
So we are desert.
The sand is hot
On sidewalks the same
As before.
07/09
Failing Newspapers in the Sky
Failing newspapers in the sky
Drifting through the dead wood of God's forests,
Calculating the distance and time to Mars,
Try to keep alive by dreaming.
If dreaming could...
If dreaming could...
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve.
The circle comes back and we are so lost,
Caught in the cycle of what to believe
The writer mundane has taken his leave,
To weather the fight of this deadly frost.
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve.
The nightly edition's gone to relieve
The coffee ghosts from the next life cross'd
Caught in the cycle of what to believe.
Editors! Move fast! Forget where to grieve!
Look past the graveyard of newspapers toss'd.
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve.
We've hit the end at a new New Year's Eve.
We'll jump ship for it, whatever the cost,
Caught in the cycle of what to believe.
The News tells us for what we must bereave,
But ages too fast and then becomes lost.
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve
Caught in the cycle of what to believe.
Accountability is nothing now,
Nor is putting order to God's mess -
Thats janitorial work in spades;
We've no time for it and no need.
We'll take our prophet Palin and start paving over roads
That George Washington laid out for the soldiers.
No more common ground
If dreaming could...
No more common ground
Between people of the nation.
We are not islands but we live on them alone,
And we burn our bridges faster than we know -
Ask a newspaperman sometime.
Fact check the checkers board when you think you're playing chess.
No one else will do it for you, certainly not today.
The printing press has corroded and rotted
Into fibreglass tubing underground
Where the sewers connect with the serpent's layer,
A dragon of ancient renoun.
George Washington once slayed it - this American Dragon,
Though history calls it the British -
I assure you though, none but a dragon could
Tax without representation
Or cause men to waste their tea.
Washington, he cut off its head
And it retreated to its cave.
From its blood sprung the American dream.
Then washington built those roads to democracy
And never gave the dragon a second thought.
But the dragon lived and grew back its head,
He petitioned with the heavenly monsters
And earned back his license
To wreck the dream we've dreamed, the dream of his blood.
He stirs in his sleep,
f dreaming could...
07/09
Drifting through the dead wood of God's forests,
Calculating the distance and time to Mars,
Try to keep alive by dreaming.
If dreaming could...
If dreaming could...
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve.
The circle comes back and we are so lost,
Caught in the cycle of what to believe
The writer mundane has taken his leave,
To weather the fight of this deadly frost.
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve.
The nightly edition's gone to relieve
The coffee ghosts from the next life cross'd
Caught in the cycle of what to believe.
Editors! Move fast! Forget where to grieve!
Look past the graveyard of newspapers toss'd.
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve.
We've hit the end at a new New Year's Eve.
We'll jump ship for it, whatever the cost,
Caught in the cycle of what to believe.
The News tells us for what we must bereave,
But ages too fast and then becomes lost.
Newspapers are dead beyond our retrieve
Caught in the cycle of what to believe.
Accountability is nothing now,
Nor is putting order to God's mess -
Thats janitorial work in spades;
We've no time for it and no need.
We'll take our prophet Palin and start paving over roads
That George Washington laid out for the soldiers.
No more common ground
If dreaming could...
No more common ground
Between people of the nation.
We are not islands but we live on them alone,
And we burn our bridges faster than we know -
Ask a newspaperman sometime.
Fact check the checkers board when you think you're playing chess.
No one else will do it for you, certainly not today.
The printing press has corroded and rotted
Into fibreglass tubing underground
Where the sewers connect with the serpent's layer,
A dragon of ancient renoun.
George Washington once slayed it - this American Dragon,
Though history calls it the British -
I assure you though, none but a dragon could
Tax without representation
Or cause men to waste their tea.
Washington, he cut off its head
And it retreated to its cave.
From its blood sprung the American dream.
Then washington built those roads to democracy
And never gave the dragon a second thought.
But the dragon lived and grew back its head,
He petitioned with the heavenly monsters
And earned back his license
To wreck the dream we've dreamed, the dream of his blood.
He stirs in his sleep,
f dreaming could...
07/09
Saint Theresa Cycle
You are Saint Theresa,
Quiet heaven-nomad.
You bore and delight me
In the Spanish red sun.
Your pale, white skin emits
The light of a glory
That I don't want to touch
And yet need all the same.
You are the confusion
At the core of desire,
The one meddling note on
A piano fine tuned.
Your vast faults amaze me,
They make you more perfect.
I cannot deny you
So my love will remain.
Hold fast your ecstasy
When the Angel's touch comes,
Save hope for my dread nights
And the light in the day.
You've been born in my thoughts,
A cherry tree untouched,
White as a phantom free
From time's steadfast dust.
In my orchard of doom
I watch you from Eden,
How your beauty tries fade
Then returns twice as strong.
I will love you always
In the distance I keep,
Your shadow, my idol
Before God and His trust.
(But when the Angel came she saved nothing for me)
My own Saint Theresa,
Who first knew Angel's touch,
You were better before
When you roamed my dreams' halls.
You erased all heaven
From my heart with a word.
All good things were made black
When you were not alone.
How I hated you then,
With no means to forgive,
But that hate became seed
To a love deeper known.
In the labyrinth of need
I see her as holy.
Could I be ecstasy
Where Angel light has shone?
07/09
Quiet heaven-nomad.
You bore and delight me
In the Spanish red sun.
Your pale, white skin emits
The light of a glory
That I don't want to touch
And yet need all the same.
You are the confusion
At the core of desire,
The one meddling note on
A piano fine tuned.
Your vast faults amaze me,
They make you more perfect.
I cannot deny you
So my love will remain.
Hold fast your ecstasy
When the Angel's touch comes,
Save hope for my dread nights
And the light in the day.
You've been born in my thoughts,
A cherry tree untouched,
White as a phantom free
From time's steadfast dust.
In my orchard of doom
I watch you from Eden,
How your beauty tries fade
Then returns twice as strong.
I will love you always
In the distance I keep,
Your shadow, my idol
Before God and His trust.
(But when the Angel came she saved nothing for me)
My own Saint Theresa,
Who first knew Angel's touch,
You were better before
When you roamed my dreams' halls.
You erased all heaven
From my heart with a word.
All good things were made black
When you were not alone.
How I hated you then,
With no means to forgive,
But that hate became seed
To a love deeper known.
In the labyrinth of need
I see her as holy.
Could I be ecstasy
Where Angel light has shone?
07/09
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
A Reprimand to Paranoid America
We are the fading ones, our promise is forfeit,
Our children are slaves of their parents devise.
America wants free range birds but not free range kids,
Our poultry will breathe air from the land of the free
But our future generations can breathe nothing but video games and T.V.
That act like a leash to the in-door demise,
A catapult to the obese fears that let our chickens free.
How can we live in this place where chickens are free
Before all human life is secured?
Jefferson wrote of men, not how chickens should live.
But when paranoia is free, no one else can be free -
We're afraid of our streets and the drug addled night,
Mistaking the moon for a voyeur thief
(We'd turn it in if we only knew how)
The news spins our stories, everyone is a crook
And they are out to get you - yes you! Not him next to you - You!
Every school has a shooter, every bar has a rapist,
Every playground a pedophile, every town a racist.
They're out there, its true but there's no army yet
And no precaution can dissuade the lone wolf from the hunt.
No seatbelt can save you and no pill will redeem you,
We face the casm with no parachute.
Its a tough road to swallow, it'll make your mouth dry,
Safe is as safe does but safe doesn't mean live.
We deny the outside like Judas did to Christ.
We love freedom but fear it like Jack said we did.
We measure a man by his faults, not by his loves,
And we refuse the holes and idiosyncrasies in his heart
But accept our own as our best excuse.
I try and laugh each day, but I weep in the night
For our hypocrisy and the children locked away in the dark
Who never wrote a letter to try and find their own hand,
Who have no friends save the facebook menagerie,
Who's hair has never been messy or felt the wind on a bike,
Who don't question their teachers or stay long after school,
Who have never walked alone through night-time lonesome,
Who save themselves for marriage by refusing young love,
Who bore too easily in the face of all things,
Who see all drunks as alcoholics and smokers as disease,
Who fear what their parents fear and never decide for themselves,
Who hate what their parents hate and for shame they continue,
Who see math as a punishment, not the poetry of the cosmos,
Who think they are different when different is a plague
And later become punished for being all too the same,
Who can never breathe easy outside, alone
For them and for us (for we are them) I weep strong.
America, I hate to tell you but you are planting your end
When you harvest bloggers who complain more than think,
Those who speak to the internet, by the internet, for the internet,
Never believing that more information could breed the ignorance we abhor.
Democracy is good but not in the extreme.
When all voices speak just gong-clamour sounds,
Obscuring the words that might come from God
Or his subsidiaries, whoever they may be.
We are not connected to the pulse-jazz-electric -
That mythical mystery that makes things profound,
The unifying love underlying our days,
The love to keep moving out, out, out, out, towards the moon.
NASA was once our newfound Jesus Christ,
Walking on water all the way to space,
Opening our dreams into realization's core.
Nothing can impress us that way anymore.
We've crucified NASA and given in to irony
Because its simpler and meaner than being sincere.
No more miracles rezone our tight imaginations;
The trends air to homogenization,
Because it seems the more we know,
The more we stay put,
Afraid of the too many lurking harms to bear witness
To life and we suffer for it in ways unexpected -
With weight gain and hair loss and the lost, wasted years;
A longer life but one worth the extension?
I am scared of the internet and the people we're becoming,
Every word can be a bullet while every man becomes a pawn.
Each nightmare becomes a nexus of possibility and thats insane.
We know harm will befall us but we think we can control it if we try
And we do try by shutting down, closing off, signing in,
Sealing our customized catacombs for inner-life stagnation.
To summarize for children:
America you are chicken for letting your chickens free
That we might eat healthier animals in our diet
While we keep ourselves couped up in our homes
In a stasis where the only option is to get fat.
Children, no matter your age - 5,7,10,15,22,45,90 -
Live, Live, Live, Live, Live, Live, Live, Live
With as little fear as you can,
Then eat those chickens to your heart's content.
To summarize for America:
We drink bottled water, we refuse the tap.
We like the bottle to say its from a mountain spring,
But when allowed to drink from a spring in the mountain
We decline - we've brought bottles, they have less germs,
Or anthrax, or viruses, or pollution, or fear or whatever...
America you refuse the source and deny the soul!
I hate you for fear mongering us into control.
We are not rapists, child mollesting whores,
We are not drug dealing, pot smoking, pedophile bores,
We are not kidnapping, killer, porno-racist uptights
Who thrive only under neon red lights!
We are good people, for the most part its true,
Imperfect but good; forgive us criminals too.
The demons we fear are present but few,
America, we are lakes of fresh water and biology and life
But you treat us like bottles
And so we treat ourselves much the same.
07/09
Our children are slaves of their parents devise.
America wants free range birds but not free range kids,
Our poultry will breathe air from the land of the free
But our future generations can breathe nothing but video games and T.V.
That act like a leash to the in-door demise,
A catapult to the obese fears that let our chickens free.
How can we live in this place where chickens are free
Before all human life is secured?
Jefferson wrote of men, not how chickens should live.
But when paranoia is free, no one else can be free -
We're afraid of our streets and the drug addled night,
Mistaking the moon for a voyeur thief
(We'd turn it in if we only knew how)
The news spins our stories, everyone is a crook
And they are out to get you - yes you! Not him next to you - You!
Every school has a shooter, every bar has a rapist,
Every playground a pedophile, every town a racist.
They're out there, its true but there's no army yet
And no precaution can dissuade the lone wolf from the hunt.
No seatbelt can save you and no pill will redeem you,
We face the casm with no parachute.
Its a tough road to swallow, it'll make your mouth dry,
Safe is as safe does but safe doesn't mean live.
We deny the outside like Judas did to Christ.
We love freedom but fear it like Jack said we did.
We measure a man by his faults, not by his loves,
And we refuse the holes and idiosyncrasies in his heart
But accept our own as our best excuse.
I try and laugh each day, but I weep in the night
For our hypocrisy and the children locked away in the dark
Who never wrote a letter to try and find their own hand,
Who have no friends save the facebook menagerie,
Who's hair has never been messy or felt the wind on a bike,
Who don't question their teachers or stay long after school,
Who have never walked alone through night-time lonesome,
Who save themselves for marriage by refusing young love,
Who bore too easily in the face of all things,
Who see all drunks as alcoholics and smokers as disease,
Who fear what their parents fear and never decide for themselves,
Who hate what their parents hate and for shame they continue,
Who see math as a punishment, not the poetry of the cosmos,
Who think they are different when different is a plague
And later become punished for being all too the same,
Who can never breathe easy outside, alone
For them and for us (for we are them) I weep strong.
America, I hate to tell you but you are planting your end
When you harvest bloggers who complain more than think,
Those who speak to the internet, by the internet, for the internet,
Never believing that more information could breed the ignorance we abhor.
Democracy is good but not in the extreme.
When all voices speak just gong-clamour sounds,
Obscuring the words that might come from God
Or his subsidiaries, whoever they may be.
We are not connected to the pulse-jazz-electric -
That mythical mystery that makes things profound,
The unifying love underlying our days,
The love to keep moving out, out, out, out, towards the moon.
NASA was once our newfound Jesus Christ,
Walking on water all the way to space,
Opening our dreams into realization's core.
Nothing can impress us that way anymore.
We've crucified NASA and given in to irony
Because its simpler and meaner than being sincere.
No more miracles rezone our tight imaginations;
The trends air to homogenization,
Because it seems the more we know,
The more we stay put,
Afraid of the too many lurking harms to bear witness
To life and we suffer for it in ways unexpected -
With weight gain and hair loss and the lost, wasted years;
A longer life but one worth the extension?
I am scared of the internet and the people we're becoming,
Every word can be a bullet while every man becomes a pawn.
Each nightmare becomes a nexus of possibility and thats insane.
We know harm will befall us but we think we can control it if we try
And we do try by shutting down, closing off, signing in,
Sealing our customized catacombs for inner-life stagnation.
To summarize for children:
America you are chicken for letting your chickens free
That we might eat healthier animals in our diet
While we keep ourselves couped up in our homes
In a stasis where the only option is to get fat.
Children, no matter your age - 5,7,10,15,22,45,90 -
Live, Live, Live, Live, Live, Live, Live, Live
With as little fear as you can,
Then eat those chickens to your heart's content.
To summarize for America:
We drink bottled water, we refuse the tap.
We like the bottle to say its from a mountain spring,
But when allowed to drink from a spring in the mountain
We decline - we've brought bottles, they have less germs,
Or anthrax, or viruses, or pollution, or fear or whatever...
America you refuse the source and deny the soul!
I hate you for fear mongering us into control.
We are not rapists, child mollesting whores,
We are not drug dealing, pot smoking, pedophile bores,
We are not kidnapping, killer, porno-racist uptights
Who thrive only under neon red lights!
We are good people, for the most part its true,
Imperfect but good; forgive us criminals too.
The demons we fear are present but few,
America, we are lakes of fresh water and biology and life
But you treat us like bottles
And so we treat ourselves much the same.
07/09
Where I'm At Blues
I am still bored.
All the information I could ever need,
At my fingertips' pleasure, the click of a mouse:
I have news instantaneous and banjo instructions,
The dreams of the bloggers and Obama's old words,
The crystalline plumage of the global chandalier,
Reflecting the terrors and hopes of a hundred lost nations
Who can't vocalize freedom as well as we can
And I am still bored.
I have nothing to say.
It has all been said before
- or so we've been told -
By Jesus, Socrates, Aristotle, and Bush
And they said it to everybody already,
To Romans, Greeks, Americans, Sherpas, kinghts and the like.
We keep the gems in mind but we will circulate the trash
Over and over and over and over, again and again.
Our words are like air, our actions are birds,
None in the face of the cosmetic sky.
We roam deserts of ignorance so thirsty for knowledge
But we drink water because it tastes better on the tongue.
All the while our boats sink, people die, poetry tries to be new,
The sun rises and sometimes all is well -
There is family, friends, good food and hope for the future.
But the sun closes too and we're left destitute,
Learning life is hard and it's hard to earn.
We repeat quiet beatitudes in the dark,
Solemn praise for riotous earth,
Untempered reason in the reign of chaos' son,
And I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to do.
In this free range office world laced with liquor breath
The insensitivity that made Charlemagne conquer nations
Lives in our souls still but we label it insanity
And force-gulp sedation down our throats to our hearts
Where it will never return except as indigestion.
But unsedated are the seas that pummel earth
With danger unspeakable and fear yet unquenched!
Winds howl at twilight, they drone out the monster's song
That carries night's veil over the strange land of men.
Volcanoes beg for sword fights where destiny has no say:
The border towns live! The cleaver is their gavel,
Outlaws storm the backwoods, justice is dead,
The hurricanes come in gangs too strong to count on,
And the battles against forgetting continues.
I can barely find a reason to cope
And I have nothing to do.
Life avoids me.
Or maybe I'm avoiding it,
With my tickets unpurchased, friends uncalled,
My lawn chair opened and set firm on the sidewalk
Watching the parade of time passing by.
The internet could guide me away! No. It can't.
I am stuck in the casm of home life despair
Where the wax museum tapestry begs me to join
The television succubi that give no guy no chance
In faithful allegiance to the zombie screen stare
And I can't do that; I just can't.
Too afraid to act, too afraid to not,
I pledge nothing to life and so nothing to death.
This is no time for safety or reason,
We are wallflowers with fascistic hearts -
A day's gift is promise of another,
A day's curse is so many have gone by.
I can't help but to think I avoid life.
07/09
All the information I could ever need,
At my fingertips' pleasure, the click of a mouse:
I have news instantaneous and banjo instructions,
The dreams of the bloggers and Obama's old words,
The crystalline plumage of the global chandalier,
Reflecting the terrors and hopes of a hundred lost nations
Who can't vocalize freedom as well as we can
And I am still bored.
I have nothing to say.
It has all been said before
- or so we've been told -
By Jesus, Socrates, Aristotle, and Bush
And they said it to everybody already,
To Romans, Greeks, Americans, Sherpas, kinghts and the like.
We keep the gems in mind but we will circulate the trash
Over and over and over and over, again and again.
Our words are like air, our actions are birds,
None in the face of the cosmetic sky.
We roam deserts of ignorance so thirsty for knowledge
But we drink water because it tastes better on the tongue.
All the while our boats sink, people die, poetry tries to be new,
The sun rises and sometimes all is well -
There is family, friends, good food and hope for the future.
But the sun closes too and we're left destitute,
Learning life is hard and it's hard to earn.
We repeat quiet beatitudes in the dark,
Solemn praise for riotous earth,
Untempered reason in the reign of chaos' son,
And I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to do.
In this free range office world laced with liquor breath
The insensitivity that made Charlemagne conquer nations
Lives in our souls still but we label it insanity
And force-gulp sedation down our throats to our hearts
Where it will never return except as indigestion.
But unsedated are the seas that pummel earth
With danger unspeakable and fear yet unquenched!
Winds howl at twilight, they drone out the monster's song
That carries night's veil over the strange land of men.
Volcanoes beg for sword fights where destiny has no say:
The border towns live! The cleaver is their gavel,
Outlaws storm the backwoods, justice is dead,
The hurricanes come in gangs too strong to count on,
And the battles against forgetting continues.
I can barely find a reason to cope
And I have nothing to do.
Life avoids me.
Or maybe I'm avoiding it,
With my tickets unpurchased, friends uncalled,
My lawn chair opened and set firm on the sidewalk
Watching the parade of time passing by.
The internet could guide me away! No. It can't.
I am stuck in the casm of home life despair
Where the wax museum tapestry begs me to join
The television succubi that give no guy no chance
In faithful allegiance to the zombie screen stare
And I can't do that; I just can't.
Too afraid to act, too afraid to not,
I pledge nothing to life and so nothing to death.
This is no time for safety or reason,
We are wallflowers with fascistic hearts -
A day's gift is promise of another,
A day's curse is so many have gone by.
I can't help but to think I avoid life.
07/09
$487.54
Life is a death rattle,
So those who really live shake it.
It is a despot miasma
But its better to breathe and live longer
Than hold your lungs rigid
And die premature.
All in all its all worth $487.54 -
Life, the hereafter, and the after there -
So spend it. Spend it all. Every dime.
The last thing you've got is time.
Buy stocks and trinkets, Go to Paris and learn.
I'm Ok with freedom,
But it too often mingles with despair.
Don't become a slave of freedom
Or completely free of a slave's despair.
Try to do with none of it if you can,
But love it anyways,
Because that is hope
Or at the very least, it's something good.
07/09
So those who really live shake it.
It is a despot miasma
But its better to breathe and live longer
Than hold your lungs rigid
And die premature.
All in all its all worth $487.54 -
Life, the hereafter, and the after there -
So spend it. Spend it all. Every dime.
The last thing you've got is time.
Buy stocks and trinkets, Go to Paris and learn.
I'm Ok with freedom,
But it too often mingles with despair.
Don't become a slave of freedom
Or completely free of a slave's despair.
Try to do with none of it if you can,
But love it anyways,
Because that is hope
Or at the very least, it's something good.
07/09
The Magi
Part I: The Launch
I am bigger and better than the world I was born into!!!!
Strung out on coffee, I have no desires.
Nights and days are just days, no black, no white
Prejudicing my perception of time, no darkness or light.
Beatrice to me is my shoes - birkenstocks worn down;
They are comfortable, molded to the shape of my feet.
They let my feet breathe in ways they could not
Stuffed into dress shoes a wedding requires.
I wear socks with my sandals, I don't care what you think.
Call me 'Canadian' or 'Socialist,'
Write a letter to your Senator.
I'll still wear my birks with socks in the winter
To challenge how comfortable you think you are.
Its hard to stay trendy when this internet don't die.
America lives in the next minute all the time.
You got people who's job is to hunt through the trash
To find the next cool thing in the cycle of cool,
Be it flannel, hip-hop, raybands, heroine.
But its never that crystal clear image of self
In the sun's honest light
Because if we don't know ourselves thats great!
We'll keep buying and buying whatever we want
To fill in the holes that Shakespeare sold us
In the advent of the modern age.
Are we flies to wanton boys?
Really?
Has the Dow got you down?
Really?
Have a sip of my pills,
Go on a trip.
I stole them from my parents.
Don't be modest.
Take what you will
Lest ye be swatted for sport,
Again and again.
Part II: Journey of the Magi
On my journey toward enlightenment
I wandered savage desert with magi.
My gift was A.I. and we looked for the true messiah
Underneath every star that had God's approval.
When the journey got long (and pointless perhaps),
We began harassing the sheperds who lay in the fields
Till they confessed they'd seen Angels announcing a babe
Who had come to save the old world entire.
Not satisfied, we water-boarded the shepherds
Until they gave to us the Angels' directions
But the directions were far too indirect for our tastes,
So we took the matter to gMaps and we found a better way.
The path to Bethlehem was treacherous,
Filled with heathens who smoked hookah when they killed;
Their machetes were bloodied and quite old.
We passed the weeping masses, huddled together for warmth,
Crying for their ill fate as the indifferent moon stared them down.
"Why do you cry?" I asked one girl.
"My friend has not responded to my text
I fear he is as dead as God."
Looking at her with sad sympathy I said:
"Not responding does not mean he's 'dead'."
"Thats not true." she replied with a slight bow.
I watched as she slit her thin throat with her cell phone
(It turns into a knife faster than a camera).
We marched on leaving her body behind.
I saw Queen Mab in the Apple Store on the way to Bethlehem.
From idle brains she begot twelve children
That swiftly floated up and expanded into the dreams
That entertain sultans of other worlds.
Now Mab hangs around Apple Stores, ever lonely and lost.
Since she quit smoking she has never left.
She weaves around the tables, touching every screen,
Weighing each computer in her nimble, old hands.
She fondles the ipods, they giggle in response.
Hiccups of Britney and Snoop Dogg are her delight.
Queen Mab will never die while the ipod is her king. No. No.
We stopped into the Apple Store
To pay our due regards to Mab.
"How long have you been here?"
"Since computers became so smooth."
"How long will you stay?"
"'Till the ipod goes atomic."
"Why do you linger here?"
"I don't know how to have."
"That's an ontological crisis for sure."
"I know, I know."
I told the Magi to go without me;
I had found my messiah in the Apple Store,
The golden rings of the holy host had embraced my light.
When I looked up and saw Bethlehem's star
It was hovering over the Apple Store in the night,
Emitting the natural glow
Of an angel chorus singing noises
Far more satisfying than any computer could know.
The vast realms of space opened revealing nothing
But its emptiness and beauty
In all the Universe's core and soul and heart.
There are no modern messiahs,
Only legend and myth, religion and our faith,
And none of those things yet have use for a cell phone.
Part III: The Return
I can speak like a motherfucker,
Sword fight like the night.
Do you doubt me? My banjo is machine gun,
My song is knife.I try to kill disconnection when I can
But I never win and never will.
We are all fools with dumb stares instead of faces,
We rot our eyes on screens,
Becoming Gloucesters of our own demise.
Virgil is getting tired of showcasing hell
So he directs us to read CNN on computer screens
Or watch it 24/7 on your TV.
And by the by we are chewed up by Satan,
Spit out on the street,
Raped by indecision
And back again, knocking on Virgil's door in the morning.
07/09
I am bigger and better than the world I was born into!!!!
Strung out on coffee, I have no desires.
Nights and days are just days, no black, no white
Prejudicing my perception of time, no darkness or light.
Beatrice to me is my shoes - birkenstocks worn down;
They are comfortable, molded to the shape of my feet.
They let my feet breathe in ways they could not
Stuffed into dress shoes a wedding requires.
I wear socks with my sandals, I don't care what you think.
Call me 'Canadian' or 'Socialist,'
Write a letter to your Senator.
I'll still wear my birks with socks in the winter
To challenge how comfortable you think you are.
Its hard to stay trendy when this internet don't die.
America lives in the next minute all the time.
You got people who's job is to hunt through the trash
To find the next cool thing in the cycle of cool,
Be it flannel, hip-hop, raybands, heroine.
But its never that crystal clear image of self
In the sun's honest light
Because if we don't know ourselves thats great!
We'll keep buying and buying whatever we want
To fill in the holes that Shakespeare sold us
In the advent of the modern age.
Are we flies to wanton boys?
Really?
Has the Dow got you down?
Really?
Have a sip of my pills,
Go on a trip.
I stole them from my parents.
Don't be modest.
Take what you will
Lest ye be swatted for sport,
Again and again.
Part II: Journey of the Magi
On my journey toward enlightenment
I wandered savage desert with magi.
My gift was A.I. and we looked for the true messiah
Underneath every star that had God's approval.
When the journey got long (and pointless perhaps),
We began harassing the sheperds who lay in the fields
Till they confessed they'd seen Angels announcing a babe
Who had come to save the old world entire.
Not satisfied, we water-boarded the shepherds
Until they gave to us the Angels' directions
But the directions were far too indirect for our tastes,
So we took the matter to gMaps and we found a better way.
The path to Bethlehem was treacherous,
Filled with heathens who smoked hookah when they killed;
Their machetes were bloodied and quite old.
We passed the weeping masses, huddled together for warmth,
Crying for their ill fate as the indifferent moon stared them down.
"Why do you cry?" I asked one girl.
"My friend has not responded to my text
I fear he is as dead as God."
Looking at her with sad sympathy I said:
"Not responding does not mean he's 'dead'."
"Thats not true." she replied with a slight bow.
I watched as she slit her thin throat with her cell phone
(It turns into a knife faster than a camera).
We marched on leaving her body behind.
I saw Queen Mab in the Apple Store on the way to Bethlehem.
From idle brains she begot twelve children
That swiftly floated up and expanded into the dreams
That entertain sultans of other worlds.
Now Mab hangs around Apple Stores, ever lonely and lost.
Since she quit smoking she has never left.
She weaves around the tables, touching every screen,
Weighing each computer in her nimble, old hands.
She fondles the ipods, they giggle in response.
Hiccups of Britney and Snoop Dogg are her delight.
Queen Mab will never die while the ipod is her king. No. No.
We stopped into the Apple Store
To pay our due regards to Mab.
"How long have you been here?"
"Since computers became so smooth."
"How long will you stay?"
"'Till the ipod goes atomic."
"Why do you linger here?"
"I don't know how to have."
"That's an ontological crisis for sure."
"I know, I know."
I told the Magi to go without me;
I had found my messiah in the Apple Store,
The golden rings of the holy host had embraced my light.
When I looked up and saw Bethlehem's star
It was hovering over the Apple Store in the night,
Emitting the natural glow
Of an angel chorus singing noises
Far more satisfying than any computer could know.
The vast realms of space opened revealing nothing
But its emptiness and beauty
In all the Universe's core and soul and heart.
There are no modern messiahs,
Only legend and myth, religion and our faith,
And none of those things yet have use for a cell phone.
Part III: The Return
I can speak like a motherfucker,
Sword fight like the night.
Do you doubt me? My banjo is machine gun,
My song is knife.I try to kill disconnection when I can
But I never win and never will.
We are all fools with dumb stares instead of faces,
We rot our eyes on screens,
Becoming Gloucesters of our own demise.
Virgil is getting tired of showcasing hell
So he directs us to read CNN on computer screens
Or watch it 24/7 on your TV.
And by the by we are chewed up by Satan,
Spit out on the street,
Raped by indecision
And back again, knocking on Virgil's door in the morning.
07/09
My Old Path
My old path cut through the woods
Leading to a hidden pond,
A museum of frogs
That made the water seem alive
More than one time
A swan tried to seek refuge
In this wood I called mine,
But it was not hers to claim.
This was turtle land.
I remember the turtle -
A snapper so big,
It hissed at anyone
Who came near.
We never dared go near,
My friends and I;
We were too afraid
That he'd take our fingers
And keep them for life.
The pond was his after all.
07/09
Near to the turtle's pond was a place
We called "Place" because
It was a place to place yourself
In the hot afternoon.
It was a clearing in the woods
That seemed so enticing.
At one time there was a table,
At another time there was a sofa,
Another time there was a painted wood structure
Made from the table
A shopping cart and beer bottles were
The regular refuse of "Place."
One day Ian and I walked down my old path
Approaching "Place" from behind.
Before we arrived we spied two older kids
Smoking, drinking -Smokers and drinkers
Were the architects of "Place."
From that point on "Place" was spoiled,
Corrupted by teenagers
We did not yet understand.
So we found a smaller clearing
On the other side of the pond.
That place we called "There"
To stick by the vague names
We found so hilarious.
"There" was not so large.
It was smaller, mosquito full
And thorns hung around instead of smokers.
Even so my friends and I
Stayed there for many afternoons
Until the day we caught poison ivy.
After that "There" lost its appeal.
It didn't matter though.
There were too many paths and passages
Weaving through the woods
To keep only to one spot.
John and I would chase my brother
And his friends, scaring them in the woods,
Jumping out at every turn.
We knew the woods better than they.
But my dog sam, he knew the woods
Better than me.
He would forage and hunt
But never catch a thing,
Miniature domestic that he was.
Back then, unleashed, my dog
Would stampede into the pond water
To terrify the ducks.
They would quack at the invader,
Flap their wings, then take off.
My dog, so proud,
Would think he had won.
Two minutes later the ducks would return
And continue their lives
Like nothing had happened.
This cycle occurred time and again
Until one day an embittered woman,
Fed up with the poop from the ducks in the pond
Fed the ducks poisoned bread,
A devil's communion.
The ducks ate and were killed,
The town picked up their bodies,
And the pond became silent
Of duck calls and shit.
No duck clan would ever Live there again.
Honeymooning ducks might stop by
For a time, once in a while
But the pond was a massacre
And no duck ever stayed long.
After the duck deaths
A family of beavers came to
Saw down the trees and make a dam.
Their dam clogged the stream
That drained the pond
Causing the pond to flood
Through the woods, into "Place"
And beyond the far reach
Towards the bike path
And beyond.
The town complained about the flooding
And the beavers were killed,
Their dam broken open,
And the floodwaters drained.
But the mud from the flood
Lingered on through the seasons,
To the winter's harsh cold
When it froze in the ground.
If you lifted chunks of the earth
You could see ice crystals collected
In the black dirt;Little crystal kingdoms
Lost in a world of utter blackness.
When the snow fell, the mud was covered,
The woods became new;
A blank canvas for nautre and history,
A new-born world for me to leave footprints upon.
In Silent sunday mornings
When Lexington slept
Colonial times could be resurrected
For seconds at a time.
My woods held devils and prospects
But above all it held beauty,
Sublime reverence for land untouched,
Harboring still the spirit of freedom
And the ruthless heart of nature in one.
There was, of course, the tampering of man
But always it was overshadowed
By the progress of time
And the trees' willingness to grow
And how the mud persisted still!
And the heart persists too
In a place and a time
When there was my family,
Having just moved to a new house,
Deciding to explore the snowy, silent woods,
Early one sunday morning
When Lexington slept,
And we got lost heading down
This new path to the pond
We did not yet know was there.
My brother and my parents and I and my dog
Got lost in the woods in the snow.
Though lost, we found snow drifts
Silently falling from the trees and up from the ground.
We laughed and made snow angels
Knowing home was not far away,
We could get there if we tried,
If we wanted to...
But for that brief moment,
For that sliver of memory and space,
We chose to be lost in the woods
By the turtle's pond in the winter
Of the first year in our new house,
Walking along that ancient wooded path that stretches
From one point in history to the next
In a spectrum of feeling and sight and memory
That we can't help but quantify as God,
With no beginnings or ends
No failures or wins
Just slices and portions of lost, lost, lost
And found again
In a blanket world of snow and purity
In my woods by my pond off my old path.
Coda:
Last week I tried again to traverse
My old path
But it was overgrown.
I could not get through
No matter what I tried.
I had no machete,
Nor would I have used one if I did.
I was shut out from the woods
Like a trapped thief of memory.
But then, so too must we all someday
Stop walking on, lose sight of,
And be deprived of
Our old paths.
07/09
Leading to a hidden pond,
A museum of frogs
That made the water seem alive
More than one time
A swan tried to seek refuge
In this wood I called mine,
But it was not hers to claim.
This was turtle land.
I remember the turtle -
A snapper so big,
It hissed at anyone
Who came near.
We never dared go near,
My friends and I;
We were too afraid
That he'd take our fingers
And keep them for life.
The pond was his after all.
07/09
Near to the turtle's pond was a place
We called "Place" because
It was a place to place yourself
In the hot afternoon.
It was a clearing in the woods
That seemed so enticing.
At one time there was a table,
At another time there was a sofa,
Another time there was a painted wood structure
Made from the table
A shopping cart and beer bottles were
The regular refuse of "Place."
One day Ian and I walked down my old path
Approaching "Place" from behind.
Before we arrived we spied two older kids
Smoking, drinking -Smokers and drinkers
Were the architects of "Place."
From that point on "Place" was spoiled,
Corrupted by teenagers
We did not yet understand.
So we found a smaller clearing
On the other side of the pond.
That place we called "There"
To stick by the vague names
We found so hilarious.
"There" was not so large.
It was smaller, mosquito full
And thorns hung around instead of smokers.
Even so my friends and I
Stayed there for many afternoons
Until the day we caught poison ivy.
After that "There" lost its appeal.
It didn't matter though.
There were too many paths and passages
Weaving through the woods
To keep only to one spot.
John and I would chase my brother
And his friends, scaring them in the woods,
Jumping out at every turn.
We knew the woods better than they.
But my dog sam, he knew the woods
Better than me.
He would forage and hunt
But never catch a thing,
Miniature domestic that he was.
Back then, unleashed, my dog
Would stampede into the pond water
To terrify the ducks.
They would quack at the invader,
Flap their wings, then take off.
My dog, so proud,
Would think he had won.
Two minutes later the ducks would return
And continue their lives
Like nothing had happened.
This cycle occurred time and again
Until one day an embittered woman,
Fed up with the poop from the ducks in the pond
Fed the ducks poisoned bread,
A devil's communion.
The ducks ate and were killed,
The town picked up their bodies,
And the pond became silent
Of duck calls and shit.
No duck clan would ever Live there again.
Honeymooning ducks might stop by
For a time, once in a while
But the pond was a massacre
And no duck ever stayed long.
After the duck deaths
A family of beavers came to
Saw down the trees and make a dam.
Their dam clogged the stream
That drained the pond
Causing the pond to flood
Through the woods, into "Place"
And beyond the far reach
Towards the bike path
And beyond.
The town complained about the flooding
And the beavers were killed,
Their dam broken open,
And the floodwaters drained.
But the mud from the flood
Lingered on through the seasons,
To the winter's harsh cold
When it froze in the ground.
If you lifted chunks of the earth
You could see ice crystals collected
In the black dirt;Little crystal kingdoms
Lost in a world of utter blackness.
When the snow fell, the mud was covered,
The woods became new;
A blank canvas for nautre and history,
A new-born world for me to leave footprints upon.
In Silent sunday mornings
When Lexington slept
Colonial times could be resurrected
For seconds at a time.
My woods held devils and prospects
But above all it held beauty,
Sublime reverence for land untouched,
Harboring still the spirit of freedom
And the ruthless heart of nature in one.
There was, of course, the tampering of man
But always it was overshadowed
By the progress of time
And the trees' willingness to grow
And how the mud persisted still!
And the heart persists too
In a place and a time
When there was my family,
Having just moved to a new house,
Deciding to explore the snowy, silent woods,
Early one sunday morning
When Lexington slept,
And we got lost heading down
This new path to the pond
We did not yet know was there.
My brother and my parents and I and my dog
Got lost in the woods in the snow.
Though lost, we found snow drifts
Silently falling from the trees and up from the ground.
We laughed and made snow angels
Knowing home was not far away,
We could get there if we tried,
If we wanted to...
But for that brief moment,
For that sliver of memory and space,
We chose to be lost in the woods
By the turtle's pond in the winter
Of the first year in our new house,
Walking along that ancient wooded path that stretches
From one point in history to the next
In a spectrum of feeling and sight and memory
That we can't help but quantify as God,
With no beginnings or ends
No failures or wins
Just slices and portions of lost, lost, lost
And found again
In a blanket world of snow and purity
In my woods by my pond off my old path.
Coda:
Last week I tried again to traverse
My old path
But it was overgrown.
I could not get through
No matter what I tried.
I had no machete,
Nor would I have used one if I did.
I was shut out from the woods
Like a trapped thief of memory.
But then, so too must we all someday
Stop walking on, lose sight of,
And be deprived of
Our old paths.
07/09
If (Take That Rudyard Kipling - This is a Prayer)
If there is no happy ending for any of us,
If death coats the walls of the halls of life,
And if we cover the walls of life with fresh wallpaper,
Call it salvation or hope and call it new,
But then at the heart of existence is a black-hole miasma
Rotting away meaning and truth like wooden treasure chests at sea,
If we light every lantern and hold in our breaths
To rid ourselves of ghosts and devils that can't exist,
If the smokey hand of time will ravage our lungs,
With the liver to follow, bowels, then the heart,
If the beginning of the tunnel is pain in focus,
If the end of the tunnel is irrelivant,
If the lights we lit cannot save our treasures
And yesterdays are just nails in our casket
And todays are avalanches of nothing,
And tomorrows are indeed never assured,
If the earth could cross paths with a meteor
Or malfunctions cause nuclear wars,
If barbed wire lines the walls of the halls of life
Tearing the wallpaper, ripping salvation so that death looks through
And we can see it each day, undoctored, in focus,
If there's a chance that death-knowing could drive my life mad,
Then at least give me back the time I spend
Waiting for slow elevators in the morning!
06/09
If death coats the walls of the halls of life,
And if we cover the walls of life with fresh wallpaper,
Call it salvation or hope and call it new,
But then at the heart of existence is a black-hole miasma
Rotting away meaning and truth like wooden treasure chests at sea,
If we light every lantern and hold in our breaths
To rid ourselves of ghosts and devils that can't exist,
If the smokey hand of time will ravage our lungs,
With the liver to follow, bowels, then the heart,
If the beginning of the tunnel is pain in focus,
If the end of the tunnel is irrelivant,
If the lights we lit cannot save our treasures
And yesterdays are just nails in our casket
And todays are avalanches of nothing,
And tomorrows are indeed never assured,
If the earth could cross paths with a meteor
Or malfunctions cause nuclear wars,
If barbed wire lines the walls of the halls of life
Tearing the wallpaper, ripping salvation so that death looks through
And we can see it each day, undoctored, in focus,
If there's a chance that death-knowing could drive my life mad,
Then at least give me back the time I spend
Waiting for slow elevators in the morning!
06/09
The Last Pedophile King
The last pedophile king is dead,
Ancient Greece is truly gone -
No more saturnalia,
Fellini Satyricon.
Put out each star, like Auden said do
Ring the bell in the steeple
Count every tear too.
The last pedophile king is dead,
Be sure to blanket each wish,
Coat the sun in a mournful grey,
Cover every uncovered dish.
The last pedophile king is dead
The feast is over now.
Let acquittals rest,
The lost boys take their bow.
Too weird to live, too rare to die,
He's returned to the wild
And never said goodbye.
The last pedophile king is dead,
He's advertising money spent.
Every paper and website asks
Where pieces in him went?
The last pedophile king is dead
On the slab and cold as ice
Walking on new moons,
Throwing devil's dice.
Sing words of praise, think your dismay,
Neverland is closed
But never far away.
06/09
Ancient Greece is truly gone -
No more saturnalia,
Fellini Satyricon.
Put out each star, like Auden said do
Ring the bell in the steeple
Count every tear too.
The last pedophile king is dead,
Be sure to blanket each wish,
Coat the sun in a mournful grey,
Cover every uncovered dish.
The last pedophile king is dead
The feast is over now.
Let acquittals rest,
The lost boys take their bow.
Too weird to live, too rare to die,
He's returned to the wild
And never said goodbye.
The last pedophile king is dead,
He's advertising money spent.
Every paper and website asks
Where pieces in him went?
The last pedophile king is dead
On the slab and cold as ice
Walking on new moons,
Throwing devil's dice.
Sing words of praise, think your dismay,
Neverland is closed
But never far away.
06/09
Is This Real Life?
Daniel, the drugged boy, looked at his father
In paranoid disbelief and fear.
With the world bent west and bones of reality exposed
He could not comprehend the new world in his eyes.
"Is this real life?" he asked in amazement,
Ignoring his father's laughs and reply.
And so too ask I, though I am not drugged
Nor a child (anymore)
Though I wish that I was.
"Is this real life?" is a question for ages
And angels too, if they oblige to respond.
But only a child hopped up by the dentist
Could ask it so clearly; no pretense, unprompted,
No nightmares of quantum physics to know
Or fears of the universe (how does it grow?)
Or lost wives to death in cemetery nights,
Pubescent angst in the rain soaked street lights,
The fog of sin in Christ's cyclops eye
The knowledge to know you can make yourself die
The black hole sight of fate in despair
Knocked around by the pinball mechanics of time.
"Is this real life?" Sometimes I wonder.
Because I long for things real but feel so often denied.
Is real life pretty or gritty or shitty or what?
Does it fly around in circles or walk the straight path?
The visionary's legs hold our minds in place
But the question resounds kicking away their strong stance.
Unbalanced and unhinged the world unravels,
Leaking monsters and Gods from the creationist sea.
Spatial colors blast from parallel suns,With hues that no earthly eye can see.
Galaxies roam in the back alley clinics
Looking for whores to preach to in vain
And the Einstein Kings live in their clouds,
Chaperones for the speed of light - the one constant that never will change.
"Is this real life?" Maybe is the only reply I know.
"Is this real life?" I heard Marion say too.
The cities swell with faces;
And some will be broken.
The drunks smoke cigarettes with cups in hand
Waiting for change too.
The rain falls sporadic, no one smiles on the street,
Umbrellars are open.
Hours tick by in seconds and minutes and days never end.
The news testifies to problems 24 hours at a time.
The problems never end.
Hands off or hands on the world crumbles because...
Mexico gives us drugs, we give them guns,
Through underground tunnels that bypass the fence.
I saw it on TV (it must be true!)
I learn Cartels from 'Weeds' and I laugh.
"Is this real life?" I hope not is the truth.
"Is this real life?" - a succession of books
With Hamlet at bottom, screaming for naught
Of a mad prophesy filled with computers and Nixons
Giving rise to Revelation with the union man's stamp.
Lincoln responds by quoting MacBeth
But he's thinking about Claudius and how he's him too,
With an Ophelia dripping that becomes a burned flag
Of a country divided and ripped into war
In a time and a place where the killer was silent,
Because the water we shat in was the water we drank
(This still might be true).
But Hamlet's life is the truest testament:
The mind left to wander finds what it seeks,
Be it conspiracies of fools with armageddons at hand
Or left wing vigilantes with bat wings in night
Or rose petals that smell of immortality and jewels
Or the tears that roll down from life's long divides.
The mind left to wander finds what it seeks
But it often never seeks the real life respite
Because real life boiled down is darwinian boredom -
Anticipation of an end inevitably diverted
By days in and days out of the strict reverie.
"Is this real life?" Yes, but none believe they're there.
Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,
Are you out of the lions den of your dentist dream?
I hope not, for your sake.
Jesus is in our computers
And the clock is ticking down.
I'll kiss your youtube stasis
And bow when you are crowned.
"Is this real life?"
I hadn't thought to ask.
But now that I've asked, I'm not sure.
And not sure I want to know.
6/09
In paranoid disbelief and fear.
With the world bent west and bones of reality exposed
He could not comprehend the new world in his eyes.
"Is this real life?" he asked in amazement,
Ignoring his father's laughs and reply.
And so too ask I, though I am not drugged
Nor a child (anymore)
Though I wish that I was.
"Is this real life?" is a question for ages
And angels too, if they oblige to respond.
But only a child hopped up by the dentist
Could ask it so clearly; no pretense, unprompted,
No nightmares of quantum physics to know
Or fears of the universe (how does it grow?)
Or lost wives to death in cemetery nights,
Pubescent angst in the rain soaked street lights,
The fog of sin in Christ's cyclops eye
The knowledge to know you can make yourself die
The black hole sight of fate in despair
Knocked around by the pinball mechanics of time.
"Is this real life?" Sometimes I wonder.
Because I long for things real but feel so often denied.
Is real life pretty or gritty or shitty or what?
Does it fly around in circles or walk the straight path?
The visionary's legs hold our minds in place
But the question resounds kicking away their strong stance.
Unbalanced and unhinged the world unravels,
Leaking monsters and Gods from the creationist sea.
Spatial colors blast from parallel suns,With hues that no earthly eye can see.
Galaxies roam in the back alley clinics
Looking for whores to preach to in vain
And the Einstein Kings live in their clouds,
Chaperones for the speed of light - the one constant that never will change.
"Is this real life?" Maybe is the only reply I know.
"Is this real life?" I heard Marion say too.
The cities swell with faces;
And some will be broken.
The drunks smoke cigarettes with cups in hand
Waiting for change too.
The rain falls sporadic, no one smiles on the street,
Umbrellars are open.
Hours tick by in seconds and minutes and days never end.
The news testifies to problems 24 hours at a time.
The problems never end.
Hands off or hands on the world crumbles because...
Mexico gives us drugs, we give them guns,
Through underground tunnels that bypass the fence.
I saw it on TV (it must be true!)
I learn Cartels from 'Weeds' and I laugh.
"Is this real life?" I hope not is the truth.
"Is this real life?" - a succession of books
With Hamlet at bottom, screaming for naught
Of a mad prophesy filled with computers and Nixons
Giving rise to Revelation with the union man's stamp.
Lincoln responds by quoting MacBeth
But he's thinking about Claudius and how he's him too,
With an Ophelia dripping that becomes a burned flag
Of a country divided and ripped into war
In a time and a place where the killer was silent,
Because the water we shat in was the water we drank
(This still might be true).
But Hamlet's life is the truest testament:
The mind left to wander finds what it seeks,
Be it conspiracies of fools with armageddons at hand
Or left wing vigilantes with bat wings in night
Or rose petals that smell of immortality and jewels
Or the tears that roll down from life's long divides.
The mind left to wander finds what it seeks
But it often never seeks the real life respite
Because real life boiled down is darwinian boredom -
Anticipation of an end inevitably diverted
By days in and days out of the strict reverie.
"Is this real life?" Yes, but none believe they're there.
Daniel, Daniel, Daniel,
Are you out of the lions den of your dentist dream?
I hope not, for your sake.
Jesus is in our computers
And the clock is ticking down.
I'll kiss your youtube stasis
And bow when you are crowned.
"Is this real life?"
I hadn't thought to ask.
But now that I've asked, I'm not sure.
And not sure I want to know.
6/09
Forgetting To Howl
for Allen Ginsberg
Forgetting to howl I lose my madness,
Become numb to a numb world;
I rally and ranch and free range into dumps
That siphon further into the underbelly
Of the Devil's Gulag stare.
Howl wolf, howl when you can!
Howl Lear, for the love you seek,
For the prisoner who could be free,
For the lost, lonesome 21st century,
For the moon - its yours if you want it to be -
Howl! Howl! Do not forget to howl.
The grazing ambulances make no noise anymore,
Their red lights turned on but no one wakes up.
The stars are shut down tonight to save on power,
So no one wants to be awake; no one howls.
Fools to live all, we are! Har, har.
With no howl, no life, no scars to move on.
Show me a pirate and I might join him.
My poverty is poverty too; my light is dimming.
I would join Clark Rockerfeller in his cell if I could,
He must howl for the lies that he knows.
And jail wouldn't make much difference to me.
I'd bunk with Rockerfeller, criminal mastermind -
Not the dead rich robots who beep for their food.
Yes, I'll dine with fake rich heirs who live in their dreams.
(Twisted though his dreams may be)
Maybe his dreams will help my dreams be joys again -
Not saving suffocating nuns by knocking books to the floor.
Joy to the world.
But are we saved?
No. A thousand times no.
Not until health becomes like the night
In whispery, universal winds of soul,
With vagabond horsemen turning the gyre of the moon
So that everyone can see it at their whim.
Not until the poor have their daylight restored
From the depths of how it never was there to begin with.
Not until thousands of fears can confess
That the world they fear does not exist,
Could not exist, ever at all, no how.
I have not seen salvation approaching
Though I look for it at all hours,
And when the thought of it not coming,
Stirs the night and folds the sails,
We must howl or face our death.
Howl wolf, howl when you can!
Howl, Lear, for the love you seek!
For the prisoner who could be free,
For the lost, lonesome 21st century,
For the moon - its yours if you want it to be -
Howl! Howl! Do not forget to howl.
Watch me hurry to the beaches -
Desert sand bordering desert waters -
I'll feed on the catharsis I will castigate myself with later.
The crabs die here for want of water,
The birds feed on their carcasses and bread
Strewn aside by picnickers who did not need communion.
Nothing seperates desperation and luxury,
On the cold, desert sand its all survival
With or without the pursuit of true life.
I escaped to the wasteland beach,
Became aquainted with silent night,
Felt guilt unbound as Prometheus' fire
But felt the crows from Promethus side
When the guilt from no guilt arrived.
And all the while I forgot to howl,
Stupid wretch that I am,
For to howl is why I went.
I've been on the edge of so many breakdowns
There seems to be no solution but...
Forgetting to howl I lose my madness,
Become numb to a numb world;
I rally and ranch and free range into dumps
That siphon further into the underbelly
Of the Devil's Gulag stare.
Howl wolf, howl when you can!
Howl Lear, for the love you seek,
For the prisoner who could be free,
For the lost, lonesome 21st century,
For the moon - its yours if you want it to be -
Howl! Howl! Do not forget to howl.
The grazing ambulances make no noise anymore,
Their red lights turned on but no one wakes up.
The stars are shut down tonight to save on power,
So no one wants to be awake; no one howls.
Fools to live all, we are! Har, har.
With no howl, no life, no scars to move on.
Show me a pirate and I might join him.
My poverty is poverty too; my light is dimming.
I would join Clark Rockerfeller in his cell if I could,
He must howl for the lies that he knows.
And jail wouldn't make much difference to me.
I'd bunk with Rockerfeller, criminal mastermind -
Not the dead rich robots who beep for their food.
Yes, I'll dine with fake rich heirs who live in their dreams.
(Twisted though his dreams may be)
Maybe his dreams will help my dreams be joys again -
Not saving suffocating nuns by knocking books to the floor.
Joy to the world.
But are we saved?
No. A thousand times no.
Not until health becomes like the night
In whispery, universal winds of soul,
With vagabond horsemen turning the gyre of the moon
So that everyone can see it at their whim.
Not until the poor have their daylight restored
From the depths of how it never was there to begin with.
Not until thousands of fears can confess
That the world they fear does not exist,
Could not exist, ever at all, no how.
I have not seen salvation approaching
Though I look for it at all hours,
And when the thought of it not coming,
Stirs the night and folds the sails,
We must howl or face our death.
Howl wolf, howl when you can!
Howl, Lear, for the love you seek!
For the prisoner who could be free,
For the lost, lonesome 21st century,
For the moon - its yours if you want it to be -
Howl! Howl! Do not forget to howl.
Watch me hurry to the beaches -
Desert sand bordering desert waters -
I'll feed on the catharsis I will castigate myself with later.
The crabs die here for want of water,
The birds feed on their carcasses and bread
Strewn aside by picnickers who did not need communion.
Nothing seperates desperation and luxury,
On the cold, desert sand its all survival
With or without the pursuit of true life.
I escaped to the wasteland beach,
Became aquainted with silent night,
Felt guilt unbound as Prometheus' fire
But felt the crows from Promethus side
When the guilt from no guilt arrived.
And all the while I forgot to howl,
Stupid wretch that I am,
For to howl is why I went.
I've been on the edge of so many breakdowns
There seems to be no solution but...
I Am Transported
My friends hold precious tickets in their ready hands
Soon to be transported to distant, other lands:
John, will see America and her wide open arms
Stretching from high mountains to her lowest farms;
Michal will cross the sea for Moses' newfound home,
To Greece, Istanbul, London, and then onto Rome.
Jessie will fly west to know the North West Coast
To a wedding of a frieind, she must make her toast.
And I, barren soldier, must kiss the barren earth
And stay a while longer in my place here.
Biding my time, not minding its passing,
Be it week, month, or stationary year.
But in the night, my fears unhinged,
I see Yosemite and Frisco, the Pyramids, Paris
Greek Islands and Greek shores,
Temples, churches, hills, cliffs, and moors,
The endlessly sacred and the secret divine
And I, not placed at a single one, die unknown.
To breathe, I step outside
And behold Atlas' mighty burden,
More ancient than God himself.
The clouds like fallen ice shelf adrift at sea,
Illuminated by moon, take my breath away.
The stars, older than time, shine with open delight,
The blackness of night erodes my wanderlusty fright
And I am well in happiness again -
Seeing miracles and knowing it,
And I am transported
Away, away.
6/09
Soon to be transported to distant, other lands:
John, will see America and her wide open arms
Stretching from high mountains to her lowest farms;
Michal will cross the sea for Moses' newfound home,
To Greece, Istanbul, London, and then onto Rome.
Jessie will fly west to know the North West Coast
To a wedding of a frieind, she must make her toast.
And I, barren soldier, must kiss the barren earth
And stay a while longer in my place here.
Biding my time, not minding its passing,
Be it week, month, or stationary year.
But in the night, my fears unhinged,
I see Yosemite and Frisco, the Pyramids, Paris
Greek Islands and Greek shores,
Temples, churches, hills, cliffs, and moors,
The endlessly sacred and the secret divine
And I, not placed at a single one, die unknown.
To breathe, I step outside
And behold Atlas' mighty burden,
More ancient than God himself.
The clouds like fallen ice shelf adrift at sea,
Illuminated by moon, take my breath away.
The stars, older than time, shine with open delight,
The blackness of night erodes my wanderlusty fright
And I am well in happiness again -
Seeing miracles and knowing it,
And I am transported
Away, away.
6/09
Rubicon
There, in the shallow banks where the grass peers through the water
And tiny fish dart amidst the shells,
I have seen miniscule bubbles float from the earth's womb
To deliver a message from the grave of the Gods.
"You have met your rubicon,"
The bubbles announce as they pop.
No one hears them, and no one would listen anyway,
But I hear them and keep it to myself.
I can smell my favorite of all smells:
Fresh water on the breeze.
So nothing worries me, not a rubicon or impasse -
I am taken in by the withering bliss of dividing bubbles.
5/09
And tiny fish dart amidst the shells,
I have seen miniscule bubbles float from the earth's womb
To deliver a message from the grave of the Gods.
"You have met your rubicon,"
The bubbles announce as they pop.
No one hears them, and no one would listen anyway,
But I hear them and keep it to myself.
I can smell my favorite of all smells:
Fresh water on the breeze.
So nothing worries me, not a rubicon or impasse -
I am taken in by the withering bliss of dividing bubbles.
5/09
Old Titans (Underneath America)
Part I
We are all a little windy lately, off balance but standing still.
Like a death wind blowing with the sails put away,
We can't move anywhere but there's no place to stay.
Go Away Old Titans, we don't need you tonight,
You haunt our dreams of freedom in our days of night despair.
I put Ginsberg in a box and told him to slip away.
Kerouac's gone and done howling I say!
He's a mute, white wolf now.
And that Junky slipped through my fingers towards junky Tangiers.
Yes, Old Titans, you are needed no more!
We've found your drugs with a brain on the floor.
The raven who quothe "Never more."
Said it for you, never for me.
I too have seen America laid flat on its back
To be fucked by Homer the Greek
Though it thought him Homer Simpson.I
too have seen late night crime on a box on the cold floor
With dribbling language defiling the temple of my ear
And I've escaped to a bottle where the end of it was as enlightening as -
Or as redemptive as -
All the match box closure of rolling the end credits.
No, I have seen nothing.
The ephemeral day is the roladex of the universe.
It reveals the limitations of our minds
Who close the bank of dreams while we make a run on it like it was 1933
When Auden was still alive and should have been wearing a crown.
He knew freedom. Whitman knew it too. Where have they gone?
But the days of language have met their end.
Conversations - Ha! I have seen the noose made up.
Where are the Old Titans now?
Escaping still into that night or that road?
My internet has a Cat O' Nine Tails and it has put me on no road.
I am whipped every day and night.
The glass whipped into my back gives me shimmering glimpses
Into the simplified life of anyone who dares blog (I am no exception. I am no Christ)
And I see their blog and I know them because I have made love to their words
Because their words are so silly, rediculous, forboding, redundant, meticulous
And corroding
And meaningless.
They throw their words to the ocean, like bottles in the sea
But no one can remember the sea any more.
Not you, not me, not me, not me.
We have other oceans to sail, other seas to traverse:
Knowledge Oceans, information delux, data, gossip, celebrity, perez
And I make love to their words all because their words are just nothing
With no conception of their nothingness.
Susan Boyle is to swine flu as we are to history;
Just the next thing in the line to oblivion.
So we aim our orgasms at the red sun and run around in circles,
Burning our eyes out with dumb cigarettes,
And frenzied coffee stares - coffee has not been proven bad for health yet! -
And our green earth wilts still!
There aren't enough hotels in the world to house all the fears we create
For ourselves in the bathrooms and junkyard alleys.
I have seen all the statistics.
Let me breathe carcinogens, I'll call myself a Martyr.
Let me eat at McDonalds, I'll call myself King.
Let me forget terrorism, I'll call myself Dreamer,
I Have an ocean full of swine,
I write letters to the government.
This Poem Has No Filter.
I'll make love to Castro for a Cuban Cigar.
I'll shoot JFK so I can save him again.
On and on, yes, on and on.
In America April is not the cruelest month.
Its December, when the bums freeze and when the bums die -
The bums and hobos, homeless and deaf, who are, I am starting to believe,
The wisest creations we have in our midst.
Yes! The wisest ones we have.I
salute always to President Hobo
Who has seen beatings and crack dens and babies alone.
I have never seen these.
Who has seen rapes and murders and blood not spared.
I have never seen these.
Who has seen prostitutes work for less than minimum wage.
I have never seen these.
Who have not seen the end of the bottle and never black out
Who have tangled with police for a bench and a howl
For a place to rest, a bed, a park,
Who do not smoke weed or take LSD so they can brag
But take heroine and crack and alcohol and cigarettes to live
And curse at the forgetful cities who denied them the talent of Coltrane, Armstrong.
They know to live is to live is to live is to live
That there is no inbetween.
I have never seen these.
To either hunger or be dead is to live is to live.
There is no internet or Susan Boyle (whom everyone has forgotten already)
There is no Hilton or recycling becuse there is hunger too hard
Or Forward onto the next thing while we forget to read and talk
And lose homes in recessions because the Moloch of Morgage
Wound a clock too tight so the center could not hold.
And maybe we too are becoming bums, but we know we are not.
Not at least until China calls in our debt to make us vagabonds on the universal curb
Not till then will we be wise,
Know hunger
Salute the president Hobo -
The one Dos Passos ended his trilogy with while we vomited on an airplane.
Part II
All my pleasures are like yesterday,
With the blind flow of motion, the waves taking me under America
Where in the sewers the secrets are sacred.
The women who weep
In Orange trees
Feel the breeze
Under America, this labrynth of mirrors.
('Stop this silliness you are thinking' - this poem is pretense
No one has yet found the tense we need and no one has dared.
Where is the post tense, I ask you. Where?
So I live under America
And it is not for you vague reader who has come so far to reject this notion,
But for the conicise who have paid their way with eyes.)
So I live under America
Where the flotsam of dreams meet the jetsam of desire;
Where cannibals feast on Shakespeare and Chaucer
Under the dim florescent light called God in our midst.
Where the darkness forges forgetful sorrow, disregarding
All things beautiful, symmetrical, corrupt, and forlorn.
We shall dine at the feast of the Craigslist Killer
(Who's only sin was murder).
There we shall discuss the origins of species and to conclude we'll curse Darwin's name.
"We came out of no primordial soup," say we,
"That degrades everything in us."
We emerged from glorious chaos - beauty unparalleled
Because it is so lost beyond perception.
We shall overcome - someday
To return to where we went or came
To say 'Holy, Holy' in someone's name.
Can it be that the halo is the storm of the angel,
The symbol of frightful submission,
Giving rise to the tepid, torrential, and modern waves of guilt and rage?
Curse the waves and lift them all.
I'll not be damned under a sea.
Mickey Mouse is sorceror no more!
We can bash the heads of our overlords against the curbside,
Watch clouds bleed from their heads,
The dreamstuff escaping. We are our own kings. Never forget.
Democracy Overcrowded, let the small ones be alive
Let the old ones be dead, let the poor be complete
Let the powerful be light, and the dead be content.
Wherefore art thou Old Titans?
Fire rages in the belly underneath America
Consuming its static flies and maggot squatters.
Is the question of life to be a nomad or dead?
Or are we condemned to an eternal safety
That burns hotter than hell and bores with a vengeance,
Littered with statistics of cancer and anti-smoking trends.
We are supposed to not do so much
Its amazing we can do anything at all.
This is the truth emblem emblazed on each stamp
Underneath America
Where the postal system still thrives.
Part III
No.
Forgive me.
Today I am anxious, not seeing through my fog.
Lights seem dimmer and fading into distances.
If I am left alone on the London streets I would die;
Jack the Ripper still lurks in the valley of life.
Do not hold on, but go always into whatever you can find.
I fear it is too late for this one. I am already lost.
Leave me here, those who can leave, you should.
The waters on this rocky river bank are grey and undrinkable.
Soon there will be deserts all around me and black clouds above.
I'll try my best not to think about it
Though I know that I will.
The rain falls gently. I see it collect at the end of my nose
And fall off into the oblivion of earth.
I do not seek shelter or use my hands to shield myself.
I am winter today
And the rain cannot melt me.
The Old Titans have left us for good.
We know this now.
When the rain began they fled into the wilderness and oceans.
But how we need them still.
They've run off with America on the road to the secret Mexico
Known only to the borderlanders who collect magic from the bleeding earth.
God to be on the road! How maliciously sweet.
I emerged from Underneath America and breathed the fresh air,
Then was grabbed and brought below,
Tangled in the mess of a hundred handed beast.
My eyes have grown grey and sleepless.
The rain tastes like heavenly copper.
The river swells.
Grow villain, grow, grow, and grow.
Listen to that wind who brings the rain in its arms
And will take it away when the hour comes.
All the while I'll sit here and try to be a monk
With my cuorduroy and sallow, unbiblical thoughts.
The energy of youth has been turned into clay!
The lavish night is imprisonned by day!
The stars are no miracles, just burdens to know!
The Titans from dreams have been laid down low!
Arise new Titans from the lava filled streams!
Go forth and give birth to apocryphal dreams!
Light new lights down the tunnels of woe!
Rearrange the life we think we still know!
I remember:I have held lightning in my hand,
Electric as the original seed of man.
The ocean swells are the Lord's orchestra in the holiest world of all.
They smash into rocks and make the earth new,
Forming cliffs and beaches through millenia of cycled moons.
Not one Ocean asks "Is this it?"
Because they cannot because
They are it, the one consuming ever lasting all.
Their breath is our life; their age our time;
Their salt, our knowledge;
Their eternal, our mortal;
Their holy is the only holy.
Cancel my vision or rewind my tongue,
I will still say we are ocean children,
Born anew to know and understand that Titans do not die.
They rest dormant in eternal seas.
And writing will never die while there are pens to write.
And America will never die, it will only move on.
New births! Carnivore storks! All abound in the valley.
In unlikely pairings we slowly come to know truth
And there is truth yet to come, indeed.
Take your passport and fly on good soldier
To the undertaking of the sky.
5/09
We are all a little windy lately, off balance but standing still.
Like a death wind blowing with the sails put away,
We can't move anywhere but there's no place to stay.
Go Away Old Titans, we don't need you tonight,
You haunt our dreams of freedom in our days of night despair.
I put Ginsberg in a box and told him to slip away.
Kerouac's gone and done howling I say!
He's a mute, white wolf now.
And that Junky slipped through my fingers towards junky Tangiers.
Yes, Old Titans, you are needed no more!
We've found your drugs with a brain on the floor.
The raven who quothe "Never more."
Said it for you, never for me.
I too have seen America laid flat on its back
To be fucked by Homer the Greek
Though it thought him Homer Simpson.I
too have seen late night crime on a box on the cold floor
With dribbling language defiling the temple of my ear
And I've escaped to a bottle where the end of it was as enlightening as -
Or as redemptive as -
All the match box closure of rolling the end credits.
No, I have seen nothing.
The ephemeral day is the roladex of the universe.
It reveals the limitations of our minds
Who close the bank of dreams while we make a run on it like it was 1933
When Auden was still alive and should have been wearing a crown.
He knew freedom. Whitman knew it too. Where have they gone?
But the days of language have met their end.
Conversations - Ha! I have seen the noose made up.
Where are the Old Titans now?
Escaping still into that night or that road?
My internet has a Cat O' Nine Tails and it has put me on no road.
I am whipped every day and night.
The glass whipped into my back gives me shimmering glimpses
Into the simplified life of anyone who dares blog (I am no exception. I am no Christ)
And I see their blog and I know them because I have made love to their words
Because their words are so silly, rediculous, forboding, redundant, meticulous
And corroding
And meaningless.
They throw their words to the ocean, like bottles in the sea
But no one can remember the sea any more.
Not you, not me, not me, not me.
We have other oceans to sail, other seas to traverse:
Knowledge Oceans, information delux, data, gossip, celebrity, perez
And I make love to their words all because their words are just nothing
With no conception of their nothingness.
Susan Boyle is to swine flu as we are to history;
Just the next thing in the line to oblivion.
So we aim our orgasms at the red sun and run around in circles,
Burning our eyes out with dumb cigarettes,
And frenzied coffee stares - coffee has not been proven bad for health yet! -
And our green earth wilts still!
There aren't enough hotels in the world to house all the fears we create
For ourselves in the bathrooms and junkyard alleys.
I have seen all the statistics.
Let me breathe carcinogens, I'll call myself a Martyr.
Let me eat at McDonalds, I'll call myself King.
Let me forget terrorism, I'll call myself Dreamer,
I Have an ocean full of swine,
I write letters to the government.
This Poem Has No Filter.
I'll make love to Castro for a Cuban Cigar.
I'll shoot JFK so I can save him again.
On and on, yes, on and on.
In America April is not the cruelest month.
Its December, when the bums freeze and when the bums die -
The bums and hobos, homeless and deaf, who are, I am starting to believe,
The wisest creations we have in our midst.
Yes! The wisest ones we have.I
salute always to President Hobo
Who has seen beatings and crack dens and babies alone.
I have never seen these.
Who has seen rapes and murders and blood not spared.
I have never seen these.
Who has seen prostitutes work for less than minimum wage.
I have never seen these.
Who have not seen the end of the bottle and never black out
Who have tangled with police for a bench and a howl
For a place to rest, a bed, a park,
Who do not smoke weed or take LSD so they can brag
But take heroine and crack and alcohol and cigarettes to live
And curse at the forgetful cities who denied them the talent of Coltrane, Armstrong.
They know to live is to live is to live is to live
That there is no inbetween.
I have never seen these.
To either hunger or be dead is to live is to live.
There is no internet or Susan Boyle (whom everyone has forgotten already)
There is no Hilton or recycling becuse there is hunger too hard
Or Forward onto the next thing while we forget to read and talk
And lose homes in recessions because the Moloch of Morgage
Wound a clock too tight so the center could not hold.
And maybe we too are becoming bums, but we know we are not.
Not at least until China calls in our debt to make us vagabonds on the universal curb
Not till then will we be wise,
Know hunger
Salute the president Hobo -
The one Dos Passos ended his trilogy with while we vomited on an airplane.
Part II
All my pleasures are like yesterday,
With the blind flow of motion, the waves taking me under America
Where in the sewers the secrets are sacred.
The women who weep
In Orange trees
Feel the breeze
Under America, this labrynth of mirrors.
('Stop this silliness you are thinking' - this poem is pretense
No one has yet found the tense we need and no one has dared.
Where is the post tense, I ask you. Where?
So I live under America
And it is not for you vague reader who has come so far to reject this notion,
But for the conicise who have paid their way with eyes.)
So I live under America
Where the flotsam of dreams meet the jetsam of desire;
Where cannibals feast on Shakespeare and Chaucer
Under the dim florescent light called God in our midst.
Where the darkness forges forgetful sorrow, disregarding
All things beautiful, symmetrical, corrupt, and forlorn.
We shall dine at the feast of the Craigslist Killer
(Who's only sin was murder).
There we shall discuss the origins of species and to conclude we'll curse Darwin's name.
"We came out of no primordial soup," say we,
"That degrades everything in us."
We emerged from glorious chaos - beauty unparalleled
Because it is so lost beyond perception.
We shall overcome - someday
To return to where we went or came
To say 'Holy, Holy' in someone's name.
Can it be that the halo is the storm of the angel,
The symbol of frightful submission,
Giving rise to the tepid, torrential, and modern waves of guilt and rage?
Curse the waves and lift them all.
I'll not be damned under a sea.
Mickey Mouse is sorceror no more!
We can bash the heads of our overlords against the curbside,
Watch clouds bleed from their heads,
The dreamstuff escaping. We are our own kings. Never forget.
Democracy Overcrowded, let the small ones be alive
Let the old ones be dead, let the poor be complete
Let the powerful be light, and the dead be content.
Wherefore art thou Old Titans?
Fire rages in the belly underneath America
Consuming its static flies and maggot squatters.
Is the question of life to be a nomad or dead?
Or are we condemned to an eternal safety
That burns hotter than hell and bores with a vengeance,
Littered with statistics of cancer and anti-smoking trends.
We are supposed to not do so much
Its amazing we can do anything at all.
This is the truth emblem emblazed on each stamp
Underneath America
Where the postal system still thrives.
Part III
No.
Forgive me.
Today I am anxious, not seeing through my fog.
Lights seem dimmer and fading into distances.
If I am left alone on the London streets I would die;
Jack the Ripper still lurks in the valley of life.
Do not hold on, but go always into whatever you can find.
I fear it is too late for this one. I am already lost.
Leave me here, those who can leave, you should.
The waters on this rocky river bank are grey and undrinkable.
Soon there will be deserts all around me and black clouds above.
I'll try my best not to think about it
Though I know that I will.
The rain falls gently. I see it collect at the end of my nose
And fall off into the oblivion of earth.
I do not seek shelter or use my hands to shield myself.
I am winter today
And the rain cannot melt me.
The Old Titans have left us for good.
We know this now.
When the rain began they fled into the wilderness and oceans.
But how we need them still.
They've run off with America on the road to the secret Mexico
Known only to the borderlanders who collect magic from the bleeding earth.
God to be on the road! How maliciously sweet.
I emerged from Underneath America and breathed the fresh air,
Then was grabbed and brought below,
Tangled in the mess of a hundred handed beast.
My eyes have grown grey and sleepless.
The rain tastes like heavenly copper.
The river swells.
Grow villain, grow, grow, and grow.
Listen to that wind who brings the rain in its arms
And will take it away when the hour comes.
All the while I'll sit here and try to be a monk
With my cuorduroy and sallow, unbiblical thoughts.
The energy of youth has been turned into clay!
The lavish night is imprisonned by day!
The stars are no miracles, just burdens to know!
The Titans from dreams have been laid down low!
Arise new Titans from the lava filled streams!
Go forth and give birth to apocryphal dreams!
Light new lights down the tunnels of woe!
Rearrange the life we think we still know!
I remember:I have held lightning in my hand,
Electric as the original seed of man.
The ocean swells are the Lord's orchestra in the holiest world of all.
They smash into rocks and make the earth new,
Forming cliffs and beaches through millenia of cycled moons.
Not one Ocean asks "Is this it?"
Because they cannot because
They are it, the one consuming ever lasting all.
Their breath is our life; their age our time;
Their salt, our knowledge;
Their eternal, our mortal;
Their holy is the only holy.
Cancel my vision or rewind my tongue,
I will still say we are ocean children,
Born anew to know and understand that Titans do not die.
They rest dormant in eternal seas.
And writing will never die while there are pens to write.
And America will never die, it will only move on.
New births! Carnivore storks! All abound in the valley.
In unlikely pairings we slowly come to know truth
And there is truth yet to come, indeed.
Take your passport and fly on good soldier
To the undertaking of the sky.
5/09
Souls Who Will Demand Satisfaction
I’ve been giving people cancer lately
In these, the waning winter months
When nearly all tolerance and forbearance has been cashed
To pay for the mortgage and other debts that destroy worlds.
“Can I do this and continue to live happily?”
I ask myself from time to time in my day to day.
No simple answer replies – no bolt of lightning crashes down.
Just the persistent heat stolen from the African sun responds:
“The north wind hunts wildly for souls
Who will demand their satisfaction,
In spite of all the canyon collapse that lay at their feet,
And the dead generations that live in the ruins around them.
When caught they writhe in such fits
Even a scoundrel’s fool would be ashamed.
They suffer and want for nothing more than their worth
And they cry harshly, critically, soulfully and then they die.”
I’ve been feeling my sore feet too often,
Enjoying my stories and fantasies too much.
In the night I do not sleep or rest because of the cries;
I hear them in the dream alleys that flee when I wake.
One day I shall be among them again, I know.
Though for now I must resign my throne.
One day I shall be a soul feeling life twice once more:
I shall cry out in anguish, become none, and never wake.
5/09
In these, the waning winter months
When nearly all tolerance and forbearance has been cashed
To pay for the mortgage and other debts that destroy worlds.
“Can I do this and continue to live happily?”
I ask myself from time to time in my day to day.
No simple answer replies – no bolt of lightning crashes down.
Just the persistent heat stolen from the African sun responds:
“The north wind hunts wildly for souls
Who will demand their satisfaction,
In spite of all the canyon collapse that lay at their feet,
And the dead generations that live in the ruins around them.
When caught they writhe in such fits
Even a scoundrel’s fool would be ashamed.
They suffer and want for nothing more than their worth
And they cry harshly, critically, soulfully and then they die.”
I’ve been feeling my sore feet too often,
Enjoying my stories and fantasies too much.
In the night I do not sleep or rest because of the cries;
I hear them in the dream alleys that flee when I wake.
One day I shall be among them again, I know.
Though for now I must resign my throne.
One day I shall be a soul feeling life twice once more:
I shall cry out in anguish, become none, and never wake.
5/09
Terminator Salvation
Terminator Salvation is the poorest heaven,
The darkest night of the terminal mind.
It preaches to the infinite but begs with the bums
And has a hollow face like a junky
Stark naked in the snow bleak winter of time.
Walking through the life-like valleys of night
The wreckage from eternity stomps you soul
Into paralytic threats of non-conforming wrath
And you are left there alone to die
With a tempest raging over your body.
Demi-Angel creatures lift your body on high
Way into the chloroform clouds into the space
Where stars in magnitude madden the mingling midnights,
With the vampires from Atlantis depths at your side
And celestial rolling ocean waves of thunder and redemption
Crashing perpetual on all you once called yours.
No darkness to envelope your light,
No soul to welcome you,
No banner that reads freedom, no sign of life
Just endless, endless, endless,
On and on into the collective point in the distance.
Poor souls, grasped in the salvation they did not choose!
Poor souls, founded in the foothills of solemnity purged!
Poor souls, who seek heaven and always find something less!
Poor souls, rerouted in plagued detours of the spirtual quest!
You have found Terminator salvation - it is not what you thought.
It is not a descent or a desert or clouds of machine demons
Or the romantic robot stream of life that led us once to nightmare basins.
No. It is a dark place, livid with hives
Cleansed by the honey of undisclosed dates and meetings behind closed doors.
Oh! To hell with machine pilots.
I'll be my own navigator and salvage my heaven on the side.
5/09
The darkest night of the terminal mind.
It preaches to the infinite but begs with the bums
And has a hollow face like a junky
Stark naked in the snow bleak winter of time.
Walking through the life-like valleys of night
The wreckage from eternity stomps you soul
Into paralytic threats of non-conforming wrath
And you are left there alone to die
With a tempest raging over your body.
Demi-Angel creatures lift your body on high
Way into the chloroform clouds into the space
Where stars in magnitude madden the mingling midnights,
With the vampires from Atlantis depths at your side
And celestial rolling ocean waves of thunder and redemption
Crashing perpetual on all you once called yours.
No darkness to envelope your light,
No soul to welcome you,
No banner that reads freedom, no sign of life
Just endless, endless, endless,
On and on into the collective point in the distance.
Poor souls, grasped in the salvation they did not choose!
Poor souls, founded in the foothills of solemnity purged!
Poor souls, who seek heaven and always find something less!
Poor souls, rerouted in plagued detours of the spirtual quest!
You have found Terminator salvation - it is not what you thought.
It is not a descent or a desert or clouds of machine demons
Or the romantic robot stream of life that led us once to nightmare basins.
No. It is a dark place, livid with hives
Cleansed by the honey of undisclosed dates and meetings behind closed doors.
Oh! To hell with machine pilots.
I'll be my own navigator and salvage my heaven on the side.
5/09
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