Roll Call of the Lesser Devils I

The hunter of hearts quivers, thinking of a good solid target.
Success feels more spectacular when the target heart
Offers firm, muscular resistance.
Attainment follows only extended chases,
With splendid, unique displays of elusion and pursuit each time.
The hunter usually overcomes the mark,
Leaving the victim hopelessly in love.
Sensation drapes itself around thought during the endeavor,
Which takes place in the lands beyond judgment,
That place nobody goes unless wanting.

The spring thaw measures the come and go of love.
She weeps for she knows an attempt to end separation
Would measure up like an attempt to keep the winter snow from melting.
Her tears fill the streams and rivers
When death comes and takes away he closest to her.
Her loyalty had kept his spirit alive
Much longer than the doctors had appraised,
But long before the end began the outcome had always been certain;
Everyone must separate for a short while
When the time comes to abandon flesh.
As the end drew near for her she realized
Throwing herself at the finish with courage.
In the last seconds of lifes breath she could see both sides
And then she simply went across.

Confronted by the delusion of their strengths, taking heat for their flaws,
Sinners have been firmly educated to believe in hell.
Flames and retribution, it has been taught, are the final agony.
Others believe the spirit can slip onward without worry,
And can easily think while the drip of seconds going by during death
Explode across the plane of existence, vanquishing ties to what is understood.
The spirit agonizes only a moment as a huge rush of understanding bursts forth,
And then begins to sail away,
Contrary to ideas held by those in charge of implanting prejudice and fear.

The pact of love is sealed forever
With a wish for goodness from one beating heart to another;
Any sentiment less than that merely imitates love.

Most would avoid the reckoning of lost love.
If one learns a lot before that fall,
Character can find strength, placing the mind beyond pain.
If one becomes dependent then shame burns through,
Reminding one of what has been lost.

Lover’s will always return to the idea of pleasure in each other’s arms,
To the thought of closeness and gentle touching.
Knowledge is the only necessary precaution.
Lest one become lost in pleasure,
The way to the exit must be known.

None may see the future with their eyes, though some can guess it.
Only eyes may see the beauty of nudity,
Through that vision knowing at least what a desirable, short term,
Future might be.

The road to heaven at first requires no wings.
Do not be alarmed at their absence until they are really needed,
Until it is too late to forget about the spilled milk.

We all rest at the completion of work
Unless driven to accomplish by only the internal drive to greatness;
In that case we work at the completion of work.

This is the value of our country:
With no one ruling from a throne
Many are more likely to feel they have the worth necessary to occupy one.
People want to demonstrate their worth.
If someone’s value goes unheeded
Despite valiant effort to be noticed,
Then the world has locked them out,
Cut their ties to the world in which everyone wants to live.
Just to notice them would make them feel
That it is not so hard to be of worth.

Even without the attention of the world rewards will come.
Directing one’s self constructively affords satisfaction,
Unlike the wasting of time.

The mask of the deceitful will be their revealed shame,
All will eventually find out what exists to be concealed.
Sin can be found by looking for the veil that hides it.

Somehow the advocates of poverty,
And the bricklayers of contorted, difficult paths,
All understand their work.
They do it anyway because they enjoy it.

When sativa wafts on the elder thought currents
Only the mystic inside can measure the quality of life at that moment.
Lovers find it of immeasurable value,
But then one should never mention such things publicly.

Justice is but a fraction of divine will.
The dust of divinity brings tears to the eyes as the wind whips it up
Like sand whipping up in the desert where
Water vanished ages ago.
One thinks little about justice while lost in the desert,
And can only dwell on how much God’s plan it must be
Being so complicated, painful and mysterious.

After sleep the door stands open on another day.
All the ghosts of lust and heroism will drift through
Politely introducing each other again,
And love will be there as well, cloaked in the breathtaking skins of animals.

A tier of crowns exists afer life,
A palace in the clouds, higher than dreams can drift.
The crown reserved for souls unified under imagination
Will be most exalted, though some in the low rings beneath the earth
Will be too fascinated to believe they haven’t made it to heaven.

The thorns of reciprocal duty:
Any heart heavy with doubt should flee from the exchange
Or the prickly love that leaves desire unfulfilled will grow up,
Strong and dense to obscure your struggling form from the eyes of the world.

Only a martyr would desire to bleed.
Heed nature’s words and hold no blades against yourself,
For only the courage of the fires of ancestral wisdom
May embolden one to capture the prize of ages past,
The flowing river of consciousness with which heroic life will be imbued,
Even to the closest confines of the smallest microcosm.

The passage of the romantic gods left only a few to remember well.
Artemis hunts no more,
The thirsty moon has been drunk up by time.
Demeter’s harvest and fertility filled her cup,
But conceptions and satisfaction availed her not,
Hestia, the cherished goddess, will be missed.
The breezes of the early earth somehow hold on to honor their memories.
Who feels no ancient stirring when the breeze murmurs up,
But those wrapped up with their selfish God.

21. For Susan, My Love
The pyramids stand now after the blood has vanished,
And owls merely note the come and go with the same question as before.
To answer is to stop fate for a moment.
The pyramids: less mysterious than her peering eyes, or a lock of her hair,
Golden, that of a lover’s well cared for tresses
Beautiful, like an angel with invisible wings,
Absent until she decides to fly.
The journey into the sky follows a clear course, do not worry,
God hasn’t even deprived the old gods of flight, as men have written,
But instead he shares the wonder with them,
And with one so full of the goodness in life
Radiance pours forth from her bosom
As though feeding the world like a baby with her light.

Experience reveals that trouble brings delays to greatness,
And should be avoided at all costs.
It is an agent of the nether realms,
An entity sent to hinder for sins and wrongdoings.

Tell every soul individually what it especially wants to hear:
Light justifies actions,
Victory can be had without sacrifice.
Be sure never to mention the truth,
It could hinder success in public speaking.

Muses: the twelve who steal spirits of the beautiful, forcing them to learn
All the secrets of the dainty, erotic world,
Until the knowledge ushers in madness.
They return the spirit to the body as their slave.
The sufferer writes songs until both hands bleed.
They set store in the interest of their victims,
For they can abduct only those they can woo.
Those afflicted reckon everyone adores songs and poetry
Especially imbued with a secretive and sexy allure.
Nothing can be said to change their mind.

The doom for awareness of past mistakes:
The results of the errors flutter around in the wind
As obvious as obscenities uttered in a very quiet room.
In the true hell every living thing can see these mistakes, and they think,
“Has there ever before been such a fool?”

26. To Freya
The spirit of love in the cold north, where the best expression of it
Lies in the shared warmth.  The melody of madness in her lands is the sound
Of the cold wind whistling through stiff frozen hands.  Her fire saved many
A good man, so Yahweh granted her respect in His plan.

Cupid never strings his bow unless the victim doesn’t expect it.
The arrows, even more cruelly, never seek the heart, but another,
More sensitive organ, and his aim is true enough
To bathe the region in insatiable hungers,
Kindling for the blaze that will be touched off
When the two victims touch.

At the final judgment scene
When God reveals charges of deadly sin against
A cringing immortal soul,
The laugh reserved for occassions of hysteria
Will echo forth to freeze the ears of the firmament.
God has engineered the scenario.
While still living the soul was lured into temptations it
Could not understand, hypnotized by want of fame, fortune,
And of course happiness.
The hopeless verdict becomes very funny to the victim,
As he understandably cracks while standing before God.
Where else could the final injustice be revealed.
The universe is wrong after all.

God laughs along with the broken spirit,
He gets to laugh last after all.
He knows the spirit never knew His other side.
All that bad press about the devil, when all along...

In an astounding twist the spirit feels that he is the judge,
Though he stands accused, something inside self examines.
The consciousness within him determines that there is no damnation.
The two sides of the divine theatre are one,
Consequently, the most damned exhibit the most wasted potential,
And the most saved suffer through their own guilt.

The spirit also sees that the most exalted of wealthy Christians
Too often turn their backs on the truth for the sake of saving face.
To realize their actions late falsifies the virtues of their faith.
In a final irony God strips the honor of that elite,
Granting it with a laugh to the common, sin stricken spirits.
Luckily for the poor spirit before Him
Life on earth had never been too decadently furnished.
Feeling exhausted from stress the spirit realizes this is heaven.

Dearly departed, we are gathered here today.
At the funeral the clergy make praise for the dead
They never make allowance for the hell on earth
Most of the dear departed had to go through before leaving,
Or the hell on earth many of the dear departed
Made other people go through.
Instead they paint a rosy picture of the afterlife.
They do that for everyone who has a funeral.
The truth: only your life can speak for itself.
When you die you just go away,
Only what you have already said and done remains.

Pursuit without achievement:
Decay waits for no one.
All ends remind the nerves of the physical danger.
Angels send help too late for anything but the soul.
The body collapses.
It somehow retains superstition
Even when death has no precision.
Time destroys sincerity by revealing backgrounds.
Ignorance destroys prosperity.
If not inclined to achieve, at least gain knowledge of why.
When one is always waiting and never doing,
All too soon come the angels and the end.

Darkness overpowers, form is twisted to the breaking point,
Until it vanishes and wafts away on the Stygian currents.
Light takes its leave in an abysmal plunge,
Down through the depths filled only by black.
Light has deserted the center of reason.
All the mind could carry with it:
A cherished toy from childhood,
The memory of touching the only one you ever really loved,
And a dream of playing in the sunshine
While everything around you seemed to make sense,
And it felt like the night would never come.

Diffidence drags away the lunatic
In the morning before the strong storm.
Call it the raging brew of empty days,
A torn piece of heaven from which pours water.
Speak with the rain and she’ll tell you,
The blood of gods gives meaning to the present.
Crucial is every response and motion.
All should be in balance, nothing seen as just for the taking.
In all generosity confidence sweeps the earth in torrents.

Blackness, the only light a sliver in a mirror,
Strengthening for another night.
In now, hero, you are only spinning webs of mortal fortune.
The spite of the dawn is to be replaced by the sun;
Any sense of wonder at the unknown will then shatter.
The moment allows response, but then you must move on.
Reveal motives: Dominion seeks to establish More.
Now or never, to do or die, and on and on,
Sing sweetness.
My only reply gratitude for sanctuary gracious saint.
Satori, satori, satori,
A sensation causing fear in the ordinary,
Just as foreign words force the alienation of authority.
Absolute light a shower of dust once a mirror, slivers only lies.
Sinners are first liars above all else.
The menace extinguishes the sun at twilight.
Nowhere to call home but the wet ocean into which the sun sets.
Motives having been revealed
All know the sun must go
Or there could be no triumphant reentry.

Why does identity torture itself so?
Ego wants dedication to the principle of self importance,
But evidence dictated by time convicts the self with inferiority.
“Hey, see you later.  Hey, maybe we’ll be friends.”
The self tortures self with the truth,
And all she had asked him was,
“Do you love me?”

The river is silent, deep inside,
And the water is music of eldred beings.
Sailor of space wanting only kind fate,
The journey has divorced you from time
Thrown you from the heights of your frozen dreams.
In the lost wint’ry mountains where blows the cold wind.
The dreaming streets of ice have given up caring.
The rhythm is of combat,
Predicted and measured by no one.
The last defense of the true:
Memories of the laughter of children.

The bell tolls
The shore of logic and certainty awash in exhaustion.
Long and winding passages of yore
Strew broken, brown leaves of meaning across the frozen ground
Dead falling leaves straining for a last chance.
The sound of their falling is the fading voice of reason,
Beyond is only the maddeningly quiet gulf of perversion.

Turn the key.
A warm refuge waits inside,
One a woman understands.
Could this be criticized by knowledge?
Probably crucified, but the words have no face, no element of surprise.
Blinking his eyes curiously,
The maniac burns his bridges by abandoning faith.
He has set many things on fire,
And this the woman understands.
That knowledge has special meaning for her.
His song of shadows wants to be sung.
The clock still ticks even when time disobeys, stopping
To let the nights in the pavillions go on longer.
Pockets of wanton pleasure drift on the humid air,
Burning embrace, that known as love by both restful souls.
They take leisure in the folds of trapped time,
On the languid divans they mock gravity.
They have become an entity in flight, beyond the ability to fall.

An opaque angel song echoes
webs spun of certainty
a transparent woven curtain
the sails set to every corner, the wind
blows an ancient foamy compass hellward
direction free under fate and chaos
for eternity, the wind sets them free
to capture thought again more tightly
symphonies of crashing ocean voice
a clipper for earthly wisdoms legions
tormented by the gulls, ensnared
taken by tack and turns -- the stars --
leave even the mariner’s rhyme behind
at the mercy of the relic that is allegory...
to the sailor the mariner in reflection
marks another day of quiet crucifixion
the drum beat by which the slaves pull
the heart and breath of toil
the sea can crush with the weight of cursed thoughts it gathers around you

Dreadful beauty entwines the beholder
a python’s kiss for the lovelorn
ancient knowledge shorn from origin crumbles in
feminine songs of comfort
echoes of the truth spirited like the sword arm of a valkyrie
meaning obscured by earthly routine
by an already woven transparent sheet of insane operetta
written by a deaf man
with carved wooden hands.

We enjoy ambrosia in the dungeon.
Must we begin the game again?
So much to say, nothing to do.
Listen, the rose replies.
When the cold wind comes
No one will be bothered by blossoms anymore.
An exodus is called for.
We wait for a sign on the path.
Each step causes ripples.
Another game has begun.

Motion seems to continue in the frozen galvonometer.  The ocean of internal reason strive to catch the sound of a voice in the moonlight.  The sky reveals only the voice of a bolt of lightning and the cry of a seagull.  The seagull as it flies is closer to home in the skies than the wind.
Close the eyes that are tired, only sleep will heal too much knowledge. The soft woman only knows when she is desired.  Only love of nature can save the rose from demise in the cold glass, only love of woman can make her happy.  God created neither for the sake of abuse.
Death comes crashing down on a small mind, it settles onto a prepared spirit. So some don’t fear death at the hands of men weak enough to declare war on beauty.  Their kind is owed a favor, repayment in caresses from the flames of hate.  The gratification for this revenge is the act itself.  Those who violate the garden do not deserve to live so their suffering is pleasure enough.
Surety of motion laps over the bridge to forever.  The wind seeks only to aid the reign of goodness and keep the gull in flight, great bird spoken of by quiet men.  Only hearts know certainty, while those who lust only know nothing.
Then, the queen of light daintily traced her finger across the brow of consciousness waking the knowledge of the good and true that went undefeated, and of the ignorant and ugly of heart that lost all treasures.

When the wind is your friend and your enemy
It doesn’t matter if you face the door.
Life is a race against time
To reach security before sanity crumbles
Under the crush of coming doom.
Many don’t make it.

diamond, fragment of the sky, in the most accute angle
reflects the gathering of the forces
they will ride when the fog gains strength
and only the chosen will see that they are evil

mundane eyes will see only a thickening steam
before blue terror grips the chest of the victims tightly
no cry will escape their lips as the air strangles them

Another vision roils through
on the tracks laid down for the future devotees of ancient lore.
The travelling of the power lines feels like breathing victory
According to an esoteric few.
The plane breaks apart when the mind confronts violence.
The sanctity of the one holy creation is that it can not be conquered.
The wine of indivisibility, the elixir, the sign and signature of vitality,
A drink to free one of madness.
Sins are easily read and remedied if that is so desired;
The levity of that action craves a secluded haven.
Children are safe in homes of caring
Caring born of truth and love.
Parentage weep not the bastion will live still.
Home will remain true to the tenets of the great songs,
Like a pine tree clinging to life on a cliff face.

Pray prey
I dismay for my loss of words,
Read this hated game, this delay of truth.
Touch me, does me?
No leverage from now
Yet hear somehow
The ego goes unstolen.
Future is hidden
I follow you temptree,
Read these words,
They were meant for you,
From now in affection, to much later,
This is the way you say it must bne.

The wheel of finality rolls on.
Lies may be traced to the learners of new,
While education grows ancient and gathers truth.
Time tested the ancient warriors.
What goes unseen hurt them most, but they could not see,
The blind warrior fighting toe to toe with fleeting shadows.
Patriotism takes advantage of the blind of thought.
Children, especially, think that there is justification for violence.
Particularly disturbing is the idea that all hold these childhood memories
   close to the heart
Once, a long time ago, the plow swept the sand aside
A conscious attempt to aid a child,
A pretention of lunacy for the sake of giving a baby his father.
When the baby falls into the path of doom the action halts,
Discrediting the lunatic, the father must go away.
The salvation of the young often comes at the price of the mature
But not this time.
Lives must be given in battle instead,
No remainiong at home to set standards.
Years of journeys sweep the eyes of the errant soldier.
He will claw at them to try and forget before it ends.
Real war: carnage, brutally reaped victory, bloody bread for ravenous mouths.
The Beauty scoffs in her high emerald laugh, haughtily
While below her tower brave men died.
For this the unseeing had pledged to serve.
The disease has been around a long time.
It has never been the soldier’s place to question.

47.  Welcome, My Friend
Long has is it been since we parted
Company for the sound of another, unfamiliar sigh,
Though a sound of such might never be heard again.
Many people say not to worry, that it will happen
But sometimes it does not.
A tear falls between you and I in the confines
Of the restrictive coffin we have shared for so many months now,
Drifting in the cargo hold of the good ship animosity
In most unfamiliar seas.
Dreaming, you are on an errant journey
The greatest challenge continuing the holy fast.
The chains to material existence are never broken with fear.
The comfort of economic servitude allows hate to build
And with that the stranglehold may be broken.
River of minds between now and then
Hear this mystic conjuration to the spirit of disobedience!
The powers that control have been corrupted by ther own desires.
When the sword and stomach find a last moment to unite
The flow of life’s fluid will not be so bitter,
For it will be what the stomach has craved for so long.
To part the sea between our distant lands
And hold each other again, any pain could be endured for that.
Over the roar of dangerous ends,
I welcome you again my friend.

You are doomed in certainty,
I won’t let you go.
Try to think your way out
Why don’t we redefine eternity,
Forge our own,
Blind beauty’s eyes
With wicked moans
And cheap earthly sighs,
A dime a dozen.
Tell me
Didn’t your moans come by the dozen,
Or were they always single?
There is something to say to force eternity to let you go,
But try not to waste your words.

49. Goodbye Sonata
Help! the waves cover the nostrils at last.
The time to surrender to the absence of air has come.
The pretty sounds of an orchestra heard once in childhood
Drift underneath the water as if they had originated there.
The shock of discovering the sound allows breath to be drawn
There, in Poseidon’s realm.
Feverish dreams begin to awake in the more chill water;
They bring delerium of home; once so cozy,
Now spanning out as dark and as deep as one can swim.
The merciless waves drank all memory
But cry no more at the passing of the old form, dear heart.
When the ocean drinks once more we will be reunited.
The celebration of the reunion will be remembered in marine histories,
A grand party indeed.
It may sound like fantasy, but one day the joy of sitting in the terraced
   courtyards of Atlantis, sipping fine kelp wine
    will bring forth the life of a typhoon
Then we will have even more folk in our Court,
And the process of teaching the ways of the undersea will be our testament,
To the great and mysterious ways of the one maker.
The sounds of the sirens will drown out the cries of the drowning.
The waves love us all so much they take us gently to their bosom,
Just a little too tightly in the embrace,
And air can never be allowed.
The future looks brighter than ever it did in the sunlight.
Soon we will meet again.

luminous, it has no creases
virtuous by solemn creedence
viscous, different
like the child in you could be free
but chooses to see with clarity
denying all forms of charity
scare fear
tear dear
burn! burn!

51. Reply
What do you mean, drift off and dream.
The silver tongued ones weave poems,
Never having anything valuable to say.
The black tongued speak in caustic layers.
Whisper with your eyes again
The tremors through this existence felt so good.
The wit of the gentle snare has captured another in silent admiration.
It feels good, does it not?
Where do the good lies disappear to,
When the truth seems so inappropriate?
Do tell: when you help the baby take his first sobs,
Wrapped in soft blankets.
Tomorrow will bring the reclusive mother into the sunshine
With her baby, a trick to soften hard hearts.
Outside the eyes that see her
Make her feel less beautiful than when she were hidden.
In fact she feels nothing,
But at least no want to feel better.
The silver lippied trail slime down their descent into love of money,
While the trees whisper like your eyes,
Spies in the cobwebbed court.
What can you mean
By drift off and dream?

Why does self torture self so?
Glutted by self importance any inferiority must be unacceptable.
Time wants a commitment
But the self would rather feel strong and free.
...torture self by ending love to end weakness.
“Hey, see you later.”
“Hey, maybe we’ll be friends.”
All for nothing.
All she asked was did he love her.

53. Christmas Day 1989
Suspicion and I often consort,
Finding some sort of sick pleasure in nervous moments.
I blink through the haze of fear to see a glimmer of the truth,
None the more lustrous for being a forced confession.
The truth dislikes discovery,
Its light hurts the eyes of the meek folk it loves best.
Confession: on the origin of bitterness.
Why, in a flaw filled world, should one confess bitterness
When the gaps in knowledge could more easily be filled by lies,
About how good everything is?
Maybe I attempt to escape the high walls of enclosed emotion
Before the enclosure becomes a tradition,
A fashion of unfathomable alienation,
A grotesque posture plotted out by the minds of the sad.
Rest is uneasy in suspicion’s wanton arms,
And dreams increase the caution with which I view the world.
I can guess it will only be a matter of time
Before the flaws in the world claim me as well.
Praise must be given though, to the flaws,
Because they are perfect in their inescapability,
Even, it is likely, part of God’s plan.

54. Frieze
The great picture fragmented into miniscule portions
Leaving the surviving pieces to assemble in geometric cohesion.
Implications and similarities speak for the intent of the work,
Puzzle pieces of an ocean set into the wall and the self.
A face appears a swimming colored fish, blue pieces diving hither and yon.
Some words summon taste when they exit the mouth,
Some images convey feeling when they enter the eyes.
When vision devours image sharp angles even pain the viewer,
But this pain seduces vision by linking identity with the pains of artistic pursuit.
It is pain much purer of consciousness
Than maddening winces of physical discomfort,
And so reigns with clarity over grimacing thought,
Groveling before untouchable beauty.
The tale takes place in cut stones set firmly, a collage of the messiah
Rigged with small pieces of colored rubble and a hardening substance.
Examination by intellect shows it to be more complicated,
Illustrating golden gates guarded by secretive tongues.
They lead to a vast garden filled with most successful plants
In the background behind the holy one.
Before him a road stretches to the sea.

55. To Raya Singh
Would you sing me a song about desire and trust?
I know a good one with a surprise ending.
Never leave love behind
When another as strong could never be found.
In the tones of your voice
And in the shades of the colors of the moon
Sing me a song or fly away.
There can be no turning back on this path,
At least not openly, it can not be allowed.
If -- another lie to be told -- a stain should tarnish the purity of this innocence,
Hallowed by the wrappings of the divine creator,
Then quest to cleanse the stain would never be abandoned,
And all in the name of your honor.
In reality pinnacled histories will pass up the chance
To offer glory to another sex crazed strumpet,
And this ode will be a waste of time in the long run.
Somehow the effort does speak for the feeling
And should move onward to more softly spoken flattery,
Beyond the clouds where angels of heavenly conception
Grant favors to the fond of heart.
Could there really be angels among the clouds?
Come closer, the view will be better if you follow me,
Down the staircase, it was constructed just for you.
Can you see more clearly now?
No, there are no clouds, no angels,
Just a chamber of delights with endless possibilities for the imagination,
Nothing nearly so brutal as the pit which once resided here.
One last step down and you will find yourself in this secret place.
Take heart, for a long time victims fell the distance,
Now you have come of your free will.
Your cries will only be heard by he who creates them.
The muses will take the sound and create a lovely work of art.
They will take pride in revealing it to the multitudes,
And then everyone will know just exactly who made the sounds originally.
The shame of it will be a pleasure greater than you can conceive,
Too great for any fiber of your spirit to dream of refusing it.
In the desperate craving for more induced by public exposure
You will strive to make your needs understood.
These things you want can be yours.
With all trace of fantasy removed
Can you still see the eternal bond between us,
Making the spirit light like clouds in the sky?
For centuries the righteous have spoken badly of your master
Because they never had the courage to let go, to indulge.
For making the step you will be rewarded.
Even he who dwells lowest must have someone to speak highly of him.
Feel lucky you have been chosen,
As I feel lucky you have chosen me.

56. I Think She Likes Me
We decided to ravage the world.
At the party in the mist of sure things
The girl with her glass of fine champagne
Looks at me; she’ll make a fine mate.
In the summer of maturity she can have all she wants.
The dinner is excellent,
But her eyes are on me.
Pulse jumps with passion as she sips from her glass.
Since reason took all hope and left years ago
Only the pleasure of her offer can be considered,
No serious consideration has a place.
Before everything is over
Her lover will claw at his mind
Trying to pretend I never existed.
She is like a woman in an empty box
Waiting for life to come somehow.
The woman wants a baby
But he would never let it have his name.
The woman wants to cry over it a lot
But she can’t even pretend she feels bad enough.
No tears will come so she plays with her toys at night instead.
She is smiles and light at dinner this evening,
And her man is nowhere to be seen.
Knowing what must be done I muse
That the best laid trap is the one that is most obvious.
She sees the snare and it excites her.
Her future child urges her on in spirit.
I stifle the impulse to laugh
Thinking of how he will be murderous, convulsing
When the fact comes to light.
I thank her for passing the salt
Smiling only with my eyes, and somehow getting the attention I wanted.
Refusing to waste the first possible chance
I ask her to go away with me for a while.
Unable to fight the attraction any longer
She laughs nervously and agrees.
Not much later we decided to ravage the world.
I have made certain he will never touch her again.
I think she likes me.

The girl was there that night,
She told me with a smile,
That very feminine one she likes so much.
Warmth and atmosphere drew them together.
Cold is only a state of mind.
Before she stepped over the edge of physical satisfaction
She had been a very clean girl.
She is clean of body still, true...
But behind the kid grins she wants to play games.
Somehow behind her eyes there is a dark that is too deep to free.
There is plenty of room to relax as we talk.
No words could describe how nice the sensation.

The music tries to speak,
Though it has no tongue meaning can be obvious.
Sweet and gentle build up,
A delicate crescendo, a climax daintier still.
Harps are symbols of bygone days
When players in pedestalled parks
Practiced in modesty and technique
Drew crowds who hung on every sound.
The bards sent the notes up to heaven,
Sent them gliding effortlessly up through the sky.
The arches bear witness to that triumph.
Somehow the arch survived
The hedonism of Roman civilization,
And so too did music
Somehow cling to the mind over the eons, returning
With news from the journey in the sky.
It returns, and it has news;
It tells the audience to listen and hush,
To hear the wonder of the creator.
The leisure bears witness
By a stream that bends and twists down
From the fountainhead,
And wanders off carefree through the garden.
The people on the grass try to swim
But they drown as the sounds swallow them.
Music spits them out later
Not  being overly fond of the taste of human.

Tomorrow or yesterday no farther away
Than the glimmer, did you catch it?
In the eyes of the changeling boy.
The cars go by with deliberate ease
Outside, inside,
No closer than here.
We live life in perfect timing
Until death.
To lay down and sleep in oceans of the past
Tempts sorely.
Do not or the seconds will skitter by quietly
Never waking you up
Until years have been spent motionless.
The core
The heart
The axis of the shell
Feels the passing ages but is removed
Into the dreams.
They exist above and beyond
Where there is no need for here.
In the frost quickened breath is a miracle.
Cold loves a dreamer
To roost in the folded form,
Until waking.
Shaking off the chill old friends must be lost again.
They stay where they are happiest,
Far from the prying fingers of winter
That would take what little warmth there is
Just for the joy of it.

The orbit of the planet:
A twenty-four hour cyclic effect.
The vehicle travels in opposition
The rotation of the earth
Lending just a fraction of extra speed,
Too little to gauge.
It strikes the engineer
That he is falling from the planet.
Gravity has left him at escape velocity.
Mediocre reactions crumble
And fall away pathetically
In the face of the knowledge
The carrot dangles before his eyes,
Three feet before, like a guiding voice.
Someone has a dossier on this,
The perils of free falling
After losing freedom of choice.
Personal wants must be negated
In order to make the carrot trick work.
Hunger must be the key.
Something must fuel the animal drive.
God having abandoned the world
To the tender mercies of law and chaos
Sees humor in people drifting off into space.
Proof for the skeptics will come.
The haloed civilization will begin to break up.
It has been read that such things happen.
The automobile
Static line of crap will begin to wear thin
Until nature decides to just win.
Bestial reality,
Material hunger and lust,
Will pound through the veins of all humans,
Reinstated to its original beauty.
It is hungry to take out any obstacles on the way
The shaking hands on the wheel
Are my own.
It has been days since sleep was possible.
Driven by the pit of my stomach
I feel as though I am floating.
Hope remains for one last chance
To catch the sun before it comes up,
Catch it unaware and kill it.
Then all the loot can be had.
The dossier couldn’t know the plan.
Escape will be had before any government knows.
Not that they could catch me
Unless the car exploded.
Pedestrians scatter with barely enough time to reach safety.
I mow down as many as possible.
This was all they could muster?
Send a bunch of guys out on foot?
Up ahead a road block,
Nicely arranged cute striped cars.
I bash through.
Road God lives!
Worshipped among teen-agers
Who listen to ancient rock and roll
Who think heaven is a 454,
I drink, nay, guzzle the fuel.
Less than a God could never even afford to start this baby
Since the gas shortage.
On the short twelve mile horizon
I can be at the top
Before even seeing the curvature I left behind.
Eyesight becomes estranged so
Trajectory for orbit must be calculated only with the mind.
The future outlaws will worship me
After I become one with the stars.
Road God!
Who took emptiness
And turned it into gasoline to fly away.

61. Broken Bricklay
The concrete steps engulf my gaze
Rising to capture my eyes before a foot falls...
Traverses the man made stone’s testimonial glaze.
Vision escapes not from the waves of toil unto death.
Strong tissue rips under the strain
Of the effort of laying a hard bed by grip
Tightly, with the hand of sure mixed  endurance.
Stone work will be found in the future.
Generations later someone will wonder
Just who did the work.
Nonchalantly the decades will pass over the walks and patios
Where labor was spent so that
Leisure could be enjoyed.
The green earth came to be covered by effort.
The sweat could have made the oceans
But instead became steam and rained.
Morning comes
Bringing a feeling of newness
And past accomplishment,
The nervous energy that surrounds all work.
The heat bears down like a ritual pain.
The mixture can never go dry,
Must be stirred until breaking ache comes to the body.
The sun takes many to a dream suddenly,
The swoon, it is dangerous
But educational if one lives.
The fever sometimes shows the plans of God,
The warmth of the endeavor
Marking those separately from those who do nothing,
Who do not brave the heat.
There must be some promise of another world
And the delerium of the afternoon shows
That if there is no heaven
Rest assured there definitely is a hell,
Because the bricklayer comes very close to it,
Almost breaking but insurmountably strong of spirit,
Refusing to stop until finished,
No waste allowed, no room for error.
With the children at home to feed, there lies
Purpose for the concentrated quest to be as strong
As the brick in the sweltering sun.
The haze burns away
Until sight is blinded, all too clearly.
The victory of the moment is measured
By the hours spent to get there.
Tissue of the body is nothing,
It will pass away.
What must last must be created.
The spirit is not gauged by the flesh.
If dissenting discuss not
This matter with real men,
Or maybe suffer being told
To stoop a little and open your eyes,
Perhaps dirty the silken hands by feeling
A little of that with which the nation was built so quickly.
When the day is done
Beyond the heat of the sun
The children rejoice at daddy’s return,
The treats that were so hard earned.
My eyes cross the walkway in admiration.
All who pass here will know.

complex hazing
a stationary invasion
tear, raze, rend the union
rape the nation
young and old killed by love
under justice blind direction

never believe in resurrection
only in hate.
from dismay come justice’ decay.
pleasure’s way
leads to pain, leads astray
tries to make sick,
trick time into unwinding,
but it won’t work.
It strews the sickly
webs of vain, wanton waste,
gloom’s decor,
silken threads of yore.
avoid the true
painful to trap the self
tomorrow the sun
will burn away this black yule.
from this
can only come misconstrual.

Beyond Language Barrier
Never try to shake off the truth.
You are
Guilty of plenty even so young,
And you weep
Because you can find no path
Out of the heart of the moon?
No one leaves so soon.
Delay your thinking,
Relearn and then return.
There is no game,
No way,
Only black smoke from the burned.
Too burned,
Two turned the one card,
The Devil,
Then went for the one door
But only one could go through at once.
One never left.
The image showed
An undevoted lout looking back.
Disallow covetousness of the knowledge,
Mistake not,
No song,
No card,
No lock on the door,
A lock on the mind,
So no more importune,
Divorce the ideas,
Forget them,
Ask not to be retold,
‘Tis showed all too hellish,
That world
That set the pen gliding,
Across the page
A plea to the aether to crush me,
And then no more favors.

Since I have seen Narcissus' true self
We can no longer be friends.

The reduction of the spirit
Makes a dangerous construction,
And misery a pitiful sound.
Deus deserts
Such treacherous blasphemy.
It is lost and carried down.
Tiers and altars,
Somewhere a voice,
Weeping, falters,
The wind a hollow howl.
It’s the church of deduction
Of sin and consumption
Uplifted by followers foul.
Strong men’s bones
Are digested by scientific tomes,
Then their bodies given to the ground.
Nowhere can be found a worse stench
Than from the greedy clergy, and their wenches,
All with rust colored leprous flesh,
In the church they hold
To be as rotten
As a dead dear days old.
Do not touch them.
They are lost.
Their drugs will carry them down,
And the sooner the better,
The stench seems to be addictive
And in no time many more could be lost.

Under the rock
In the hardest of places,
Economy left some by the wayside.
Meanwhile, on the side
Way out to get liberal causes
Speeches come
Worded annoyingly:
Kill! Kill! Kill!
Walk away innocent,
Simply do nothing and have nothing.
Try to get away with the things I’ve done
And somehow have lots of money.
Then walk. Ha!
Some say the masterpiece
Is an unfinished scream,
A vagueness, a mystery,
But I say it’s the smallest,
That which mattereth not shit.
Real mastery involves
Finding ways to impress yin
Again and again,
Something natural,
Au wow baby,
We are all chattel to time.
Feel valuable, of worth,
Unless someone thinks your theirs.
No words can bring the reluctant to believe
They are not free.
Maybe if anyone tries to bring hell back,
Like the one under Stalin,
I will fight a moment
Before I fall forever.
Fascism seems just a short hop away,
They want you to feel nothing,
Love nothing,
But I fear nothing,
And am prepared to assert all rights to fair death.
Horror is guilt
And innocence a spoil of war.

She wept.
Tears of understanding filled my eyes
But would not flow down my cheeks.
Humanity has escaped,
Quick, capture the beast.
The tears betray.
(Do not say
You wanted nothing to drink but the dew
When the rain looked so inviting).
Did you not ask me to do what I did?
With your eyes and your smile,
And the way you keep your hair down?
(The fields needed water
They were thirsty and it was
Impractical of you to want something else for them)
I didn’t do it.
     I didn’t do...
What was needed
What you yearned for.
The ache in my heart
Reminder of past cruelties
Would not allow it.
The tears remind me of the emptiness.

She wept
as my uselesss hands groped for comforting words.
Obscenities were all that could be found
Needles in a world wanting of softness.

Tell her softly
The words, “I love you.”
Whisper them so low
They can only be seen,
Not heard.
It could have been the truth.
Tears rain down on shattered unions.
Laughter becomes hysteric,
For nothing.
There is a dark place inside,
A place the light never reaches.
In the darkness
The lonelyache turns to a lullaby.
Sunshine will stream in
Bringing wonders,
Trees with ruffled feathers.
Fly free in the heavenly morning wisps.
In the corners of the mind
Something reminds of paradise
And what was lost.

Victory turns the tables.
All can see the fortune
Of the lucky soul.
The knee of the oak
Marks the old battlefield gate,
The portal to the horrors of war
Where certainty flees from shadows.
The spirit exits the body
But discovers the body is safer than the air
So returns.
The baby claims the victory
As the tables turn.
The turning is like the shell of a snail,
Turning in a coil, descending into an eternal spiral.
The side of the thinker knows
That what is done must come back in opposition.
Actions must consider karma.
Curl, three spacial sides,
One facet in time.

Tonight there are three.
The ancient kings are but faces
Barely showing beneath the carefully planned
Layers of concealing chaos.
We wait
In the dark caverns of the heart
Where the pulse pounds, we wait
Hoping, “Please God...
Don’t let us be discovered.”

The first of us is like the lightning,
The surge of adrenaline in the veins,
One who will not suffer wrongdoing.
He who is reverent of voice,
Full of the power of time and fullness.
The guardian of my spirit,
The spirit of all father’s gone before.

The second is like a rocky ridge.
The wind never stops,
And the rocks erode.
Still the ridge endures,
Like an eagle who rides the wind,
To the ridge time means nothing.
The ridge is also like a tiger
Who flexes, thinking,
“Ripple now body,
The mind is awake.”
The second is the Lord of Nights
Both a son and a father.

The third is a frost in the morning,
A chill in the lungs of the weak,
An elixir for the brave and strong,
Or a brutal hand holding a dagger,
Angry and full of murderous visions,
Waiting to be set loose,
To step from the shadows and slice.
The third is the Lord of Dawns,
The youngest son.

Somehow they are all inside me.
They are three
But one is all or all are none.
There must be nothing or everything
And there is something,
So there is all.
We can hear the rumble of the dragon,
Hidden behind the sounds of life,
Waking, preparing
To bring the end.

The truth came in a dream,
Though not all of those are true.
In the beginning there was oneness,
No need to question,
But only a fullness.
Greed was born of pride
And before long the spirits of the first men
Had been overwhelmed with ill will.
Even then the three were witness,
As the ancient kings sought to act wisely,
As the fish in the river died.
Good men grew to feel pain
And imprisonment by the wrongs in the world,
All ability to change it absent.
One day the good will be set free,
The roar of rejoicing will be the anthem of a new age.

The ancients were born into wealth,
Children of the rapists of an innocent world.
Their parents enslaved the resources of a virgin planet
And were much too evil to live.
The three believe that they should go
The same way as their parents.

The throne room of the kings
Falls silent as we enter.
Their hall is vast and richly decorated.
Spoiled old men sit around the edges
At elegant mahogany desks.
They watch us,
Especially the incarnation with the dagger.
They expected this, waited for this.
The song of change begins.
Nothing can be heard,
But the sword still swings.
It glows as it drinks deep of blood,
Bringing truth.
The ancients wait for the cutter of lies
To sever their centuries old dynasty.
The same creatures
Have ruled for eons until now.
Their secrets are many.

They begin to laugh
And as I laugh along with them,
For a moment,
I realize that they are mocking.
Their laughter continues
But mine fades to a smile
And then vanishes.
A newfound certainty inside
Washes away their slur.

My eyes see through the facade.
This tale is a banner of newness,
The tale of the renewing spirit of
Father and grandfather,
And grandfather’s father.
The lightning strikes and never stops.
Pain has made the good men stronger.
All three spirits have gathered
To make the transition happen.
The spirits are eagles,
And the ancient kings happily welcome
The mercy of the great sky predator.
They see the blade as a friendly tool
One that will allow them to depart this dimension.
Before them is a new age
Here to carry on with innocence.
The ancients know the truth
But they do not fear.

The greatest of the ancients
Looks out from eyes red with hate.
Thoughts of futility can be smelled coming from him.
The negativity is the excrement of the greedy,
That which they would wish on the weak.
The old king never softened
Even as his head rolled on the floor.

I ease down into his great seat.
There is no crowd to cheer.
There will be no more kings.
The law will be love,
But somehow it seems their negativity goes on
Beyond this defeat they have suffered.
How did they allow themselves to be killed?
Maybe they should have been kept alive
In uselessness,
A place where their whims aren’t reality.
I pity them now, the ancients,
Though they have been sent to the abyss.

I quiet my breathing
In the dark caverns of the heart
Where the pulse pounds.
Awaking from a vivid dream
The shadows of reality still hide me.
The spirit of my father is close,
I can feel it.

In the worst of nightmares the ancient kings
Have gained knowledge of where we are.
Their eyes can see thoughts.
Soon their police will arrive.
They will find is at home,
The place where we have weaved
The concealing shadows.
They’ll kick in the door,
Snarling like the ignorant wolves they are,
Ready to pounce on the prey
Given them by their superiors,
Their masters, the elected.
The only escape is to close off the self
So that the truth can not be distinguished.
Maybe they will go away.
Another nightmare
Has the ancient eyes seeing thoughts,
Then giving the wolves a signal to attack.
Without warning or preamble
They are upon us,
Slavering, seeking their masters’ favor.
The three will kill them or die.
If we live we run for the door,
Trying to escape the throneroom.
The evil is too strong
And we can not leave.
But nightmares don’t befit good men.
The night is over.

Now I watch and wait to learn.
I sip coffee as a student
And clean house,
And write poetry.
The words might make a hidden ally somewhere.
There must be some hope to be found,
Somewhere a believer of the truth.
The three spirits can not stand alone,
The need the faith of the people.
If I feel an evil eye watching me,
Or it seem the wind has mind of its own,
Or as if the falling leaves were lost loves,
All killed by the cold,
If I feel this then I laugh.
If dreams seem true in the hazy night
I become just another person.
I bury myself in routine,
For if there is an eye
Then it seeks out those trying to hide.
I am much too open with my anger to hide.

I saw her in a restaurant
Smiling with the knowledge of moonlit acts.
I went to her and was my self,
The one I save for such occasions.
I made her smile.
Later I brought her a present,
A small token of my affection.
She smiled again,
But this time was moved.
Soon we take long walks together
And wondering about the future
As we hold hands
And gaze into each other’s eyes.
Much later I give her another gift,
My love.

As I drift off to sleep I dream
Of her or someone much like her,
But somewhere can be heard
The sound of power.
I sit weary in a great chair
A very long time in the future.
It feels as if I am three again.

Around me echo mocking whispers.
The ancients somehow live.
Freed at last from the ancient curse
Of the kingdom that took their souls,
Freed by someone stupid enough
To sit in their place for a moment,
Thereby becoming instantly corrupted.
The curse says
This man must rule darkness and greed.
I think of my father and of the trinity
In the time of my hollow victory.
I shed a tear.
It takes an eternity to slide down my cheek.
It is just salty water for so many lives wasted.
Blame given improperly
I thought it was my duty to overcome the ancients,
Now I can see why they did not fight.
The wind moans through the great hall.
It says that nothing can be changed.
I wish I could wake up.
It seems like there was someone I loved
Back in the waking world,
But I can not remember.
I give in to the inescapable negativity
Allowing it a channel through my exhausted being.
There is no use to try to leave the throne.
I must wait for someone to kill me.

Maddening smiles
Given to a crowd frenzied
By the sight of human suffering,
Smiles she would rather have given to the night.
Choice matters little when the inevitable comes,
Nothing will change that which must occur,
Free will is a joke in the face of it.

The inevitable:
The long trek to final rest
Through the throngs of the audience,
The mob excited by tormented screams.
They observe her while the deity
At the center of the lady’s worship
Takes her into the world of her tender mercies,
Slivering flesh so that it might know
When the time has come to give up the soul,
Into the laughter of the crowd.

They do not laugh until the lady
Can no longer smile.
The crowd can have no pleasure
Until the deity has hurt her.
Though the lady plummets into misery
She has one last satisfaction.
She knows inside they never saw her best smile
The one she made while free.
She knows victory has little to do with
Life or death,
Because she has lived and died many times.
The curse
Works in reverse
From her vantage point.

Take me away
So that I might stand and smile,
Hoping the dream will never die.

Vox Humana
:never change point of view

:new menu
:declarations to the enemy
:pin the tail on the sly fox
:jack ass

:it was slow
:they told lies
:it went to trial
:the sly fox died
:scared to death by the judge

:faring not well
:the hero in hell
:with no war to fight in

:give a wren a home
:a slim picket fence nest
:seeds all day long
:make a happy bird

:give a dog a bone to pick
:the resentment builds
:the dog attacks
:rather angrily
:common sense only

:a shame
:the case was a frame
:a small fall in the records hall

:golly, what’s the hall’a records
:never listened

:In the hard rock hotel with a shank
:slank over to the mark
:and with a hand hank pank
:took it out

:hand it to him
:then slank away
:dey coodnuh seen
:hold on
:dey comin

:first door
:last window
:then left
:out of the shanty
:handled perfectly
:oh shit, dere dey arh
:Ah’m dead

:nah nah
:Sherman crushed us
:Then colleged us.

At dawn the armies of the night
Arrayed themselve’s before the light
The final stand of the evening’s memories
The quiet arrival or morning and doom

She awakened dreamily
While tendrils of sunshine crept over the land
Torment for the lovers of lost desires
And heaven to the desires of lovers.

The king of darkness weeps
His last embrace taken at the first glimpse of the sun.
The shimmer in his lover’s thoughts
Seems to have disappeared.
Her eyes seem drained as his duty calls.
Some lives are better left unlived,
Some dreams should go unrealized.
As she laughs a serene pond sends a reflection up to the skies.
The glory of the nights finesse
Is a drama of a tale unseen.

The sunshine flirts merrily
The youth of an age.
Subtle glances of warmth are lavished on her.
With glances and smiles she betrayed the dark king.
Another day wanes with her fickle prancing.
The sunset is the broken heart of the sun king bleeding
While she dances with pleasure at the coming of night.
     Her body fluidly welcomes her old lover.

Eternity giggles as the trees grow her long curly hair,
She brushes the curls, golden leaves falling to the ground,
And talks of nothing in particular.
She will always be the balance between night and day,
The source of all jealousy between darkness and light,
But she just smiles and is a little girl.

To Laura
Skin stretched out,
a silent light whisk over it
makes taut quivers.
Bid no language to tell of naught,
Instead think in cruxes never taught,
Though not unteachable,
Let no mind bury another.
Touch wicked pools
But never flee
Because the danger can’t be seen.
Something swims below the surface.
Teach the world a lesson,
Give no time to fate, fate’s fickle.
The fingers aren’t mine,
They tickle.
Time to unlearn destiny,
A virtous idiot can get so blue,
But pray not speak of it tempestous pout,
Sow bliss and feel it instead.
Beloved deserved of ungraspable highs
You are freed by the naked truth.
Curses, but it does it kindle little pout,
Doesn’t it?
I envision this note to you will draw scorn,
But then stoic division will have been revealed.

The Open Road
One of the more glorified subjects
A literary saga of nevertheless
     all for the sake of time’s quickened passage.
What need to map a panaoramic dream?
     Mold thought to paper, what for?
Sing treachery, the answer comes
     The words a private corner in which to hide delight.
The word will carry on after the words have gone,
      But the saga does wend through here.
Once in a never never land the rain
     Wafted goodbye on careless breezes.
The rain takes the abandoned towns to its bosom.
     The towns become lazy memories when you have no companions.
Towns are impermanent, like the traveller
     Like rain.
The wind and the old roads, and the rain
     Will wtill be there when most other things are gone.
What about the garden?
     The path down into the ruins alive with mystery,
The crimson delights inside could never be owned,
     And only time brings the garden to life again.
You can find it at home on the road.
     Honesty is but a pinprick to the seasoned traveller.
Death can be seen in the towns gone to dust,
     Symbols of man coming to terms with exhausted resources.
Nature is a lovely word
     But the proud mansions now cumbled
Show nature can be a fickle woman.
     From birth only living to death
Still, the promise of staying awhile has merit,
     And to be one with future plants and flowers
Doesn’t hold too many frightening ideas.
     Fear not weary soul
It doesn’t matter where you try to go,
     The rest will find you at the end of the road,
And the glory was in to each his own.

The sun and the sky
Part from the earth, good bye,
In the winter as the rustling leaves die.
The hush of freezing fills the world.
The green life shudders a last frosty epithet.
The stars are like tears
In the winter, the heavens weep to forget.

The door slams
In the rush to leave,
Too far, far gone.
Haste rolls like thunder over the world,
Shaking even the crucifix
Hung with care over the door.

One has to shout over the prattle,
Scream to be heard over the idle conversation.
The woman acted like prey
So she was preyed on.
Was she angry over that,
Or did she just sound angry?
Prattle to quiet the shouts,
Whisper to forget the screams.
It is no wonder a soul can go unheard
When stranded in such alienation.

She slammed the door ad she left,
But really I slammed it for her.
The needle pricks deep
When words of love are mockery,
When action makes mockery of words.

Near a valley on a river
In a cave high in the hills
Blows the cold and desolate wind,
The guardian of a tomb.

The tomb was placed there long ago
By gods and men in unison
So that when men could learn to love
They could place hate in the prepared grave.

To find this tomb look to the heart,
The place where love and will are the law,
In that place man loves
The sunset, summer and womankind.

Today it rained, I watched the sky.
I wondered what had upset it so as the torrents came down.
The feeling of it falling on dry hair
Brings hope of achieving peace one day.

The doors stand open on the universe
As near as a failed heartbeat away.

Walk through with open arms,
The tomb waits for all your hate
Among the rocks and the cold
With devils proud and bold locked inside.
Turn your shining eyes to the western sky,
Open your heart,
The tomb will allow all to be forgiven.

Man must never forget
The destiny of hate.

Turn right round and around again.
The thread of truth,
The thread through lives,
Weaving the tapestry of human lies,
The scream on the edge of nothing,
And I pray to the moon
By the light of the sun,
And cry for the falling stars at night, alone,
Years of light away from one,
Love, faraway like the sun seen from the bottom of the ocean.
I cry for the stars
For the stars we are,
Cold moon our only lover.

What did the words say
On the cross currents of the deeeper stream?
I sleep and remember nothing
Of the home I left behind
A million years ago.
There is only water to our souls
And it is dripping away.
The water can no more be captured
Than the look in haughty girl’s eyes
As she turns and walks away.

The scream on the edge of nothing,
And I pray to the moon
By the light of the sun,
And cry for the falling stars at night, alone,
Years of light away from one,
Love, faraway like the sun seen from the bottom of the ocean.
I cry for the stars
For the stars we are,
Cold moon our only lover.

What did the words say
On the cross currents of the deeeper stream?
I sleep and remember nothing
Of the home I left behind
A million years ago.
There is only water to our souls
And it is dripping away.
The water can no more be captured
Than the look in haughty girl’s eyes
As she turns and walks away.

You touch me lightly and I tremble.
Look away, not today...
And you whisper that you love me.

Outside the lightning flashes,
A quick flicker reminding of man’s denials.
When we embrace the lightning becomes ours,
And I am whole.
In the storm I shake with confrontation,
With the night,
With my self,
And with you come inside from the rain
And shivering nothing.

The rain eases up and caresses the earth gently,
But the earth still wants more
Having drank the last thirstily.
The earth screams for more,
And I cannot look into your eyes
For all the storm has come inside.
I fear  the rivulets
Will never stop trickling down,
And creature comforts will never make it
To the inner circle of my mind,
To the island of my spirit.

The Murder
The candle melts away
A voice from nearby asks, dripping sweet,
“Should I kill you?”
Press the moment to a close,
Surely the violent fury knows.
“Should I?”
Look and burn at the sight so unclean.
Careening down corridors of hate and choice,
With a ritual slice the choice is made,
The ropes fall away,
Freedom lies within a breath.
The voice says,
The voice,
“Your self.”
Your blackened self.
“Wince little weakling,
The end is near,
Triumph would have been but to try.”
So slashes deep the slayer of memories,
The life pours forth,
A cackling release, a feast.
For the senses a stuck pig squeals,
The body soon to be a frailty gone.
The earth moans sickly
As the life once given returns to the soil.

Today she came back from the emptiness,
The nothing of people who come and go.
For a while the sky was not so farway,
But far away is words, and far away is time.
Today I woke up alone.
The memories were close,
But not close enough,
     Not as close (or far away) as the stars
     I saw in her eyes
     When I asked her not to leave again.

The ghouls last night
Took me away to bathe in fright,
I’ve come back changed.

Why do you look
With those cold eyes,
The ones that shook my soul last night?

They burn like fires
beneath old corpses on pyres,
Yet sing like the lyres of bards long dead.

Don’t look at me,
You burn right through.
How could one so sweet
Be so venom filled?

I told you once, my lover dear,
You had your chance to fight me off.
But did you hear?

No, and your body burned up with your letters.
We wrote them to each other
Long ago, before sin rotted our minds.
I saw them rotting,
To waste the got,
But at least got away.

I tried to catch my rotting brains,
But quick were they, they got away.

Lover, hear me, listen closely,
Lover, lover, where have you gone?

I will not call out again,
And don’t fall down any stairs while you’re out there.
Like that fat stupid critic,
I only asked him once not to mock me.
But did he hear?
No, the flames had seared his ears away,
Why do you look at me that way?
Pretend you do not see the knife,
Pretend this is our reward,

Cholers enraged hues,
I shift angers point of view,
Wielding only stolen holy thoughts
And thinking of heaven I just bought (for you).
A vicious regress could redress my hate,
For I never loved and am now quite unsatisfied,
So above sanctimonious,
Prim, prissy kisses.
Blushes can not be faked.
My blush would trust your blush
To be affection through and through,
But you have never blushed.
Still I hunger, crave for much longer,
Futile to stave off the inevitable,
Usable and yet the victim of no usury,
Capable hands all around,
And yet, none reaching me.
Only love’s sick thorns are unseizable,
What could be the excuse for not grasping at lust?
Capable only, not overly refined,
Hoarsely gasping for breath,
Sight of my figure pleasing to the terminally ill,
Disgust can easily be identified,
When such bias is evident,
As it almost always is.
But there is no illness in my
Simple exhaustion,
I have been hell bent,
Working hard and fiercely wheezing,
There’s no need to deny this seasonal affliction;
Words bring self treasons like a good stallion
Brings victory to his owner.
Why deny when you can be innocent no longer,
But need experience and training,
And some serious filling out over time?
Choler reached me, covering lust,
A sign of too little trust.
I will not compromise,
We must both be satisfied,
So concede the quietly pleasing,
Vision of course seeks to impress,
And you, a lovely reader, no less,
What could it be
That needs must confess?

Unchain your mind
Look somewhere else for learning,
Not here where hell sells.
We fucked two elves last night.
They were cute to me, but did they do me,
And hey, is there a we?
Rethink it,
Must be some authority,
Someone who was there,
In real time,
No way, there’s no record of the entire incident,
No way to understand,
Stupid mofo, this is the promised land
Divorced from the difficult,
Just let it come naturally,
And if you didn’t get it,
Even after asking the high priestess,
Then this whole game is too complex for you
And you should just go home where you’ll be safe.
Here in paradise
The only existence is the one we have made for ourselve,
Assume this can be, and is true,
Free form, get the hell out with the past,
Hey, hey, hey,
Don’t waste my day,
On top, on the bottom, or in between.

All things are unhappy
That are about him,
For to love when loved not is great folly,
Though ye be as fair a lady as any ever seen.
I am trapped in uncertainty,
Every move questioned
With a nod to the fiery possibilities.
When driven to the edge
To move is likely to bring a fall,
Not to move is to be stricken.
Not to praise the evident beauty
Leads to a sickness twice as dire.
When asked what entangles so
Perhaps if told correctly once
It would be the quickening in the heart.
This testimony bears witness
To the dangers of loving when loved not.
Now trapped by destiny to you.
The lady be as fair as any ever seen.
Hope that she will catch this kiss on the wind,
Or that someone will learn from this mistake.

The advocation implies insanity,
The facts cover the truth.
While the judges struggle vainly
To psychologically bind the aloof,
The just are the just
Are self reflections..
The judges are like syphilitic male organs,
They are not good anymore,
Common, vulgar, low perfect descriptions.
The disconcerted atrition
Caused by the war on drugs
Has become ad absurdum in an infinite way.
To legal mistakes
Effective as of now they never happened,
For time was taken to hide them yesterday.
This may mean the second collapse of the happy states,
The dissolution of their harmony.

90. A Little Vengeance
Run up the alley,
Right turn.
Return the lie to the location of purchase,
Sly, run along,
Later turn key words,
As a key witness.

The End
The truth comes floating
Over the waves.
The projector stops;
The end comes,
Show me
Another page in the decade of imponderance,
Declareth the end
In trite triumph through quiet decay,
Trists but markings for the story
Full of the simplicity of animal grandeur.
The emotion is resonant,
Dashing the participants into blashpemy,
But of the spirit
None for me thanks.
Throughout the decade of the sun
Disaster struck.
Hop on this, they say,
Hop on this for frantic mingling.
No fast one, they say,
Who the hell are they anyway?

Why can’t you hear
What the mortals are saying?
Do they call out with guttural exhalations,
Or laugh, or over time quietly intimate?
Only a kind mind can recognize
Their vow that has turned traitors away,
That of never uttering anything;
Others will see only a dangerous game.
Silent vaccilation when testimony should be heard.
Of words nothing should be said
Unless with a kind voice, never disturbing
The glassy serenity of social surfaces.
The thoughts of the silent
Are like gastropods moving around on the floor
Of a shallow crystal bay.
Every shell contains a person,
And words?
What use for them when vision holds on,
When beautiful mind can be seen
Under the bright light.
It is easy to see all impurities
In the mind that uses language.
Some men seek to trap with their sentences,
Sentences of greed
Or violence in political times,
Rather than walking away they seek to prey.
Violent men see nothing but
Night and day.
The secret to the vision here?
The voices say nothing.

93. Psychogibbering
Time: Tomorrow
Event: Cessation of the winds of chaos
Doubt: Location of next home
         : One can not help but wonder at the forces
            which tear one away from security.
            The next event could be anything.
Event: The river flows through time.
Essence: Thought.
         : There is no water in the river,
            it comes from the mind.
Uncertainty: How thought will get along with time.
Certainty: Kindness will be paid in kind,
             cruelty will be considered a debit
             against the individual account.
Location: Neither hearing nor vision
Actuality: Thought is nothing at all if not a convergence of powers.
Question: What power could converge?
Answer: Literal time and thought.
              Literal time has warps and bends,
              Measured time flows through
              With nary a glance to either side.
so, a second attempt at the location of the... phenomena:
              mental focus
              the center of the mind
Significa: chaos winds bring no surety
              wind brings instances and wonders
              the cessation: a gap in history
              this event is the end of all events
Problem: no tangible coordinates for the location
              wonders too fleeting to hold.
              point: discovery of it must be original
              there can be no transcribed learning of it
              essence: to try to capture is to defile
                              to use in sharing will bring flourish and growth
              solution: use the metaphysical
                             only to foster growth in others
Definition: something as yet elusive
                 the metaphysical
Hypothesis: Transcription, or copying, teaches many
                    But for transcription to occur there must exist
                    Defintely proven reference points.
                    The metaphysical contains no reference points;
                     Location must be coordinated within the elusivity.
                     Learning the metaphysical must come by plotting vagueries,
                     As there are no absolutes or laws.
Continuance: The more uncertain the plot
                      The more possibilities for what could be certain.
Method: Travel
              Different vantage on same phenomena
              Offers a better view of the unknown.
Metaphysical Travel: Not a product of thought, but
                                 Destinations are determined by intent
                                 Visual Triangulation:
                                 Three dimensional view of the location.
                        This travel depends a great deal on the mind.
         Without words pictures can have no plots,
     And the terms can never be subjective,
                                  Visual plots rely so heavily on purely
                                  Mathematic explanations.
               What is left
               After the numbers have all been crunched?
                                 Take me away
                                  So that I might stand and smile,
                                  Hoping the dream will never die.
Physical Travel: Allows the subjective
                          Direction: The idea is divinely inspired,
          But choice figures strongly into
          The interpretation.
         The why is as important as the where.
        Speculation is done with any words
         But usually one can not escape
        From realistic visual references.
         Caution: all references must be valid,
        Or description may begin to fail to have meaning.
        As a solution magnetic direction
        May be clarified as distinctive from personal goals or desires.
                           Both are destinations,
        But the way is known only with one of them.
The Globe
Continents, poles, hemispheres
Latitude, Longitude
Exact coordinates
Time: Originates in suprahuman patterns of consciousnes
          point of origin = the discovery of magic
          Time exists to aid the voyager in the material plane.
          Analysis would refuse this idea
          Though it too is bound by time..
          The evidence posed by the uncontrollable nature of time
          Refutes the idea that there can be no magic,
 (Time has no limits)
 And disparages petty authoritarians on the subject.
Proof: Man exists totally within time,
 Time has no limits,
 Man can use time as a tool,
 Therefore, if he uses this tool wisely
 He too can shed all limiations.
           The use of it in measuring is the objective:
 Some use it this way
 Because they can see nothing beyond
 What they have created.
           The use of it in literal terms is subjective:
 Those who use it this way
 Allow for the existence of almost anything,
 They see their abilities to create over time,
 But instead decide to escape out of time,
 Experience a warp of time
 That feels much like total freedom.
Let us assume then that you will be free from time on this trip.

Continue to Roll Call of the Lesser Devils II