Divine Guitar

The guitar jutted down from the heavens; the head and neck split the highest clouds. And what magnificent music it played for the earth and skies. But the guitarist could not reach the lowest notes and so hell was not appeased. The denizens stood by with their tortures on their shoulders, bent and waiting for the blissful release music renders. They waited eons for their dark, mournful tunes to carry into the underground. But the musician's arms were simply too short, and he could not play their desire. They have since slipped back into the jealous shadows listening unseen. The artist, discontented, disappeared long ago. The divine guitar returned to the skies and has not been heard since. Before his absence the artist prophesied the coming of a great musician who could play equally well for heaven, earth, or hell. And, on his arrival, the guitar will return once more to thrill all three hemispheres with its auditory therapy.

Tribute to Black Hawk

I read the life of a man in the space of two hours. I absorbed the cultural opinions of a dead man in 120 minutes. For one-twelfth of a day, I felt his vibrant life beat against my fingers.

And my ringing ears heard his just pain yell deafeningly in history.

You will live on, Black Hawk, behind my pale face and inside my crinkled brain. You will live on longer than was your destiny. Your dry bones may rest, unmoved, in your grave. But your life is left in a book entitled, The Life of Black Hawk--and in a mind entitled, BCL.

Little Words

Little words in a big city gazing at all the buildings. Little words with necks craned jostled by the locals. Little words, sick and sad, lost in the sweeping traffic. Little words out of place but full of life yet homeless and overlooked. Little words in the overcast world breeded out by screaming polysyllables. Little words, simple and unrefined, now silent, emotional watchers through the child's absorbing eyes. Little words trodden on by muddy adulthood's everlasting boots.

Just Say Yes

Just say yes to every question perched to you. Just say yes when they all shake their heads no. Just say yes when askance nags. Just say yes when the gray tombstone glares. Just say yes as the IV trickles. Say yes for the sake of desire. Say yes for the sake of hypnosis. Say yes for the sake of nothing.

The Glue is Melting.

The glue is melting. Its gooey body unsealed and hugged my thumb. The glue is old, and it is melting. Did you really think that it would last forever? That it could withstand the heat you subject it to? It is melting now and can hardly fasten your construction together. In a moment, nature's forceful enforcer will cake it off, and then there will be rubble.

I am the watcher, and I am waiting for the pieces to fall. I am waiting for the righteous to burn down the old with ignorant ease and then become one with the ashes, leaving barrenness and isolation as their legacy.

I am the passive observer, an object of scorn. I stand selfishly out of time with my left hand cupped over my mouth to hide a smile, but if you met my shaded eyes you might see my concern. My right hand holds a tube of glue--not much but enough for an innovative mind to work with. I will yield it to those who are able to break history's circular curse. And I will know them when I see them from my rude, rocky heights.

To Search

Your heart shakes,
As your eyes search,
For the object at hand.

Your anticipation clamors,
As you feel its breath,
Disturb your mind's nape.

Yet your query continues,
And your spine wilts,
As you search,
But do not find.

Sense of Smell

The smell of age,
That stench of loss,
Is sweeter than decay,
Is a rust that clings,
With the grip of years.

The smell of youth,
That stench of hope,
Is sourer than decay,
Is a fickle breeze,
With weak fingers.

The testing nose,
Whose sense dictates,
Seeks balance,
In the decaying scene.

Untitled

The amused glint in the old man's knowing eyes drew my fascination and, as I walked past, I gazed into them from behind my dark sunglasses. He was shorter than I and walked with the aid of a black, t-shaped cane. He was dressed all in black. His mouth twitched into a small smile as he continued to stare mysteriously at me. The whole strange scene had an aura of deja vu about it.

In an instant the dreamy bubble popped and I was far past him, but the memory of his eyes remains burned in my imagination. His face was a blur, an inconsequential slab of aged skin and bone. But his eyes were recognition itself. They were chillingly familiar and dangerously animated. It was as if time's linear string had been bungled, and the old and young Brian Looney had met by some impossible chance.

I can now only reach for lost meaning as the evening's rosy film drips from the falling skies and limits the light.

Give Water

Give water to the weary for their fish mouths gape and their desert tongues loll. Give water to the weary because the people moan and your privileged tanks brim. Give water to the weary for their terrible fatigue is felt and their proletarian thirst is hardly just. Give water to the weary because their misery rises from your liver's logic. Give the weary their water. They waste away at your sturdy steppes with dirtied hands and red, red minds.

My Pen's Epitaph

My pen is dying. See how splotchy and uneven the ink has become? Here I regretfully mourn its passing. Just look at all the stained pages it has helped me through! Together we've surmounted godhood and struck pure, cerebral bliss.

I have overused my faithful friend and here he spits his last. Let this be your epitaph, my bosom brother. You will be replaced, but remembered. I write this with you to you as you die. It is a last salute to your loyalty. True, your replacement lays idly by, mocking you, but know that it too will be brought as low as you one day. And on that day it will understand.

Now I bid you farewell as I set your broken body to rest. You have pleased your master and may go to your god with my blessings.

Untitled

The brown spider ascended. Its eight legs pulled its hanging body up. Its shadow moved slowly up my door. The distant roar of cars reached my ears as I watched its steady progress. After a moment of indecision, I chose to let it live for another day.

Renewing Sunshower

Today I found peace in a spring rain. The sun was shining hotly onto me as I walked. Then the fresh drops came and woke my skin with their startling greetings. They brought an innocent smile and a contented glint to my unshaven face. They gently washed away the dirt I had been carrying like a sensitive friend who shoulders your woes without being asked. I stood in the sun-driven rain until it passed me by and then blew a heartfelt kiss toward its cheery memory. Never before had nature been so compassionate. Never before had I felt so fresh.

Cow Eyes

Cow eyes in the crowd,
They multiply rapidly.

Cow eyes are fixed,
Blankly wandering.

Cow eyes are glowing,
Horribly vacant.

Cow eyes are moving,
Pitifully confused.

Cow eyes are killing,
Bile rises.

Cow eyes are staring,
Straight into mine.

Society's Logic

We started at A but moved on to C before we got to B. We kept moving on in this manner until we got to Z. Then we stopped, looked behind us, and tried to connect the dots. Instead we drew tangled, scrawling scribbles all across the page. Our failure looked up at us and laughed.

Murder in Space

Feel the weak stars beckon, darling? Feel their black brothers drowning in the city's lights? The proud survivors are visible in the still silent void, and their ancient voices will whisper to us if we have the will to listen.

Raise your youngish oval face and meet the oracles' steady gazes. Let them unclog your mind with their wispy words. Listen with all your soul to their fading voices as the city's loud lights heighten and expand.

Nights of Fun.

There are nights of fun where the bed beckons and mayhem hates. There are nights of wreckage where sanity shirks and strangeness rules. There are nights of uncertainty where loneliness lurks and love lingers. There are nights of innocence where neighbors greet eachother with timid enjoyment. There are nights of hunger where minds burn and stomachs growl. Yet through all these nights, there looms a giant morning, that nags and judges with the steadiness of seconds.

The City's Treasures

Treasures in the city's gutters,
Are dulled by dirty rainwater,
That trickles the quiet night,
Into sucking storm drains.

Treasures in the city,
Present but forsaken,
Are becoming lackluster,
Are depreciating in value.

Treasures of the city,
Collect dust out of sight,
Because they couldn't be given away,
And the owners couldn't throw them away.

The treasures of the city,
Will be loved when lost,
Missed when needed,
Grudged when wanted.

The treasures of the city,
Should disappear before your faded eyes,
Into regions unknown,
To owners more worthy.

The Pressing Ceiling

The pressing ceiling gets lower the longer I stare. I feel I can touch it now. I remember when the pressing ceiling was one-hundred feet high, unreachable and nonthreatening. Those days were free from shadows. Today the pressing ceiling is growing spikes. I see them, sharp and jagged, jut evilly overhead. They may impale my fragile skull and spill its precious fluids down to the unassuming floor. Then my life will spread out onto its patient face like a massive mosaic to be seen only by those who stare at the ground when they're alone.

Untitled

The quickest way to a drunkard's heart is through his liver.

Bare

Bare,
In the crystalline evening.

Bare,
Under a sad moon.

Bare,
Before bleached bones.

Bare,
And shivering,
Within winter's grabbing chill.

Bare,
And spilling,
From youth's shattered egg.

I Need Some Honey

I need some honey.
I need its slow, sweet consistency,
Golden and generous,
To drip onto my driven tongue.

I need some honey.
I need its constant promise,
Bold and unfaltering,
To enervate my starving spirit.

I need some honey.
I need its bee-born regality,
Fresh from the comb,
To raise my blood sugar,
And banish my bitterness.

I need some honey,
And I wish its lasting love,
Could descend from the heavens,
And coat the world.

The Mind's Pressure

When you waken in the lustery mornings, don't forget to check your mind's pressure in the truthful bathroom mirror. Accept the results as you would accept the outside weather and adjust yourself to compensate. For the mind's pressure predicts the mind's weather. You may have to steel yourself against a hurricane, or you may be blessed with the promise of sunshine and blue skies. In the end, equilibrium must be attained or instability results, and your internal colors will shift at rootless speeds toward insanity.

Dreadful Suspense

Dreadfulness inside the bound stomach.
Dreadful anticipation boiled by frantic hope's cruel, depressive poison.
Dreadful suspense as threat's shadow nears.
Dreadful reality that hardens once-hopeful veins.

Insomnia.

The wheels keep turning when they should be silent. Their dry creaking persists even when the alarm bells ring and the red lights flash. Where has the repairman run? His jean overalls emptily hang on the listless wall, caked black by machine blood, as the sirens continue to scream for relief.

Your Fire

I love your fire--the way it swirls and flickers and grows on demand. I love the way it burns my skin and singes my hair whenever I get close to its licking beauty. Despite the pain, I am drawn like a moth. Some day I will be hopelessly enveloped in the red-orange center and, screaming in deranged ecstasy, will feel its consuming heat invade my lofty shape and destroy my sanity. My wings' ashes will then be a shrine to your fire's power, and my singed remains will be its loyal overseer. They will make sure that the flames never die.

The Affection Spring

I stole all the affection from the sparkling spring. I took it without even asking. I took it even though I was told not to. The spring has become a trickle now because I took too much.

My skin has bulged; the seams have been selfishly stretched. Parched children with lost eyes laugh angrily at my discomfiture. I drank from the stream to gain affection. Instead I reaped a sweeping shame.

And now the spring's waters have drowned out my insides and rush forth ruby redness from newly opened veins. I will watch the tainted stream return home as I wait for the river to subside.

Forgotten Lives

The chest's thousand hearts beat violently, forgotten beneath a thousand slabs, pushed away by a thousand fresh waves.

Lives out of focus beneath the imposing camera lens. Not even the lightning flash can illuminate them.

Lives lost in time's eyeblink, fallen into the crag's jagged cracks that devour the outdated old with mechanical abuse.

Lives evaporate under the timeline's baking sun.

Their vapors assuredly waft into the upper hemispheres-never to be seen again by the world's naked eyes.

Ten More Minutes

Ten more minutes before the steel doors are thrust apart and exodus freely welcomes trapped minds. Ten more minutes before the torturers are appeased and the pain recedes. Ten more minutes before boredom's slow decay reverses. Ten more minutes before my legs can run. As the ten minutes drag, my nervous feet make anxious tapping sounds on the tile floor. Ten more minutes. Just ten more minutes before I own myself again.

The Crew of Expendables

Hail the captains and their crew of expendables, haughtily sailing the slow seas south toward Mexico where cargo waits to be unloaded and tequila waits to be drunk. The bright sun glimmers on the waving waters over which pristine seagulls glide, crying their lonely cries. The crew of expendables silently work and are ignored by the dutiful captains who diligently discuss the business at hand.

The clouds hug the harmless horizon, afraid to let go and be transported back up to their boring blue homes. The crew of expendables grasp the helm in similar manner. For they are like the horizon’s clouds, searching for newness in places where none is likely to be found. The lofty clouds explore the forbidden earth; the land loving crew explores the mysterious seas. Not so the captains, who are wise enough to recognize that newness is merely a trick of the underdeveloped mind.

The crew of expendables live in either the future or the past, but never, never the present. The present they fear because of its impulsive immediacy. The present is for the trilingual captains to face and interpret. For them, the present is like a condemned building, unsightly and unlivable, that will malevolently collapse upon the brink of entry.

Because.

Because,
I'm a stupid guy,
With a smart brain,
That cannot comprehend,
The word,
Because.

So Long.

So long as the money is printing,
So long as the green color blinds,
So long as the paper flowingly crumbles,
Into million-dollar wallets.

So long as the worthless insignia,
Is packed,
Into countless bombs.

So long,
As they march with crocked knees,
Crooked in mind.

So long,
As they fire bought bullets,
Into human targets,
We must say it.

So long,
We must say it without luck,
And you must say it with your last breath.

"So long..."

Silenced

How alone is the silence when it has no ears to hear?

Evening.

I stare,
Through a glaucoma telescope,
Toward the future,
In an evening that resounds,
With morbid sighs,
Who protest,
Consolation,
And her lackluster,
Philosophy.

Never to Be Dislodged

Dust rode in on the clouded air, stopping on the way down to the lungs. Dry dust that coats the throat like a sandy slicker. The pestering grains riddle its reflexes, and the driest cough shudders the air. But the unharmed dust, unmoved, perches unworried in the most unreachable centers of the unhappy esophagus--never to be dislodged.

The Machine God

The people dig through their pockets, bring out their leather wallets, and place their earnings in the patient machine's famished mouth. Its green lights display its unsleeping hunger, and its emptiness arouses the emptiness in others.

The devoted pay homage to their everlasting idol(one of ruin, no doubt) as they traipse by with practised poise. It accepts with engineered stoicism--like the golden calf of ancient myth. It towers, nine feet tall, a droll hum rumbling from within its monetary breast, affecting the thoughts of all who glimpse its immobile body.

Some pray with wanton fingers, tap-tapping on the sacred number pad, praising the puppet whenever their selfish stomachs grumble. The buttons are shiny white and make pleasant beeping sounds when depressed: a bleep that causes conditioned mouths to water.

The machine god always produces with blunt precision any time it is correctly hailed, and there are few who have incurred its absent-minded wrath. It reacts to requests with punctual predictability. This is why their worship is wildly reactive and forever involuntary.

Take It Slow.

Take it slow,
Because life moves fast.

Slowly,
Inside the swirl's,
Ingenuity.

Slowly,
Inside the hurricane's,
Cliche eye.

Slowly,
While the world's instruments,
Swiftly speed.

Taking it slow,
While life moves fast.

Blink your watery pupils,
Against the rapid blur.

Unclench your fists,
In the midst of chaos.

Silence priority,
With a firm will.

Take it slow.

Let's take it slow,
Because we're all in motion,
Always motion.

Flush It Out

To flush forth the riddled past,
Purging for the demanding present.

To flush with rushing waters,
And feel their streaming passage,
Whoosh with hope.

Let the fluids make their way,
Through clammy corridors,
Plagued pastures,
And locust dens,
To the awaiting exit.

Out it surges,
Blackly cluttered at first,
Squirming with gaseous debris,
Then lightening,
Into a clear and unassuming,
Purity.

My Laughter.

My laughter
Is always
Just below
The murky surface.

Take your pin
And set it free.

Away From Another Day

I walked off into the night,
Black as it was,
Away from another day.

I walked away,
Feeling my hamstrings pull,
And my fists clench.

I drove off into the night,
Black as it was,
With my headlights on.

I drove away,
Squinting at the lights,
Comfortably blind,
Away from my newest friends.

Untitled.

Frozen in the rock's cracks,
Invading its insides,
Kniddling it apart,
In innocent destruction,
Are the seeping waters,
Of the shifting seasons.

The reeling stone contemplates the pain,
Body in decay,
When the wintry seizures strike,
And baldly break its granite brethren.

Use Your Words

"Use your words,"
The enchanted voice said.

Its tone warmed the senses,
And crinkled my eyes,
Into strange laughter.

For I had unwittingly experienced,
The best advice,
Of my time.

The Sounds of Thought

The sounds of thought come in unceasing waves. Harsh bombarding waves. Light, subtle waves. Waves that can cluster or annoy. As their noise resounds, I feel the dramatic echo and then wait for the repetitive cry to bounce and warp within the caves of my distracted brain. As it does, my foundations are upset, and I frantically work to bolster the supports.

Yet sometimes the sounds do not reverberate. The slimy algae absorbs the shock, the echo dies, and all is undisturbed. Although the building stands strong, it feels artistically incomplete. It becomes savage and vulgar, nasty to any worthy onlooker, and repugnant to the frustrated architect. One can only listen with head-cocked in the fray, and await for a chance recurrence.

It takes a special sort of ear to hear the sounds of thought. It is the eternal internal ear, and its auditory canal is purged of wax. The sounds pour across the eardrum. The cerebral cortex struggles to interpret. This is the prophet's informer, and he is never silent. All information gained engenders the seeds of power whose deceptive chutes eagerly blossom and ominously sway--to The Sounds of Thought.

Chivalry is Dead.

Tiredly tell the immolating gentleman that chivalry is dead and classify this foreign contempt. Tell him that hollow manners should never flatter; that elitist jargon should never enchant. Tell him about the sterility of generalized and widespread affection: how its thin, weak, strained spread loses all emphasis with time. Tell him that it cannot replace lost or stale attributes.

Chivalry is dead because the wise have killed it. Those who are able to love and hate have kept it dead and promote its decay. You would use your medieval charms to resurrect it from its unmarked graves, but what you uncover may not be what you wish.

The Vacant Vessel

The shores on each side of the flurried river are littered with fallen trees. They are rotten and soggy, and the etch of insects have tattooed the trunks. They have all died, bent by the wind, and now return to their eager mother. Step over and around them as you make your way to the water.

The river's waves are gentle now and kind to the beaten canoe that aimlessly drifts with the current. Stand and watch it as you've done in past dreams. It grows larger as it approaches from the East(nut brown, sleek, and narrow), made of the very same trees that tangle the shores. The oar lays at one side, waiting for a pilot. Your legs stand firmly planted on the hard dirt, but your fingers and arms twitch for the wooden instrument. The waters are gentle, the approach is leisurely, but the distance is great. The canoe nears and your decision is made. You will brave the icy waters, and the shifting currents to reach the vacant vessel. But you must swim without fatigue in order to overcome the gap. When you reach the vacant vessel, grasp the oar, and you will be in command when the deceiving waters shift and begin to change color.

Rest Your Head

Rest your head,
On the friendly shoulder,
Close your red-rimmed eyes,
Still your frantic nerves,
Breath softly.

Rest your head,
On the living support,
Give up some of the pain,
That lurks in living.

Rest your head,
On the friendly shoulder,
And be thankful,
That it exists.

Rest your head,
And ignore the whistles,
The cries,
The jeers of the race.

Rest your head,
With welcoming warmth,
And put the marathon on hold.

Untitled

The quivering scrawls on the pitiful page are the result of the elder's quavering hand. Once strong, it barely obeys the will of its owner, and then only weakly. The letters gawk and mock. They destroy the hopes of the lively by reminding them of their own imminent, omni-present demise. How the aged heart must palpitate once youth is dismissed. When strength abandons, the world becomes hostile. And lucky will be those who have companions in decline.

Lady Reality's Dogs

When Lady Reality's dogs bark, feline instincts flare. Their hoary voices drown the morning's sleep-touched peace; their pitch casts a spell of depressed duty on the ears they disturb. Why can't Lady Reality keep her dogs quiet and well-mannered? Is that so much to hope for? They bark at the worst of times, and when I leave the house they stalk my shadow, growling and guttural. I try and keep casual, but my adrenaline soars, and my fear ignites. For I have heard that the ill-tempered, uncollared brutes will tear out a man's throat with their clamping jaws and yellow, razor teeth. Don't arouse their hackles. Docility is what the situation calls for. Docility before dogs.

It is true that Lady Reality's dogs have me cowering. I am afraid of their drive. I am haunted by their hunt. I am terrified by the things they have done to humanity, and the things they will timelessly do until the timeline's end with such simple and ferocious detachment.

I now find myself covering my scent and ducking into dark alleys whenever I spy the four legged demons in the distance. They tasted my flesh once; they must not taste it again. But I know that they are in a frenzy, and I can only dodge them for so long before they find me. For bloodlust now drives these savage creatures; their eyes are glossed by it. In hiding I hear the Lady, their master, chuckling at my fear.

Down to the Catacombs

Let us descend,
Down to the catacombs,
And listen to the century's waters,
Nostalgically drip.

The sound of stones' blood and tears.

Down to the catacombs,
You and I,
Where darkness rides,
On neglect's saddle,
Through the submerged kingdom,
Beaten leathers bleating.

Where the hollow skulls stare,
And the air reeks of moss.

Let us wander,
Lost and forgotten,
Through the winding corridors,
Trailing our young fingers along ancient walls,
And around mysterious corners,
In the steely depths.

Our perspiring palms are together,
And our minds enlarge as our bodies explore.

Inside the city's black bowels,
Let us lose the will,
To surface.

The Flying Comet

The comet's semen-tail,
Trails and flurries,
Whipping the mysterious skies,
Tickling the stunned stars,
As the smoldering center flares,
Buried within.

Fiery, whirring,
Life outbursting,
Boundless to simple eyes,
As it creases faster,
Fastest.

The planets lay below,
Dead, stationary, and unappealing.

But down the comet,
Must fall,
When the energies give in,
To gravity's call.

A short lived streak,
To the world below,
Where the new comet rock,
Cools amongst the old,
Who lay supine,
Who died untold.

Untitled

I am amazed at the speed in which we scrape our red and smoking wreckage off the unforgettable pavement; at how normal life appears when the mess is cleared, the violence purged, the problems hidden by routine's warm, drab blanket. Whenever the twisted carnage is pushed within its safe folds life continues, obliviously anew. The vehicles single-mindedly speed on, unworried and unimpeded, toward their respective destinations. Whatever will we do when the clean up crew fails to arrive? What will we do when the smoke lingers, the bloodstains darken, and the bodies start to rot? How many desperate horns will dumbly honk in the future's bedlam?

Untitled

Let us forget in order to regain the simplest thrills and sorrows of the learning and experience which classify life. Let us touch the flame to see whether its body yet burns, and then doubt all over again, though our infant fingers still smart. Let us thus keep our minds innocent and inquisitive.

In this way our youth will never be lost, and age shall not embitter and harden our aspiring hearts, even when our skin creases and dries, our bones creak and crack, and our breath comes shallow and tired.

The Intellectual Care Bear.

Hear it talk,
The intellectual care bear,
To the crowd of creatures.

Its quiet voice,
Charged with timid confidence,
Occupies the hall.

Emotionless, toneless,
It drones and drones,
Full of uncolored opinion.

My intellect is unmoved,
My interest is repulsed,
My ears stop,
Inexplicably,
As the emotionless opinions,
Rack my lungs.

They are filled to the brink.

I cough and cough,
Convulsively,
But the obstructions,
Still refuse,
To surface.

Untitled

Our starving faces,
Mock America.

Bitter are we,
With a shallow taste,
In our twisted mouths.

In the millions,
We barely stand,
Swaying and weak,
Watching the world's food,
With suffering eyes,
Be consumed by the rich obese.


Their rolls of lard,
Could feed our nation,
But instead it coats,
Their sordid bones.

And our mouths water,
And our stomachs roar,
And there is not a soul,
That cares at all.

Lonely Hearts

What about the lonely hearts,
Pumping rolling blood,
Upon the nightish asphalt?

Who feels their red severage,
Caressing the simple ground?

Me,
Only me,
Of all creatures,
Only me.

A horrid prideful curse,
For I am the strange stethoscope,
Savagely listening,
With impunity.

Beat, beat, beat,
With one hand held,
At a Roman breast.

Eyes bulge,
In bad surprise,
As I hear all hearts stop,
Inside my deepest eardrum.

The Oracle

To visit the great oracle,
Enter her lair,
Which stands,
Ominous,
Over yonder.

The raindrops drip,
From the entrance's overhang,
Waking hapless questers,
Pugnaciously.

In you must walk,
Over the spongy moss,
Past the weeping walls,
Through dreary canals,
To an ancient door,
Littered with outlandish runes.

Chant the unheard words,
Of your unspoken dreams,
And the barrier,
Will swing willingly open.

The cowards will step through,
The courageous will flee.

Within she sits,
As she always has,
As she always will,
Communing with the spirits.

She knows of your presence,
And she will speak,
With a pure voice,
When the time is right.

Where the Shepherds Sleep

In the dizzy fields,
Where the shepherds sleep,
The dandelions sway,
With the wind's caressing melody.

The sun shines,
Touchingly,
From a fresh sky,
And you cannot feel,
The world turn.

Pleasant peace is,
A simple sigh,
The soft snores are,
Barely audible,
As the shepherds' chests,
Regularly heave.

Up.

And down.

Up.

And down.

The day of rest,
Wears on,
In the dizzy fields,
Where shepherds sleep.

Where refreshing grass,
Fortunate shade,
Energizing air,
Make perfect company.

Shapely clouds,
Indifferently patch,
The world above,
Careless and lethargic,
Stoking sleep,
With their bashful bodies.

Flowing beards grow,
A little longer,
Unheeded, untrimmed,
As the scruffy sun begins,
Its epic descent,
To take rest,
In the earth's beckoning bowels.

Untitled

Horrific is the cold,
That burns within,
A slow heart.

Can't you feel,
Its aching breeze,
Gusting in the spring?

Cloak your exposed mind,
Or it may die,
A hypothermic death.

Force of Lung

The sun glazes,
The white speckled ceiling,
During the morning's snow-capped peak,
Making light,
Of the guttering candle.

The sitter embraces reality,
And attempts to kill the flame,
With force of lung.

Inhaling,
He prepares,
For the extinguishing outrush,
But his lungs,
Are empty,
Shriveled,
And old.

A horrible wheeze,
Is heard,
Over the birds' cheery chirping,
As the candle burns down,
Past noon.

Berserker

Berserker,
Where does your blood flow?

In your mass savagery,
Crazed with passion,
It streams within.

Berserker,
What do you kill for?

Splitting flesh asunder,
In a foreign name,
Your rage quenches all.

Berserker,
Your Vikings have fled,
And your enemies have charged,
With lust in their eyes.

Berserker,
What will you do?

Cling with trembling hands,
Veins bulging,
To a scrap of life?

Berserker,
You are ill prepared,
For death.

Truth in Life

Truth in Life,
Enjoys teasing the living.
Hiding in an unseemly crevasse,
Unseen yet vaguely sensed,
It cannot be felt,
For more than a moment.

Truth in Life,
Brazenly knocks at no one's door,
Boldly taps at no one's window,
For it truly is the shyest of creatures.

Those who avidly search,
For Truth in Life,
Will be stricken blind,
By their own sunshine zeal,
Radioactive in its shimmering nature.

And in their darkness,
They will imagine enlightenment,
And falsely feel that they behold,
Substance,
While Truth in Life's lonely chuckles,
Echo in the searching night.


Others,
May find it flitting about,
At the bottom a beer can,
At the point between sleep,
And wakefulness,
Mid-sentence or mid-breath,
At a traffic light,
In a loved one's eyes,
Or at the center of a rotten nectarine,
Kniddling the cocooned seed.

Because Truth in Life is in all places,
And all things,
Like a Brahmanic jigsaw,
Whose disjointed molecular pieces,
Assemble and reassemble,
In ever surprising forms.

But heed these words,
Young searcher,
No one ever has,
Nor ever will,
Behold Truth in Life's mocking face.

The wisest may only glimpse its exiting back,
And the lucky may only catch a whiff,
Of its lingering perfumes.

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Wretched Implosion

Have you ever felt your brain stagnate
When the distracting plane,
Duly flies over the world,
And drops its sweeping dope rain?

Consciousness cessates,
Wearied, dull, untroubled,
Though your alarm bells ring,
And internal warnings have doubled.

Expression recedes,
Imploded by force,
The strange and peculiar,
Now banished and coarse.

It's the wretched implosion,
Nothing will be saved,
But I'll clasp our debris,
To the end of my days.

The Land of The Shadow

The great stones are cracked,
For the indignant earth,
Has finally attacked,
The timeless tomb.

What human lies within,
Whose preservation,
Whose missed presence,
Is fervently maintained,
In the world's shadow?

Is not the land of the shadow,
The intention,
Of preservation?

Enter,
Seeking science,
The structure of myth,
And probe,
With profane fingers,
Forbidden secrecy.

Whatever you find,
Cannot cease,
To satisfy.

Compression

Compression,
Low and fierce,
Pressures the world.

Let us let loose,
Or we will be let down,
And our letters marked in red,
For simple abetting,
Has fallen far,
And has,
Almost,
Disappeared.

The Strange and Peculiar

I've an appetite,
For the strange and peculiar.
I feed upon them,
Thrice a day.

Their taste,
Will never fade.
Their nutrition,
Infinitely invigorates.

Great secrets,
May be found,
Once the strange and the peculiar,
Whisper at your ear.

They waken your mind,
And churn your thoughts,
With the filling sensation,
Of realization.

The Rollicking Cylinder

Sweat clouds my brow,

In the heated churner,

Hellish and intense.

Round and round,

It rolls relentlessly.

While rocky grinding sounds,

Mirror,

The upheaval in my belly.

No balance or footing,

And continual disorientation,

In the rollicking cylinder.

I make my way,

To one of the two exits,

But have neither the drive nor stamina,

To make it there.

And so I tumble over,

Through the dizzy evening.

Solace for the Weary

Solace for the weary,
The call is bugled out,
Focussed and feverish,
In the shivers of fatigue.

Tremulous and pale,
The heart's echo,
Thumps with impudence,
In the mysterious evening.

A Charged Laugh

The laugh is charged.

A desperate peel,
For humor,
For enjoyment.

Heads turn,
At its high pitched cackle,
And people wonder,
At the issuer's mental stability.

The laugh is charged.

A wry response,
To grim surroundings,
That tickle,
One's strange insides.

Heaven is a Bar

Heaven is a bar,
Tumbledown and familiar,
Where everybody knows your name,
And your tab is forever at zero.

The doors swing open at your approach.

You can socialize,
Or be left alone,
For your mood is sensed,
And is respected.

You walk in with weighted steps,
But as you sit in the familiar seats,
Breath comes easier.

Heaven is a bar,
Where your mood lightens,
As drink coats your throat,
And the night unwinds the day.

Her

Why doesn’t the moon appear,

And burnish her smooth olive skin?

Its clay light makes a goddess of her,

She lives in the mystical evening.

Her expansive mind shines,

From her demanding eyes.

They demand,

And my heart palpitates.

Her mouth issues scorn,

Barbs that wound me,

That call me out,

That intensify my feelings.

We are much alike.

The slow roasting torture of the unsure,

Is my curse and pain.

Yet I willfully sit,

Tense in the licking fire,

Because it stings and surprises,

The life within me.

Risk.

Risk.

Advanced by the waning sun.

For fear.

For worry.

Risk.

Air Pockets

Air pockets,
Lay inside,
Underground pipes.

Bosomed by the earth,
Restive,
The pipes' fluid flow,
Is interrupted.

Air,
Jets out,
From countless faucets,
Frightening,
Those that thirst.

Hearts skip,
When the hidden fiend,
Makes its hissing appearance,
And then dissipates,
Amongst its forlorn family.

Where Life is Real

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss.

The well-tended grass,

Is cool and yielding,

Green and graceful,

Respectful,

And filled of resigned remorse.

It is a living blanket,

For the restful dead.

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss.

The changing sands,

Are offensive and vicious,

Vengeful and demanding,

Impious,

And scratch like pepper at one’s sight.

They bring the tears,

That blur what must be seen.

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss.

Deep streets sever the plots,

Hilled and cracked,

Wavy and gray,

Crawling,

Amidst the tear soaked automobiles.

The mourners inside are black against the asphalt's night.

The graves are silent,

The darkness burns,

A gentle grief breezes,

Sighing of loss,

A seeping sleet,

Clams the cemetery,

Where pain is felt,

Where life is real.

When the warders come into power, indignance shall die and humanity will be penned. Staring through the bars like puzzled warthogs, it will await feeding time. The powers of anticipation are bent in that direction. Shivers crawl up my spine, for I perceive the dawn of this reality.

Swat the Man-Fly

Swat at the man-fly,
Make him run.
Swat him away from your garbage,
Where he disturbs your debauchery.
Swat at the man-fly with annoyance,
For he pesters you.

Let's see you squash him.

Mash him to the floor,
Ooze his green insides out,
Bring him to his knees,
Bring death to this man-fly,
While rage cakes your face,
Wish for his timely end.

But the great spawning pool,
In your backyard,
Is filled with larvae,
And your pogrom has only begun.

How Long?

How long?
Repeat after me the strange words,
How long?
Utter them under your hot, impatient breath.
How long?
Close your sagging lids and view them in blindness.
How long?
Feel the words convulsing your sour belly.
How long?
Sit staring and tap-tapping your fingers.
How long?
Undergoing the horrific hypnosis.
How long?

How long?

How long?

The pocket watch swings,
And only the mute have an answer.

Whiles I Imbibe

The sun is not down,
And I am imbibing.

It shines hotly,
Through my sunglasses,
And stains my jet black t-shirt.

I am waiting for it to set,
Whiles I imbibe.

Sweat beads upon my leaking forehead,
Moistening my mayhem

No uneasiness bothers me this day,
I am content,
To sit here,
And petrify,
As I await the sun's classic demise,
Noble and beatific,
Inside the day's end.

Looking outside,
At a glance,
As I write,
I glimpse,
The premonition of evening.

Sprinting,
Fearing to miss,
The hearty sunset,
I see the sun,
Behind a cloud's horizon,
And chuckle,
At the false alarm.

I've hours yet,
Whiles I imbibe,
Before it takes to dirt shelter.

Action is Impending.

Feel the chemistry stirring in my loins,
And disturbing feeling.
My eyes narrow with pressure.
The bend of my mind causes breath to come short,
And my head to tilt.
A wry smile smatters my face,
A sour pleasure flits eerily,
In the folds of consciousness.
Response is inevitable,
An action is impending.

Beware,
For your young are near.

Rise of the Politicans

Rise of the politicians,
From the decayed grave,
Grasping at the living,
Skeletal,
Plagued,
Famished.

Rise of the politicians,
From an evil womb,
Demanding life,
Deformed,
Unloved,
Unwanted.

Rise of the politicians,
To the seats of power,
Ruling with deceiving scepters,
Glinting with religion,
Spending the gold of God.

Rise of the politicians,
To undeserved heights,
Sly with slime,
Bulbous with taint.

Rise of the politicians,
Above the moral,
Slavering in conceit,
Sunning in greed.

Rise of the politicians,
Above the heavens,
Pilfering savagely,
These raiding Vikings.

Rise of the politicians,
Above man's stature,
Perching atop man's nape.

The Journey

Along the dusty road, I walk. Shimmering in the heat, my dark visage itinerantly wanders. A burden is shouldered during my travels that I can never let drop. It weighs me downward toward something bleak. The angry straps dig into my shoulders, cutting off circulation. A mat of sweat greases my back and brow. So goes bold me upon the ambivalent path. Broken glass crunches beneath my new shoes, making brittle and uncomfortable cracking sounds. Somehow, I remain uncut. Windblown garbage licks my heels. I pass signs along the road advertising for hotels, inns, bars, restaurants. They promise rest, peace, and sanctuary. But they are not written in my destiny. A different sort of web was spun for me. Over the years I have found that there is a certain comfort in resigning oneself to a fate. It may not exist, but its illusion consoles. Helplessness before the great design is a freedom from despair. I can only make the best of things using my meager powers.

Shouldering my burden, I walk through the broken glass.

The World's Balcony

On the balcony of the world,
Detached by elevation,
The air is lighter,
The sun is hotter,
The day is brighter.

Whether you stand or sit,
Amongst the varying weather,
Strange lives will enter yours.

On the balcony of the world,
Interests invade.

To utilize my senses:
This is my unceasing task.

Will you stand with me on my balcony?
Shall I stand with you on yours?

Let us clasp hands,
In respectful exchange.

The Wishing Well

The gurgle is audible,
I hear it and pray,
For the wishing well is here,
And my pocket is filled with copper.

It is night,
The world is asleep,
But my wishes keep me awake.

I stare into the pool,
Its magical waters promise,
My stirring imagination.

Up from the moldy bottom,
Surreptitious, secretive,
The well's greed,
Glints bright and brown,
In the sacred moonlight.

Alone in this mindless haven,
I feel like singing,
For the wishing well is here,
And my pocket is filled with copper.

Untitled

Your winking eye,

Your bold face,

The selfish clouds conceal them both.

One above the other,

Constant,

Yet sometimes unseen.

Our faces upturned,

Basking in your majestic presence,

Feeling your lonesome surety.

Silence and life,

Constant and uncaring,

We wait and wait,

Lost.

A Sweltering Day of Fordism

The day was hot and filled with windless blue skies. An overheating Leonard was walking on a pedestrian path at the most merciless hour. He was wearing a white undershirt and green cargo shorts. The shirt stuck to his chest like a second skin so that he had to keep peeling it away in order for cooling air to penetrate. It seemed like Leonard was the only person fool enough to be walking outside at this time. But little choice was left to him. His pounding heart was his only company. And nagging, worrisome company it was. In the distance, cars roared by at impossible speeds. The wind carried their sound to his ears: a hodge-podge of confusing, yet unmistakably human noise. Through it all was the omnipresent whir of their passing. That was the common denominator. The air itself parted before the sleek machines. Despite himself, Leonard felt a wave of envy overtake him.

His progress was slow, and he tried not to think of the great distance still ahead of him. His sneakers made dull sounds as they beat upon the dark asphalt. He felt weak, as if every step was a step in the wrong direction. All life-giving energies had abandoned him; he was no more than a sweating corpse walking upright in hell. An empty stomach, a nagging heart, a parched mouth, a dull soul. This was not the world of success and contentment he had always envisioned. The sun’s light had illuminated his self-deception, and Leonard had no choice but to sweat the illusion away.

The mountain’s stone face impassively watched him from the east displaying neither triumph nor sympathy. The harsh, magnificent rock was a selfish despot. It cared for nothing but itself. Risen from the stale dirt, it towered upward-a monument to power. At this time, Leonard dearly wished for the aura of power to enshroud his confidence. For Leonard knew that power inspires confidence, that confidence and power beget strength, and that all three makes one a man.

Leonard plodded onward. A great thirst had come over him. His eyes were half shut, and his mouth lolled open like a tired dog’s. His steps were no longer even, and he began to weave left and right like a drunkard. Sunburned and exhausted, he searched for a trace of shade. He found shimmering heat waves instead. Weak and dismayed, he sat down where he stood. He had not the will to walk any further. He sat there with his head buried in his arms for quite some time. He sat there waiting for change. He sat there waiting for power.

Time passed uneventfully. He heard his mother’s voice again and again in his deranged head quoting her idol, Henry Ford: “Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't, you're right.” Leonard’s mother held a strange obsession for the deceased industrialist. And, since she was such a large benefactor in the Ford dynasty, it was hardly surprising. Her family had been involved with the Ford Motor Company from its earliest days.

So it struck her hard when Leonard announced that he wished to detach himself from the Ford tradition and seek out the newness in life. This was the worst sort of blasphemy Leonard could commit. His mother pleaded with him, but Leonard was adamant. He was liberal; she was staunchly conservative. Eventually, they reached a hostile stalemate: neither wished to speak to the other. Over time, the disappointed mother fell deathly ill but not before she’d had Leonard’s name stricken from her will. She died without reconciliation. And now her blasted slogans were haunting Leonard at the most unwanted time.

“Don't find fault, find a remedy; anybody can complain,” his mother intoned. Another quote from that devil man. They were such a bore. “When everything seems to be going against you, remember that the airplane takes off against the wind, not with it,” his mother continued. Leonard wondered whether or not she had had a single original thought in her entire life. He believed his mother had been utterly brainwashed by Ford’s priggish and outdated optimism. Ford’s words were the words of a mechanical mind; one bent upon progress alone. Leonard had had enough of it. For now, he was smugly content to openly indulge in apathy, self-pity, and cynicism beneath the grimacing sun.

And, interestingly enough, it seemed to be working. He felt himself gaining the strength to stand once again. It was a bitter strength, and there was power in it. It was a brittle sort of confidence that straightened his back and lifted his gaze to challenge the horizon. He stared it down with a knowing scoff. His heart beat acid; he exhaled flame. He was no longer human. He was above human. His negativity had granted him a detached invulnerability. Dark energy flowed through his veins like adrenaline, electrifying in its intensity. There was promise and mystery in this black motivation. Leonard felt hellishly supreme.

He started walking again, but this time with a deadly spring in his step. His pace began to quicken. Something was urging him onward. Faster, faster he walked. The world blurred around him as his legs pumped him forward.

Leonard had begun to run.

Purification.

Scrub, scrub, scrub. On her knees, the unhappy woman scrubs with her sponge. There are things on her mind. She has taken off her gold engagement ring in order to keep it clean. The scrubbing motion dislodges a silver crucifix from between her breasts, and it slips out of her blouse. It dangles from her neck, glinting in the dim light, and hangs unattended. The acidic smell of cleaner assaults the air. There are six months worth of neglect to be cleansed and purified. The dirt astounds the unhappy woman, but her mood slowly lightens as the filth comes away. A good cleanser makes the job much easier. It takes away unnecessary strain from the task at hand. The woman is wise in this. As she banishes the last trace of corruption with her purifying, porous weapon, a glow tints her skin and brightens her eyes. Standing up, she replaces the silver crucifix. It rests at home upon her warm skin. But she is not quite ready to replace her gold engagement ring. She stares at it, unblinking and alone. Risk and promise loom over it like an ominous cloud. Her brave ring finger twitches with anticipation, slowly working up her courage. By then something inexplicable has welled up within her. With a feeling of dread, she closes her eyes and takes the leap. There is a tiny splash in the dark, mute pool.

My Own Little California.

Playing The Rivieras over and over again.

The music takes me on a journey.

My own little California sun miles away from the Golden State.

I can taste the sea breeze,

Bask in the humidity,

Experience the palm trees.

My own little California sun miles away from the Golden State.

I see the people on the beach.

Out there a-havin’ fun.

With their bleach blonde hair and sun-baked bodies.

The god-like women.

Running, sunning, swimming, walking.

My own little California sun miles away from the Golden State.

I hear the street performers,

Moving and diverse.

Mysterious, imaginative.

My own little California sun miles away from the Golden State.

The haven of my dreams.

Sparked by outdated tunes.

Pleasant, innocent, carefree.

My own little California sun miles away from the Golden State.

Simply attainable,

Such peace and love.

The Heating Stove.

The stove is on,

The liquid is heating.

It may take awhile,

For the burner is low.

But steam is beginning to rise,

And the heat is incessant.

Will no one turn off the stove?

Are the chefs reckless children?

The temperature is building,

Can’t you sense it?

Building and building.

Hear the hiss,

Newly audible,

Emanate from the pot.

How long can we ignore it,

Bubbling as it is,

In the back of our minds,

To overflow at worst possible time?

For God’s sake,

Turn off the stove,

Before the liquid explodes,

And scalds us all!

The Mental Mine Shaft.

To write of the ordinary puts one in touch with the strange and simple surreality of the world. That routine insanity surrounding us all. We must realize that the crazed state is not a detached existence. It is a dark mine shaft within us all that continually issues minerals of emotion. Only a handful of us are able to recognize the shaft and trade its treasures for cash. Yet our curse is to eventually die of Potter's Rot or Weil's Disease or Black Lung.

But,

We are among the rich,

Who die proudly,

On beds of gold.

Breakfast?

Two chocolate glazed donut holes and a lone banana was breakfast this cheery morning.

The donut holes were at just the right consistency--not too moist, not too dry. They yielded to the tooth but didn't fall apart. They absorbed saliva but didn't dry the mouth. I began to waken. There is nothing like a little chocolate in the morning. It buoys the spirits.

The lone banana's yellow peel was peppered with brown spots. Anyone could see that it was past its prime but not quite old. It was well into the autumn years of banana life. For a moment, I considered tossing it in the trash but decided against it. There was something desperate and pining in its neglected appearance. Holding it over the wastebasket, I felt a pang of conscience at my wasteful humanity. This banana was like some pathetic girl who draws your pity. Both need love too. So I consumed, but I did not enjoy. I glanced down at my watch. It read 11:25AM.

I wonder what I'll be having for lunch?

Watching.

Watching through the window as the world turns,

Without a hint.

Watching through the window as the world turns,

In varying degrees.

Watching through the window as the world turns,

A selfish business.

Watching through the window as the world turns,

My life is feeling mundane.

Watching through the window as the world turns,

Looking for some meaning.

Watching through the window as the world turns,

Wishing I weren't here.

The Ship

The ship appears from the mist, gliding like a ghost. Soundless.

How will this ship shape our destiny?

It's floating closer, closer to this land as the wind bloats its sails.

The lifeless bow has become animated,
The jutting helm has become daunting.

We should have blocked its path.

Already the bearded men are unloading the cargo from the slimy depths.
They treat their load delicately.

I wonder what could be inside those plain-looking boxes?

Untitled

Feel the indomitable power of spirit charging your blood and raising your consciousness. It's a magic unbeaten. It's a corrupt spell that changes happiness.

My displays are fanatic; my soul is starving.

I speak of things only my comrades may understand, built as they are into the hypersensitive character.

The knife wounds continually reopen from the inside in the lightless corridor but nothing bleeds forth. All the blood has already been spilled upon countless papers. They flutter uncontrollably, stiff and caked in rouge. Their sight disturbs me.

The creased papers keep me awake.

Day after day passes, but the curse simply will not lift.
My healing magic is depleted.

Where Have the All Rainbows Gone?

The rainbows have disappeared,
Chased away by the death of desert.

Their absent colors,
Leave the clouds gray,
And my mood dark.

The falling rain is portentous,
Without the love of rainbows.

Where have all the rainbows gone?

Oh,
Promise and mystery,
Too often have I asked you,
"Where have all the rainbows gone?"

But you never answer,
And your silence haunts me.

You are mute,
Closed,
And veiling.

The Sight of Blood

The light flicks on and the shocking red of blood offends his sight. The boy studies the intricate rouge lace upon his outspread hand. A slender gash is visible beneath the violent blanket at the center of his palm. It glistens sickly, but has stopped oozing. There is pain, and his brain is heated.

For the sight of blood causes instinct to flare.

For the sight of blood prompts immediate self-assessment.

For the sight of blood is a harsh reminder of mortality.

For the sight of blood topples idols and banishes youth.

Over the next few days, the boy's hand begins to heal. The wound's ugly mouth shuts by slow degrees; its nagging voice sluggishly wanes. The pain is gone but its didactic memory remains. The scar of experience lays visible in the dusky lights of self-reflection. Many more wounds lay in store for this hapless boy. Some severe and memorable. Some light and flippant. At his life's end, he will have innumerable markings of the past. Each will have its own intriguing story. These markings are wormholes to the past. And by these markings we will read his life.

Show them all.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them listen.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them bite their lips.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them staring.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show them ecstatic.

Show the attractive people. Show them on the big screen.
Show their faces meld.

Development

The chinks in human character subtly become cracks and may gradually widen with time. The human cultivates his own corruption. The dark line is drawn on development’s pavement; we have only to step across.

Yet the question is posed: is corruption negative? Is the flawless character necessarily perfect? Or is there some virtue in delving down into the world’s dregs and emerging once again into the judgmental sun?

The experienced and reformed character is the strongest. Those whose walls have been breached know where to shore up extra supports. Yet the reformed character is a rare breed. Like plagued rats in a fortress, corruption lodges itself in unseen areas and only comes out in the mind’s night. The reformed character must be a willing and able exterminator.

The untempered character is weak and malleable. Unanswered questions will always lurk in his dreams. His hut is built on sand, and a gust of wind may blow it down. But, at the moment, it is ignorantly free of disease.

Both types have their flaws.

The untempered character cannot possibly expect to persist in his purity for he is forced by his inexperience to ponder the world. This is shown by the rampant pedophilia of the priestly class. Man is a worldly creature, nothing more.

The reformed character is rare to the point of unreality. His experience is his temptation and often leads to his downfall.

Reader,

Open your eyes and acknowledge the point of no return. It is different for all. Life is a great poker game. Do not throw away the card of reform on a whim.

Through the Peephole.

Through the peephole,

Reality is skewed.

Through the peephole,

Suspicion ignites.

Through the peephole,

With rounded vision.

Through the peephole,

A life untouched.

Through the peephole,

Safety lies.

Through the peephole,

With one open eye.

Through the peephole,

Tiny as it is.

Through the peephole,
The day is curved.

Through the peephole,

To glimpse the sun.

Through the peephole,

A shelter unwon.

Rays.

See the sunny rays evenly spread across the cool evening uppersphere?

The life of us.

Piercing through the fluffy clouds. Blades of myth. No wonder the early savages worshiped this harsh-yet-gentle radioactive love. No omnipotent technology can surpass this. Ever.

See the clouds' illuminating cloak!

Why must they block my fierce desire?

Selfish and white.

Yes, selfish and white.
White against the toddler's first sunny view of blue.
Such is young life's breaking lessons.

Why can't they be undone?

"Because of our ways,"

The silent wise man spoke.

The River is Crying

The river is crying.
One can hear its weeping gurgle,
One can feel its chill roar,
One can breathe its sad passage.

Why are you crying, river?

You are on your way to the sea,

To be absorbed in that whole body.


Is it that you fear the loss,

Of your geographic identity,

Within the eclectic ocean?


Remember that your source is limitless,

That it is a part of all,

That it is supplied by all.

The river melds with the sea,
And becomes anonymous,
Pouring deep inside the vast heart,
Expanding its muscled ventricles.


The full sea is living.
One can hear the world's oceanic heartbeat,
One can feel its steady drumbeat,
One can breathe its giving heat.

Untitled

Oh the still, quiet evenings when lonesome man has retired to his time-consuming television. All quiet now as the night descends. A new sort of creatures surface, stirring beneath the earth as their nocturnal sense begins to call. Light exits, and it is the closest thing to peace I have ever felt. The silence...disturbed only by the dull distant roar of an airplane, the faint and sacred echo of the human voice, the randomly rhythmic patter of sneakers on stairs, and the immutable orchestrations of the crickets. Darker, darker every minute. And fatigue pulls. The gold encrusted horizon that crowns the earth like a halo. The bare chill breeze that pricks my skin. Too early for the roaches, too late for humans.

The world hangs in a vacuum, in a timeless state of stoicism.

Oh, divine river god! Let the waters of life freeze here at the peak of night. Let this be my icy eternity. My heart is already filled with content. Freeze it before it bursts with feeling.