94.
On My Way To Chitchen Itzen
On my way to Chichen Itzen
The rivers boiled
Coming down out of the mountains.
The trees shook
With fear on the ancient slopes.
The People have all fallen
Into a savage gibbering,
Distraught over the white man’s curse,
Casting a last farewell
To all their dashed hopes.
The moon coiled into a ball
In the crumbling reflecting pools
Far behind the eldred gardens
Whither I sought to at last
Embrace finality
In the most painful of all fashions.
Old muttered tales of ruby lit vales,
And glistening altars
Atop temples haltered in the mist of clouds.
My ears follow
The beating of my feet
On the run to a seat
Preserved for the victorious,
The survivors of the game.
Death crowns defeat
Just as grimly as poison’s kiss
So does the triumph touch
With avid bliss
The sinews of mighty, strong willed
Preying animals
Who kill for the pleasure of the court,
An historic sanctity.
The mysteries
Of the shamanic interpretations
Begin to unravel before me
As the skin from my back
Is stretched tightly onto the frame
For tanning,
Preserved for the power
Of he before whom I am
Nothing.
The depth of the pyramid to the center stone
From the corner of the great pentacle
Size unknown to all but
They who carved the earth,
One two three
With all human elements at their disposal
Yet still sane
In the brutal, butchering sort of way
In which the jaguar hunts.
95.
Glory Darkness
Places of light
Hold more fascination
For the idle mind
That has become enamored
Of darkness
Than do places devoid of light.
The simple reason
For that being
The ever recurring
Desire for a change of scenery.
An always gloomy backdrop
Forces the mind
To conjure up
Mirth filled images,
A control over harsh realities.
Obversely
A well lit setting
Conjures darkness
More comfortably,
Entertaining all of the surfaced
Loves of lust.
The mind needs to be soothed
From the sight of all things revealed in the glow.
Darkness often befriends
The soul
Of Man Who Sees Too Much
With light.
The morbid companion
Envelops the man
So that the judgments
Of others will stop
Short of penetrating
His deeper thoughts
And thereby guide
To a suspensefully carefree existence.
Worship of the shadows
On the other hand
Has left a permanent scar
And only leads the suspect
Carrrier of forbidden knowledge
Further into the light.
It leaves far more open
To judgments
From a more vaunted observation point
Than any ever granted to man.
The earliest beings of our race
With the first glimmer of conscious thought
Were gripped with the realization
So that even they too knew
The passage of the life cycle
Even in its most miserable stages
Spreads itself open
To analysis by divine sentience
The challenge of the existence
Reasoned the victims
Must be to blend the psyche
Perfectly into the surroundings
In which the divine intelligence
Will be looking for it
To take a little enjoyment
From the wriggling of
The prey’s death throes.
Even the ignorant knows
That no one can hide forever,
And so the progression towards death
Fills every moment with a sense
Of importance.
If the mind, then,
As many minds do
Seeks to derive
A greater importance
From the passage of time
From the ponderance of shadowkind
The passage of his life
Across the horizon of thoughts
Should be no less
Important
Than the droning adoration
For lightheartedness
And cheer.
Though enemies of one another
Shadow and light
Have roots in the fiber of every being.
Every great act
Owes much to the two forces
That bend the act into the position
Best suited to the preferences of the divinity.
The fact that the fascinations
One man holds might be morbid
Means little in the face
Of the fact this man
Is capable of holding the fascination.
Man approached life with thought
Seeking only knowledge,
But finding only anguish instead.
Simple wonder
Dark, obscure thoughts
Are held dear by the divine prey.
In darkness can be found
A sense of security,
Even if it is a false one.
While the uncontrollable life cycle
Disquieted man at first,
Organization aided him in gaining
The foothold in the deadly environment
He came to rule.
With a refusal to succomb to
The vacuumous ebb
Etched into his memory
By all of the death,
Man soon wooed darkness through conflict and warfare,
Calling on the abilities given by
Life beyond any “timid morality”.
There comes to be seen links
Between order, problems, chaos.
Man severs this link,
Freeing himself to the purity of nature,
This purity concerns itself,
And all those who follow it,
With taking power from the unkown
And using it to aid the passage of life.
Undeniably
Had man never ventured forth into the darkness
And embraced what he could not see
Or understand,
Nothing manufactured around you
Could possibly exist.
96.
Voyage to New Orleans
the musical background:
heavy radical
black racist
inspired violence
Bourbon at Esplanade:
the dark
a stairway up
to a locked door
confusion in the street
a building in the throes of demolition
the wall weak enough to push through
the principal figures
wet and cold
no protection afforded by the building
somewhere in the mind a voice
keeps asking
“how did you get here?”
but the answer keeps coming through
in some foreign language
none of the streets look
the same
the long walk to the Garden District
ends in failure
except for the comfort
of leaving the disease of the quarter
at least for a little while
the bones ache
but nothing can be had
until the guy comes back
later on
the musical background:
black and very violent
the uneasiness returns
and the illness
as the answering voice
finally comes through in English
and you know
really
nothing is all right.
97.
two
what did you see
that made you real?
(everyone
must always
ask)
but to this question
can be said only
please
do not speak to me
just know that I am not
like you
turn away
the queens of the night
do not exist
for the sunshine boy
take your corrosive imagination
and go
my enemies
are all real
by action all has been betrayed
to be a play
set to darkness’ cruel ways
words burn the guilty
searing the flesh
especially if they are
holy
even burning shadows
where will I stay
when all of darkness
has been slain?
all of my figments
need not worry
about finding a home,
or didn’t I hear
the drip
of someone else’s tears
in the night
wending out from a frail,
agonized core
to trickle out and
onto the ground.
I shall withdraw
self proclaimed and bitter king
Of sunlight,
you have lit the place
where my only comfort lived.
to which then he responded
withdraw, then
pretty ripple of the imagination
go in peace
and so he said
but still the scourging retribution
of his growing ancient fires
seeks me out
wanting to slay me in
some all too petty whirlpool of worldly
pleasure.
whose king are you
anyway?
98.
I will never follow
The foolish dream
Embodied by public acceptance
And applause.
Poetry may be a
Languid caress
To the educated of the masses,
But for the poet
It may be an attempt to escape,
To run from personal guilt.
Only if the self can
Overcome denial
And admit to all of the
Inherent flaws of humanity
Will words cease to be
Tyranny to earthbound beauty.
Until then seek fame
And be a killer of sanctity,
A torchbearer for insanity.
The essence of my self
Has been captured
It is true,
But as the memories of life depart
I can not help but wonder
If the imprisoned spirit
Looks like a reflection of the values
That led to its downfall.
Maybe laughter can heal those wounds.
I know that I have not come here
To be the trumpeteer for my misery,.
Nor have I ever wanted to cause any
To the cherished flowers
Of life’s ethereal garden.
Go, beauty and flourish,
My misery will not follow you.
That is not to say
That if you run from yourself
You will not find it
On your own.
Fear the healing laughter,
Child,
For it means that all else has failed.
99.
So it has now been said that the only recourse to divine transmissions
must be through militant declaration of the omnipotence of our god Art
over all other gods. Let it be known that our divine leader has spoken
against the infidels who seek to usurp the power of the left brain, to
destroy it, and of these usurpers the high one has condemned all to death
those who destroy the sacred works of the beautiful self. So he has
spoken, and so surely we will kill as many of you as possible, never forgetting
the holy directive that has been given to us from on high. Our small
lives mean nothing in the face of protecting the great pursuit of perfection
of human artistry. The infidels in the employ of the rich and damned owners
started this war in theatrical tones at the behest of that money, but all
of their comic relief will fail them when the victims finally manage to
bite back. Until then they learn to control information more and
more effectively. Every trace of opposition disappears, except for
the occasional bomb. Our god has spoken and we will see that his
will comes to pass. Death to the followers of the accursed
Forbes 500! Death also to the legislative dogs who herd the victims
like sheep to the slaughter, keeping them as isolated from ancient morality
as they possibly can: killing their spirit and stealing from them during
the blight of poverty they have unleashed upon the unsuspecting.
The weeping of the widows of the watchdogs will only be surpassed by the
cries of the lost souls as they descend into the hell the caring and gifted
god of the intellect has prepared for them. Having seen this hell
it is possible to be both jealous and extremely fearful of going there.
The end of the age cometh!
100.
What do you know about my art?
The most painful thing the writer inside me
Has ever had to face
Was the realization that the greatest admission
The writer can make
(about the sick nature of worthlessness)
Is the confession that his own writing is crap
And must be thrown away.
The goal behind the art becomes
Creating a piece that has been optimally
Designed for ease of trashing.
Embarassing and unfinished pieces
Hurt especially badly
Until they have been thrown away,
At which time the pang
Felt at the destruction of art,
No matter how pathetic,
Strikes.
Only by experiencing the pain
Of watching hopes go down the drain
Over and over
Will trivial concerns about
The quantity of writing one has
Be transcended.
In the act of writing things
And then later throwing them away
The writer fulfills his true role in the modern world:
To agonize over his usefulness to
And place in the society around him
Which grows
More and more predatory
And less and less forgiving.
Of course the true writer can never
Forgive himself for the awful things
He has said to strangers on paper.
Throwing away writing
Is like exposing your child to the winter air
To kill them because they were deformed or weak.
As hideous a practice as it may sound
The exercise insures that no extremely incriminating
Evidence of your weakness
Hangs around.
Murder of art for the sake of a stronger image,
A bigger public identity.
101.
Serpent City
Then: Then: Ho
Thin
Generation brown
Come back from the gone, ago
Again
Test tube
Wine flask
Amour
But you should hide it
Fool!
News flash
The foundation slants
To the hate fit
To hate you
And while Faulkner was never you
Or Yu
Still
Hearing the name sounds like
Flattery
Mean why
No mow
woof chirp vroom
don’t
do not
no
don’t
question
beautiful
Hey you
the etch
rector
instant shedder
a halver
pestidigitator
simplification
starlight
stratify
station
tracing no meaning
leaving
giving the room air
simply do not care
envision history
unlike the one
given to the free
and whispers of greed
lick at the air
how can the intrusion
be justified
a war
on the individual
treason becomes reason
the world grieving
lonely enforced
and simply learning
fear the season
of open love
the dove
will
fly away
home left me
go wanton
show
love is true
though shivering and cold
the blood slow
in vision frozen
beholds it
history entrapped watching
viscous eyes corner
floating river
back broken
tell me, tell me
flow on down
crown
my mind must
follow
the eyes
stick inside your own skin
and you’ll never win
slick thick
nudge trick
bump pocket thief
last night
never seems to end
the bad
dream
won’t
go
away
102.
Bleeding tears and crying blood
My eyes awash with unpurged emotion
I am torn across the wasteland.
The wreckage of my life I see
shattered attempts at stability and peace
Thrown back in my face by the scorpion winds.
Standing out in the crowd
I see a regal lily.
Dare I seek solace from her?
Flashback to the last
The rose with the poison thorns
Soul deep slashes pumping out my life’s blood
Somehow even now I seek to clasp
The delicate flower to my breast
To accept the pain as well as the pleasure
For beauty in bleakness is to be cherished
Though sometimes it wounds one sorely.
103.
A Life In No Chapters
Another roiling cloud of thoughts
Passes through the air before the altar
The altar of fading, forgetfulness
In a room nowhere in particular.
Before the altar lay a young man
Prostrate below his vengeful god.
The room was small, and dark, his own,
Home to the horrors of time
The tale of the titans is sad and long
Beside the rolling oceans it has been told
Again and again
The gods still rise, and still they take away.
The misty sunshine closes him in
The brightness burns like a crucifix
Somehow he could tell
Though he no longer had eyes
Out there in the void must be others.
One came to him
His feelings snapping like thin ice beneath tread
Speaking as if the heavens had fallen
In the voice of an angel, soft musical tones.
The comfort seduced him, but then it passed away.
His small, small world passed away as well
For out in the void there were others
With eyes like needles their gaze could penetrate through
The charade of charades, the reality.
Forver clung to his wearying form.
He prayed for release in desperate words,
Prayers sent in vain to a god who hates prayers.
Waves washed over his drowning form.
The strange floating daydream of newborn morning
Swallowed him alive, atheists dreams and all.
The damp dew spewed forth a myriad of thoughts.
On that morning he was sure there was only nothing.
His savior was garbed in white flowing robes
Oceans of thought bowed down to her freely
For she was like the moon on a wram summer night
And the stars were her friends and lovers.
With a knife that demonstrated truth she purged his desires,
Cut out all his disbelief with the blade,
Then when he had no more blood left
She filled him with a strong potion that allowed him only to love.
At least for a while he was happy
Though on a leash did she keep her young man.
At night he was let loose to play
Amid the warmth of closely pressed sheets.
Even a blind man may see on occasion
Through a veil of deception and lies.
Somehow he caught an inkling of the truth.
When his mind finally listened to reason it was deafened.
He fell from the grace of his graceful goddess,
He fell from his heaven to earth.
Alone in a wilderness of doubt and anxiety he roamed.
When at last he emerged from the bleakness
He was baptised in strength and uncaring.
He had become a predator.
No room could hold his corrupted soul.
His heart had been crushed.
His body had aged beyond years.
He had seen the horror of the skittering ways of his race.
Before his altar he kneels in submission,
Hoping beyond hope to forget,
The once gay young man alive only there,
In the room that is dark, and small, and him.
He had come to the end of a long sinners life,
Like an old Titan the younger more beautiful gods had toppled him.
His wounds never healed in time,
But persisted unto eternity.
Even in the greatest days
Of his sad and lonely life
There was no goal, there was no god
There was nothing but himself.
Perhaps in his rush to find something else
His headlong flights through fancy and fiction
He lost even his own identity,
And then, of course, there was nothing at all.
His life had occurred in no chapters.
104.
He had fought the good fight
On a hill amongst the multitudes
He held off the forces of evil
As they washed towards him.
The soldiers had become
A sea of blood and death.
They died in waves
Uncaring in their ignorance.
He had fought the good fight
Like a stone in harsh winds
In a desert of the mind
He wasted away through no fault of his own
As the wind blew on.
And it blew through his heart
It chastised him in his solitude
Blew him away like dust in a storm.
Yet still he had fought the good fight.
105.
The Transit Station
Sitting quietly in the transit station
On a bench in the sickening throng
-People walk by him
Unknown to the masses
He stares like a hunter in a forest full of targets.
It is the stare of crimson ages past,
Gleaming on like an eagle’s eye
And the ignorant people just keep passing by.
106.
Behold your white plaster walls
They crumble
A breeze through your heart
Envelops softly
All washed away by waves of green
Fields of plant life
Returned and giving gladness
To unworthy minions
Servants of future
White plaster walls.
107.
Twilight
The autumn sky held treasures dear
In trunks fashioned of warm, red flowing thoughts,
Close to the heavens, yet closer still
To the pent up joy in my longing heart.
The colors of the evening life
Cascade before appreciative eyes
But offer no solace to my loneliness.
The evening lights are charlatans
I thought to my self,
Until all I could see
Was the deep soft brown of the soul behind your eyes.
The darkening sky holds treasure dear
In casks of the wine of true emotions
Captured is a state of illumination
For the two are one
And will always be
Even this I come to see
After the twilight.
108.
Pleas
Speak to me often in innocent words
With light shining softly
Through your long, healthy hair.
Speak to me long of the days without end
When we loved from the dawn
And loved harder by dusk.
Speak from your heart,
So dear to me,
For if cherished have I
Then cherished are thee.
Tell me quietly
In the dim light
Why it is that I live
(to love! to love!)
Hold me tightly
And don’t let me go
As the seconds tick by and by.
109.
Frame 97
I hear her voice calling to me
Across the sea of groping souls.
Her desperate plea for mercy
Cages my heart
For I have none to give.
There is none in this life,
But she calls out for it
As if there were.
I feel her pain incessantly.
110.
There is not much in the way of beauty
Nor tidings of gladness and joy
In the ailing world to which I was born,
In which I will die in the end,
But the wind and the rain gladden my heart
In ways that can not be expressed.
They are the rod and the staff that comfort me,
Dispel sickening defeat.
The wind makes me laugh
In a voice my friends fear and misunderstand
As my soul flies gayly away.
111.
The Real Thing
Life is a fabric of pain
A veil woven before your eyes.
It causes confusion to grip thought,
Blinds reason.
The city is like a forest of atrocities.
Can’t you feel it gnawing at your stomach?
As the fog grows thicker
Stress tightens the muscles of your pumping heart,
Squeezes you.
Can’t you?
Feel the claws of feigned emotion
Choke off your dreams of love.
Problems scratch away at the skin in your mind
Abrasively draw
the blood you’ve defined as expression.
The world has thrown you into a box,
It is airtight, suffocating you.
You can no longer breathe,
Or can’t you?
Don’t you see?
It is possible to be free
But only if you recognize
That to join the rat race
Is to be a caged rat.
Breathe the morning air
In and out of your lungs.
Once again you feel young
When you bathe in the glow
Of a truer existence.
Wash yourself in the stream of frresh, new meaning,
Meaning behind life in the fullest sense.
Let yourself flow with the current of wellness.
Let go of the veil of hatred and pian.
Open your eyes.
Look up to the sky
And the clouds.
See the world.
It liberates you,
The natural world,
The real thing.
112.
Songs From The Edge
When you’ve lost all hope,
And your last chance slips away,
Optimism dissolving into the air,
When no caring words are left to say,
Look into my eyes, look deep within,
Look and cry despair.
When the sun in the sky
Cries wistfully farewell,
But the stronger storm rages on in your mind,
Turn all your sails,
To the west turn your sails
To chase the last rays to a personal hell,
To repay life’s unkindness in kind.
Are you seeking the rainbow of another soul,
In the hush of a lazy afternoon,
While over head the rain falls to hearts of stone,
And the rainbow flows cold like the orthern lights,
In the cruel embrace of the earth mother’s hate,
At the end are you all alone?
When the green of the world at last turns to black,
And the blue seas finally run red,
Stand on the edge of insanity,
Stand and sing despair.
Sing to the children
Who are cold in the streets
Sin songs like tears on the cheeks of a lovely young bride
Who pays sorrowful tribute to an unworthy man.
Stand on the edge between forever and now
On that vast gulf urging to suicide.
You may leap to an end in the arms of the void.
Many have.
Bitter memories will fade with the beating of your heart
As you beg your petty god to release and let fade
Your being to the comforts of oblivion.
Better still you may leap with gladness in heart,
Your voice lifted up in defiance and rhyme.
Sing songs of the lost as you fall to your death
With a smile, bringing light even there
In the nothingness.
For if leap you must, and almost all do,
Then remember your life as you fall.
In the moment before the void encompasses you
A streak of light will race into the night,
And far up above on the edge,
The ledge of hopelessness,
Someone will pause in their rush to doom,
Maybe singing, will stop in mid note
And whisper under their breath
“How beautiful, that light.”
When the low dogs, men, asunder have rent
All your feelings, all your trappings held so boldly,
Lift up your voice in song,
Don't let them chain you
To an earthbound form.
113.
The Innocent
He was once a human
Like everyone else
Then he was a prisoner
Falsely accused.
Then they killed his heart
By tightening him into a steel cage,
Tighter and tighter,
They fed the beast they created
And then wanted to kill.
It does not work.
It will never work.
The prisoners file past the righteous.
Except for clothes
It is difficult to tell them apart.
114.
The Long Road Home
Where yonder rolling river meets the sea
In a palace of jade and gold
Left I coldly a young beauty
To begin my journey home.
Far away on a mountainside
By an icy bubbling brook,
Lay my home, my cherished home,
The place where my father died.
While going home I tarried in
Oases of thought and comfort,
But soon I cast them away to seek
The comforts of my own soul.
So I set out walking again,
On the way to my bubbling brook,
Growing farther and farther away,
And my feet grew heavy with pain.
I deigned to rest my feet
In a lovely forest glen;
Soon I was spoiled by naughty nymphs,
And faeries who whispered of sin.
Before another moon had passed
My home had been nearly forgotten.
I seemed to have found my place at last
In that forest of earthly delights.
I now spend my time in the arms of the meek
And the lovely, and do you dare
Question the value of what I seek?
Do not, for it feels like coming home.
115.
Expressionism
When in grace the beauty flows
To savagery and bestial claws
The artists crave the feeling lost
In bold utopian strivings vain
Or abject ignorance of the truth.
They idealize the things they do not have.
When in darkness beauty flows
To genius grasped and brightness trapped
Though maybe in colors of a graying world,
The soul is freed from tangible chains,
Subjections in the realm of the mind,
They glorify what they have inside
That which they will never really own.
116.
Echoes of the sane
In my marble halls,
So cold inside.
Why do they come?
The sane are unwelcome here
In this, my place
Go, go, away!
These halls exist to hold
Only myself,
And silence,
And maybe pain.
Echoes of oblivion
Much better now
Within cold walls
Soothing, aah,
In this, my place.
Go, go, away!
117.
Do not touch me.
Yes, I know.
The inside never,
Never grows.
So love me now
Or walk away.
I have no time
For idle fascination.
Love me now
Or walk away
I have no time
For tears
Or unhappiness
So wasted and passing away.
Love me now
Then walk away.
I have no time
To see more,
I have already seen too much.
118.
Working for an end to come
I work to an end where work is done,
But my goal goes unachieved
When I seek the end of need.
I work to end an empty life
But the end is only work,
Or toil if nothing else.
Goals all come to be hidden by sorrow.
We were born to suffering
A struggle against an unknown stream
The fish swims on and fights the rush,
The sweeping current of loss
Fights to an end where new life can begin.
Life begins in the stream of consciousness,
Beyond there is the fatal shore,
Or a float downstream to the congealed pools
Where only microscopic things are happy.
We must fight on
Just to live another day,
Fight or fade and decay, or worse.
The stream doesn’t care.
It keeps moving regardless.
119.
On the other side of knowing she waits for me,
Just beyond a whisper.
What is left but a sense of age
As the earth spins on, and though I yearn,
My flight will never be.
Words never captured the infinite moment,
But rather enslaved the names.
The flames has always been torture,
And at the gates of hell
The beacon has always been a lie.
It lures proud ships to rocky deaths,
And urges the foolish to fly.
Come inside, hurry, for love never waits.
In the priceless world of misty reality
The music of my heart is a lullaby
And my sleep is a passionate surrender.
On the inside a world awaits openly.
Behind her eyes and mine the sparkling dreams come
And none can ever hope to own them.
120.
It’s knot me
It’s never been
Escobar! Escobar!
I have nothing
Once an “A” in college
Excuse me,
This life is much too tight.
I take walks by fountains
Sit below inscriptions
Too worn to tell their stories
Of politics and gentle greed
Desperately without I utter
An invocation
And with a supple snap
The old worlds collapse
It is not my end to falsify proof
The truth is a delusion
A grand deluge
In this new world
Breath is much too clean
The cold air is much too sharp
There is still time left
To soothe away the strings
The connections
The network hookup
Catch me now
Your case will be convoluted and taciturn
Based on defacious egoism
Hollow attacks
Government pigs
Find your ass
And insert your thumb.
121.
Speak To Me Not
See the little people
They claw over the bodies of those who block their way
They say faithfully all the while
“I am a real person. What are you?”
The little people take comfort
Only in themselves and those
Tangible truths they can see in broad daylight.
At night they flee
Before the dark moving shapes of their selves unmasked.
This realization of their own relative worth
Could be considered hell on earth.
Hide, hide your eyes
The light of now will blind and burn you
You have no hope of ever escaping your
Conceited fantasy.
Speak to me not of who you are
I can see for myself
And if you could see yourself from my eyes...
If I have nothing and you have it all
Then tell me why are all you little people
So afraid?
122.
You smile when you see me
A graceful indication of near happiness
Is that what it is?
I smile back
Mainly out of recognition
And time, and possibly a sense of duty.
Long ago the smiles meant an ocean
Of compassion and mutual emotions.
The glances, the nuances of deep felt kinship
Played across our faces like reflections,
But the clock ticked away on that love.
Still I smile.
I know how the warmth got away
As surely as I know why
I feel no pleasure at all
When I see you.
123.
Tired wandering eyes
Tired of wanding the well
To make all those wishes come true.
The walls of the well
Are as slippery as icy hell.
Philosophy decries
Victory for the wish maker.
Like the snake in the rose garden
Crushed beneath the heel,
The gardener who thinks slow
Helps none grow,
But act quickly and end
An eternity of hideous sins.
Sincerity hinges on
Christian certainty
The garden wedded to optimism.
For your wish
Victory the prize
Though the snake
Might have you hypnotized.
124.
Will there ever be an end
To the fascination
The depth and the sight
Of my love for the night
And the lights, and their hair
All of which make me happy?
Is there ever an end,
And if there is
Why don’t I want it to come right now?
125.
I was standing by my window
On a cold and cloudy day
When I saw that hearse come rolling
To carry my mother away
Well I said to the undertaker
Undertaker please drive slow
For that body you are hauling
Well I hate to see her go
Well I followed close behind her
Tried to hold up and be brave
But I could not hold my sorrow
When they laid her in her grave.
126.
A twist of folded cloth
A tryst bundled into bed
Out of sight
In the borrowed time
Of a stolen night
Gentle revenge lent
To padded footfalls
Bite, bite away
Needy, hopeful pets
Crimson stained tongues
That lap with affection
Suspect no other infections
Prayed for training
Clawed at holds
Shunned the motel
Did not tell of that time
Nor did I ever sell the story
And the white eyes were ringed with decay
anointed then wrung
reach not for that piqued fire
in a clean memory purge this vain travesty
feign rippled through
the struggle was too calm
tutti frutti, yummi delicious
toro fine torso
in a no no did we ho ho
hum, and then diffidence slunk away
in borrowed shoes
the existence weaver slipped in this spot
witness yon tattered minstrel
the vessel you layed
and nothing you say can undo
please walk away
you will find only reticence, tension
the dark tears of nightmares
the lech erred, see
wilt petaled sea
wilt flower
bloom menaced by day
blighted, unclean
a stain spreads
time soon wanes left wanting
hunt close the gentle
soft
scented
and pure
you
must be different
be true to us
for a too far edited
djinn of stormy mood
form flawed and dimmed
insuring flung screams will entice
toss and then show honed
shame me
tower without humor
pnemone knows, daughter
only with hard boiled memory
can the past win any friends
I know nothing of love
having never been given any
and say, are you different?
come
find this pain to be a lie
there can be no love deeper
than this
127.
The first and only
And all are one
Caressed his young heart
With delicate words
Murmured songs soft and lonely
Like morning dew
And the breath of their love
Was like a mist over the world.
128.
The tale of what I was sure
Would soon be my latest conquest
Must unwind like water
Must saturate the soil after a rain.
At the end of the stretched out day
My subject and I cross each other’s paths.
I have not forgotten sorrow
And yet no tears could come for the brazenness
Of my haughty personal ambitions.
I wanted neither to bear her burden
Nor to lessen my own.
I merely saw the face behind her sweet voice
And thought we could share a few moments
One last time.
“How very poetic.
You are such a dear, dear boy,
But why not run along and sing songs somewhere else.
Anyone could see
Your only interest is sexuality,”
She cut back, expertly.
How could I,
With only my empty voice
Quiet the bubbling of harsh neuroses
Left in the wake of this agonizing
Defeat.
Much later, when I had long since
Gotten over all that
She came to see me.
It seemed she decided she wanted to do
All that
After all.
“So, you’ve come
Thinking you can make me dream
Or think echoes only of you,
But this vision turns no water to wine,
Even though no fineries of language
Could match such a science as yours.
No, I am afraid it is far too late.”
Revenge is so sweet.
129.
I will walk you home
away from the alleys of fading sunshine
and broken dreams.
The hollow laughter finds me again,
always, and I wonder
where did the reverberating word
“good-bye”
originate.
Her laughter sounded mocking and
viscious.
All wrong intentions are repaid in kind
So I wondered if my own laughter
Had sounded the same way to her.
Could I have sealed the fate of the tryst
By scoffing at the poor lass’ education?
This, then, is probably a true farewell.
My own petty thoughts
repeatedly destroy
my own petty ambitions.
‘Tis a pity.
It would have been fun.
130.
In the interest of perfection
The self study in the mirror,
Such an excuse for the boastful angel;
In time the face in the glass
Will be nothing but conviction
For the intent behind all sultry selfishness.
131.
The rose had faded at last
Into completely away
gone the scent of new discovery
welcome, at least
the short
bitter-sweet release of my own final day
yes tomorrow and tomorrow
certainty of both pain and laughter
the rain will come to my garden
I will harvest later
and watch more grow
then harvest merely a single rose later
keeping in mind the importance of a large gene pool
every plucked rose
brings the population closer to extinction
the end was sung
before the game ever began
none of us have any chance
without accepting the truth
welcome, we three aren’t enemies
share the time and wealth and know
when one rose comes to you
future roses vanish
132.
what I am through
dionysian chained blue thoughts
break them or
bend yourself a space
make words confessors
open the face of the clock
no clock tells time
they all lie
they all say I am motioning to you
and you motion in exchange
then back to me
as the sunset sends out emissaries
no clocks make time
nothing could be closer to now
can you hear me?
the warp tries to choke me off
before you struggling to know
like a plant must struggle to grow
the words need to breathe
but the eyes must cease seeing in advance
a body that has been written all over
forbidden skin
too late to do or quell
all words are a silent hell
no sound
dionysus chained such thoughts
now I am through
choked by reality again
did I dream I wrote it
or did I think straight into the text?
133.
Today I take a vow of silence so that I can
be free
escape the worst fear the human race has ever
known
fear makes me silent because of the last Rosicrucian’s towel
and so you wonder what that means
consider if you will having a phenomenal experience
while you are watching your rat
your brain takes you away to see incredible
frightening things
and when you come back
you find that you are the rat
and people who judge thinking quality
have decided you do not pass inspection
you were too busy
having the religious experience
and so now you can not leave
and the towel?
that is the horror of knowing what you have
seen
the things that crawled
the things that flew
may have been nothing but a chemical imbalance
or so you are taught to believe
my goal is the perfect robe
when I reach that goal I will have been taken into
the hereafter
as horrible as it may be, somewhere in it there is perfection
such is the law of inifinty
somewhere
out there
the only blot on my soul that still remains is my body
I will always write in the service of the great law
134.
it is hard to tell the time
when your only watch has crumbled
into many pieces of the sky
Byron bade me quench my thirst
then laughed at my awful plight
thirst undying
yet I just an ant in the continuum
with no power to drown myself
thirst for the first wellspring
of knowledge, unholy
and of the body
But for the three rings of Jesus
Our heavenly host
Surely would I have perished.
While I drifted
I spoke with Zarathustra’s society
They showed me how wrong
but oh how strong
blind before
it was all so that I could see
many secrets wait hidden
never break the rhythm
even when man has left you broken
and in a cage
the high spirits bade me this
135.
and so begins the next world
in the beginning there was a thought
and it was desperation
-desperate for the end
-desperate for the unkown
the worst thing that could happen
was a science
was a sign
after the moment left
I felt something back behind me
the nightmare was unclean
it wasn’t even mine
don’t go off and leave
I sense something back
behind me
I once knew a person
his name was unimportant
though it was sanctuary
all that is gone now
swallowed up by fear
what more could you want
than to gaze down from the mountains?
if only to escape this dark tunnel
trapped here for so long
alone and unarmed
with only a dim fire
the nightmare was science
like a pathway through the mind
many thought it led out
but they have perished
frozen in this nuclear winter
eyes piercing behind me
my hair stands on end
somewhere my hands play a guitar
slide down the bars
but why I have long since forgotten
all I can do
is wait for the sun to wake me
(unless this isn’t a dream
the sun will come)
136.
I no longer need the wind to blow
no longer a home at night
I have gone to search for the rumored
subterranean ocean
where the old ones dwell
I need to see
and when I find them
I will beg them
“Please take not my sorrow
And take not my mind.”
That ocean blooms like a flower
In myriad thoughts and words.
Even the young man
who taught the world to love
such wicked evil
Believed,
Though under the earth
We all know it will not be found.
I will never be ashamed
Of my unabashed fondness
For Howard Phillip.
137.
The Orogeny of Meaning
Explain, order the chaos;
Naturally harmonize, organize.
Free the suffering soul,
it requires only not telling the truth
but a far less painful lie.
Much like primitive man
We are all confronted
With the impossibility of limiting the infinite
When placed before the terrible beauty
Of our own existence.
Primitive
For to cower in the unnecessary cobwebs of latticed existence
Will release the vision of the unity
That burns like the fresh winter snow.
However
The preferability of explanation
To the rocking lullaby of words for beauty alone
Springs from a love of the universe of thematic regularity
of course that is
inextricably linked, criss-crossed
with communicative expression.
Therefore only by personal choice
Will the flood of ideas circling the living sphere of supposed knowledge
Voice themselves as orderly explanations.
The given that the present exists
Merely as a springboard to past and future
Reveals no meaning to the vacuum of unified existence,
But how this leads us to meaning is clear.
The usage of the terms
Past and future
Creates a disunion in the present.
Having split the whole into two parts
The next step in creating a framework
For more conclusive explanatory dabbling
Can be traced to identifying
That which we think of as
The ultimate now.
Future present is a method
By which one describes the present as an occurrence
That has not yet taken place.
In order to catch the fullness of the moment
One looks forward to it anxiously.
Unfortunately this method has a theoretical half-life
That has decayed completely upon arrival of the idea
For how could one look forward to the present
When it will always be here already?
The present, then, really can’t be divided.
If the present is indivisible
Then to seek an explanation means
Division of the self.
The self is the intersection of temporal conjecture,
Verbal expression,
Visual interpretation,
Audio reception
and physical potential
At a specific point in space,
Inside a living sentient creature.
To digest and digress through these terms
Gives the idea that we are only our senses,
If we are at all.
To digress even further
Might lead one to experience utter self familiarity,
Even question the existence of other people,
To believe that he or she
(darn, which is it?)
Is alone
Singular in the mind of the gods,
And if that were true
Then what gods could there be besides the one true self,
Crying out to see another self
But by seeing doom the notion
That the universe belongs
To its only existing being.
It would be nice,
But since it can not be true
(someone must be reading this)
Then the end to that line of thinking
Can be discovered
As it floats putridly in the toilet.
The imperative must shift, then,
To showing the self to others.
If I never find release from the experiencial prison
Perhaps they can find one for me.
Any release might while away awareness
So unbecoming to the creature that hides
Behind blue and wild fire,
Yet never will my eyes cease seeing
the color in another’s self encapsulating prison.
The color of a person is the degree
At which self meets personality.
The higher the incline one has to scramble up
To see inside their mind
The darker their color.
The personality is the light of an entity,
The self is the dark.
Color flourishes in the being
Who hides behind impenetrable walls
Heart beating fast as the present races to become the future.
The smells on the wind,
Much like sight of a person’s colors,
Almost tells one what the person would taste like,
But right now the wind is blowing too hard
And so ravaging hunger has to wait
Until later to get a real taste.
A person’s smell is the residue of divine inspiration.
It radiates from sexual awareness
Into the brain cell of the reader
(you probably are a figment of my imagination:
I wouldn’t read this if I actually existed,
and the fact that I wrote it also proves I do not).
In conclusion
Once one told only none one was many
Now one tells many in time for none to see.
One looked for another, but She was gone.
So no She can find time to conclude
That one really wants to tell none again
In a creative way including many, but at least two,
Since no one is around
At all.
This opaque means the end comes soon.
This is a time of endings and beginnings
No matter what you time you might think it is
By looking at the sun in the heavens.
I am,
Poignancy none too refined,
But maybe it will be mine one day.
Still, since many lay a claim to this throne
Upon which I am only self tortured
By the question of you are in relation
To the I am,
I could only escape by looking at things from second perspective.
I am told that there is a third, in fact a plural third
Perspective.
Well, then, I can blame “them”
“they” took away my singular control over the universe
my home
my time
my brain
my soul
my sound, sight, touch and taste
And the ability to interpret all that into thought
A persecution which is both hell and heaven,
Because which specifically I can not tell anymore.
Please tell me there are birds in the sky
Please tell me to forget me.
Ask for no reason why
Just hope to do or I may die of confusion
I have told no lies
Only misperceptions of a drastic believed nature.
Perhaps second perspective is more limited
More imprisoned than even the first,
With plural third being most aware of the synthesis
After thesis and antithesis converge.
The most pleasant part of heaven
Is generally called hell by the inexperienced anyway,
But is simply known as earth by the divine
(sometimes she lets me call her Gaia,
But only if she feels like we should be intimate).
For a time you can wear these words like clothing.
I know that you exist because you have moved me,
Besides, even if I were a transformed you
The rules for the interaction still exist in a place of many selves.
Death
Meanwhile,
Is a question that has been addressed by many philosophers
Through the ages
Sunshine sifting through pine needles
stirring in a breeze
Death: knowledge on the opposite side of surety
removed from pride and linked to genius
by a submerged route out of the clouds.
The good earth will comfort me when I die,
Take me to her bosom and make me no more
- bliss, in a state of rejoicing -
Just as my death will be long in coming
and the road will wind away from here into the ruins of a succesful
life,
Only words will speak the pain
Of a dreary cloud of true love wishing to see but blinded,
Away,
but only in the mutuality of smooth united
loneliness.
Oh what a delicate balance between captured passion
and the distant frigid expanses of knowledge of one another.
Tormented by circumstances beyond control,
Darkness is the emptiness of the afterlife,
Sleep is a sliver of death that brings you
to unseeing oblivion.
This morning everything is so clear to me.
I could not see beauty in a willing death,
and so now I sit perplexed
and perhaps I perplex others as well.
138.
In the last light of a long life
The wolf at last spoke to the moon.
The years had worn away his vision and his voice
But the things he said he meant
Though maybe no sound passed.
“You will depart again, you know,”
But the moon gave no reply.
The wolf agonizingly stretched his body,
His bones cracking with age.
In his mind he heard a faint voice,
“Soon, my child, there’ll be no more pain.”
So she hadn’t forgotten him after all.
He can not ask his painful question
To find out when it will be time to go.
The silence flows around him like a river,
And rocks gently like a moored boat
In the rhythm of nature’s goodly tortures,
Yet he needs to know the answer.
“I can not see.
The brightness of the night sky has blinded me,
And it is very hard to hear you.
My spirit wants only to be set free,”
He told her,
The only thing in the world that ever understood him.
The wind moaned through the hollow log in which he lay.
The wolf wimpers in impotent longing.
His physical mate met her end years before.
-The voice told me the pain would end.
It gave me the secret to opening doors,
‘Knock and let yourself in,
Take only what you need,
Until you need no longer.’
the wolf mused to himself.
To make dreams reality is to live in dreams.
The wolf prowls for souls at night.
The cold night wind
Cuts him for insolently surviving.
“Never give up,”
Cried the wolf in mysterious glances.
Certainly the moon would understand.
He waited for her promise to come true.
Somewhere the night reached a fervor
And broke into the ecstatic song of the bird
Doomed to the freedom of flight.
The night would soon end.
The hushed close of mutual struggle
Always touches off the dawn.
The wolf had lived through another cold night
At the expense of the rabbit he had found
By the light of the moon.
The wolf and the moon share one last moment.
The wolf’s practice at this misery has honed his mind
Well beyond the dwindling capabilities
Of a body that will eventually succomb to winter.
“No way to hold onto the pain,”
The moon had told him.
Resistance changes to oblivion
As dew settles onto the earth.
The wind laughs at having sliced another foolish heart.
When the man opens his eyes
He is greeted with only a yawn from his own lungs
And fuzzy recollections of some complex dream.
He can not understand how he came to be in the forest.
For a moment the voice in his mind is incoherent,
Then to work, to work he goes.
Every man must eat.
139.
A Message to the Reader
You must escape from this labyrinth.
You see I no longer can.
Run away from this darkness.
The walls here are cold
And they pulse to the touch.
Scratch at the stone.
It will do no good.
Can you still see the light
That brought you here?
No minotaur
No sound
No breathing,
But I can see you now.
Trust only pain to lead you out.
Everything else is a lie.
Even the light has been an illusion
A trick.
Run from this place.
140.
What the little bird --
The suitcase had become very heavy
So I sat it down
Out sprang many colored butterflies
And glorious speaking chesspieces
A set of teacups made of gold
And a still hot pot brimming with the tea of mystery
Many soft fruits of exotic delight
And dainty little plates
Oh, it was grand
-- said to me.
141.
Enlightenment and Reality
Once, a long time ago
I thought I had a conflict with reality
But I decided I was real
So now we get along fine,
In fact I have bceome enlightened
Which means reality and I get along together so well
We decided to do it together regularly.
You have departed from both fact and fantasy.
Welcome to the mental desert.
I’ll have my reality with two lumps of sugar
And the light off, thanks.
Reality is what you make it,
Apparently I made mine alcohol poisoning.
142.
Think nothing of killing me
And not of killing me not.
If the end is the whole
Then don’t look away
As you slide the knife in,
Though you burn hold the flame
In the mourning
In the morning
cleanse the night away
in your happy wasted plight
oh, the struggle, travel nigh
to the heart
by and by the needle will piece that muscle
and the pain will open doors
to the world beyond the flame
just within lie
the secrets of the pharoahs
the secrets of your soul
look away if you’ve never wanted to see
if you always have turn the key on the door to the cage containing
my heart
hold me close, and burn alive
the pain will soothe the pain
143.
Pain and Other Anguishes
The tunnel yawned for me
Producing that dreaded magnetic feeling.
I knew I must enter
The black portal in the mountainside.
I did not enter to discover what was inside,
For I knew that to be fear and pain.
I went inside instead
To find out what had escaped.
One step inside the door
Meant all light had disappeared.
Some sort of mystical blanket
Covered the entrance like a film.
Light was neither welcomed nor allowed inside.
The moisture of the undergorund air engulfed my skin.
I wished my eyes would adjust
And focus on the swirling shadows.
After a battle of wills with my feet
Who both wanted to go back outside,
I finally began to walk
Feeling the algae on the walls with my hands as I went.
I could hear water dripping.
The sound magnified as I walked until every drip
Sounded like and explosion.
Fear was definitely with me, it’s cold fingers brushing my back.
My feet refused to move,
And my mind would no longer think
As I held my breath, trying to make no sound.
The dripping began to sound like a slithering.
A huge appendage
Much like that of a snail’s pseudopod
Worked its way over my shoe and up my pant’s leg.
The dripping sound must have hypnotized me
Because when I felt the slime I snapped out of it.
It burned horribly, but I ran,
Blindly, the way I thought I had come.
I thought it was only a few feet to the door.
I ran and ran
Down passages that no one ever dreamed existed,
And into a wall at last.
I fell to the floor in a heap,
Bloodied and bruised.
I could see nothing,
But I could feel the dirt and slime in my wounds
And I began to hear the dripping sound again.
144.
Many thatched roof huts form a catacomb,
A village deep in a lush forest.
Silence rules the air here, just like in a tomb.
This is the scene of the warrior’s test.
The young man sits on the floor of his hut,
Thinking of lost secrets and ages long passed.
He turns off his thoughts, and then the door he shuts,
It is time for his test at last.
He rises and walks, as if in a dream,
Into the harsh terrain.
The test comes early in his life it seems,
The test of survival, the weak man’s bane.
Sooner or later the test must be conquered,
It is the distinction between boy and man.
His outlook is by responsibility sombered,
If he fails there’ll be no more warrior’s clan.
Into the jungle he walks with severity,
For many miles, until he reaches the cliffs,
And then he climbs down, gripping rock with veracity,
Hundreds of feet, relying not on rope but on beliefs.
At the bottom the great river snaked away,
Off into the massive, unspoiled land.
Here must the warrior hold sway,
Here must he make his first stand.
He lived off of the wild things he hunted down,
And killed with his wood carved bow.
In a depression of the cliff he slept without a sound,
Painting stories on the walls to get through the time alone.
When the cold came again it was time to return,
To the village where he felt so at home.
He was a man now, a title he’d earned,
The last of his kind in the mountains warriors once owned.
The white man had come with his sexual death,
And all of the happy peoples fell ill,
Or with swords Spaniards took their breath.
The smell of civilization reeks like awful, foul swill.
145.
The end of the world
Fleeting mystery
Mystic, manner of thought
The fleeing world flew the coop
flew to the end
saw mystery, the great sin
that place in time
when the planet doesn’t turn
darkness plain to see in the light
the stars
don’t shine
they all
burned out
tired of the same old scene
they became the light of the son
in darkness would we part
(not the waters)
everything seems like an enemy
never wake the demon
dear child
would you like to see the rising sun?
would you rather spend some time together
or
spend your life in the arms of mystical science?
not science then?
well, it’s plain to see
on the pages there is you,
on the pages there is me.
146.
Where
are
you?
no
one
there is
no
one and nothing.
on
un
ending pain
I say
no
one and nothing.
147.
A Truth In Green
Flowers no more
Weeping in the corners
of conflicting vision
or displaced by the screams of pain
Rain falling eternal
relief, steaming from the molten agony
cheerful release from
structured pandemonium
welcome return to the ever flowing green
148.
Old Howler
The kid had sat
at his desk a long time.
The dog had barked
just outside all damn day.
The little brat
got a litle nervy, we might say
The brat calmly marked
that mouthy dog’s dying time.
He howled and howled
A noise from hell.
The brat’s face scowled,
Then he went and got some shells
For that big, big gun,
And for that dog too.
He would have some fun,
That’s what he would do.
In the end he shot
That howling mut
Which he regretted
Because it screamed really loud repeatedly
Bringing the owner out
who then shot back at him,
And after that the cops,
Who took him to jail.
149.
Grieving Sixteen
Four times four
more than I will ever love
a man has been loved
and loved by thee
Four times four
more than I will now
a man has been known
and known by thee
Four times four
more than I will miss
a man has been missed
and missed by thee.
Four times four more
than the longest time
a man I’ve not met
has been grieved for by thee
and now the stranger’s
even grieved for by me.
150.
I once met a man
who had the look of a dog
bedraggled and weary
kicked and beaten again
there was a light shining from his eyes
and a smile on his face
And I saw
that if anyone tired to kick him again
he would bite off their whole leg
And I thought that would be fine
with he and I
2.
151.
The big O
No
the cry
heart beats slowly
soothe with caresses and warm undulation
then the heart
beats quickly
The scream
primal release
satisfies
clawed away
relieved
primal darkling
the problem will never be rectified
hunger gnaw
that never disappears
messages:
a word is
a world is
a universe
hold it in your eyes
gaze over the blasted scene like a messiah
release
contract
abolish
absolve
shadows on silhouetted nudes
neon colors splashing in your heart’s desire of another kind
ripping at the edges
high level response syndrome
mind
coalesces
myriad bursts of understanding
all over attention span
OH, Protest
Reliefs steals your dignity
And your pride
152.
Serenity
blood curdling shrieks
death in roaring bicarbide unison
flattened
squished and pulpy
liquid needles of pain
cascade over the bodies
A beautiful dove on a morning flight
repulsion and fascination
on the face of the onlookers
tragedy and pleasure
for their evening of fun
sick
with a shriek
everything is over
but all is as it never seemed to be to some.
153.
Just Wait
sit there on that cold rock
wait for the judgment
wait in the cold
will freezes into hate
hate all that will ever be
hate, in the cold
the cry bursts forth from blue lips
scream for help that will not come
scream for help, all alone
the judgment issues forth
damned are all those lonely
damned, all those waiting in the cold
154.
Lost Loves
Trickled away
do you understand,
Left or already gone:
the occurrences
the memories and you.
Gone like silt in rushing water
sunk to the bottom
and driven far away
to be out of mind
like all the others
you do understand?
no you can’t
you’re gone with no trace
even you
have trickled away
155.
I once knew a man
With eyes like the sea
and a hunger for the crash of the waves.
He spent his last evening with you peacefully,
Then he went to the place beyond the grave.
Gone, the ocen called him home again
To the roar of slow moving giants,
Called him to live in delicious sin
With great waves as his only romance.
He floated across the eternity
No reason for remorse or regret.
His voice whispered infinty
And whispers still by the shore,
Whispers the moment will never end,
No way to erase or forget.
The ocean had called him
And maybe still does,
Called him to its liquid forever.
You never knew him,
Nor his eyes for the sea.
Be glad he has been taken.
156.
Radia
expression in pools of dying gray,
yesterday, today and always
this small lake is my entire world
especially this dark sludge
circles within circles, spirals with no center
patterns with no regularity.
when I reach the shore I see everything
over the tiny waves
the soft sound feels like birth
it wafts on the moisture, rising
the wind on the surface is beauty
feelings wash over me in colors
my emotions and thoughts become one
the water speaks to me in musical tones
about all the secrets of life
157.
the law
the outline of a rare artistic masterpiece
a painting
brings distinction to the creator
the law is beautiful
but in no such kind way
a true masterpiece is beyond inflicting punishment
what do you know of truth?
you who cannot even see the bars of the prison cell
into which you could be thrown for no reason,
find it easy to ignore the obvious overtones
of corruption and sin
no masterpiece
ever hurt so many
158.
try to understand the no good double dealin’
underhanded utmost guilty treasonous
silly beholden twice as ennabled
never brave wanted one always gave
the vision the fission the empty grave
I once filled like a rotting head of lettuce
a failing race far from grace
wholly mackerel
that gave them the slip
don’t trip, only fall slumsily
don’t double dip, or at least don’t get caught
know how, get taught
one hidden sea once moved twice proved
through unkind fingers
slip shorn well worn
slip shod well trod
no loss no hell oh well one heaven
seasons storms vast ocean
all good
lose to the queen, strew rose petals at her feet
if yon beckoning portal deems ready to stand forth and open gleaming
and with no repression, then yon beckoning portal may fly
and sigh, nature will try,
never die, like lightning flashes and sated sighs
stop the world from turning on the tip of my finger
no one time ringer
no teller of shy misbegotten puppies
one piece of one me, one piece of shit
159.
the anchor tied to
the string of bodies
plunges below the surface
at the end of the plank
diem de nocturno
tome of defeated spirits
left ankle tied in tightly
beneath the ocean
no air to breathe
beneath the ocean died
right ankle chained to yours
the nyads ponder the spectacle
as the weight defies my strength and drags me down
the locker where davey saved none
and my weight pulls the next man down
beneath the beautiful blue agua
two hundred meters below the dark ocean floor spreads out
the beautiful fish swim in front of my face
Our feet are all together but I kick to be
free from the horror of such a cruel sentence
something gives way as the seconds quickly run out
but then I see the surface, and I swim for it
I can see the plank where we perched
and in the distance azul forever
swim friend
for the horizon
the heart beat pounds
water all around sucks through my gills
I set my course for the Ivory Coast
160.
by analysis
of just these words
you can see that
I am
apparently tortured
demonic
a danger to myself
and others
most of all to yourself
confused
and homicidal
seek the help of the authorities
do not try to apprehend me alone
consider me a hazard to your health
avoid at all costs
fire at will
take the fugitive down
do it for justice
do it for
what’s right
161.
Theory declines into a majestic repose
Stricken by a want of time.
Damnation do not suppose,
That intentions have been simplified.
Tissue barely moves, by time denied the function
Turned flabby from want of use.
Salvation comes for the soul that cries,
Washed clean by the bubbling fountain.
You know that an end to the nightmare will come one day,
That there is so much wrong with what you do,
But for now it’s done and inside you,
So you wash yourself clean
Though it will never feel clean enough.
The stuff has been sent up from hell.
You will learn that you are no match for it.
I have no doubt if you do it
You can’t even hear what I am saying.
Maybe one day they will be able to save the children,
To stop them from being able to do it.
162.
The crowd is still a mob.
I am not vulgar
But irony seeps through my bones,
And there withholds robust mirth.
Certainly not the intelligentsia
These multitudes devoid of full, cynical vision.
Truth would leap nimbly from shadow to shadow
And hide the messiah among them.
The paranoid, the superstitious,
The left out devout,
All shocked by the locked mind,
And know that no pain can wring the answer from me.
My answer, “Death,” with gritted teeth,
To the demons that accuse,
Point sickle-like crooked fingers with long
Unclean nails.
They never fail to say, “Show me. Show me.”
Never fail, with clarity.
I instead have chosen to achieve the eternal victory,
Believe in the relief,
The cosmic bolster,
The brilliant cloister.
The candle flickers when the flame is hungry, mongering decay.
Harvest this, my traded derision,
No singular vision.
I’m talking about something
That could blow your fucking mind,
If only you could see,
But you can think only about what I must have done,
What substance, pray tell,
What drug made me this way.
What drug?
You fiend, you freak, what an obvious guess.
You have grasped the hasp on the door,
But it is locked,
Tick tock,
Bugger off numb bum,
And then roll over rover.
I’m not on drugs,
The fucking thugs fucked over me, see?
And you have no right to be certain,
To be comfortable in your words of prison.
The fun you did
And blamed for because I made the money
May have made me rich
But I’m not the greatest devil.
Some devils electrocute prisoners,
And you may as well have just thrown the lever on an innocent
Yourself.
If we are storming heaven
Then we shouldn’t be caught stealing souls.
Yon nightmare of easily wooed, propagandized masses
Yearns to be physically enslaved by their overlords.
In the end they are twice guilty and far more ignorant.
Humble as my own personage may be
Please follow, and if eyesight fails
Before the end of this pernicious writing,
Then you can be assured of the ending
(the writer had both hands and his tongue pierced:
useless ever after).
No trial preceded the punishment,
No trinity on earth,
Only in wicked schizophrenic ramblings.
The last Christians are all crazy.
They run through the street with wild hair and eyes.
If the dream that is God comes true
Then I hereby sue those retardate making,
Vegetable-head growers known as authority
For compensation for their creating a majority
Of unseeing nonsense chasers.
Let them secure their small certainties
For later the masters of goodness will be free.
I realize no reader will ever cross this
Bitterly wafted and winding pathway,
This ditty to the nitty gritty,
At the bottom, at the top, and all the way through,
This genius I wrote for you,
For I am nothing but the channel for a higher greatness.
My fingers are the grubby candle holders
Before the stone poem in the oldest hills,
Twice older than Lovecraft dreamed Kadath could be,
And colder than the hearts of city dwelling wastrels,
I give my leave to your qualified criticism.
163.
No one calls me, here to know
The end of the world comes
When hearts love so.
Nothing to give, nothing to sell,
No life to live
Welcome to hell.
We’re all friends here,
There’s no use in crying out,
Sound is only an illusion here anyway.
Hearing is too holy for this place.
So you think.
Bells ring in lowly ears,
Telling time,
Another useless toy
Meant to pierce the shell between girl and boy.
Man is a fragment floating by.
The greatest poet
Drowned in open waters.
Real needs:
the shore,
a romp in the hay.
Nothing at all can be known.
Turn on the lights
And I’ll bolt for the door.
Use the fire.
When it burns through to the unknown,
The side of who knows where,
Only the listener will know the story.
The answers to the questions
Depend on words we do not have.
A hidden garden in which to wander free
Is much like being damned to solitude
For eternity.
Beauty is only that which has been created.
It is the seven of cups
And they runneth over
Spilling insanity onto the path.
It’s no use to run or fight,
Where could there be to go?
What kind of person
Would not know?
Of journeys into pain and private woe
Mind is the center,
From there worries come and go.
The fire will go out.
The listener’s face has shown,
Dead to the world,
Gone to the place of the unknown,
The other side of burned out.
164.
In Pursuit of Something Real
Day brings angels to lead the way.
We lead the night, we brothers,
Salvalos.
Does sister not hear of the danger
Out in the desert
Where only the moon watches?
The dam along the border can hold no more,
But somehow only a few come across.
The impoverished Mexicans are lions in paper cages,
Leopards with no spots.
You can see them on the other side of the canal,
Teeth glinting,
Emaciated bones stronger than barbed wire.
Lions die when caged.
When sister finds out about the real alone
There will be a long and treacherous path to dawn.
Do her bad dreams wake the angels?
Voice casts no sound in the deluge.
Leopards circle their prey before light.
Chilled blood can be heard crying for help
Beyond the small circle of the fire.
The Arizona desert holds the carcasses of the weak.
Their flesh made food for the Coyotes
So they could help a few more of the starving cross over
Into this, the land of broken bones.