deep calls to deep --
this calls to the stories with interesting beginnings foreshadowing that not all these stories end well --
where there are holes there are things to fill 'em --
desires, red angers, beliefs for the head bangers, science or religions forms 'n rituals, the seven deadly sins, the seraphim's, beelzebub tales, or faustian narcissisms, reasons construed 'n screwed into doubts, we tread the wheel, the edge of our holes, lurking in silence 'n seeking a cure, its the failure of why that really gets us by, we wander the realms in search of a soul, we wake in the morning or sit late into the night, aching to fill the holes with wholesome insight --
the doubt of religion is science and the religion of science is doubt
the slippery slide to where we trip 'n fall, the stars are dull when planets burn inside, gaseous balls bursting us wide when lightening strikes from our Hot Galvaniz'd pen to burn the words on paper again --
moanin' meaning as some come 'n hum in awe, the old saw learns a trick or two in how to wend the river of words that'll do --
nevertheless I confess, I'm new at the play, looking out from an inside, disturb'd by the crowds of other peoples dreams, the hell worlds where reasonable doubt is shouted out and all only seems --
I doubt that God has any religion and its doubtless that religion has any God
the vision you see in the river rushing words to the sea, that hydroscopy of pain where a 'lil drop of the ocean rises up to the grumbling 'n fiery clouds with 'lektrik blue-beards, dripping in sunset reds, like in Monet where pointillism points nowhere but in, and the drip gets whipped by the winds of change, rearranged 'n swallowed, falling faster to the dark earth 'n green leaf, where like a jewel reflecting all the world it swirls to the stream 'n babbling brook, then a torrent reflecting albino moon-light, rushing as a river of insight, toward the merged in the deep 'n dark of the sea, the beginning 'n end of you 'n me --
its true you see Poetry as an inner disease, not meant to please nor for the agenda of rhymes that corral the reader at times --
but a great disease that disturbs meaning, eating at the bones of 'self' imposed structures, beyond the reason of doubt, but simple in the song that can arise when the Poet is able to dematerialize themselves into the reader with a write-ousness bleeding 'n abetting 'n deeper
its true that science reveals our doubts but I doubt that there's a science of true revelation
writes of passage for some is the rubbing of the pen to paper, a mirror of the friction they've got as consciousness inside, a little spark at the end of the pen written as burning embers again --
others celebrate the seasons of the mind in old rituals like the Maypole dance, where they find, a time to express their passionate side, in fecund rhythm 'n fertile rhyme, to realize that we are all a vital part of the continually moving circle of the struggles 'n strife of life, from the small seed to the most colourful flower, ah, such is Natures power --
me, I'm a drop of water, reflecting all the world, longing for the sea, writing words as if they leaked from my eyes, aching for the waves that are waiting for me --
its doubtless that silence was the beginning of revelation and its a revelation that silence is without doubt
silence echoes of eden where that first green is golden
doubtless you'll remember
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