the deeper meaning of the sea

I dive a little deeper each time
 reaching
beyond my salt sweat-skin, in an apnea/breath-hold,
beyond the fatal-flaw of fighting for life,
jaws shut, eyes downcast,
 hands finned; extreme free-diving dangerously
 beyond the event-horizon of
the craziest things the deep sea brings -

I drop my heart rate, ba-beat, b a - b e a t,
the water holds me prisoner, a death grip in silence, the sunken tears of
a fearless fool risking the absurdity of whale-song,    my blood flows away from these limbs seeking refuge in the heart, lungs and brain,
I hear the crushing-sea and it draws me
in a resistance to upward movement,
a polyphony without voice,
 lungs aching to burst, to uncork the bottle,
release the Nereid-jinni-in my mono-fin

control

by posting on the World Wide Web you no longer 'control' or 'own' any of your public work nor shall your work be without critique, unless it is ignored, which is often - however, by posting here and there you've engaged in an entanglement process which'll make your Poems, Blogs and writeous-rants a catalyst to further realEYEsations - Truth and Beauty are like that, in that they change just by looking at them ...

the mystery of misery

the mystery of misery is finding joy in the little things, those moments during the sears of tears which transmute into seeing beauty in everyday ways -- this 'painful-joy' is liberating as we've discovered that not only does loss not break our hearts but rather stretches them to what feels like bursting, but doesn't - we then become big-hearted enough to enjoy the magic in the mundane again ...

pieces of me

we grow ourselves from ourselves then we leak into each other discovering mirrors of our relations in the droplets -- we are wanderers of an undiscovered country that is ourselves, making myths, Maps, but our territories remain to be seen -- by this very looking into ourselves we change --

 Quantum Entanglement theory is the powerful idea that what you look at changes just by looking at it and then there is Teilhard De Chardains' Noosphere where all ideas are inter-connected like an Earth-brain and we're the synapses 'lektrikly sparkling, changing over 'n over again --

 now, I'm studying NeuroScience and Proust, where it is shown that memories leak and from this leaking we can become whom we want to become -- this is how evolving is done, from the pieces of the past to these pieces that are you, individuating into something new ...

turn

in these wandered wastelands
desire falls as dust
                   ashes of the past
                   paste the face
as a simulacra of disgust,
the only fire, rust--

Mountains push the sky
                      rivers rush the Sea
          fish flourish
      flashing dreams
of flickering Moon-light
       like a sentence that ends in white
          then
     meander down this page
unfettered, glistening

churn-turn, over and over,
in the night
oh, circadian rhythm
           beat of the Sky
                habit patterns jerk 'n fly
          labyrinthine passages whirl, twirl
                             
in my frontal lobes,
               curl of my brain
where I end up returning,
           eyes burning with rust,
                    to start all over again

On Poetry:

Poetry is the emotion of motion crafted into a language only the heart can hear, like music resonating in your brain, making it clear, that Love has no opposite, not even 'fear' - internal rhythms, assonance and absurd schisms, a relentless word-play that has its say, the tongue licking at your inner-ear, the heart torn by a longing despair, toward an ancient-ache spilling from the pen, this is the Art of Poetry then...

On the Olympic Flame

On the Olympic Flame: the 'fire and the fence' are symbolic of our times - the fire shows us a 'glowing-joy' in humanity that the Olympic-Games represents - while the fence shows us a 'dismal-faith' in humans that the over-burden of Security represents - together they show us a conflicted view of 'loving humanity but hating humans'

-- a glowing-pessimism palls these Olympics while a melancholy-faith in mankind lingers ...

the mosh-pit

I do not understand –

I understand that understanding is highly over-rated as the modus-operandi of ‘reason, which is this artificial reliance on knowing the why of it all, just another hubris before the fall – 

‘Nature is the Devil!’ Nature is SIN? This is the same as the Christian stance then – 

we’re all dust and ashes in the end and Nature binds us to the storms of Maya, pushes darWINian DNA dreams and it all only seems to be a freedom of choice – 

then that small voice which we can’t hear over the din, the buzz of our mental-mosh pit then – 

that wee voice only the heart can hear, when peace is near, so dear to us when we sit bent-over in a slow-dive toward the infinite-in, there, where freedom truly does begin, in the Cathedral of meditation – 

so that is life, freedom, when I am plain and simple, in tune with the heart from the start, ‘til death do us part...

Infinite-in fractal reflections moving at the speed of de-light - Nature is change, the Soul of impermanence, an eternally-recurring insight...

a mystic candle enamouring fire is so light -- shimmering tenuously, lurching shadows and gListening -- a silent language wafts in a wordless cry -- while all around storms are gathering!

the failure of reason

I did this piece called, 'If memory is a lie then so am I', in it was a reference to that American Gulag called Guantanamo Bay Prison, where incarceration is an endless train of shadows on the wall -- however, it was noted in a documentary that a majority of prisoners shared their experiences with each other in the form of Poetry; not just mystical-romanticism but post-modern angst as well - almost everyone of them wrote poems to capture their plight and increase their sight, to harbor hope as a light to over-come fright, which is the real-deal if ya' feel-me ...

Romanticism sings siren-songs alluring you to the craggy-shore of love-me, baby, love-me-more -- or, for the longing swells of the ever-peregrinated, where longing is what makes you go-baby-go, to grow 'n stretch beyond the fatal-skin 'yer in --

a conflicted Romanticism as a plaint of a Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kiss-less kiss, a touch-less face, so sHe goes to that longing Love that shall ne'er be won, peregrinated to follow an ancient aching heart 'til life is done -

in Romantic Mysticism the longing is often an allusion to the ever seeking Heart toward the beloved, as the goal is Love, a hungry love never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is as above, so in you, as you see Beauty, so it is in you, too -- all Lovers invent the Beloved and then the Music, the Poem, the Story is always about that -- the Lover makes the music, the Poem the Story as a texture of that ancient ache, a reality play which changes in innumerable revisions and realizations forever voyaging with the heart as compass - always going, never arrived, a visceReal Love uncontrived ...

I'd like it to be more clear, singing a Siren-Song reverberating there, alluring with a languid laissez-faire, calling you with a back-bone chill, a frisson thrill, where you lose your will and the last thing to go, ya' know, is the soul, which gives the pearl it's extra gleamy-glow

-- romantic-mysticism is like that at first, where the image becomes cursed by becoming numinous 'n fluid, the thirst being the thing after-all, after the fall -- that the goal of longing swells, that ancient-ache that tells us to yearn toward the goal, of love, ya know, is the place we lament in sears of tears that we're sent by the particles dream to coalesce as a Sun again ... while you're post-modern humanism stays the course, in images made of sense, toward lips so sweet to kiss, the meaning of all of this --

nevertheless, when looking outside-in beyond the fatal-skin we're in, it's enough to just begin to reach without an end - the song-o-longing remains the same, In infinite darkness an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights as if the night wept stars --

we write and read Poetry to heal the wounds of our reasons ...

love

love: what would that look like, how would that feel, inside-out with out a doubt, making it real? Is it dependent upon our impressions, our sense-based metaphors describing our mood, love being really neither bad nor good. Or would the process be lingering with an ineffable-peace, the numinous moving-us toward release, from the fatal-skin we're in toward a heart rending goal, with tears in our eyes from longing so. 


 I'm reminded of the 'Divine Saliva' a repast most fulfilling when you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee, and in that kiss is sweet eternity -- Amirta

some called it the Red Lion, the Philosophers Stone, the Pool of Nectar of Immortality which'll change your brain beyond the merely human vain, transmuting you through quantum-tunnels in the fatal-skin yer' in with a blast of atomic-might folding-space 'n time to the beginning of night, at first-light; thus you'd of created a soul with the goal of Love ya' know


becoming human is much more difficult than you'd expect, which is the first real step toward divining love - why, there aren't many humans really, except in singular-forms that tend to cluster askew of your bell-curve norms, the herd-instinct we do mimicking germs -- even these Newg'd romantics in their zeal to be nice, in random acts of blindness, which conceals their vice, are only feeding their hungry-ghosts, though they entice; while the fixated geek scratches their head-lice, the ideas they stroke, their hearts are of ice -- it's no joke that Nature binds you to the fatal-skin you're in and turns off the growing-of-your-brain when you, the driver, stop changing the lane -- individuation is the process of becoming human, which is simply individualism without the dead-end tunnel-vision of narcissism, which always defaults to social-darWINism, which is a crime against humanity

for example, I've a friend of many years doing a slow-dive, falling in increments onto his face for the last ten years or so ( the same guy I wrote the 'lil diddy about, ya' know, 'the seduction of despair, the rest is silence') - anyways, he's one of those groupies of newg'd romantics cum bio-informatics but cannot stay in a relationship very-long, preferring the diversion of group-immersion, that coming 'n going song -- he's kinda all over the place like a teen-age boy with angst, though he's 60something with a 10 year itch turned to rash --  he came over to stay from Nanimo the other day for an over-night play with some connections he made in his last group dynamic - again he rolled out the egregious errors of his last wife who left him without a home, the depression that resulted and, give me a break, that whine he does to please the fools who cannot get-up and choose to be relieved -- I had him in tears as he whined some more, not feeding his need to feel the poor-boy, fixed him in the eye with a warrior-like gaze, told him he's lazy, full of fear 'n doubt, the equivocation-haze - then he got angry and shouted-out, fukU,fukU, fukU over and over again, 'til the fear in his body left him flowing like Zen -- then I smiled and said with warmth that is real, after the fear is gone what's left is to 'feel' ...

... the love of a friend should batter the head and pierce the heart - thus speaks love

mnemosyne: the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or further farthers found near-bye

sHe is grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from black words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with a silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the logos is thus theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to our inner reality --

sHe dives deep, the infinite-in
where a visceral piety is the pearl,
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find ...

on the goatherds crooked staff

Poetry is an act of actualizing self, individuating with each write, which flows out of the lowest we did fall and crawl to the highest we dared dream in the eyes of a lovers gleam - this 'lektrick muse let loose, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your bone to become words that tinker in the antics of semantics and linger on the poetics of noetics, rythm'd in time; words that smash and blush, flash and hush, dash and duck, in the neuro-linguistics of your mind

I'll give the 'moan-oral' a try: I always liken'd Nietzsche to being the original cunning-linguist: an emancipated-semanticist with a philandering-philology of ontology path-dependent on desire -- imagine the Übermensch trying to quench his thirst for power with nihilism -- nonetheless, these writers write and I remember reading each of them and listening to Sibelius -- writing is a way to emerge from the cocoon of learnt metaphor clusters which we garnered from other writers and philosophers, so that our own wings of imagination, though fractaly path-dependent, but meant to navigate to new worlds we wept-of before, when we lost so much more than we felt we could endure, unfold fer sure and wing us to the fire like the moth to flame -- so, this bookmark of writers gleans my left-write brain-stays and even Heinlein, that right-wing hack, made credible sojourns for my becoming young mind -- a shadow hangs over me 'cause yesterday came suddenly, in the books that I read, reverberating inside my head ...

I'd like to hack-through this Gordian-knot with the steel of reason-true -- but that's what I'm telling you, the reader - when you think about anything you're in the point-of-view you're in, which is more-or-less than the sum of all you've heard and read, inside your head - then you go somewhere and develop it according to the nerves in you, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your gut, transmitted to your pen over and over again -- so the goatherd is simple, representing the quiet of a naturally rhythmic life filled with silence and peace, the pause of emptiness wherein the sound of dreams begin - which these writers and philosophers longed for, i.e., to become the noble-savage watching ripples on Walden's pond

aHa: a poetic noetic instantiation in three acts

aHa: a poetic noetic instantiation in three acts

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's 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 neuronal fires
flower into
sudden infinity --

the seduction of despair

yes, that's the thing,
we expect our desperately depressed friends
to just carry-on,

work inside the conceit of gravity,
have faith that this is as low as it goes - but no,
they often have an agenda dependent upon
their dead-end tunnel-vision,
you don't get me --

you don't understand how deep is my well,
so, I'll go beyond your gravity and
you'll be sorry that I fell ...

something like foreshadow the dark content
of life-disavowed, the faith of reasons not allowed
and the rest is found from here and there,
the little fear that when I'm gone and you're waiting there,
it'll become clear how sorry you'll be for me
not being me anymore:

I'd rather be a ghost
than feel like one,
it's more real for me and i'm being real with my feelings
or lack of them
from now on ...

my uncertain suicide

 

death has a certain advantage which we the living do not, the rest is silence ... Momento Moris are stories we tell about feeling like hell, or deader yet, feeling nothing at all; the gray wastelands and tunnel-visions where all the dead-ends meet -- however life, misery and everything changes all the rules which were dead forms and rituals to begin with -- you have to make your own fun, be your own Sun and shine in those dark places others are afraid to see ...

my uncertain suicide is a sort of revisionist angst writ large for the gray-wasteland people - a friend in his 60's is pensive and avoiding eye-contact while his twelve year-old daughter begs him to quit skirting the edges of that black-hole he's sporting and just dive-in -- there's a 'suicide' theme today and I'm writing like I don't really care what you all say ... an experiment while feeling trapped in the world of the living - he responded well to the poemeant and is coming for a visit - suicide is thematic today so I had to write away

as a teenager I held a knife to my chest with EMO fright for half a day -- I was very afraid throughout my thirties and around 42 had an epiphany that death was better off dead and I was just afraid to live -- however, surviving isn't a priority but evolving is and if I have to strip down to my core reality I'd do it in the silence of simplicity -- nevertheless, not feeling anything at all is part of the desperate attempt toward feeling anything at any cost of desperation, which is the credo of the 'I don't wanna grow old' crowd -- I remember emotions being so charged with the stresses and strainings of just growing-up and then just-growing old became lame and without any noble meaning: a sort-of gradual disappearing where people can't hear you talking anymore nor even notice you walking down the street -- the fear of disappearing and not meaning anything at all is the last form of narcissism packaged in self-deprecation - nonetheless, we do go through phase-state changes which include these unremarkable gray-wastelands which leaves us feeling better-off dead

the rest is silence

in good faith is celebrating gravity
and depends on the thief;
which is not really a valid point of reference
for a disembodied voice: the answer,
i feel, is taken away

the thief is in the fields to the right;
the fast car, the suicide thing,
the ferryman and the coins,
the woman at the station, waiting

since I'm not having anything to do with it,
I just hope you're sorry now

merCurious illuMentations

the rest is silence ... such is the conceit of 'knowing' which is inclined to 'want to know more'; bent toward the gravity of 'I think therefore I am' which is the raison d'etre behind all pseudonyms ... wisdom based on 'knowing' has a fatal flaw, reason, which is wounded by the point of view you're in, the 'I,' where the fatal-skin begins -- however, the heart does not differentiate between man-woeman or race or any of our sense-based tools of distinction -- rather it's that 'glow of awareness' which is the key to the realEYEsed seeing of this blissful reality changing, ever rearranging -- a heart jammed into the vibration can see on the sharp-edge of a glance and into the hearts of man-woeman-beast without judgment or opinion while discriminating-wisdom is following the heart but using the head known as licking-honey from the razors edge -- the 'I know' mantrum is another form of temper-tantrum and a ritual of Western Hubris, the kiss of the Narcissist that looks at each other with darWINian percepts, that lasso of who's who on the hierarchical tree of 'I me mine' memory -- mmm, nonetheless, the fractal-flaw in us all is the revolutionary-mutation, the viva la difference dance where we all look into the mirror of each other and see sister and brother and if by chance the mirror reflects in a myriad of ways, the beloved one, then you've begun to see that the rest is silence and shall want no more, as such, said in another way, freedom from freedom is truly free, that is, the weight of the world is really its only door ...

Atlas mused - the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world, is really its only door ...

saturn unfettered

the hoofly God with long tales,
removed his horns
in the deep of night
where darkness moaned
a crack in despair,
there, where the light can now appear

he comes off
as chaotic, familiar
which is the way of
casting out a neural-net
of gleaning.meaning with
vortex prayers 'n fractal wishes
on the edge of an ancient-ache
in time 'n space matters

his path-depends
on that old Promethean fire;
coals of embers glow,
they gleam again inside the eye,
then sparks do fly, away, away, they go ...

the music of ice-bergs

ellipses tremble
trace in waters
a deeper kiss than this
though deeper still
revelling in waves
sunken, slips
heavy under
starry-starry lights

i feel tall
those empty hollow places
that leave me under your skin
all deeper to the sound of standing-still
deep ocher core

mostly take the terror out of your eyes

it's in-between the breath,
that silent-turn,
from deep inside,
rolling a-round
with the sound,
until it forms an awe

or wonder, too
that your tongue
inflects a tipping-out,
passing by lips still wet with kiss,
where trembling-air begins
to vortex 'n curl like waves upon a beach,
push'd in inner-ear as ocean sound,
re-sound again as bliss -

and further into this, your whirl'd
of curl'd synaptic-brain,
where lightning sings,
into a flashing of your eyes,
as if an eye could gleam,
between you and your simple dream,
of crystal clear blue-skies...

indivi:Duality

American Express: the baby-boomers at the height of their artifice-driven narcissistic wet-dreams Newg'd out the "I am I cried" package in petty bo's 'n ribbons -- when you opened the package meant for one and all it was meaningless 'n droll -- we're all in it together they said, individually unique in bed, and while they sang, come all ye' faithful to the average man, they wanted you to have a credit-card in hand -- Express your individual right to buy anything in sight, you know it's true, you're the light you bring to the eye with the gift that keeps on taking, promulgating the lie ...

Atlas pondered

- the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world is really its only door ...

sometimes the boiler aches

in the language of a cumulative push -
steam-roars, boom, boom, boom
in the belly of the beast, crimson-teeth
rip-fire into-iron-flesh

b u b b l e s roll,
under-understood,
thunder-in down the pipe,
bellowing with hiss ...

stok'd into a viscous-rumble
s:trains-a-move-down-the-line
engine-urges-whine
up-the-track, clakity-clak
clakity-clak
in feet-of-head a head
of steam m o a n s,
presses tempest into iron-plated
bolts the size of your fist,
squeals out rigid seams as fiery mist:

truth escapes, trailing white plumes,
stack to sky, stack-to-sky,
to fall as condensate rain;
hard going tears, way down in the hole,
groaning-oh
'til the fire comes again

I used to be a Boiler Man

super heated steam re-boilered in the extreme shooting plasmic condensates at extremely high rates - the roiling fires flame impinges on the steel belly of the beast, migrating as radiant heat, slides into water as bubbles rising in a crescendo, accumulating in a rumble, thundering down the pipe, bellowing with hiss

I'm a Fourth Class Steam Engineer also known as a Stationary engineer here-abouts and this is how I got my start in 'Puters as they became our monitoring equipment in the early eighties although the gauges measuring pressure and temperature were and still are relied upon -- I once had a fire-box explosion which blew out the stack access and rumbled the building to the top 12th floor - a leaky seal and oil accumulated in the fire-box -- I saw everything in slow motion - the brik-a-brak blowing from the stack, the boiler jumping on the spot, my life I had forgot...

in the language of steam condensates - head of steam indicated how much pressure you could raise and feet of head meant you could raise more BTU's like a tempest in a boiler plated with bolts the size of your fist, squealed out the seams as a fiery mist: the works were many from mines to sub-basements in commercial buildings - I once managed Government Buildings in Winnipeg with centralized steam boilers spewing white condensate into the frigid clear skies

I'd say my worst nightmare job as a boiler man was in an abattoir where dead farm animals, some alive, would be screwed up to a thrasher and steam pummeled for a long time -- the oils called tallow were sent out east to become the base of perfumes in a storage car -- while the 'meal' left over was made into dog and cat foods -- I smelled of death in those days

on journaling:

next time you look at those twinkles in the night sky and sigh there'll be a glimmer in your eye ...

if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as the circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly

star talk shadow walk

what if light is the language of Star and Star is the language of night and night is the feeling of ineffable space where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen into particles 'n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real ... then our shadow we see, slow diving on the ground, is a reminder of the night we carry, everyday around

timeless

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 –

though I spend my time, circling the horizon of my mind,
seeing her in time 'n space as a congruence of my need,
the sifting of my sieve, 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 night as I watch her lay,
time stops and takes my breath away

days of shadow and sea

it's easy to remember
you in these pictures;
light's language of shadow
sculpting time
and
you are there
like a shell pounding out the sea,
laying back on the beach,
head sideways, your eyes closed,
knees buckled in the air
open to the Sun's
fingers of light reaching,
glistening there

I've not been the Sun
in your darkened places
since
the day you offered yourself
to the sky,
 the day
I succumbed to the seas
endless waves
          washing over me

everything is gradual

everything is eventual then it's happening --
we're moving in circles at a steady pace

the city got new search-lights pointing at the sky
looking for a miracle in the clouds hanging there
worried about the things they've got to do,
like the war on terror, H1N1, your money and it's true
everyone wishes the rain would break
the high tide, the flooding for god's sake

what are we going to do?

with a predilection for an immediate look
from any third eye cave -
i am in that tunnel
i am the rave...
rolling down the main streets
rolling down past the ignored miracle you are
rolling down where you can buy everything
from a gun to a slave
what are you supposed to do at the dead-end
of our collective mind

round and round
neutral flowing and changing every lil' bit
suspended precariously like a platter on a hardrive
a hard hard drive

aspiring

I hide my flame amongst the embers, slowly burning there
a little light remains as assssh, fuming gasssseoussss screams
a waft of smoke ascends from where, my little light does flare
to lurch in shadows on the wall and burst to sparks that sigh;

my lowly ember flickering flame may be all my fire seems
to dance with stars in the night, is what my fire dreams ...

happiness is highly over-rated

happiness is highly over-rated; however, laughter is the best of all medicines when one has come to the 'dust 'n ashes' stage of growth in consciousness -- nevertheless, the dog chases his tail and we all laugh at such foolishness, yet the dog is happy by his reckoning -- so, I say what is this 'happiness tale' you've been running in circles about? -- the muse of glee is fickle -- yet, watch an 11 year old engage in the minutiae of life's wonders, learning is a passion ... learn something new, turn off the tube, watch Autumn leaves fall ... and laugh every morning at the visage in the mirror, Dear -- you're all you've got but don't take anything seriously, especially your-self ...

Autumn sunlight

cool crystallized
fractal hoar frost
clinging to leaves 'n grass --
askew autumn sunlight
reflects 'n refracts,
evaporates to mist,
like a lovers goodbye kiss

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or a further farther found near-bye

grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from the words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the Logos is thus Theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to an inner reality --

sHe dives deep into the infinite-in
                       where a visceral piety is the pearl
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find

.

.

.

 

... a definition of pious is dutifully -- however that is too rigorous as this quality arises from equanimity as being plain and simple to be in tune with nature; which follows as the equipoise in the eternal-now where one is neither attracted nor repelled by any such thing or is neither compelled by the past nor future beckoned, but simply elegantly without remonstration, sings from the heart as sweet as sHe is want to do

sighNs

stars that once lit up the darkness of space
fell as burnt cinders to a sleepless city;
your eyes glitter'd with their lost reflections,
forever Moonless, thoughtful, manic.

I wander into
a well lit cafe
to drink thick blackness in a cup
brooding over your absence this night...

dead-girl

she shines in the melancholia of living like the dead in the warm glow of television, so I caress her in a non-judgmental embrace, bending rigid fear into heart hugging arms

Spiral Wizards

manic artists Nero'd their times
sculpted bigger things than human need;
from hot blood flames Divine madness

a man who dreams of being a God
is either condemned to death or
draws blood-lines in the sand

transcend and include ...

it's not enough to rise to the task
there is no shame, no war, no Empire
when its the duty of each citizen
to kill the Emperor

long live the Emperor who casts no shadow
no shadow is too long when the Sun shines highest

my noir apotheosis

my banal original
left ordinary impressions
on the surface of your eyes; stanzas you couldn't
get out of your mind playing carpe diem

you'd stalk memories romantically
while holding fast to recognized patterns;
you'd say anything with a cigarette 
hanging from your lip: tempus fugit

those wisps accent your spent look;
something frozen, dead winter,
caught by the Sun, melted, a haze of steam
rising nostalgically with redolent regret

spilling over to rise again

spilling over, falling back:
land-lost, sea-sick,

though I reach as tender tendrils to the shores,
to lay amongst the rock-gathered mussels,
anemones swelled with bile;

I roll spilling mercy into sands
quivering my sea to falling day,
shivering my waters at the edges;

my foam encrusted lips whimper sounds
of pearls ratt'ling last memories
of green algae and sea-kelp reaching;

to the imperious sky I wave the deepest
of darkest blue

where the red horizon drips
as blood from another days crown
to rise again as little pearls of dew...

emotion in the write way

some don't get the emotions, see them as cliche', while the root of the problem is the heart I must say -- where we begin in our Mother's water place, the beat of her life, made ours by grace -- the pedagogues 'n pip-squeaks don't get the emotion that leaks from the pen, as longing, as aching, as yearning in unbearable swells, again 'n again -- they've never birthed in bursting strife, their suffering 'n joy of life

we are the foam on the sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We are a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We are this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

writes of passage in the passion-fomenting each stroke of our pen, boils the words we've writ then ...

... cunning-less is the base of it: your juiced with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up yur' 'lectrikly sapient spine, making you feel an infinite-in, outwardly sublime

little-rat-eyes

'little-rat-eyes' squint so much that all they see is cliche' -- they've castigated 'n shit on the Poets here with never any wit to the crit that'd help them be clear -- so much odiousness in the reply, why? they sound like an over-educated baboon that cannot cry -- all poetry, good or bad, comes of genuine feeling -- so reviews should not be personal diatribes but plainly simple dialogues of what works or does not work in the context of the writing -- where Poetry is about healing the wounds that reason makes many odious 'I am writer' folks are making wounds on Poetry with their reasons -- doubt is their religion and bullying their secular sacrament -- often intelligence is mistaken for hierarchical desire monkey opinion, 'cause I'm smarter, better, more insightful and my writing is top form kinda thing -- darWINian at best -- from street gangs to bed rooms and forums the Alpha-fucker puts you down so sHe can be one up -- eGo for it is the why -- the arrogance of ignorance is the conceit that hides behind the averted fear that I'm not good enough to be here, so they regale you, that you won't be too, if they have anything to do, with it -- so they'll take a shit all over what you writ and you better like it 'cause they're the writeous crit -- laughing with other little-rat-eyes without wit

'little-rat-eyes' = literati and 'ill-little-rat-eyes' = illiterate -- it's funny how ignorance can show up in an Academic and failed high-school red-neck alike -- I suppose that arrogance is hubris and without distinction

the little-rat-eyes are speed-readers always looking for ways to fill the gap between their lips with knowledgeable sooth-sayings 'cause they've moved the word meaningfully without the sounds in their head -- Poets have gaps in their head where they merCuriously spill their words smoothly with surround-sound lips that never get stuck on having to know anything at all -- they inwordly lip-reciprocate in an astonished why-lessness that (disturbs meaning) de-means everything into a sudden swoon that turns the whirl'd 'round -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of broke-back words in how they fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, with lip-synchronicity and all the meta-sensory expansions 'n contractions to constantly risk absurdity

the ill-little-rat-eyes cannot see beyond what's in-it for them and can they get laid -- otherwise it's the alliteration of the illiterate and we all know where the ill-little-rats go when they don't know, pressing the button on their glowering expectations and can't crit 'cause they don't have the wit for it, so they shoot it down with the number crunch, a petty solution, the knockout punch

with reading a write I imagine cunning-less at the base of it, being wet with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up yur' 'lectrikly sapient spine making you feel an infinite-in, outwardly sublime -- neither little-rats nor ill-little-rats can see, beyond their myopic certainty

Poetry is

Poetry is there where we are not so sure, there where the edges blur, there where we leak into each other, between the cracks in the words that we say, there where the light leaks out in a wondrous way ...

viscereality -- Ezra Pound extrapolated that, "Rhythm is form cut into TIME, as a design is determined by SPACE." or the temporal, therefore rhythmic, distribution of the elements of language -- the texture of expectations, satisfactions, disappointments, surprisals, which the sequence of syllables brings about -- the physiological link of rhythm to heart and lungs brings the reader into the Poem with that viscereality --

visceReality in the poem -- vortex prayers 'n fractal wishes, on the edge of an ancient-ache in time 'n space matters -- I've always loved the flowing stream through rock 'n root making many whirl'ds -- those vortices apparently whirl down to the atomic level thus stream-cleaning water of biological hazards -- sometimes I write from the rhythm not knowing the words but using a sort of shorthand where phrasings are place-holders of syllables -- as pointed out this often ends up illiterythmically inspired -- nevertheless, motion is what creates something from nothing; as Einstein mused when considering the beginning of the Multiverse, " something moved " -- as such words become 'dynamos' of rhythmic punctuation when musically driven by inspiration -- this is why the 'thought' is conjectured to be a sympathetic motion in the brain from sensing Nature all over again -- the Poet who writes from that serendiptous-connection having mastered the word-image-rhythms can therefore incite the emotives/feelings/thoughts in the reader where a synergy of the relationship of observer/observed becomes tesselated interactively -- I throw a rock in the stream and watch the ripples fill the unbounded cavity of your brain, where these ripples ripple all over again -- so, she 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 -- thus does poetry roam

why we evolve eh

"What happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it." T.S. Eliot

so there it is -- when we work our art on our very selves to move beyond the clinging embrace of mere gravity, the dubious dirge of making ends meet, we evolve not only ourselves but we reach from the same urge of everyone who has dared to evolve before us -- and by that very reaching bring all further than they ever hoped or dreamt

all things are connected

-- is it copying when inspired by another in a jazz riff that is the same but diff-a-rant? -- path-dependence is the name of the game, what is new, from old it came -- nevertheless, it's the fire in our hearts that sparks creativity ya'know and when those words in embers glow they'll gleam inside the readers eye, inspiring them, as sparks do fly -- you really wanna' know, that's how writers pens do flow

Democracy as evolutionary intent:

I'll believe in Democracy when the average IQ is above the status-quo and the average joe is not such a selfish schmo and the average jane isn't shopping for bling; when the hearts of men care again, I'll be a Social-Democrat then

beauty as urge to merge

where-ever I see beauty, I just wanna' be fuk'd by it -- like the humming-bird and the flower where the unfurling coil that is the hummingbirds tongue reaches in for that sweet spot, slipping and sliding 'round and 'round getting deep-inside that pretty one merging with it's Beauty -- how would you see it from the inside-out perspective -- what images, impressions, feelings does being-beautiful, being-fuk'd by beauty do for you -- such is beauties beautiful relativity process like being fuk'd by words, by poetry that turns our musical-brain full-on bursting into a thousand well-writ phrasings, making a mess of matters in such a beautiful way that words can have their night 'n day -- the urge to merge is an ongoing content that is alive and there if you're aware

Ramadan man:

~ out of the desert at dusk he will come, intemperate, seeing you first with his eyes, burning like coals in his longing for your sumptuous fruits, then his mouth will swallow your blushing lips, he will drink deep from your sweet mouth while hands as strong as steel bind you close to him -- in that ravishing you will feel the Laylat al-Qadr in your breasts bearing passions fruit in your mind and your hearts will be one...

Confidence Management 101:

expressing emotions with conviction, without trying to please others often causes the monkey-mind in others to respond with aggression first or deference -- nonetheless, when the mind plays on the slippery slope of words=emotions=take it personally or words=I'm special and you better be able to see it - we get misconstrued communications with pain-body ramifications and deceitful variations -- as such a common past-time is to treat all wounded-reasons as uninvited guests and find that what you thought was a hornets-nest is but a passing of gases dissipating rapidly

to breathe life into...inSpiration

we breath life into language which we construe with semantics and syntactical alliances until it needs to be said or is a lovely song but mostly flung out there into a crowded starry sky to fly or fall, that's all -- I learn a lot from my still-born writes as much, if not more, than those that never get a stare -- it all gets recycled in the cauldron of my heart, boiling with fires too hot for knowledge or understanding, spewing forth with plasma graces where they flow to my pen again and again as leaden storms or golden winds

inspiration is the gift of stars flowing with light from eyes glittering with delight or waves of sweet wise words floating off the tongue of an old and smiling one -- nice poement -- inspire - To breathe life into

we invent language, but I've used the archaic expression with [Middle English enspiren, from Old French enspirer, from Latin nsprre : in-, into; see in-2 + sprre, to breathe.] -- which aids in the allusion of language forms 'n rituals being dead, without life until we breath that life into them -- kinda like in Jewish folklore, a golem (גולם; English pronunciation: /ˈgoʊləm/, goh ləm) is an animated being created entirely from inanimate matter and then 'life' is breathed into it -- of course they can become servants or monsters

I get the feeling you're really like Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in that your allusions are that we are all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free to really be me -- i'm real only then when you are and life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought really me means --

the 'song' was originally a come-along of similar sounds with reverberation, a frequency-ride in scales that shaped the land-scape you were assimilating, the urge to merge with a naked-dance prance -- a sort of serendipity cum verity where your body-heart-mind instrument sympathetically resonated with the here-we-go, doncha'know -- as you are aware, I'm not a fan of thinking and find it highly over-rated, nonetheless, when thought follows in resonance with the heart and the body dances to that earth-bound beat reaching for the sky, that's when my words become imbued with inspiration, a sweet-release, a sigh

I don't flaunt that I'm a flautist and like to jazz 'n rhythm with that music stick in either sonorous tones of a Tai Hei Shakuhach or the rigorous tonality of a Sonare Solid Silver Flute (Split E) with it's inherent mystery -- from the Music of the Spheres to the sounds that sooth our fears in the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep 'n dark space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter -- I'd imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight -- Godal, Escher 'n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin -- canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made -- it's Higgy dust where from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made music and you 'n me

I agree -- as stated in rigorous English, I'm not fastidious on syntactical forms 'n rituals nor am I averse to the idiom of the medium is the message -- as an idiot staring at forever I've found concept bubbles burst on the meandering stream of consciousness toward the Sea of eternity, where I, you and me no longer dis-agree nor are bound by the laws of 'be' but ride the waves of entropy -- the medium of longing swells in an ancient-ache, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night

i'm laughing in spasms here -- yep! it's the 'terror of the situation' bound in words that slap and scold that what is new always comes from something that is old -- here you've scraped the surface with your wit, like some grave-robber digging into it, to boldy go where we'll all end up, as worm-food making them, too, fed-up
for me, words as sound and vehicle of what we need to say, come as streams of rhythms bound naturally by the tempo of the time and how would you say, what is going 'round in Zeitgesitian rhyme -- nevertheless, as night is bound to day, where language ends, poetry will have it's say -- whether it's dialectically determined daydreams speaking in defence or a bird-song rivalling for the highest branch in the tree - the writer writes, in idioms of laughter and tears, words that grate or are in harmonies -- either way, what is real and what is not, is an invention we corral in the words that we've got; why not?

I get what you're aiming for and spewing word-vomit on the floor from drinking it all in 'till you wanna' burst that write is wrong when you've got it all rehearsed -- to analyze and sift through all that we are which makes us say the things we say, like Physicists mapping layers of a Star as it bursts into a fiery rage or the pundit and his polemic to the Political slave -- to reiterate my wan declination, I'm not a fan of knowings demarcation, but I understand this non-trivial need in this forum of Poetics, however, understand that I'm not into rhetoric nor a theoretician but rather lean to the nature of the beast in us and it's mystery of the numinous -- reason is wounded in that it cannot embrace consciousness, that there is something more and bigger than we can garner by taking it all apart, that Science like Art is not the map but the territory where your feet are write now, where to show is the goal and not to tell -- Art is greater than the sum of its parts but getting what you're going for takes analytical skill, the heart of it, if you will

i read often and often when I'm not, I read visually all sorts of movies from the 'B' horror raves to the artsy Sundance festival faves -- lately I've been entwined in IT Server migrations and DNS woes which is what I've been doing all day today -- however, the collected Patchen poems you steered me towards gave me inspiration then to William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean to these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise

well that's an interesting turn of phrase in what you say, do I read for fun in any way -- well, yes it's fun to read 'n write, in fact it's outta' site -- as you read me write before, joy is the foundation of wonder and wonder is the basis of the dream that all that we are and all that we seem is as the bloom is to flower, as scent is to what we feel, and the feeling is fun when it's then so visceREAL -- I study too and then I dream, look out over the Burrard Bay into a city that shines like jewels in the night -- I read some and I write some, mostly for fun, while watching the Sun glitter on the Sea or the tessellating Moon beams that set my heart free, yes, that's fun for me

the TXTing scene is a dangerous-one, it would seem

the drama in kids is another way to say that they're stressing and straining to acquire their own moves on this earth, for which these elders gave them birth -- it's hard to see through fixed-emotional monsters that roam like ghosts of dinosaurs past, these people propelled by their greed, that what our children are is part monster and part mutating-thing on the verge of the urge to merge they're DNA'd with -- eventually we all begin to see, or not, that what we are is not what we've got, but is more numinous than this, like kissing the beloved with the same kiss -- our children ought to see farther as they stand on the shoulders of giants before them and it's up to them to jump into the Sea of reality -- my children are a synthesis of me and their Mom yet much much more that that sum and aren't so dumb as to TXT 'n run

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGE8LzRaySk

On Rating Poetry:

degeneRATING has as it's inherent conceit the sliding scale in which we mete-out while crossing the line that poetry is fractal like each other, shall we deMean with a number-game our sister and brother?

falling stars

-- in the medium of longing swells, an ancient-ache cried out, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night -- so did the night beget the light

infinite nights

In infinite darkness

an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights

as if the night wept in stars --

that's the slippery slope of duality ~

in the congress of Love
only Loving is the Truth
and that's the Beauty of beholding
with a realEYEsed look that dares to see
that Truth like Beauty is relativity --

this is my body, this is my blood,
come unto me as children would
with eyes the heart has seared with fire,
overflowed as insanity on the sharp edge of desire
where the fool and saint are one and the same
as players in the play of this duality game --

promulgate your Truth as if a wave on the Sea
where waves all gather but disagree
yet often move from deepest blue
as if they were both me 'n you;
dive deep for the pearls and come up smiling with their gleam in your eyes then write a Poem while watching each drip of your pen bloom into a thousand flowers, again 'n again

the metaphor for surrendering deeply
body 'n soul, like Osiris 'n Isis or
Dionysus the horned hoofly God
with his flesh ravaged
and eaten by his drunken virgin savages --

drink deep his gift of blood, eat the flesh
of the King for the Love of Spring,
to rise again with Sol, in light for us all

ahhh, yes - such are these terms of endearment
made merry with sounds that alliterate 'n show
the tender moments Lovers know

galaxies 'n quarks inside our remarks, resolved by sense, leave us no greater than a flower or a tree, unfettered, yet burdened by eternity

11 paradigmensionsional string theory proclaims this universe is like a loaf of bread where the slices touch each other is where black holes 'n wormholes tunnel to another possible version of me 'n you

ping...

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