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testing myPing.fm for posting to my social networks simutaneously

the caveat to Serotonin is ya' know, that theres no endless glow flow -- your brain needs to rest in the dark it seems to recuperate in the sleep of vivid dreams -- often the brightest stars shine half as long, because of the stoopid work ethic, its their swan song -- so many go to the drug crutch or worse 'n end up dead, of course -- meditation can also recuperate the mind, close the eyes 'n dive deep, regenerates these brain chemistries I find or just a good nights sleep

my bloody-muse

dipped my pen into a vein,
sucked the red red beat,
scratched it out on paper skin,
ode to feel complete.

bloody verse for all to see,
bloody words all over me,
thoughts red out, in every line,
thoughts red out, forever mine.

leukocytes and thrombocytes
give my words that thrill,
plasma 'n platelets circumscribed
oh, if looks could kill.

arterial flow to adore,
enjambments beating muse,
words cut deep to underscore,
red emphasis turned verse.

a turn of phrase,
a cutting wit,
a bleeding bloody rhyme,
intravenous melancholy,
bloodletting words sublime.

exsanguinating poetry,
art without the guile,
what is real is what you see,
read 'n watch me bleed awhile.

if memory is a lie then so am I

Proust searched his brain for memories that made the man,
could finally understand that this changed him just by looking --
so he called himself a sentimental realist!

many a prisoner, in walls cast of shadows,
have escaped their fate etched in stone and bars at Guantanamo,
where they remade themselves in the language of pain -

the poetry of misery or bliss to relive a life that past has missed,
to rekindle themselves in the alembic of desire,
their inner fire because of the lie of memory;
I am frisson!

oh, yearning moment, oh, swelling into dreams
come of these needful things, where open skies
and open roads and open fields are little sparks
in open places closed inside of me --

when this lightening sings my body moves
with the ghostly touch of numinous grass and
forgotten fragile flowers, the distant buzz of bee
and echoing twitter of birds sound again inside of me --

inside of memory is me, thereto is the lie where
holes are filled by imagination, a story I call myself where fiction
and reality are hopelessly intertwined, undermining
who I thought was me and too, mine --

this albatross of original stimulus, this verisimilitude of the incongruous,
mutable impressions which fleeting fly dead-away
fall into the deep error of my earnest loom; memory!

the act of remembering changes me, so a fool I have become,
locked in shadows, staring dumb, I shun this outer lock,
sing my songs as they come from now on, making
me in my own image unbecoming,
unfettered,
unfinished,
undone ...

boys bike amidst the rapping on wheels, breaking tires

3 boys rolling on bikes
freewheeling a day-dream with each other
glad the wet winter is over--

our eyes glitter, we laugh
clik, clik, clikity clik, clikity-clak, clikity-clak
tangential spokes reflect
in the rhythm of glass
embedded in the street
our feet peddling the swing
in what we'd make our song to sing--

our minds race, gripped handle-bars
rubber on hot cement, wrapped fingers,
groove in tar traces, roots of black
softly treaded through chains linked back

everything is going
everything is giving in
round corners, wind streaming
everything is musical
while rap is a chest-out game
we 'rap' each other, eyes laugh-back beat
city-street, breaking, breaking
chains-geared down to the sound
of bodies sing-swing, peddle-pushing
in-out with a shout
stiffen then soft
soft then start to
pull-out, pull-up
we follow each other
breaking tires amidst the rap of wheels
rolling elsewhere anywhere but here
anything goes, everything gives, everything reels

The Gibson Stradivarius:

in Angels & Demons you wept softly,
shimmered your strings in a supine grace,
reached warmly over the edge with
a tremulous honey vibration
rising in crescendo, dripping into shadow,
then onto a deceptive cadence;
your amber rhythms stirred the inchoate
with a chord seared by sweet lament –

fatal MOMents

our heroes are conflicted
hanging cross-wise
riddled with choices

pock-marks on their skin
topographically hardened by
the spirit of humanity

from the instinctual urge to merge
with all its urgent need, the feast of senses,
those vital moments in the grace of salt-sweat

the sticky sand in her bathing suit
fingered open by an eager bull-dog marine
on her beach of girlish dreams, he'd

leave her there to shiver in anguish
bloody with catholic guilt
while the child she was, lay dying

she sacrificed herself
probing her wounds over 'n over
for some strength in the sore points

she couldn't avoid the larger mission
by going into caves of martyrdom
to float away on some dark ship of no return

she didn't understand social expectations
so became wrought by burden
and a loss for words

she'd refrain from back-room surgery
not knowing the cold-cut of stainless steel
nor redemption from her mothers religion

her blood retreated in shame
the lock was on the door
so she bore me in the secret fear she couldn't bear anymore

as a requiem unbound would be

I pray in a crescendo, a wound unwound,
softly moving ‘round in the sound
found vibrating inside of me;
a variation, a fusion,
a euphony to black
adversity as a requiem
unbound would be –

the stress of chains,
cacophonous then melodious,
black to black then onto a deceptive
cadence with an end-note tremulous,

a nocturne played under stars
with a tempo easily bent
toward the present perfect tense
in a chord seared by sweet lament –

time enough

in our measure of time
there are curious circles filling our days,
numbered moments marked by the scars of transiting lights,
heavens moguls of tribulation 'n plight,
that give or take away --

the indifference of time that measures man,
in cycles round 'bout heavens span,
meted out in lines that grid the world
in constant sorrow, Saturn stuttered,
disappearing today in some further loss of tomorrow,
yet we also know that ticking clocks in circles go,
'til time enough for love is lost to reasons chains and at what cost;

the Gods of Time in cycles go, a-round, a-bout, a-turning slow,
fast re-turned, they come, they go,
there's time enough, for love you know.

though I spend my time,
circling the horizon with my mind's eye,
seeking the curve of her Venus belt,
a circumference of sunset reds,
surrounding the sky, she is on the face of it,
a timeless piece, a swinging pendulum of rhythms sway,
a clock that circumscribes my day,
and in every second of my nights,
a tick to my tock that ne'er quits
nor ever is passe'

the manic synesthesiac

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." -- Nietzsche

this dyslexia parts the colours that I see
resolved or separated by sense
as either a particle or a wave ~
up
'n
down,
rising to these feelings moving everywhere,
a vision reel-ing with the sound of a stare
a good life at the crest, a musical zest,
patterns without rest

she tasted like apples with yellows flowing into white,
the smell of her hair was lemongrass blowing in the breeze,
the flower of her heart in laughter 'n tears,
beating with the waves of a tidal red sea,
this melding of shapes, colours 'n sounds
is what she was to me

then it fell apart, closed down everything,
too much made me blind
falling to the lows, unkind, outta my mind,
I didn't have much to say
just those particles that bend, like they always do
to the gravity of a deeper darker end,
where it fell apart again, like it always does,
like I never saw anything

the moebius bird

swirling ascent,
streaming, feathered, winging --

'look at your tops, they are my bottoms,'

she tweets 'n twitters, murmurs me:me
surging urges in the air she soars
everywhere a falling feeling --

a free-spirit flows through her wings,
a sapient sixth sense
for rising up to close the gap --

caresses curious circuits, twirling,
swooning, reeling,
drifting through heightened meaning --

she speaks in many tongues,
larking on the edge of a hush with the rush
of a far-cry, a longing songing sigh --

in a fluttering, floating glide,
she rounds in passions now arrived, now along,
swooping, looping, going, going,
falling fast, now turned, re-turned, now gone

where-of about doubt in torrents come

There is nothing new that does not come of something already done -- there is nothing new with expositions of revelatory reflections. However the crux of the matter in this piece, which is a performance piece after all, is that 'its doubtless that silence was the beginning of revelation and its a revelation that silence is without doubt' which drips down with honey to 'silence echoes of eden where that first green is golden' which is a play on 'silence is golden' which is to say its cliche' but nonetheless a sweetness of Truth. Truth spills out of many mouths on their curious circuits toward Love: speaks in many tongues, licking the edge of a hush with the far-cry of a sigh -- 'you stare into the abyss long enough, the abyss becomes you" -- deep calls to deep -- these allusions dripping from my pen, again 'n again -- from the cradle of lost dreams to the cold hope of stars -- where a head-ache is mystic and the mythic licks at my heals -- a range of modalities that are shadows on the wall tricking us into believing they are real in how lonely-lost the writer does feel when assailed by the cold steel of doubt -- this Poet is writing songs that will echo down the halls of time in the play of light with the shadows, skipping darkly, glimmering divine -- and thankfully this Poet is not alone singing in the multi-verse ~

about doubt in torrents come

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

to the Poets past but yet to come, the lonely only ones

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." -- Nietzche

tombstones are the post cards of the dead except instead of the old cliche, 'I wish you were here' they're saying, I wish I was there! ... in the light of cosmic time, both great and small are extinguished in eternity ... then again, every particle, every drop of blood is recycled from this great cosmic love affair called creation, consuming and reviving us over and over again, forever 'n ever bent toward every eventuality ... perhaps then, you are the Good Poet you see in the future you're becoming or the one to become whom you ought to be in eternity -- from stars we come to stars we shall return, this ancient ache of longing urging us to burn, to shine on 'n on from inside out, where illumination is a fire without any doubt -- the Poets of the future will have a telescopic memory which bends around mass (Einsteins gravitational lens predicted in relativity theory used today) seeing the future we are yet to be --

so maybe its enough just to say,
in the halls of eternal time,
that the poems you hear echoing there
are not only yours, but mine ...

the good poet~

writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered, glistening fish jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home -- nevertheless when Nature has need of some expression sHe urges in surges throughout mankind for a heart made ready from beating wings dipped in tears and laughter and when sHe finds a ready vessel malleable and made pure for this new expression, sHe urges by the creativity of wonder and realized raptures the longing song Poem -- the Poet is often reflected in that urge as the creator is always part creation and as all things go all things become the Poem and so too is the Poet an urge of Nature express'd in surges -- the authentic Poet, the good Poet writes with tears and laughter in such a way that you, the reader, are become the Poet and are, therefore, become an expressed urge of Nature surged in rhythms of Words 'n Music only the heart can hear --

the heart forever voyages, longing its compass, always going hOMe

the future is more or less, I confess, though its dependent on the past, alas. But thats not the point of parallax tunnel-vision with the paralysis of analysis 'n derision, but the sound of Poets in Swedenborgian space, let's face it, echoing down the halls of time, lets trace it, in words both theirs 'n mine -- the sound a poet makes when his heart 'n mind meet, the inner sonics 'n ironics burst into song where all our miseries 'n desires belong, but incomplete --

'Love flowers in isolation, in secrecy, in loneliness. Much poetry comes of loneliness. Let loneliness be my only companion for it draws me nearer to Love.'

the broken, wounded 'n lonely aren't the only ones
to be-longing for the shadows of the Sun
where lovers 'n poets lie
before the day is done

driven within from the damage of harsh light
glaring burningly at their in-near-sight
when the lover awakes
cradled in the dark 'n lonely night
its what it takes to be an only one
when the day is finally done

about you

about you

yeah, I used to recite rote mantras in Tibetan
like the Manjushri di di di di di di di, man he was juicy concerning
mental Mercury n' words that see, clearly - that 'n others reading the
scripts on long sheets of idiogrammatics written in 'lil tics --

nevertheless, light reaches the eye, bounces around inside 'til
chemically driven, you sigh a wonderin' why, all these reflections are
a cussin' conjectures 'n objections, becoming brainiacchtungs that are
rungs down the ladder of your holes, where all the dirty cloths, goes --

you get sick 'n tired of slogging soggy jeans, that means nothing
more than you're wired obscene, mired in the darkness of bad dreams,
dead-locked 'n it all seems to be about you, about you, oh it's bad --

but when all the words fall from synaptic trees, contraries 'n
clarities, oh won't you, won't you please, dive deep up there beyond
your event horizon, your suffrin' vision, the inner idiot disease,
something farther than you'd ever see with eyes blinded by the light
of your inner 'lecktricity, reflections bouncing off mediocrity back
to where you've already been --

oh, but you want to, you want to, get back so bad

after we'd recite in alacrity, we'd meditate to where words dare not
go 'n learn to relate about what we'd know in a language only
the heart can show and it's clear cause its not about you, no, it's not about you, anymore

aHa - flash of insight

rushing inference, imminent insight
suddenly its clear, a gut feeling
swooning, reeling,
cross-connected hemi-sphere
syncopated, reverberated, totally aware

open bi-ways, ahh blue-sky days, making up my mind
synapses shiver, axons quiver, dendrites deliver
'lectrik-neurons fire suddenly in time

aha! aha! oh gawd I see, I ran around 'n cried
a fool I've been, all along its there, right in front of me

with a grin 'n a nod 'n twinkly-looking 'round
raised my arms 'n slapped my thighs
'n made a ruckus sound --

donned my hat 'n set it skewed
upon my big bright head
set off to town in an uplifted mood
while whistling a sweet sound
forgot what I had found



there is a hole in my head
where the wounds of reason seep
all words are dead inside my head
what's left is dark 'n deep



I'll always live
and always die
on the event horizon
of my mind's eye
where the flash
of neuron fires
flower into
sudden infinity ~

Yatra or the art of distraction

before you forgot me
I forgot you
stopping for 'STOP LOSS'
on this stage to stand alone

persistent anonymous
we're almost there
- ground zero -
never out of position when so often
there isn't one

we imagined we were at John 'n Yoko's Montreal
BED-IN ~ "giving peace a chance"
you could live your whole life lost like that
IN-BED

we sought beaches, white water
'n hummingbirds galore
a cerulean blue morpho at the butterfly gardens
of Costa Rica

adventure therapy from sea to bed: a slippery
place where the faithful prey for abundance 'n grace
in the shadow of depression

the race to the finish-line was often
an obstacle course: collectible 'n historical
forever blue, remembering I'd forgotten you

but found you a hundred, a thousand times
beyond the ability to remember or express
my love

turns 'n returns

the concept of 'turn' 'n 'returns' as in circadian rhythms 'n habit patterns 'n labyrinthine passages like frontal lobes curling in the brain where you end up returning to where you started again -- Solar Returns are a tool of Astrology, a map but not the territory of your propensity to choose the rut you're in instead of the life of courage following your dream, your Heart where Love 'n Joy begin -- nevertheless the dream is enCouraged every round of the Sun 'cause on your Birthday, you're the chosen one


~~> Many Happy Returns 'n many new turns too ...

every definition is full of holes

I'm a God loving Social-Darwinist that believes in path-dependence 'n radical forgetfullness 'n rigorous inward-out realEYESations, i.e., we make it all up with a lotta help from those Quanta in the deep-dark of empty space, you know, Higgy dust sprinkled all over the place --

Science is not the Truth and Truth has no Science -- God has no Religion and Religions have no God.

... we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection;
perhaps to falter lesser still, to whimper in some fretful closeness,
instead of sorrow in the longing Dream.

Science like Religion is a language which attempts to encapsulate and explain Nature -- we are Nature urged to Human metaphors and verisimilitudes -- the Dream of every Planet is to become a Star -- from stars we come, to stars we'll return, but first through the lowly worm --

every definition is full of holes -- there's a hole in your head where the wounds of reason seep, all truth is dead inside your head, what's left is dark 'n deep