Will the words and images
upon the slate right now
be stained upon each visage
forbidden to ever disavow
I look at these faces passing by
and read the slate on them inscribed
Expressions as if words transcribed
proclaiming fate or a slate's old lie
Is this the slate of things to come
Is all that can be- all that's done
Is this the slate that wars have won
Is all that's left now to become
Will this slate be cleared away
so all that's done is yet to do
and everything is rendered new
with only blanks allowed to stay
I look into the vacant sky
with clouds that hide the stars behind
and wonder if their lights would mind
knowing that their source must die
Is this the slate of things to come
Is all that's to be- to be undone
Is this slate one continuum of none
Is all there is, all to succumb
Will this slate be an old addendum
attached to some lost referendum
detailing the limits on life's momentum
I look upon some pages written
in words to make its readers smitten
with hopes they'll never be unwritten
by authors other than the underwritten
Is this the state of things to come
Is all there is confined to some
Is this slate wisdom for the dumb
Is this the remainder of its sum
If the slate is set in stone
why grind against it to atone
If the slate is of the fade
what use exists in all that's made
If the slate is something to impute
what then do we constitute
What is this slate of things to come
Do I inscribe my life upon its face
Is it the outline that I trace
Or something that I just can't place
What is this slate of things to come
Wednesday, December 30, 2015
Sunday, December 27, 2015
The Rusty Pocket Knife...
Jack was one of those people that could do almost anything. For most of his life he'd done repairs on everything from home-appliances, to cars, to housing damages, and everything in between. According to him if something could be fixed then he'd fix it, and if he couldn't fix it then it just couldn't be fixed.
There was always something in need of fixing. According to Jack nothing ever broke-down and went looking for someone to fix it, so it was up to him to find things in need of fixing. Sometimes he'd go around knocking on doors to solicit his services. If a big storm had swept through town he'd find a roofing outfit and hire on for a few months. When he had spare time he'd swing by his uncle's auto-shop to see if they needed help keeping up with repairs.
A few times a year Jack would give candy to some of the kids in his trailer park to put up fliers. The fliers just had his phone-number and the words "Jack-of-all-trades will fix anything". When he could afford to keep the phone on it'd ring a couple times a week after the fliers were distributed.
His trailer was close to the entrance of the park, and everyone driving past it would see the sign reading "Jack of all trades" that he kept in his front yard. He'd made a deal with the park's maintenance and supervision to let him keep the sign there in exchange for helping out with repairs in the park from time to time. The residents sometimes called him for repairs before they spoke with the park officials, but he never complained or let them know about it.
Over time word spread through the park that Jack would fix things for residents on the cheap if not for free. Some of the residents told stories of him turning down money, and others told of paying him with nothing more than homemade treats. As word spread more and more of the park's residents started asking Jack for repairs.
The more Jack helped people in the park the less time he had to go out and make money. According to everyone in the park he didn't seem to mind. As his trailer started to get older it showed signs of being in need of repairs. Every time he tried to paint it someone would inevitably swing by and ask him for some repair or to paint their trailer too. He'd put off painting his own trailer, and rush off to help whoever was in need.
His trailer started to look pretty shabby after a while. Some of the residents even complained about it to the park supervisor a few times. No one ever came by to help him paint it or anything though. As his trailer showed increasing signs of neglect there were other things Jack seemed to have had trouble keeping up with too.
Jack's tools had always been in good order before cheap words had spread through the park. Over time people started to notice that his tools not only looked worn but rusted over too. Some of the people that knew a few things about repairs also noticed that he wasn't using the right tools on some of the jobs, and he seemed to be bringing smaller and smaller tool kits.
Over the years Jack himself seemed to be aging faster than what could seem natural. A few of the residents became concerned with this. Some of them tried to ask him if everything was alright, but he never let on that anyone should be concerned with him. It wasn't long after this time that he started to become more reclusive.
Some of the residents had gone to ask him for help, but hadn't been able to get him to answer his door. Others complained that he'd ignored them when they tried to catch him while he was entering or leaving his trailer. A few residents thought he might be showing early signs of senility, but no one knew what was wrong with him.
Jack eventually took the sign down from his front yard, and ceased to send kids out with his fliers. After the sign came down he only left his trailer about once every few weeks to get groceries. Someone in the park claimed that he'd sold all of his tools for scrap around that time. Some of the residents expressed concerns with each other over Jack's reclusive habits, but no one knew what if anything should be done about it.
Then one day someone noticed a smell coming from his trailer. The police came and found him on the kitchen floor. His dishwasher was dismantled and parts were spread out neatly on the kitchen counter. At first the police found it odd that there weren't any tools in sight, but when they moved his body they were able to figure out what happened.
He'd been trying to fix the dishwasher with a rusty pocket knife. At some point the screwdriver-prong had busted-off of the tool. Apparently after that Jack had used the rusty cutting-prong to put a hole in his throat. They found a length of tubing attached to his wound and leading to the washer's drain. According to police he must have intended to keep from making a mess.
Jack didn't have a will or any next of kin, and there wasn't a funeral for him. A few of the park residents thought about having some kind of service for him, but nothing came of it. One of the residents said that they wished there was something they could have done to fix Jack. It was only after hearing these words that I understood.
For most of his life Jack was trying to fix more than just the things people used in their homes. He was trying to fix something that none of his tools were made to repair. His rusty pocket knife was just another tool that couldn't fix what he wanted to repair. In the end he must have known that despite all of his efforts he couldn't fix what was wrong with the people in his life. This meant that the saddest possible thing had to be true. After all- if Jack couldn't fix it, then it just couldn't be fixed.
There was always something in need of fixing. According to Jack nothing ever broke-down and went looking for someone to fix it, so it was up to him to find things in need of fixing. Sometimes he'd go around knocking on doors to solicit his services. If a big storm had swept through town he'd find a roofing outfit and hire on for a few months. When he had spare time he'd swing by his uncle's auto-shop to see if they needed help keeping up with repairs.
A few times a year Jack would give candy to some of the kids in his trailer park to put up fliers. The fliers just had his phone-number and the words "Jack-of-all-trades will fix anything". When he could afford to keep the phone on it'd ring a couple times a week after the fliers were distributed.
His trailer was close to the entrance of the park, and everyone driving past it would see the sign reading "Jack of all trades" that he kept in his front yard. He'd made a deal with the park's maintenance and supervision to let him keep the sign there in exchange for helping out with repairs in the park from time to time. The residents sometimes called him for repairs before they spoke with the park officials, but he never complained or let them know about it.
Over time word spread through the park that Jack would fix things for residents on the cheap if not for free. Some of the residents told stories of him turning down money, and others told of paying him with nothing more than homemade treats. As word spread more and more of the park's residents started asking Jack for repairs.
The more Jack helped people in the park the less time he had to go out and make money. According to everyone in the park he didn't seem to mind. As his trailer started to get older it showed signs of being in need of repairs. Every time he tried to paint it someone would inevitably swing by and ask him for some repair or to paint their trailer too. He'd put off painting his own trailer, and rush off to help whoever was in need.
His trailer started to look pretty shabby after a while. Some of the residents even complained about it to the park supervisor a few times. No one ever came by to help him paint it or anything though. As his trailer showed increasing signs of neglect there were other things Jack seemed to have had trouble keeping up with too.
Jack's tools had always been in good order before cheap words had spread through the park. Over time people started to notice that his tools not only looked worn but rusted over too. Some of the people that knew a few things about repairs also noticed that he wasn't using the right tools on some of the jobs, and he seemed to be bringing smaller and smaller tool kits.
Over the years Jack himself seemed to be aging faster than what could seem natural. A few of the residents became concerned with this. Some of them tried to ask him if everything was alright, but he never let on that anyone should be concerned with him. It wasn't long after this time that he started to become more reclusive.
Some of the residents had gone to ask him for help, but hadn't been able to get him to answer his door. Others complained that he'd ignored them when they tried to catch him while he was entering or leaving his trailer. A few residents thought he might be showing early signs of senility, but no one knew what was wrong with him.
Jack eventually took the sign down from his front yard, and ceased to send kids out with his fliers. After the sign came down he only left his trailer about once every few weeks to get groceries. Someone in the park claimed that he'd sold all of his tools for scrap around that time. Some of the residents expressed concerns with each other over Jack's reclusive habits, but no one knew what if anything should be done about it.
Then one day someone noticed a smell coming from his trailer. The police came and found him on the kitchen floor. His dishwasher was dismantled and parts were spread out neatly on the kitchen counter. At first the police found it odd that there weren't any tools in sight, but when they moved his body they were able to figure out what happened.
He'd been trying to fix the dishwasher with a rusty pocket knife. At some point the screwdriver-prong had busted-off of the tool. Apparently after that Jack had used the rusty cutting-prong to put a hole in his throat. They found a length of tubing attached to his wound and leading to the washer's drain. According to police he must have intended to keep from making a mess.
Jack didn't have a will or any next of kin, and there wasn't a funeral for him. A few of the park residents thought about having some kind of service for him, but nothing came of it. One of the residents said that they wished there was something they could have done to fix Jack. It was only after hearing these words that I understood.
For most of his life Jack was trying to fix more than just the things people used in their homes. He was trying to fix something that none of his tools were made to repair. His rusty pocket knife was just another tool that couldn't fix what he wanted to repair. In the end he must have known that despite all of his efforts he couldn't fix what was wrong with the people in his life. This meant that the saddest possible thing had to be true. After all- if Jack couldn't fix it, then it just couldn't be fixed.
Monday, December 21, 2015
How Much Of This World Do You Have To See (Before You've Seen It All)???
How much of this world
do you have to see
How much is in your view
Walking down the street
you're used to driving-by
There's more for eyes to greet
than you're willing to even try
You see it all as something else
all like things you've seen before
It's all the same and nothing else
It's all just more, & more, & more
How much of this world
do you have to see
How sizable is it to you
The world is vastly big
It's full of redundant size
The street birds know the jig
They can see the redundant skies
They know they aren't above it
and see no more need to fly
They peck at crumbs & love it
ignoring the cyclic passers-by
How much of this world
do you have to see
How much is there for you
As you walk and keep walking
in steps like steps before
People talk and keep talking
and their talk is all one roar
Is there one word inside this
apart from all you've heard
Is there anything besides this
this ever ruminating herd
How much of this world
do you have to see
before you've seen it all
Suddenly you lose your step
and fall back down to earth
Seeing shortfalls of your misstep
is like witnessing your birth
You see the same world opened-up
as your eyes expand their view
Your once half-empty broken cup
spills out in front of you
How much of this world
do you have to see
before you've seen it all
The ambulance is quick
but your blood pours out so fast
You used to think you were so slick
when it was all the same forecast
It's so sad your eyes are open now
like never once before
as you wish there only was somehow
they wouldn't close forever more
How much of this world
will you wish to see
before you've seen it all
do you have to see
How much is in your view
Walking down the street
you're used to driving-by
There's more for eyes to greet
than you're willing to even try
You see it all as something else
all like things you've seen before
It's all the same and nothing else
It's all just more, & more, & more
How much of this world
do you have to see
How sizable is it to you
The world is vastly big
It's full of redundant size
The street birds know the jig
They can see the redundant skies
They know they aren't above it
and see no more need to fly
They peck at crumbs & love it
ignoring the cyclic passers-by
How much of this world
do you have to see
How much is there for you
As you walk and keep walking
in steps like steps before
People talk and keep talking
and their talk is all one roar
Is there one word inside this
apart from all you've heard
Is there anything besides this
this ever ruminating herd
How much of this world
do you have to see
before you've seen it all
Suddenly you lose your step
and fall back down to earth
Seeing shortfalls of your misstep
is like witnessing your birth
You see the same world opened-up
as your eyes expand their view
Your once half-empty broken cup
spills out in front of you
How much of this world
do you have to see
before you've seen it all
The ambulance is quick
but your blood pours out so fast
You used to think you were so slick
when it was all the same forecast
It's so sad your eyes are open now
like never once before
as you wish there only was somehow
they wouldn't close forever more
How much of this world
will you wish to see
before you've seen it all
Wednesday, December 16, 2015
An Old Thing...
I was never really young
In my youth
I thought more like
I was old
When I actually
become old
I wonder if I really
will be old
I've been practicing
for all this time
so maybe I'll get
being old right
I hope so
but I wonder
as my mind ages
if all this practice
will ruin being old
I think that by
the time I'm old
the very idea
of being old
will have long since
become old
and I'll end up
becoming something else
Having never been young
and never become old
I'll end up as something
without age
-something
out of touch
with all of time
and I'll run out of time
to figure out
what all of my time was
to me
and what I was
all this time
I'm not old yet
not that old
not this old
but as I'm
getting old
it's already
getting old
This isn't
a young problem
or it doesn't strike me as one
This is an
old problem
and I'm not ready
for it
but I can't put it off either
When I'm old-
I might be too old
to have left this problem
unsolved
and I'll end up wishing
I could go back
to when I was young
and change my
foolish youthfulness
so I wouldn't have to
face this problem
and others like it
as such an old man
Or I'll wish
I could be
young again
without having been
young before
so I could
really be young
as a consolation
and way to escape
into memories
of my youth
when I can't face
being so old
But then I see
all the old men
that have already
done these things
The ones that weren't
young in youth
wish they could
go back and be that
The ones that were
young in their youth
wish they had been
something else
So I guess no one knows
what they are
or what they
want to be
or what they
would wish to become
Not really
Not when thinking back
or imagining looking forward
It's all the same
old thing
I guess
but then again
I don't know
at least not yet
maybe never
This thing sure is
getting old though
Isn't it
In my youth
I thought more like
I was old
When I actually
become old
I wonder if I really
will be old
I've been practicing
for all this time
so maybe I'll get
being old right
I hope so
but I wonder
as my mind ages
if all this practice
will ruin being old
I think that by
the time I'm old
the very idea
of being old
will have long since
become old
and I'll end up
becoming something else
Having never been young
and never become old
I'll end up as something
without age
-something
out of touch
with all of time
and I'll run out of time
to figure out
what all of my time was
to me
and what I was
all this time
I'm not old yet
not that old
not this old
but as I'm
getting old
it's already
getting old
This isn't
a young problem
or it doesn't strike me as one
This is an
old problem
and I'm not ready
for it
but I can't put it off either
When I'm old-
I might be too old
to have left this problem
unsolved
and I'll end up wishing
I could go back
to when I was young
and change my
foolish youthfulness
so I wouldn't have to
face this problem
and others like it
as such an old man
Or I'll wish
I could be
young again
without having been
young before
so I could
really be young
as a consolation
and way to escape
into memories
of my youth
when I can't face
being so old
But then I see
all the old men
that have already
done these things
The ones that weren't
young in youth
wish they could
go back and be that
The ones that were
young in their youth
wish they had been
something else
So I guess no one knows
what they are
or what they
want to be
or what they
would wish to become
Not really
Not when thinking back
or imagining looking forward
It's all the same
old thing
I guess
but then again
I don't know
at least not yet
maybe never
This thing sure is
getting old though
Isn't it
Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Wolves On Leashes...
As some sniff to find their niches
hear the wolves that run so free
Dogs all kept upon their leashes
dreaming of the wolves they'd be
Untethered dogs are bound to roam
for banal stagnation is not their home
At heart they live as wolves on leashes
despite the tame their trainer teaches
Some dogs stay without a tether
bound by something else to stay
Some form packs and bind together
others wander-off alone and stray
When dogs are cornered under threat
the wolves comes out in teeth and growls
For some things blood just can't forget
their truth escapes their muzzled jowls
The wolves remaining wild and free
are content to meet survival's needs
They're not the devils some might see
nor angels for the heart that bleeds
These wild wolves are on leashes too
that hold them far from normal view
And when they venture in too close
wolves get trapped and turn morose
The world is full of wolves on leashes
some being led while others lead
They all abide what their tether teaches
To the length you're bound you must concede
hear the wolves that run so free
Dogs all kept upon their leashes
dreaming of the wolves they'd be
Untethered dogs are bound to roam
for banal stagnation is not their home
At heart they live as wolves on leashes
despite the tame their trainer teaches
Some dogs stay without a tether
bound by something else to stay
Some form packs and bind together
others wander-off alone and stray
When dogs are cornered under threat
the wolves comes out in teeth and growls
For some things blood just can't forget
their truth escapes their muzzled jowls
The wolves remaining wild and free
are content to meet survival's needs
They're not the devils some might see
nor angels for the heart that bleeds
These wild wolves are on leashes too
that hold them far from normal view
And when they venture in too close
wolves get trapped and turn morose
The world is full of wolves on leashes
some being led while others lead
They all abide what their tether teaches
To the length you're bound you must concede
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Cold Memories...
On cold nights
I often get the chills
from memories
as much as weather
It seems some things
never quite leave you
no matter how much
time or distance
you place
between
them
and
you
If I start coughing
it'll all come back
in memories of that
old affliction I'd had
that even in my prime
could level me
I remember how
it made me feel faint
from even attempting
to make my way up
a single flight of stairs
to a surface
that I was always under
and always
trying to
reach
If a fever sets in
I'll start to sweat
because I can't
keep my skin
from weeping
the way I can
with my eyes
And then
coughing
& sweating
in a sick fever
my mind will
continually pray
either to gawd
or nothing
that
I'm just sick
and that this
is not what
that other
thing
was
I often get the chills
from memories
as much as weather
It seems some things
never quite leave you
no matter how much
time or distance
you place
between
them
and
you
If I start coughing
it'll all come back
in memories of that
old affliction I'd had
that even in my prime
could level me
I remember how
it made me feel faint
from even attempting
to make my way up
a single flight of stairs
to a surface
that I was always under
and always
trying to
reach
If a fever sets in
I'll start to sweat
because I can't
keep my skin
from weeping
the way I can
with my eyes
And then
coughing
& sweating
in a sick fever
my mind will
continually pray
either to gawd
or nothing
that
I'm just sick
and that this
is not what
that other
thing
was
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Riddled With Riddles...
There's always a riddle inside my mind
that entangles me in ways I must unwind
I untangle all the knots that serve to bind
Only to be freed for another riddle to find
& by these very riddles I remain confined
Bound to be bound in knots like this
Bound to be found in thoughts like this
Tied and bound by things I can't dismiss
Tied to the binds that remiss to reminisce
The riddle of these riddles within my brain
Is a riddle that my mind just can't explain
A riddle that's bound to drive me insane
The kind likely tied to immensities of pain
I tried to untie my mind from the answers
only to be bound by some other cancers
I feel like I'm under the darkest enhancers
that exaggerate spells of the necromancers
Riddled with riddles in every thought
Bound to tie them to all that I've got
Freedom's like a rope in a noose's knot
Tied to riddle-traps in which I'm caught
I thought that life was tied to solutions
but unraveled that down to disillusions
In all I've untangled of past confusions
The riddle eludes all great resolutions
Bound to be bound by thoughts like this
Bound to be found tied in knots like this
Tied-up in these riddles of all that exists
Tied in these binds, but bound to persist
that entangles me in ways I must unwind
I untangle all the knots that serve to bind
Only to be freed for another riddle to find
& by these very riddles I remain confined
Bound to be bound in knots like this
Bound to be found in thoughts like this
Tied and bound by things I can't dismiss
Tied to the binds that remiss to reminisce
The riddle of these riddles within my brain
Is a riddle that my mind just can't explain
A riddle that's bound to drive me insane
The kind likely tied to immensities of pain
I tried to untie my mind from the answers
only to be bound by some other cancers
I feel like I'm under the darkest enhancers
that exaggerate spells of the necromancers
Riddled with riddles in every thought
Bound to tie them to all that I've got
Freedom's like a rope in a noose's knot
Tied to riddle-traps in which I'm caught
I thought that life was tied to solutions
but unraveled that down to disillusions
In all I've untangled of past confusions
The riddle eludes all great resolutions
Bound to be bound by thoughts like this
Bound to be found tied in knots like this
Tied-up in these riddles of all that exists
Tied in these binds, but bound to persist
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Broken Works...
No matter how much I bleed
It doesn't help the gears turn
No matter how I proceed
It only makes my mind burn
As gears grind a screeching halt
Smoke-signals decry no fault
Shards of shrapnel scar my mind
What blood will be left behind
Broken works to tear me down
To build monumental frowns
Why don't I cast tasks aside
When they can't be rectified
Why I work so hard for pain-
Broken works inside my brain
No matter how much I sweat
Everything evaporates
No matter how much I get
Every sum just aggravates
As my skin both drowns & dries
There's a stinging in my eyes
All I grasp slips through my hands
Is this what the task demands
Broken works to split my core
To make less of so much more
Why do I press-on so hard
Building what I'll just discard
Why I toil in such vain-
Broken works inside my brain
No matter how hard I cry
It never fills the quota
No matter how hard I try
It amounts to no iota
As my tears fall far too short
My intents will not purport
Tearful floods create a drought
What else could this bring about
Broken works for devastation
To be done without cessation
Why keep building all this ruin
When I know it's what I'm doin'
Why I carry on this way-
Broken works on my main mainstay
It doesn't help the gears turn
No matter how I proceed
It only makes my mind burn
As gears grind a screeching halt
Smoke-signals decry no fault
Shards of shrapnel scar my mind
What blood will be left behind
Broken works to tear me down
To build monumental frowns
Why don't I cast tasks aside
When they can't be rectified
Why I work so hard for pain-
Broken works inside my brain
No matter how much I sweat
Everything evaporates
No matter how much I get
Every sum just aggravates
As my skin both drowns & dries
There's a stinging in my eyes
All I grasp slips through my hands
Is this what the task demands
Broken works to split my core
To make less of so much more
Why do I press-on so hard
Building what I'll just discard
Why I toil in such vain-
Broken works inside my brain
No matter how hard I cry
It never fills the quota
No matter how hard I try
It amounts to no iota
As my tears fall far too short
My intents will not purport
Tearful floods create a drought
What else could this bring about
Broken works for devastation
To be done without cessation
Why keep building all this ruin
When I know it's what I'm doin'
Why I carry on this way-
Broken works on my main mainstay
Monday, November 30, 2015
The Word Is...
The word is
welcome
and so it begins
with first words, first sights,
and all the initial grins
The word is
commencement
and so it goes on
then it goes and keeps going
on, and on, and on
The word is
intensity
burning hot, bright, and fast
glowing without knowing
that this will never last
The word is
endurance
as long as it can last
trying to out-live
the shadows growing from its past
The words go on
like these and many others
not words so much our own
but words as one-anothers'
Then the word is
over
when there aren't any more
and its time to slip silently
through that final closing door
If there were other words
words to last, and not on loan
it would be best to keep them quiet
and leave them safe at home
So hush now, it'll soon be
over
and at the end of this old song
we'll find again the silence
that sang with us all along
And the word will be
silence
unspoken, but felt so strong
by all those left within it
searching for words to carry on
welcome
and so it begins
with first words, first sights,
and all the initial grins
The word is
commencement
and so it goes on
then it goes and keeps going
on, and on, and on
The word is
intensity
burning hot, bright, and fast
glowing without knowing
that this will never last
The word is
endurance
as long as it can last
trying to out-live
the shadows growing from its past
The words go on
like these and many others
not words so much our own
but words as one-anothers'
Then the word is
over
when there aren't any more
and its time to slip silently
through that final closing door
If there were other words
words to last, and not on loan
it would be best to keep them quiet
and leave them safe at home
So hush now, it'll soon be
over
and at the end of this old song
we'll find again the silence
that sang with us all along
And the word will be
silence
unspoken, but felt so strong
by all those left within it
searching for words to carry on
Friday, November 27, 2015
Listen...
Listen
Careful not to hear it
Listen for what you want to hear
Ignoring words that bring you fear
Ears enslaved to the threat of tears
Obedient to the silent end that nears
Listen
Care enough to hear it?
Listen to what you think you hear
Beyond the silence where you hide in fear
Then dry your eyes as sounds draw near
And face whatever makes it here
Listen
Careful and you'll hear it
A resounding truth that echoes on
Past the dusk and through the dawn
Unto kings, & queens, & every pawn
The sound of going, going, gone-
Listen
I know that you can hear it
A voice inside your head will say
We've all been lost, and gone astray
Where was it that we lost our way?
Wandering towards what cannot stay
What words are left for me to say?
Listen
Until you really hear it
The sound that speaks from deep inside
That depth in which your soul resides
For you alone it must confide
The secrets of your inner tides
Listen...
Careful not to hear it
Listen for what you want to hear
Ignoring words that bring you fear
Ears enslaved to the threat of tears
Obedient to the silent end that nears
Listen
Care enough to hear it?
Listen to what you think you hear
Beyond the silence where you hide in fear
Then dry your eyes as sounds draw near
And face whatever makes it here
Listen
Careful and you'll hear it
A resounding truth that echoes on
Past the dusk and through the dawn
Unto kings, & queens, & every pawn
The sound of going, going, gone-
Listen
I know that you can hear it
A voice inside your head will say
We've all been lost, and gone astray
Where was it that we lost our way?
Wandering towards what cannot stay
What words are left for me to say?
Listen
Until you really hear it
The sound that speaks from deep inside
That depth in which your soul resides
For you alone it must confide
The secrets of your inner tides
Listen...
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
The Fall & Man...
If there is an ideal of man
it is not only unattainable
it is no longer permissible
No man may pull the trigger
when the devil is in his sights
for every devil has his rights
No man can stand alone
for everyone is in such need
that self-sufficiency is called greed
No man can lead the way
for that would be far too vain
and bring about only pure disdain
No man can be a man
for it is now evil to be masculine
and honorable to feign feminine
As evil men are protected
Good men are not resurrected
As men are made passive
and not allowed to act
Devils are made bold
and extend their pact
If this is the ideal of man
it is not only unsustainable
it is inexplicable
it is not only unattainable
it is no longer permissible
No man may pull the trigger
when the devil is in his sights
for every devil has his rights
No man can stand alone
for everyone is in such need
that self-sufficiency is called greed
No man can lead the way
for that would be far too vain
and bring about only pure disdain
No man can be a man
for it is now evil to be masculine
and honorable to feign feminine
As evil men are protected
Good men are not resurrected
As men are made passive
and not allowed to act
Devils are made bold
and extend their pact
If this is the ideal of man
it is not only unsustainable
it is inexplicable
Saturday, November 21, 2015
From Glory To The Vory...
Have the days arrived
where there is more honor
among the castes of thieves
than there is in the governance
who's words no one believes
How can it be
that men are more able
to trust the ranks of vory
than the hierarchy of rulers
that feign ancestral glory
Have the noble departed
or become known as thieves
Has man's downfall started
or is it conventions he grieves
Are the upright underground
or overshadowed by beasts
Do the monsters abound
or are these their deceits
Has all of man's glory
been ceased by the vory
What kind of ending
might there be to this story
Will men with masculinity
be caste into criminality
Are there eventual dooms
for the pursuits of banality
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Through Eyes Alone...
I sometimes wonder
what the world might do
if it forgot about times
the times impending
the times already ending
the times of distant lands
the times in others hands
I sometimes wonder
what the world might do
if I forgot about its times
the people in the news
the wars men win or lose
the sights beyond my gaze
the tales of other days
I sometimes wish
for a world made new
by some wondrous surprise
the people on their own
the things they'd do alone
the way they'd treat each other
their time with one another
I sometimes wish
for a world made new
to flash before my eyes
not as the result of some election
not through some violent insurrection
not as some divine confection
not in any media projection
I sometimes look
for a world right here
to see with eyes alone
the scene within my view
the things that I hold true
the people close right now
the world as I know how
I sometimes look
at the world right here
to see with eyes alone
not with hands to move
not with points to prove
not beyond the instant
not towards something distant
I sometimes see
the world right here
through eyes alone
not through the media screen
not to later reconvene
not as a story to record
not concerned with some accord
I sometimes see
the world right here
through eyes alone
what the world might do
if it forgot about times
the times impending
the times already ending
the times of distant lands
the times in others hands
I sometimes wonder
what the world might do
if I forgot about its times
the people in the news
the wars men win or lose
the sights beyond my gaze
the tales of other days
I sometimes wish
for a world made new
by some wondrous surprise
the people on their own
the things they'd do alone
the way they'd treat each other
their time with one another
I sometimes wish
for a world made new
to flash before my eyes
not as the result of some election
not through some violent insurrection
not as some divine confection
not in any media projection
I sometimes look
for a world right here
to see with eyes alone
the scene within my view
the things that I hold true
the people close right now
the world as I know how
I sometimes look
at the world right here
to see with eyes alone
not with hands to move
not with points to prove
not beyond the instant
not towards something distant
I sometimes see
the world right here
through eyes alone
not through the media screen
not to later reconvene
not as a story to record
not concerned with some accord
I sometimes see
the world right here
through eyes alone
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Surrogate Sufficiency (Industrial Society and Its Future)...
The delusions of a dreamland's decadence
resound a rapture relative to no relevance
As primitive man partakes in a primal parade
or modern man acquires all things man-made
Their smiles shine the same for a surrogate second
before the wreck of real-reality must be reckoned
The labor of life as a long death-defying feat
is diminished to margins of making ends meet
Survival becomes a secondary consideration
requiring residual rations of real contemplation
The lions have been tamed, the tigers all caged
relinquishing the world to renegades enraged
Living deliberately & supping of life's marrow
becomes a pantomime of pretentious pedagogy
For the known narratives are necessarily narrow
and there's not much room in the colloquial barrow
Those that would drive life into some captive corner
set no life free, but become an abandoned mourner
So this surrogate sentience must suffice
in this modus vivendi plagued with vice
The reality is reserved for the replicant
and serenity is secluded as supplicant
As prayers are all screened before being sent
men wonder if the answers to life came & went
From the simulated scene of the techno/industrial mean
to the autopsy on autonomy by an automated machine
The post-modern world is a postmortem-man's dream
where both life and death are the same in its scheme
The power process produces simple surrogate satisfactions
and fulfillment falls from favor to forgeries and rarefactions
Society savors the sensations of synthetic scopolamine
deceived by indiscriminate doses of derivative dopamine
Freedom fails, and permutations of permissions prevail
Nature is negated, and attempts to avenge are of no avail
Puppets and patsies supplant more personal personages
supplied with superficial supplements in steady surplusages
As the system supersedes every single solitary soul
the haves become have-nots till the whole's in a hole
Then the structures will rupture, leaving ruins and rubble
that torture the tepid, tendering truest terror and trouble
What may become of what remains of what became
will still surely aspire to resemble more of the same
resound a rapture relative to no relevance
As primitive man partakes in a primal parade
or modern man acquires all things man-made
Their smiles shine the same for a surrogate second
before the wreck of real-reality must be reckoned
The labor of life as a long death-defying feat
is diminished to margins of making ends meet
Survival becomes a secondary consideration
requiring residual rations of real contemplation
The lions have been tamed, the tigers all caged
relinquishing the world to renegades enraged
Living deliberately & supping of life's marrow
becomes a pantomime of pretentious pedagogy
For the known narratives are necessarily narrow
and there's not much room in the colloquial barrow
Those that would drive life into some captive corner
set no life free, but become an abandoned mourner
So this surrogate sentience must suffice
in this modus vivendi plagued with vice
The reality is reserved for the replicant
and serenity is secluded as supplicant
As prayers are all screened before being sent
men wonder if the answers to life came & went
From the simulated scene of the techno/industrial mean
to the autopsy on autonomy by an automated machine
The post-modern world is a postmortem-man's dream
where both life and death are the same in its scheme
The power process produces simple surrogate satisfactions
and fulfillment falls from favor to forgeries and rarefactions
Society savors the sensations of synthetic scopolamine
deceived by indiscriminate doses of derivative dopamine
Freedom fails, and permutations of permissions prevail
Nature is negated, and attempts to avenge are of no avail
Puppets and patsies supplant more personal personages
supplied with superficial supplements in steady surplusages
As the system supersedes every single solitary soul
the haves become have-nots till the whole's in a hole
Then the structures will rupture, leaving ruins and rubble
that torture the tepid, tendering truest terror and trouble
What may become of what remains of what became
will still surely aspire to resemble more of the same
Friday, November 6, 2015
They'll Make a Weapon of this Wound...
The bullets leave their holes
penetrating the depths of souls
The blade's edge spills the blood
that will seep into the mud
The weapon leaves the wound
as the ad-men say "Stay Tuned"
Then flesh and blood is weighed
as arguments are made
comprised of the standard lines
all used on picket signs
They'll make a weapon of this wound
as propagandists always do
So the masses will all stay tuned
they'll pretend there's something new
to ask of the weapon or the wound
The answers- no one knows
(as history always shows)
So the future's put on hold
while the same old story's told
Monsters with teeth and claws
showed no respect for laws
They took blood without permission
and held an unauthorized demolition
Could this have been prevented
by laws yet to be invented
Has anyone asked of evil
how it burns into upheaval
Is there any actual source
for the lack of all remorse
What actions will it take
to prevent the striking snake
If there's an answer to be found
it's unlikely to come around
when everyone seeks to impugn
and make weapon of each wound
penetrating the depths of souls
The blade's edge spills the blood
that will seep into the mud
The weapon leaves the wound
as the ad-men say "Stay Tuned"
Then flesh and blood is weighed
as arguments are made
comprised of the standard lines
all used on picket signs
They'll make a weapon of this wound
as propagandists always do
So the masses will all stay tuned
they'll pretend there's something new
to ask of the weapon or the wound
The answers- no one knows
(as history always shows)
So the future's put on hold
while the same old story's told
Monsters with teeth and claws
showed no respect for laws
They took blood without permission
and held an unauthorized demolition
Could this have been prevented
by laws yet to be invented
Has anyone asked of evil
how it burns into upheaval
Is there any actual source
for the lack of all remorse
What actions will it take
to prevent the striking snake
If there's an answer to be found
it's unlikely to come around
when everyone seeks to impugn
and make weapon of each wound
Monday, November 2, 2015
This Side of the Door...
Am I here for some evasion
or drawn by some occasion
Is this where I'm at home
or am I bound to roam
I try to see both sides
each half a heart resides
On this side of the door
I wonder what's in store
In the after as before
I imagine something more
but from here all I can see
are walls surrounding me
I know that I can't stay
as all paths lead away
but I'll stay here while I can
and delay life's pending plan
Adventures begin and end
with something to contend
On this side of the door
I can wait a while more
All those thoughts out there
can stay outside and stare
till I run-out of this supply
and pursue the will to die
In the calm of this evasion
I enjoy the night's occasion
All that's after and before
remains outside this door
but in this cloistered room
there's plenty to exhume
On this side of the door
I've room for my own mind
While on some distant shore
what else is there to find
If there's anything to explore
to thoughts it'll be resigned
As more time passes by
I lose the will to try
and I feel as if I'm trapped
by all the plans I've scrapped
In these walls I've formed a tomb
full of things I did presume
On this side of the door
I feel the need for more
The need to venture out
into the face of doubt
from this oblivion within
into one I've never been
As my mind and I abscond
to unknown realms beyond
at times my thoughts return
to an old perplexed concern
Is there anything I've found
that won't be dirt in ground
On this side of the door
I'm at a loss just as before
and left dreaming of a space
where I'll be in my place
So goodbye to past hello
and hello to... I don't know
or drawn by some occasion
Is this where I'm at home
or am I bound to roam
I try to see both sides
each half a heart resides
On this side of the door
I wonder what's in store
In the after as before
I imagine something more
but from here all I can see
are walls surrounding me
I know that I can't stay
as all paths lead away
but I'll stay here while I can
and delay life's pending plan
Adventures begin and end
with something to contend
On this side of the door
I can wait a while more
All those thoughts out there
can stay outside and stare
till I run-out of this supply
and pursue the will to die
In the calm of this evasion
I enjoy the night's occasion
All that's after and before
remains outside this door
but in this cloistered room
there's plenty to exhume
On this side of the door
I've room for my own mind
While on some distant shore
what else is there to find
If there's anything to explore
to thoughts it'll be resigned
As more time passes by
I lose the will to try
and I feel as if I'm trapped
by all the plans I've scrapped
In these walls I've formed a tomb
full of things I did presume
On this side of the door
I feel the need for more
The need to venture out
into the face of doubt
from this oblivion within
into one I've never been
As my mind and I abscond
to unknown realms beyond
at times my thoughts return
to an old perplexed concern
Is there anything I've found
that won't be dirt in ground
On this side of the door
I'm at a loss just as before
and left dreaming of a space
where I'll be in my place
So goodbye to past hello
and hello to... I don't know
Saturday, October 31, 2015
Jejune/Prolix...
On a day that feels like
one drawn-out pause
between sighing breaths
All clarity becomes hazy
and ambition's defeated
as we simply live out our deaths
Shall we wait for a savior
or cut out our losses
plunging out into the depths
We ask, but don't answer
and our questions are lost
with the hours that we throw away
As stagnation constricts us
and our dreams are all strangled
the night becomes dead as the day
Our zombie-like corpses
become numb to the world
as we just hunger for brains
When we sense someone living
we attack them on instinct
to siphon blood from their veins
In the life we abandoned
there'd be toil and hardship
with sweat, bloodshed, and tears
But perhaps there'd be laughter
or something less sinister
than existence constricted by fears
If stagnation is foolish
and dreaming is futile
there still must be some way to live
An Aristotelian mean
or some life unseen
where life doesn't merely survive
In dreams of this now
we'll imagine somehow
our delusions allow us to thrive
It's jejune or it's prolix
when only the dangers
make conquest or cowering the same
As battle-scars and boo-boos
bleed the same red-to-brown
and mutilation can make anyone lame
In defeat or deferral
comes the same end as triumph
as death will bring all of these shame
So to hell with the earth
and to hell with mere dreams
to hell with everything prolix and jejune
If we're all doomed to live
and all doomed to die
to hell with everything that's not opportune
Why stare at the sun
to be blinded with light
or in darkness just howl at the moon
If there's something of use
in a world full of refuse
it's for you to define on your own
Should you find it somehow
don't forget about how
in the end you'll be under a stone
If it's still worth a try
though you know it will die
leave these prolix/jejune things alone
one drawn-out pause
between sighing breaths
All clarity becomes hazy
and ambition's defeated
as we simply live out our deaths
Shall we wait for a savior
or cut out our losses
plunging out into the depths
We ask, but don't answer
and our questions are lost
with the hours that we throw away
As stagnation constricts us
and our dreams are all strangled
the night becomes dead as the day
Our zombie-like corpses
become numb to the world
as we just hunger for brains
When we sense someone living
we attack them on instinct
to siphon blood from their veins
In the life we abandoned
there'd be toil and hardship
with sweat, bloodshed, and tears
But perhaps there'd be laughter
or something less sinister
than existence constricted by fears
If stagnation is foolish
and dreaming is futile
there still must be some way to live
An Aristotelian mean
or some life unseen
where life doesn't merely survive
In dreams of this now
we'll imagine somehow
our delusions allow us to thrive
It's jejune or it's prolix
when only the dangers
make conquest or cowering the same
As battle-scars and boo-boos
bleed the same red-to-brown
and mutilation can make anyone lame
In defeat or deferral
comes the same end as triumph
as death will bring all of these shame
So to hell with the earth
and to hell with mere dreams
to hell with everything prolix and jejune
If we're all doomed to live
and all doomed to die
to hell with everything that's not opportune
Why stare at the sun
to be blinded with light
or in darkness just howl at the moon
If there's something of use
in a world full of refuse
it's for you to define on your own
Should you find it somehow
don't forget about how
in the end you'll be under a stone
If it's still worth a try
though you know it will die
leave these prolix/jejune things alone
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
In Times of Heroes...
When heroes are treated
like mere men and women
it reveals a society's indifference
When heroes are resented
by many men and women
it reveals a society's incompetence
When fools are seen as heroes
by many men and women
it reveals a society's ignorance
When no heroes are to be found
among the many men and women
it reveals a society's impotence
When heroes are seen as more
than mortal men and women
it reveals a society's weakness
like mere men and women
it reveals a society's indifference
When heroes are resented
by many men and women
it reveals a society's incompetence
When fools are seen as heroes
by many men and women
it reveals a society's ignorance
When no heroes are to be found
among the many men and women
it reveals a society's impotence
When heroes are seen as more
than mortal men and women
it reveals a society's weakness
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
Schadenfreude/Epicaricacy...
The horror is not in the red eyes glowing
or the clatter of hooves chasing after you
Even as your flesh is torn away from the bone
it isn't the floods of lost blood and found pain
that fills your mind with overwhelming trepidation
nor the reactions of demons as devils mutilate you
It's not the sight of your blood
bringing sinister smiles
as the sound of your screams
muse horn-flanked ears
When your trembling hands
are sliced by sharpened sickles
and the smell of your fear
wafts into sneering noses
it's not how your bitter tears
cause fanged mouths to salivate
that brings you pure terror
Nothing is as flagitously grievous
as the schadenfreude of men
and the endemic prevalence
of this epicaricacy they posses
But even this isn't the true extent of it
When you see your own eyes glowing
in some reflection as you thrash defensively
you witness something far more sinister
without seeing this terror for what it is
The true horror of this world
isn't that such epicaricacy
is more than universal,
more than powerful,
more than justifiable
It's that in every human heart
that can be honestly read
this schadenfreude is so elating
Survival reaffirms the desire to live
or condemns life to the death it creates
In treacherous beings the schadenfreude kills
not by way of the demise of victims it beholds
but by the capacity for greater joys
that it strangles dead behind eyes of epicaricacy
In the noblest of men
there is no lack of schadenfreude
but rather a greater capacity for things
that foster more virtuous exaltations of life
The venerable man's epicaricacy must not dwell
merely in the destruction of that which is rightly evil
but must become calibrated by delight in the glory it preserves
It is not wicked to delight in the victories over opposing forces
nor is it righteous to condemn the hearts of embattled soldiers
For in some manner all living things kill to preserve life
Even vegetarian practices prey on some vitality
By virtue of living souls epicaricacy is wielded
not as an appetite for mutilated carcasses
but as a tempered shield of reverence
that protects a nobleman's heart
from the swords of beasts
as desperate men
Life cannot me mourned by the dead
and death must not be glorified by the living
But life and death are never so removed
that they are not somehow entangled
For even those dead and buried
have previously known living
and all the fortunately alive
will one day be so dead
As life is ever fleeting
epicaricacy remains
however dead
or the clatter of hooves chasing after you
Even as your flesh is torn away from the bone
it isn't the floods of lost blood and found pain
that fills your mind with overwhelming trepidation
nor the reactions of demons as devils mutilate you
It's not the sight of your blood
bringing sinister smiles
as the sound of your screams
muse horn-flanked ears
When your trembling hands
are sliced by sharpened sickles
and the smell of your fear
wafts into sneering noses
it's not how your bitter tears
cause fanged mouths to salivate
that brings you pure terror
Nothing is as flagitously grievous
as the schadenfreude of men
and the endemic prevalence
of this epicaricacy they posses
But even this isn't the true extent of it
When you see your own eyes glowing
in some reflection as you thrash defensively
you witness something far more sinister
without seeing this terror for what it is
The true horror of this world
isn't that such epicaricacy
is more than universal,
more than powerful,
more than justifiable
It's that in every human heart
that can be honestly read
this schadenfreude is so elating
Survival reaffirms the desire to live
or condemns life to the death it creates
In treacherous beings the schadenfreude kills
not by way of the demise of victims it beholds
but by the capacity for greater joys
that it strangles dead behind eyes of epicaricacy
In the noblest of men
there is no lack of schadenfreude
but rather a greater capacity for things
that foster more virtuous exaltations of life
The venerable man's epicaricacy must not dwell
merely in the destruction of that which is rightly evil
but must become calibrated by delight in the glory it preserves
It is not wicked to delight in the victories over opposing forces
nor is it righteous to condemn the hearts of embattled soldiers
For in some manner all living things kill to preserve life
Even vegetarian practices prey on some vitality
By virtue of living souls epicaricacy is wielded
not as an appetite for mutilated carcasses
but as a tempered shield of reverence
that protects a nobleman's heart
from the swords of beasts
as desperate men
Life cannot me mourned by the dead
and death must not be glorified by the living
But life and death are never so removed
that they are not somehow entangled
For even those dead and buried
have previously known living
and all the fortunately alive
will one day be so dead
As life is ever fleeting
epicaricacy remains
however dead
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
All the Men of Exile...
All the men of exile
Considered quite the same
Condemned as being vile
Abandoned by a game
Considered in their ranks diverse
The members of each tribe converse
Debating as to whom they'll curse
and order them to then disperse
Of all the various kinds of men
The most diverse have always been
The ones opposed by all the rest
And never welcomed as a guest
All the men of exile
Treated quite the same
Banished from a returning smile
Demonized by name
The only truly common thread
Among the outcasts left for dead
Is deviation from the heard
In any variance, just one word
Though every exile is unique
It's rarely found in any critique
Instead the narratives just proclaim
That every variance is all the same
Without a trace of any semblance
The exiled truths defy resemblance
And with no words to speak or hear
The exile is derived from here
All the men of exile
In a world so far away
Condemned for varied style
And doomed to never stay
Of all the men cast out
Most all present a danger
The voice that causes doubt
Will breathe a tempest stranger
All the men of exile
Lost before they've gone
None will walk their mile
But in circles carry-on
Considered quite the same
Condemned as being vile
Abandoned by a game
Considered in their ranks diverse
The members of each tribe converse
Debating as to whom they'll curse
and order them to then disperse
Of all the various kinds of men
The most diverse have always been
The ones opposed by all the rest
And never welcomed as a guest
All the men of exile
Treated quite the same
Banished from a returning smile
Demonized by name
The only truly common thread
Among the outcasts left for dead
Is deviation from the heard
In any variance, just one word
Though every exile is unique
It's rarely found in any critique
Instead the narratives just proclaim
That every variance is all the same
Without a trace of any semblance
The exiled truths defy resemblance
And with no words to speak or hear
The exile is derived from here
All the men of exile
In a world so far away
Condemned for varied style
And doomed to never stay
Of all the men cast out
Most all present a danger
The voice that causes doubt
Will breathe a tempest stranger
All the men of exile
Lost before they've gone
None will walk their mile
But in circles carry-on
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Notes From An Underground Man...
I am a sick and I am a spiteful
My foolishness I find delightful
I feel pain with hate and laughter
In darkness as a shadow-caster
I'm no insect nor a hero
A vile/noble chosen zero
I'll not lie nor tell a truth
I learned no difference in my youth
I've no self-respect nor shame
I will accept most any blame
Then deny it all as one big game
For I am every contradiction
Full of empty non-conviction
By age forty I'll be dead
or an after-taste of words I'd said
Fools or scoundrels become old
Their time paid by the soul they sold
Or alive as only what they're told
I am sick and I am spiteful
I've found this all so damned delightful
As I laugh and cry in pain
I'm proud to say it's all in vain
But worth my every last disdain
My foolishness I find delightful
I feel pain with hate and laughter
In darkness as a shadow-caster
I'm no insect nor a hero
A vile/noble chosen zero
I'll not lie nor tell a truth
I learned no difference in my youth
I've no self-respect nor shame
I will accept most any blame
Then deny it all as one big game
For I am every contradiction
Full of empty non-conviction
By age forty I'll be dead
or an after-taste of words I'd said
Fools or scoundrels become old
Their time paid by the soul they sold
Or alive as only what they're told
I am sick and I am spiteful
I've found this all so damned delightful
As I laugh and cry in pain
I'm proud to say it's all in vain
But worth my every last disdain
Monday, October 12, 2015
Together Alone...
She can feel the bonds are slipping
despite the way shes gripping
and her heart feels like its ripping
with her tears now slowly dripping
She cries
Don't leave me alone
I can't face this world on my own
I'd rather my heart sink like a stone
than be adrift upon seas unknown
Despite all the pain inflicted
and how tightly she's restricted
to this noose she's now addicted
and it's just as fate predicted
She pleads
Don't leave me alone
banished to what I've never known
I'll say anything I must to atone
Just save me from this gallow's groan
Before he's out the door
knowing he can't do this anymore
and that she's no longer his amore
he thinks back to some before
fearing
He'll be all alone
in a world he could never condone
Perhaps the best he can do is postpone
the day when he'll die on his own
As he stops to think it through
he can't be sure what he should do
so he tries to see her view
in a way he'll misconstrue
thinking
All we've ever known
is the same white flag we've flown
In a world of one lonesome moan
We're better off confined than alone
So they're united by their tears
and protected from their fears
They go on this way for years
in the echoes of old cheers
they sing
We're together alone
in a way we can't be on our own
In the marrow of every bone
is the blood of our wounds unknown
though the scars are so visibly shown
despite the way shes gripping
and her heart feels like its ripping
with her tears now slowly dripping
She cries
Don't leave me alone
I can't face this world on my own
I'd rather my heart sink like a stone
than be adrift upon seas unknown
Despite all the pain inflicted
and how tightly she's restricted
to this noose she's now addicted
and it's just as fate predicted
She pleads
Don't leave me alone
banished to what I've never known
I'll say anything I must to atone
Just save me from this gallow's groan
Before he's out the door
knowing he can't do this anymore
and that she's no longer his amore
he thinks back to some before
fearing
He'll be all alone
in a world he could never condone
Perhaps the best he can do is postpone
the day when he'll die on his own
As he stops to think it through
he can't be sure what he should do
so he tries to see her view
in a way he'll misconstrue
thinking
All we've ever known
is the same white flag we've flown
In a world of one lonesome moan
We're better off confined than alone
So they're united by their tears
and protected from their fears
They go on this way for years
in the echoes of old cheers
they sing
We're together alone
in a way we can't be on our own
In the marrow of every bone
is the blood of our wounds unknown
though the scars are so visibly shown
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Ligature Life...
Bound to try
in this ligature life
to capture some "why"
and tie it to some strife
Binding some place to me
I restrain some ecstasy
Then captivate some love
and tie to gawds above
In this ligature life I live
there's little slack to give
for to all I am entangled
by its departure I'd be strangled
Tied to every hope
till running out of rope
Trying to hold the lines
that turn to thorny vines
as the ligature life constricts
around the circulation it restricts
In this ligature life I'm tied
to every noose applied
I'll hang from all I hang on to
and be drawn & quartered too
And if I just let go
or cut the knots I've tied?
What connections would I know?
What lines would I confide?
I wonder what would be
if the holds were all set free
and there was nothing holding "we"
leaving only you and me
But the ligature life holds tight
constricting on my might
and bound to my despair
this is what I share
in this ligature life
to capture some "why"
and tie it to some strife
Binding some place to me
I restrain some ecstasy
Then captivate some love
and tie to gawds above
In this ligature life I live
there's little slack to give
for to all I am entangled
by its departure I'd be strangled
Tied to every hope
till running out of rope
Trying to hold the lines
that turn to thorny vines
as the ligature life constricts
around the circulation it restricts
In this ligature life I'm tied
to every noose applied
I'll hang from all I hang on to
and be drawn & quartered too
And if I just let go
or cut the knots I've tied?
What connections would I know?
What lines would I confide?
I wonder what would be
if the holds were all set free
and there was nothing holding "we"
leaving only you and me
But the ligature life holds tight
constricting on my might
and bound to my despair
this is what I share
Tuesday, October 6, 2015
One Last Dance...
The iron curtain call of death
as little's left to fill a breath
The will won't last too long
but enough for one more song
No more chance
One last dance
One last elation
before damnation
The future walled away
The light confiscated from day
With darkness all that's left
to leave for those bereft
No more chance
One last dance
One more smiling face
before there is no trace
Drink the poisoned wine
It goes down just as fine
Forget about your starvation
and every contemplation
No more chance
One last dance
to die in some embrace
to die within your grace
as little's left to fill a breath
The will won't last too long
but enough for one more song
No more chance
One last dance
One last elation
before damnation
The future walled away
The light confiscated from day
With darkness all that's left
to leave for those bereft
No more chance
One last dance
One more smiling face
before there is no trace
Drink the poisoned wine
It goes down just as fine
Forget about your starvation
and every contemplation
No more chance
One last dance
to die in some embrace
to die within your grace
Sunday, October 4, 2015
From Underground...
Beneath the surface
Under the earth
Below the realm
where most will dwell
is a depth that
swallows the mind
and buries the soul
From underground
where the dead are abandoned
those wanting to be left alone
might find a living
On the surfaces
those underground
are all just dead
and have no place
in hearts or heads
Forgotten if accepting
or haunting if in relent
From underground
things must consent
to stay below
or first repent
for living at a depth
the surfaces resent
From underground
things seem so strange
as if the surfaces
must all derange
and insist below them
should feel estranged
From up above
the sounds come down
Such curses & laments abound
The sun shines as the many frown
Remarking nothing of renown
but slights against most every crown
From underground
the lights are blinding
and searching here
is its own true finding
Confined below
but free from binding
to all the dizzied gears
all grinding
that turn the records
perpetual rewinding
From underground
the night's eternal
and dreams are treated
more fraternal
instead of mourned
or deemed infernal
as everything here
is quite internal
The surfaces above
are lost in wander
while underground
is left to wonder
what realm the mind
weighs heaviest under
or if any realm
is at all asunder
Under the earth
Below the realm
where most will dwell
is a depth that
swallows the mind
and buries the soul
From underground
where the dead are abandoned
those wanting to be left alone
might find a living
On the surfaces
those underground
are all just dead
and have no place
in hearts or heads
Forgotten if accepting
or haunting if in relent
From underground
things must consent
to stay below
or first repent
for living at a depth
the surfaces resent
From underground
things seem so strange
as if the surfaces
must all derange
and insist below them
should feel estranged
From up above
the sounds come down
Such curses & laments abound
The sun shines as the many frown
Remarking nothing of renown
but slights against most every crown
From underground
the lights are blinding
and searching here
is its own true finding
Confined below
but free from binding
to all the dizzied gears
all grinding
that turn the records
perpetual rewinding
From underground
the night's eternal
and dreams are treated
more fraternal
instead of mourned
or deemed infernal
as everything here
is quite internal
The surfaces above
are lost in wander
while underground
is left to wonder
what realm the mind
weighs heaviest under
or if any realm
is at all asunder
Saturday, October 3, 2015
See Them Vanish...
One person stands alone
Another walks over
The two begin to talk
Then others join them
One by one they arrive
And with each one added
You watch each changing
and see them vanish
Apparitions hold the place
Where individuals disappear
As the words they mean
Become things meant to say
And the whole world pretends
not to be in some decay
The truth is so very alone
And the more alone you are
The more you know it
And the more you'll admit to it
But that isn't loneliness
Loneliness is what happens
When you try to speak of it
And yearn to hear it echoed
When you find solitude
You see things fade away
Your masks fall down
Your distorted vision clears
The world becomes sincere
And you can see it all
for what it is, if only to yourself
If only while you're here
Then someone will come along
Or you'll look for someone else
And as your eyes begin to shift
You'll see them vanish
as your clarity and self will fade
and your own apparition is displayed
while nothing is conveyed
There are so many things
I'd love to see vanish
But so many more
I'd love to see appear
So if I see you
or if you see me
may we be bold
and not just disappear
Another walks over
The two begin to talk
Then others join them
One by one they arrive
And with each one added
You watch each changing
and see them vanish
Apparitions hold the place
Where individuals disappear
As the words they mean
Become things meant to say
And the whole world pretends
not to be in some decay
The truth is so very alone
And the more alone you are
The more you know it
And the more you'll admit to it
But that isn't loneliness
Loneliness is what happens
When you try to speak of it
And yearn to hear it echoed
When you find solitude
You see things fade away
Your masks fall down
Your distorted vision clears
The world becomes sincere
And you can see it all
for what it is, if only to yourself
If only while you're here
Then someone will come along
Or you'll look for someone else
And as your eyes begin to shift
You'll see them vanish
as your clarity and self will fade
and your own apparition is displayed
while nothing is conveyed
There are so many things
I'd love to see vanish
But so many more
I'd love to see appear
So if I see you
or if you see me
may we be bold
and not just disappear
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Every Evil...
Every evil has an army
While every hero stands alone
The devils are infinitely smarmy
While decency takes another tone
Every evil has a predecessor
While each hero's tale is unique
The irreverence of each predator
Can swallow whole the meek
Devouring nearly every ancestor
That lacks a strong mystique
Every evil has a ruler
While a hero seeks no throne
Evil is decorated by the jeweler
A hero's prize is tempered bone
Every evil is unfulfilled
Needing more than there exists
They destroy and never build
With hands of strangled fists
Every evil is of desperation
Devoid of all content
Comprised of pure negation
Ending only in lament
The hero's life is rigorous
One long struggle to survive
Perpetually vigorous
and perpetually alive
Every evil dies in vain
With curses toward the skies
While some hero will remain
To face the next emprise
While every hero stands alone
The devils are infinitely smarmy
While decency takes another tone
Every evil has a predecessor
While each hero's tale is unique
The irreverence of each predator
Can swallow whole the meek
Devouring nearly every ancestor
That lacks a strong mystique
Every evil has a ruler
While a hero seeks no throne
Evil is decorated by the jeweler
A hero's prize is tempered bone
Every evil is unfulfilled
Needing more than there exists
They destroy and never build
With hands of strangled fists
Every evil is of desperation
Devoid of all content
Comprised of pure negation
Ending only in lament
The hero's life is rigorous
One long struggle to survive
Perpetually vigorous
and perpetually alive
Every evil dies in vain
With curses toward the skies
While some hero will remain
To face the next emprise
Saturday, September 26, 2015
The Title Last...
The waves come first
The title last
This flow into precession
Light shifts as shadows cast
Winds gust within a storm
Clouds fade from rain that pours
Conditions of this norm
These beats arranged in fours
The calming effect
of cataclysmic completions
The ever indirect-
continual _______ deletions
The shores that sooth
as waves recede
The accepted youth
from what elders concede
Sand and tides go back
to where they weren't before
It seems they have a knack
for washing-off the core
As waves return
their titles wish they'd last
but as the world will turn
the flow presents its past
and titles as their waves
resend and never last
The title last
This flow into precession
Light shifts as shadows cast
Winds gust within a storm
Clouds fade from rain that pours
Conditions of this norm
These beats arranged in fours
The calming effect
of cataclysmic completions
The ever indirect-
continual _______ deletions
The shores that sooth
as waves recede
The accepted youth
from what elders concede
Sand and tides go back
to where they weren't before
It seems they have a knack
for washing-off the core
As waves return
their titles wish they'd last
but as the world will turn
the flow presents its past
and titles as their waves
resend and never last
Friday, September 25, 2015
Something About Today...
What are you about today
Do you know
Does it show
What will you do today
Will you do it
or wait for it
What is it that's in your way
It's always something
that amounts to nothing
What makes you stay or stray
Is it greater than your intent
or are you just maligned to lament
What will it be today
or is there nothing now
or is there truly no how
The days themselves don't care
they'll come and go all the same
they've nothing but themselves to claim
The nights will go on unaware
of whatever you've achieved
and all who've disbelieved
If there is something about today
that means anything to you
what else would you do
If there is anything inside the day
what more can there be
who else needs to see
Is there something about today
or is it just passing time
with nothing sublime
I'm afraid this is all I can write for now
as there is plenty left to do
So I bid a good day to you
or something in it- ciao
Do you know
Does it show
What will you do today
Will you do it
or wait for it
What is it that's in your way
It's always something
that amounts to nothing
What makes you stay or stray
Is it greater than your intent
or are you just maligned to lament
What will it be today
or is there nothing now
or is there truly no how
The days themselves don't care
they'll come and go all the same
they've nothing but themselves to claim
The nights will go on unaware
of whatever you've achieved
and all who've disbelieved
If there is something about today
that means anything to you
what else would you do
If there is anything inside the day
what more can there be
who else needs to see
Is there something about today
or is it just passing time
with nothing sublime
I'm afraid this is all I can write for now
as there is plenty left to do
So I bid a good day to you
or something in it- ciao
Monday, September 21, 2015
Face Melting...
I decided to make jalapeno poppers. My hands went to cutting the peppers in half, pulling out the seedy cores, and rinsing them clean. Inside my mind were thoughts of other things. It was all just happening the way most things do throughout most days.
Then a fly began buzzing around my head. It kept pseudo-appearing out of nothing, as a spec of black streaking in front of me or as a pesky Doppler effect buzzing in my proximity. My mind only registered the annoyance and presence of this fly with the same lack of affect generated from all the other non-eventful happenings.
The fly became more invasive, and landed on my nose. I shook it off, but it just circled and came back to the same spot. Each successive time it landed I had to shake harder to get it to circle away. Eventually it just stayed on my nose as I tried futilely to shake it off.
Without much thought I tried to slap at the fly. It got away before my hand reached the skin of my nose, and I felt the dull impact on my surrounding skin. The fly hovered around in wandering proximity, and then perched itself across the room. I disregarded the seemingly watchful fly and nudged my glasses back into place. Then I stopped to go blow my nose, and wash my hands before returning to the peppers.
As I began to apply the filling to the peppers my face started to tingle with a subtle burning irritation. I gradually felt the burning sensation become more intense and wide-spread over my face. Then my eyes involuntarily began to water in response to the fiery feeling. These involuntary liquids only agitated the affected areas of my face.
I rushed to rinse my face with cold water, but this too only intensified the problem. With no other solutions known I just stood over the sink as my face burned. My faulty organic plumbing leaked away like a busted water-main.My face felt as if it was melting away in all the dripping liquids. As minutes past I suddenly broke into maniacal laughter from abstract thoughts that failed to distract me from the persistent sensation of my burning face.
This was how things went all over the world, I'd thought. You go about the hapless tasks of arbitrary days with no sense of anything but the meanderings of your own mind. Then something comes along to disturb you in the midst of your dispassionate involvements. When you try to oppose the source of such a disturbance, it just retreats far enough to watch tauntingly as negative results appear. As you move to deal with the intensifying after-effects they only spread out and become more disastrous. In the end all you can do is wait for it all to pass with time. And all the while the only real threat, the only real danger, the real source of all this burning agony and befuddlement isn't some damned fly, or a nose and eyes that impulsively water when skin burns from irritation. The real culprit from beginning to end is the lack of discipline and attentive purpose being applied to your own hands.
Even as my pain subsides and these words become known there is no saving face. It likely won't be long before the next episode of event-less living results in another blooper, and leaves my face melting. With the current burning sensation nearly gone, I see the fly and the peppers still resting as I'd left them. I try not to wonder if the fly has somehow managed to burn its own face in all of this. Instead I just notice that I've become incredibly hungry, and I try to focus on dinner. Hopefully it won't turn out to be too hot.
Then a fly began buzzing around my head. It kept pseudo-appearing out of nothing, as a spec of black streaking in front of me or as a pesky Doppler effect buzzing in my proximity. My mind only registered the annoyance and presence of this fly with the same lack of affect generated from all the other non-eventful happenings.
The fly became more invasive, and landed on my nose. I shook it off, but it just circled and came back to the same spot. Each successive time it landed I had to shake harder to get it to circle away. Eventually it just stayed on my nose as I tried futilely to shake it off.
Without much thought I tried to slap at the fly. It got away before my hand reached the skin of my nose, and I felt the dull impact on my surrounding skin. The fly hovered around in wandering proximity, and then perched itself across the room. I disregarded the seemingly watchful fly and nudged my glasses back into place. Then I stopped to go blow my nose, and wash my hands before returning to the peppers.
As I began to apply the filling to the peppers my face started to tingle with a subtle burning irritation. I gradually felt the burning sensation become more intense and wide-spread over my face. Then my eyes involuntarily began to water in response to the fiery feeling. These involuntary liquids only agitated the affected areas of my face.
I rushed to rinse my face with cold water, but this too only intensified the problem. With no other solutions known I just stood over the sink as my face burned. My faulty organic plumbing leaked away like a busted water-main.My face felt as if it was melting away in all the dripping liquids. As minutes past I suddenly broke into maniacal laughter from abstract thoughts that failed to distract me from the persistent sensation of my burning face.
This was how things went all over the world, I'd thought. You go about the hapless tasks of arbitrary days with no sense of anything but the meanderings of your own mind. Then something comes along to disturb you in the midst of your dispassionate involvements. When you try to oppose the source of such a disturbance, it just retreats far enough to watch tauntingly as negative results appear. As you move to deal with the intensifying after-effects they only spread out and become more disastrous. In the end all you can do is wait for it all to pass with time. And all the while the only real threat, the only real danger, the real source of all this burning agony and befuddlement isn't some damned fly, or a nose and eyes that impulsively water when skin burns from irritation. The real culprit from beginning to end is the lack of discipline and attentive purpose being applied to your own hands.
Even as my pain subsides and these words become known there is no saving face. It likely won't be long before the next episode of event-less living results in another blooper, and leaves my face melting. With the current burning sensation nearly gone, I see the fly and the peppers still resting as I'd left them. I try not to wonder if the fly has somehow managed to burn its own face in all of this. Instead I just notice that I've become incredibly hungry, and I try to focus on dinner. Hopefully it won't turn out to be too hot.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
I Wanted To Wake The World...
I wanted to wake the world
from its silly stupid slumber
So I spoke like thunder
and I raged like a human-storm
but the world kept sleeping
completely unmoved
I wanted to wake the world
from its contemptibly confounded coma
So I concocted a cure
and I administered an antidote
but the world was unresponsive
its condition unimproved
I wanted to wake the world
from its death and decay
So I summoned a savior
and it came right away
but no martyr was made
Just another spirit entombed
I wanted to wake the world
from its eternal damnation
So I gave it my soul
after much contemplation
but the world only festered
and my soul was removed
Now I just want to sleep in
forever or longer
I just wish it was in my own dreams
and not in this world's somber slumber
but I can neither sleep nor wake
and my life is unused
The world is ever sleeping
as death is ever creeping
Making nightmares of dreams
and a silence from screams
So I suppose it is best
to relax like the rest
or to wake on your own
and dream all alone
though I claim this confused
and only slightly amused
from its silly stupid slumber
So I spoke like thunder
and I raged like a human-storm
but the world kept sleeping
completely unmoved
I wanted to wake the world
from its contemptibly confounded coma
So I concocted a cure
and I administered an antidote
but the world was unresponsive
its condition unimproved
I wanted to wake the world
from its death and decay
So I summoned a savior
and it came right away
but no martyr was made
Just another spirit entombed
I wanted to wake the world
from its eternal damnation
So I gave it my soul
after much contemplation
but the world only festered
and my soul was removed
Now I just want to sleep in
forever or longer
I just wish it was in my own dreams
and not in this world's somber slumber
but I can neither sleep nor wake
and my life is unused
The world is ever sleeping
as death is ever creeping
Making nightmares of dreams
and a silence from screams
So I suppose it is best
to relax like the rest
or to wake on your own
and dream all alone
though I claim this confused
and only slightly amused
Monday, September 14, 2015
...but The Fire Still Burns...
He was stranded out in the deep and desperate cold of nowhere. All he had was a set of rags that used to be clothes and a letter he'd received before the crash. The letter was from the only woman he'd ever professed those three magic words. When he said them the train began to leave the station. In his mind he couldn't be sure if she had heard him, but he told himself it didn't matter.
The letter was still sealed inside the envelope. After the crash he'd promised himself not to open it until he'd been rescued. He thought of this as the fuel to keep his fire burning. In his mind this was all he needed to stay alive. Every time he found doubts of his survival creeping into his mind he would look at the letter. Then he would imagine being moments away from rescue. To be rescued, to survive was the only way for him to become worthy of opening the letter.
After the crash he could find no other survivor. All he could find in the frozen wasteland was a death-scape that offered nothing but the promise of a place for him to join in this grim tableau. His legs would not respond to his will to move, and he had to crawl out of the wreckage. As he crawled away he carried a torch made from the flaming remnants of the plane. Dragging along his elbows and forearms he gathered firewood in the crooks of his arms as he slugged along the snow-stained wasteland.
His body alternated between periods of bitter numbness and horridly frigid pain. The pain came when he stopped to warm himself over a fire. As he felt the agony of warmth he would calm his mind by imagining the letter magically radiating healing energy over him. When he resumed struggling to move forward the numbness would wash back over him. He didn't know which was worse. Three days went by as he struggled to stay warm and slither along this way.
Without food he became too weak to continue moving. He made one last fire, and curled his heap of tortured flesh next to it. As he writhed in pain his hands shook while reaching for the letter inside his rags. It was still dry by some miracle of his efforts. This gave his mind a sense of tragic pride as he stared at the letter with his strained consciousness fading.
As he felt his own death being cast over him like the shadow of a dying sun, a gust of wind rushed past him, stealing the letter from his hands. He watched helplessly as it landed in his still blazing fire; dying to reach-out and save it from the flames. It burned away in only an instant, and he could only stare at the place within the fire where he had last seen it. His lips moved in blue shivers with words escaping in the last breath of fog he could produce. "I can't feel the warmth, but the fire still burns..."
A rescue team spotted the smoke from his fire only moments later. They rushed to try and save him, but it was no use. One of the members of the rescue team noticed his face was marked with a single frozen tear. As she pointed it out to the others they all fell silent, and a long moment passed before any of them would even dare to move. Then one of the others asked how it was possible for this frozen tear to mark its place. With perplexity someone tried to explain how the cold winds had done this. Even after the rational explanation had been given, the failed rescuer murmured softly. "...but the fire still burns..."
The letter was still sealed inside the envelope. After the crash he'd promised himself not to open it until he'd been rescued. He thought of this as the fuel to keep his fire burning. In his mind this was all he needed to stay alive. Every time he found doubts of his survival creeping into his mind he would look at the letter. Then he would imagine being moments away from rescue. To be rescued, to survive was the only way for him to become worthy of opening the letter.
After the crash he could find no other survivor. All he could find in the frozen wasteland was a death-scape that offered nothing but the promise of a place for him to join in this grim tableau. His legs would not respond to his will to move, and he had to crawl out of the wreckage. As he crawled away he carried a torch made from the flaming remnants of the plane. Dragging along his elbows and forearms he gathered firewood in the crooks of his arms as he slugged along the snow-stained wasteland.
His body alternated between periods of bitter numbness and horridly frigid pain. The pain came when he stopped to warm himself over a fire. As he felt the agony of warmth he would calm his mind by imagining the letter magically radiating healing energy over him. When he resumed struggling to move forward the numbness would wash back over him. He didn't know which was worse. Three days went by as he struggled to stay warm and slither along this way.
Without food he became too weak to continue moving. He made one last fire, and curled his heap of tortured flesh next to it. As he writhed in pain his hands shook while reaching for the letter inside his rags. It was still dry by some miracle of his efforts. This gave his mind a sense of tragic pride as he stared at the letter with his strained consciousness fading.
As he felt his own death being cast over him like the shadow of a dying sun, a gust of wind rushed past him, stealing the letter from his hands. He watched helplessly as it landed in his still blazing fire; dying to reach-out and save it from the flames. It burned away in only an instant, and he could only stare at the place within the fire where he had last seen it. His lips moved in blue shivers with words escaping in the last breath of fog he could produce. "I can't feel the warmth, but the fire still burns..."
A rescue team spotted the smoke from his fire only moments later. They rushed to try and save him, but it was no use. One of the members of the rescue team noticed his face was marked with a single frozen tear. As she pointed it out to the others they all fell silent, and a long moment passed before any of them would even dare to move. Then one of the others asked how it was possible for this frozen tear to mark its place. With perplexity someone tried to explain how the cold winds had done this. Even after the rational explanation had been given, the failed rescuer murmured softly. "...but the fire still burns..."
Friday, September 11, 2015
Musical Musings...
Music is
life and death
disguised as sound
It is the harmonic functioning
of purest truths
It is the sonorous spirit
of human essence exposed
It is the universe
resonating in omnipotent oscillations
Music is everything
sound can speak to
It is infinity
inside the air of ears
It is the beating heart
of time eternal
It is the existential exclamation
It is the echos of the empyrean
Music is what gives light it's luster
Music is what gives shade it's color
Music gives depth to dimension
Music gives shape to form
Music gives place to purpose
Music gives ears to listening
Music gives setting plot
Music is everything
Hear the music
of winds singing
the song of all the earth
moved by the heavens stirred
Hear the music
of the flowing rivers
that carry the tune of mountains
through the valleys and delta's below
Hear the music
of the whole earth spinning
like one great spherical record
that you can never hear enough
Hear the music
of mere human musings
that can somehow surmount
the silence that surrounds it all
Hear the music
of everything and everywhere
It is everything and everywhere
Listen closely to the music
and life will sing for you there
Listen closely...
Do you hear it?
It can hear you
life and death
disguised as sound
It is the harmonic functioning
of purest truths
It is the sonorous spirit
of human essence exposed
It is the universe
resonating in omnipotent oscillations
Music is everything
sound can speak to
It is infinity
inside the air of ears
It is the beating heart
of time eternal
It is the existential exclamation
It is the echos of the empyrean
Music is what gives light it's luster
Music is what gives shade it's color
Music gives depth to dimension
Music gives shape to form
Music gives place to purpose
Music gives ears to listening
Music gives setting plot
Music is everything
Hear the music
of winds singing
the song of all the earth
moved by the heavens stirred
Hear the music
of the flowing rivers
that carry the tune of mountains
through the valleys and delta's below
Hear the music
of the whole earth spinning
like one great spherical record
that you can never hear enough
Hear the music
of mere human musings
that can somehow surmount
the silence that surrounds it all
Hear the music
of everything and everywhere
It is everything and everywhere
Listen closely to the music
and life will sing for you there
Listen closely...
Do you hear it?
It can hear you
The Future...
The future stares at me
with red eyes glowing
with fanged teeth showing
with venom flowing
The future screams at me
its voice so shrill
its words to kill
with a bloody thrill
The future haunts me
from sins today
from past dismay
from refusal to pay
The future looms over me
in a haze of lies
in lethargic sighs
in the good that dies
The future hates me
with all the rest
so dispossessed
and faux-oppressed
The future awaits me
with the reaper ready
its blade held steady
as if I've died already
The future kills me
a little more each day
by promising dismay
to lead my steps astray
The future owns me
when I let it take my place
turning away from its face
and breaking from my pace
The future forgets me
before I've even gone
outgoing or withdrawn
as every king and pawn
with red eyes glowing
with fanged teeth showing
with venom flowing
The future screams at me
its voice so shrill
its words to kill
with a bloody thrill
The future haunts me
from sins today
from past dismay
from refusal to pay
The future looms over me
in a haze of lies
in lethargic sighs
in the good that dies
The future hates me
with all the rest
so dispossessed
and faux-oppressed
The future awaits me
with the reaper ready
its blade held steady
as if I've died already
The future kills me
a little more each day
by promising dismay
to lead my steps astray
The future owns me
when I let it take my place
turning away from its face
and breaking from my pace
The future forgets me
before I've even gone
outgoing or withdrawn
as every king and pawn
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Well Grounded...
The roof above me
is someone's floor
The ground beneath me
always wants more
The skies beyond this
are like a locked door
These walls that confine us
hold little in store
I'm well grounded
and insulated too
however dumbfounded
by anything new
I won't be confounded
but remain tried and true
Foundations are sturdy
having been built to last
and the grass is lush verde
fertilized by those past
their stories so wordy
for such subtle contrast
I'm well grounded
they would say
however well founded
Stagnant by day
at night self-impounded
they'd stay out of the way
of the life there surrounded
Skies are so shifty
and air is quite thin
heights may be nifty
but cost you your skin
so it's best to be thrifty
and avoid much chagrin
I'm well grounded
and safe from the sky
I'm also well rounded
and not built to fly
so I'll not be astounded
till the day I should die
and then so unfounded
I'll dare to ask why
Why would I die
with my feet on the ground
Why would I lie
my dead body aground
Why would I try
to believe death's profound
I'll be well grounded
from the death I'll have lived
I'll be well grounded
through a life left un-lived
I'll be well grounded
and so very shortlived
is someone's floor
The ground beneath me
always wants more
The skies beyond this
are like a locked door
These walls that confine us
hold little in store
I'm well grounded
and insulated too
however dumbfounded
by anything new
I won't be confounded
but remain tried and true
Foundations are sturdy
having been built to last
and the grass is lush verde
fertilized by those past
their stories so wordy
for such subtle contrast
I'm well grounded
they would say
however well founded
Stagnant by day
at night self-impounded
they'd stay out of the way
of the life there surrounded
Skies are so shifty
and air is quite thin
heights may be nifty
but cost you your skin
so it's best to be thrifty
and avoid much chagrin
I'm well grounded
and safe from the sky
I'm also well rounded
and not built to fly
so I'll not be astounded
till the day I should die
and then so unfounded
I'll dare to ask why
Why would I die
with my feet on the ground
Why would I lie
my dead body aground
Why would I try
to believe death's profound
I'll be well grounded
from the death I'll have lived
I'll be well grounded
through a life left un-lived
I'll be well grounded
and so very shortlived
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Walls Without Windows...
Walls without windows
built to keep minds in
built to keep lights out
Walls without windows
so occupants won't begin
so rooms are filled with doubt
Walls without windows
eyes without vision
ears that won't listen
Walls without windows
intent with indecision
intent without a mission
Walls without windows
for solipsistic slaves
for all the hollow craves
Walls without windows
for shallowest of graves
for sages made of knaves
Walls without windows
to keep the truth outside
to force all life to hide
Walls without windows
for nothing to confide
for nothing to reside
Walls without windows
or cause to venture out
Walls without windows
or conscription so devout
built to keep minds in
built to keep lights out
Walls without windows
so occupants won't begin
so rooms are filled with doubt
Walls without windows
eyes without vision
ears that won't listen
Walls without windows
intent with indecision
intent without a mission
Walls without windows
for solipsistic slaves
for all the hollow craves
Walls without windows
for shallowest of graves
for sages made of knaves
Walls without windows
to keep the truth outside
to force all life to hide
Walls without windows
for nothing to confide
for nothing to reside
Walls without windows
or cause to venture out
Walls without windows
or conscription so devout
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Blue Born...
With umbilical noose
around the neck
the new born blue
joins the wreck
The first breath
is like a marathon
to begin a death
worthy of a pantheon
The cord removed
and purple turns red
prognosis improved
or so it is said
The blue born cries
in desperate exhalation
before all the lies
of human veneration
When nursed to sleep
the blue born quiets
in a slumber as deep
as the hatred of riots
As the blue born wakes
the torment returns
in a sound that breaks
on a breath that burns
The blue born protests
the most minor irritation
with unyielding distress
and no sign of cessation
The blue born unknowing
of all the world surrounding
and the art of growing
in a world so confounding
When its color calms
then quietly it stirs
despite its qualms
with all that still occurs
The blue born's silence
will make it more appealing
and following this guidance
the blues become concealing
Constricted from birth
the blue born's life is tense
devoid of a crimson mirth
condemned to stay condensed
The blue born's grief
is subtle, and more drab
than the typical motif
of those that tend to gab
Reticent and blue
the blue born gets along
inviting nothing new
and risking nothing wrong
The blue born will die
and turn from red to blue
as mourners merely sigh
with better things to do
and the grass will grow green
and the sun will burn red
and all through the mean
all will dream of some instead...
around the neck
the new born blue
joins the wreck
The first breath
is like a marathon
to begin a death
worthy of a pantheon
The cord removed
and purple turns red
prognosis improved
or so it is said
The blue born cries
in desperate exhalation
before all the lies
of human veneration
When nursed to sleep
the blue born quiets
in a slumber as deep
as the hatred of riots
As the blue born wakes
the torment returns
in a sound that breaks
on a breath that burns
The blue born protests
the most minor irritation
with unyielding distress
and no sign of cessation
The blue born unknowing
of all the world surrounding
and the art of growing
in a world so confounding
When its color calms
then quietly it stirs
despite its qualms
with all that still occurs
The blue born's silence
will make it more appealing
and following this guidance
the blues become concealing
Constricted from birth
the blue born's life is tense
devoid of a crimson mirth
condemned to stay condensed
The blue born's grief
is subtle, and more drab
than the typical motif
of those that tend to gab
Reticent and blue
the blue born gets along
inviting nothing new
and risking nothing wrong
The blue born will die
and turn from red to blue
as mourners merely sigh
with better things to do
and the grass will grow green
and the sun will burn red
and all through the mean
all will dream of some instead...
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Drowning in an Empty Pool...
In the waters
Men can swim
In the hollows
It's all bottom
All drowning
It's rarely sink or swim
It's usually fester or fly
Drowning in an empty pool
Festering like a fool
Waiting for this hole to fill
Wanting for some will
In the ocean
Tides will flow
In the vacancies
Stagnation rules
Stranded or adrift
It's rarely fight or flight
It's usually wait and see
Drowning in an empty well
Below the depth of falling
Pray or try to coax a spell
Forever in here stalling
Swimming in the deeper end
Not just treading water
The option all would recommend
To every son or daughter
Drowning in an empty pool
Deprived of so much air
Fester as a falling fool
Never here nor there
In the river rapids run
In the streams a gentle flow
When all the water's work is done
Where else will you go
Men can swim
In the hollows
It's all bottom
All drowning
It's rarely sink or swim
It's usually fester or fly
Drowning in an empty pool
Festering like a fool
Waiting for this hole to fill
Wanting for some will
In the ocean
Tides will flow
In the vacancies
Stagnation rules
Stranded or adrift
It's rarely fight or flight
It's usually wait and see
Drowning in an empty well
Below the depth of falling
Pray or try to coax a spell
Forever in here stalling
Swimming in the deeper end
Not just treading water
The option all would recommend
To every son or daughter
Drowning in an empty pool
Deprived of so much air
Fester as a falling fool
Never here nor there
In the river rapids run
In the streams a gentle flow
When all the water's work is done
Where else will you go
Saturday, August 29, 2015
The Worst Times...
The worst times aren't really the worst times
The times when you're in a frenzy
The times you're in self-doubt
The times of struggle
The times of danger
The times of horror
There's always some form of
Hope
Resilience
Purpose
in times like those
The worst times are the nothing times
The times of utter banality
The times you'll never think of
The times you'll never get back
The times you did nothing
There's nothing learned
Nothing gained
Nothing lost
but time itself
and perhaps
your soul
(obliviously)
The worst times are nothing comparatively
A pound of flesh paid for a life-lesson
A scar to remind you, your life endures
A cautionary tale to impart wisdom
The worst times bring something with them
Even in death they amount to at least an end
The nothing times bring invisible death
They kill your spirit
They defile potential
They murder hope
and leave no evidence
Abandoning you with blame
estranged and entwined
The worst times aren't a result
of bad luck, tragic fate, or anything
the world might vomit upon you
The worst times are the fault
of all you would have done
all you should have done
all you could have done
being neglected in exchange
for all the nothing you do instead
The worst times are nothing
The worst times are nothing
The times when you're in a frenzy
The times you're in self-doubt
The times of struggle
The times of danger
The times of horror
There's always some form of
Hope
Resilience
Purpose
in times like those
The worst times are the nothing times
The times of utter banality
The times you'll never think of
The times you'll never get back
The times you did nothing
There's nothing learned
Nothing gained
Nothing lost
but time itself
and perhaps
your soul
(obliviously)
The worst times are nothing comparatively
A pound of flesh paid for a life-lesson
A scar to remind you, your life endures
A cautionary tale to impart wisdom
The worst times bring something with them
Even in death they amount to at least an end
The nothing times bring invisible death
They kill your spirit
They defile potential
They murder hope
and leave no evidence
Abandoning you with blame
estranged and entwined
The worst times aren't a result
of bad luck, tragic fate, or anything
the world might vomit upon you
The worst times are the fault
of all you would have done
all you should have done
all you could have done
being neglected in exchange
for all the nothing you do instead
The worst times are nothing
The worst times are nothing
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Through the Fires of Hell...
Would you walk through the fires of hell
If you ever live, eventually you will
You'll either choose to walk through hell
in pursuit of your aspiring will
or fall face down when you take a bad spill
If you fall into the fires of hell
and manage to rise back to your feet
where will you go within this hell
what end will you journey to meet
Would you walk through the fires of hell
or run screaming without direction
Can you see a way beyond the fires of hell
or do you lack some means of detection
If you can see beyond the fires
but can see no way around the coals
will you be tempered by your pure desires
or terrified by evaporated souls
Would you walk through the fires of hell
If so, what for
When you walk through the fires of hell
it should be for something... more
Everyone will feel the heat against their skin
and some more so than others
When all that is, is all that's been
are the burn marks yours, or another's
Would you walk through the fires of hell
If you ever live, you know you will
When you do, may you do it well
with wonder, and grace, and ultimate skill
that the heat you encounter from the fires of hell
may be the fuel to power the life you instill
along your own way to a truth you'll fulfill
If you ever live, eventually you will
You'll either choose to walk through hell
in pursuit of your aspiring will
or fall face down when you take a bad spill
If you fall into the fires of hell
and manage to rise back to your feet
where will you go within this hell
what end will you journey to meet
Would you walk through the fires of hell
or run screaming without direction
Can you see a way beyond the fires of hell
or do you lack some means of detection
If you can see beyond the fires
but can see no way around the coals
will you be tempered by your pure desires
or terrified by evaporated souls
Would you walk through the fires of hell
If so, what for
When you walk through the fires of hell
it should be for something... more
Everyone will feel the heat against their skin
and some more so than others
When all that is, is all that's been
are the burn marks yours, or another's
Would you walk through the fires of hell
If you ever live, you know you will
When you do, may you do it well
with wonder, and grace, and ultimate skill
that the heat you encounter from the fires of hell
may be the fuel to power the life you instill
along your own way to a truth you'll fulfill
Sunday, August 23, 2015
In Darkest Dreams of Sight...
In darkest dreams of sight
the closed eyes view
a world of black and white
with no color and no hue
Shapes shift in a shadowy fugue
Amorphous fault-lines fade
Every lineament runs askew
Oblivion is there displayed
In darkest dreams of sight
the closed eyes view
an abyss of constant night
that no light may undo
All sound is but an echo
Each voice a muted tone
In a silence like a stiletto
piercing deeper than any bone
Each motion can only mimic
the causal movement lost
Every acuity is but a gimmick
Each breath is of exhaust
In darkest dreams of sight
the blind are in full-view
Here is no wrong nor right
Only banality can imbue
The dreaming dead are equal
to delusions thought alive
Eternity becomes a sequel
to hoard what will deprive
In darkest dreams of sight
closed eyes keep the view
beheld to behold this plight
and validate dreams undue
the closed eyes view
a world of black and white
with no color and no hue
Shapes shift in a shadowy fugue
Amorphous fault-lines fade
Every lineament runs askew
Oblivion is there displayed
In darkest dreams of sight
the closed eyes view
an abyss of constant night
that no light may undo
All sound is but an echo
Each voice a muted tone
In a silence like a stiletto
piercing deeper than any bone
Each motion can only mimic
the causal movement lost
Every acuity is but a gimmick
Each breath is of exhaust
In darkest dreams of sight
the blind are in full-view
Here is no wrong nor right
Only banality can imbue
The dreaming dead are equal
to delusions thought alive
Eternity becomes a sequel
to hoard what will deprive
In darkest dreams of sight
closed eyes keep the view
beheld to behold this plight
and validate dreams undue
Monday, August 17, 2015
Hell is a Real Place...
They were out in the summer heat
Running down shoppers in the lot
Handing pamphlets to all they'd meet
Screaming a summary of their plot
Hell is a real place
and heaven is far away
Everyone needs grace
The world is in decay
Most of the shoppers were polite
in agreement or neutral disposition
A few knew verses they would recite
as if contributing to the mission
Some were rude or less discrete
bothered by more than just the heat
demanding reasons more concrete
to alter the natural cadence of their feet
One man walking near to me
spoke softly in measured words
He spoke beyond the sights to see
like a shepherd's gaze beyond the herd
Hell is a real place
and heaven is far away
The world needs more than grace
especially on a fevered day
Another voice came passing by
with another perspective to declare
In words recited like a lexical-sigh
oddly reminiscent of Voltaire
Hell is a real place
that's here today
Upon the face
of all dismay
All these things seemed so unreal
for me to witness without occasion
What truth did all these words reveal
What meaning derived from this equation
It seemed the whole world had professed
that hell was real enough somewhere
but heaven only some confessed
with speculations of how to get there
So I suppose that this means hell is real
enough to the world, so that all must act
as if it's part of the existential deal
despite obliviousness to conclude as fact
Reality is a belief in much the same
An idea that mortals can't disclaim
without risking more than blame
An idea that proves belief in shame
And shame is why we play the game
that makes hell & earth seem all the same
Hell is a real place
as real as anywhere
Revealed by its debase
in all of everywhere
Running down shoppers in the lot
Handing pamphlets to all they'd meet
Screaming a summary of their plot
Hell is a real place
and heaven is far away
Everyone needs grace
The world is in decay
Most of the shoppers were polite
in agreement or neutral disposition
A few knew verses they would recite
as if contributing to the mission
Some were rude or less discrete
bothered by more than just the heat
demanding reasons more concrete
to alter the natural cadence of their feet
One man walking near to me
spoke softly in measured words
He spoke beyond the sights to see
like a shepherd's gaze beyond the herd
Hell is a real place
and heaven is far away
The world needs more than grace
especially on a fevered day
Another voice came passing by
with another perspective to declare
In words recited like a lexical-sigh
oddly reminiscent of Voltaire
Hell is a real place
that's here today
Upon the face
of all dismay
All these things seemed so unreal
for me to witness without occasion
What truth did all these words reveal
What meaning derived from this equation
It seemed the whole world had professed
that hell was real enough somewhere
but heaven only some confessed
with speculations of how to get there
So I suppose that this means hell is real
enough to the world, so that all must act
as if it's part of the existential deal
despite obliviousness to conclude as fact
Reality is a belief in much the same
An idea that mortals can't disclaim
without risking more than blame
An idea that proves belief in shame
And shame is why we play the game
that makes hell & earth seem all the same
Hell is a real place
as real as anywhere
Revealed by its debase
in all of everywhere
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Crickets Stridulating/The Lotus Far Away...
I'm not the first to notice
crickets stridulating feverishly
in the molten heat of summers
or the symbolism of the lotus
blossoming in streams brilliantly
emerging from murky unders
I have only heard of the lotus flowers
and cannot bear witness to their truth
they remain far from my own view
I have heard crickets stridulate for hours
like clocks ticking away at fragile youth
with something sinister to imbue
I hear the crickets now
incessant in the scorching heat
vexatiously vociferating banality
As my eyes wonder how
in rivers I might never meet
a lotus drifts without sentimentality
I wish the cricket stridulations
were as silent as the leaves
of the lotus so serene
and the heated tribulations
would relent to recitatives
and drift away like lotus flowers
that remain to me unseen
I imagine the lotus drifting now
as it is no longer of, but from
what murky waters hide below
As it floats along its Tao
with nothing to succumb
beyond the constant flow
My mind is carried with this
drifting along the lotus stream
and the strident crickets
I dismiss
Awakened, now I dream
crickets stridulating feverishly
in the molten heat of summers
or the symbolism of the lotus
blossoming in streams brilliantly
emerging from murky unders
I have only heard of the lotus flowers
and cannot bear witness to their truth
they remain far from my own view
I have heard crickets stridulate for hours
like clocks ticking away at fragile youth
with something sinister to imbue
I hear the crickets now
incessant in the scorching heat
vexatiously vociferating banality
As my eyes wonder how
in rivers I might never meet
a lotus drifts without sentimentality
I wish the cricket stridulations
were as silent as the leaves
of the lotus so serene
and the heated tribulations
would relent to recitatives
and drift away like lotus flowers
that remain to me unseen
I imagine the lotus drifting now
as it is no longer of, but from
what murky waters hide below
As it floats along its Tao
with nothing to succumb
beyond the constant flow
My mind is carried with this
drifting along the lotus stream
and the strident crickets
I dismiss
Awakened, now I dream
Sunday, August 9, 2015
There Are Only Words For This...
Uninspired
I try to write
I try to think
I try to live
& all I find is
there are only
words for this
Unsatisfied
I try to work
I try to remember
I try to forget
& all I learn is
there are only
words for this
Unrelenting
I try to leave
I try to be
I try to arrive
but in all I do
there are only
words for this
Uncontrollably
I toss and turn
I scowl
I yearn
but despite all conditions
there are only words for this
The spirit wanes
The soul wilts
The specter warns
"...there are only words for this..."
With only words
I can say nothing
though I know
there is much to be said
With no words
I could say anything
but I know
it'd be mere sounds in my head
So I chase the things
behind the lexical-scene
Trying to find something
that such words might mean
I fail, I fail, I fail, and fail...
but someday I will prevail
There may be no words for this
but in my mind still now
there are only words for this
I try to write
I try to think
I try to live
& all I find is
there are only
words for this
Unsatisfied
I try to work
I try to remember
I try to forget
& all I learn is
there are only
words for this
Unrelenting
I try to leave
I try to be
I try to arrive
but in all I do
there are only
words for this
Uncontrollably
I toss and turn
I scowl
I yearn
but despite all conditions
there are only words for this
The spirit wanes
The soul wilts
The specter warns
"...there are only words for this..."
With only words
I can say nothing
though I know
there is much to be said
With no words
I could say anything
but I know
it'd be mere sounds in my head
So I chase the things
behind the lexical-scene
Trying to find something
that such words might mean
I fail, I fail, I fail, and fail...
but someday I will prevail
There may be no words for this
but in my mind still now
there are only words for this
Muted & Maligned...
I played my song
and no one cared
It took so long
to be prepared
Where I went wrong-
I should not have dared
Eyes search for more
than what they see
Ears quickly bore
and turn absentee
The shadows grow longer
The lights dim down
The weakness is stronger
There's nothing to renown
I put the song away
and silence there arrived
I could neither leave nor stay
as nothing was derived
Eyes search for more
than what they cannot see
Ears constantly abhor
as oblivion's detainee
The gathered depart
The doors close
The void will impart
what there will then dispose
I leave the song behind
and the silence, and the shame
I lose my foolish mind
and accept all of my blame
Eyes roll over white
to whatever isn't there
Ears ring with spite
amidst the stagnant air
The night continues on
The earth inside the dark
The celestial pause to yawn
with nothing to remark
Dreamless there
awake or sleeping
Blindly stare
with eyes un-weeping
Silence then
as every ending
Until again
the chance pretending
How the weary sun can rise
and cast light onto distant skies
How the dead are made to rise
and clear away their sleep stained eyes
Ask the wisest of the wise
and all they say, they just surmise
that life is lived until it dies
and all will fail until it tries
As graves are marked without replies
I breathe enough to make a sigh
and flap my hands to ward off flies
unaware, but still in search of why
till muted & maligned goodbye
and no one cared
It took so long
to be prepared
Where I went wrong-
I should not have dared
Eyes search for more
than what they see
Ears quickly bore
and turn absentee
The shadows grow longer
The lights dim down
The weakness is stronger
There's nothing to renown
I put the song away
and silence there arrived
I could neither leave nor stay
as nothing was derived
Eyes search for more
than what they cannot see
Ears constantly abhor
as oblivion's detainee
The gathered depart
The doors close
The void will impart
what there will then dispose
I leave the song behind
and the silence, and the shame
I lose my foolish mind
and accept all of my blame
Eyes roll over white
to whatever isn't there
Ears ring with spite
amidst the stagnant air
The night continues on
The earth inside the dark
The celestial pause to yawn
with nothing to remark
Dreamless there
awake or sleeping
Blindly stare
with eyes un-weeping
Silence then
as every ending
Until again
the chance pretending
How the weary sun can rise
and cast light onto distant skies
How the dead are made to rise
and clear away their sleep stained eyes
Ask the wisest of the wise
and all they say, they just surmise
that life is lived until it dies
and all will fail until it tries
As graves are marked without replies
I breathe enough to make a sigh
and flap my hands to ward off flies
unaware, but still in search of why
till muted & maligned goodbye
Thursday, August 6, 2015
Forget About The World Gone Mad...
Forget all the shadowy figures
cast from the dark of past failure
Forget all the blind tourists
trying to be both accuser and bailor
Forget the outraged masses
that formlessly pool their rages
Forget the fickle dunces
that lead fools to call them sages
Forget about the world gone mad
Forget about all the lives never had
Forget about all that's just too sad
Leave the dead to their forgetting
Leave the wicked to regretting
Leave the mad to their abetting
Return to the light within you
Return to the truth you once knew
Return to the love of all you do
Remember the life you own
Remember what you are alone
Remember how you've grown
The shadows are bound to the dark
The tourists will go home in time
The mass-voices are all nervous bark
The words of fools are merely pantomime
Forget about the world gone mad
it isn't going to spin the other way
Forget about the world gone mad
it isn't more that a place to stay
Find the faithfully forgetful
and remember them in your graces
Bring relief to the fretful
but do not trade them places
Forget about the world gone mad
it certainly won't remember you
Don't let the universe make you sad
it certainly won't shed a tear for you
Remember the joy of your own life
Remember the illumination of living
Remember the elation that's still rife
Remember the world so giving
Forget about the world gone mad
Forget about the world gone
Forget about the world
Forget about mad
Forget
cast from the dark of past failure
Forget all the blind tourists
trying to be both accuser and bailor
Forget the outraged masses
that formlessly pool their rages
Forget the fickle dunces
that lead fools to call them sages
Forget about the world gone mad
Forget about all the lives never had
Forget about all that's just too sad
Leave the dead to their forgetting
Leave the wicked to regretting
Leave the mad to their abetting
Return to the light within you
Return to the truth you once knew
Return to the love of all you do
Remember the life you own
Remember what you are alone
Remember how you've grown
The shadows are bound to the dark
The tourists will go home in time
The mass-voices are all nervous bark
The words of fools are merely pantomime
Forget about the world gone mad
it isn't going to spin the other way
Forget about the world gone mad
it isn't more that a place to stay
Find the faithfully forgetful
and remember them in your graces
Bring relief to the fretful
but do not trade them places
Forget about the world gone mad
it certainly won't remember you
Don't let the universe make you sad
it certainly won't shed a tear for you
Remember the joy of your own life
Remember the illumination of living
Remember the elation that's still rife
Remember the world so giving
Forget about the world gone mad
Forget about the world gone
Forget about the world
Forget about mad
Forget
Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Souls For Sale...
For what it's worth
in silver,
in gold,
magic-beans,
false-promises,
time-shares in eternity...
Your soul is for sale
(All souls are)
and you name your own price
or accept the terms you're given
When death comes
you'll pay with your life
and all that will remain
is what your soul was sold for
What is it worth?
There are no guarantees
Every sale is a gamble
What is it worth?
Death recycles everything
that life will ever see
and if there's more beyond this
it certainly won't be free
What's your life
What is your soul
What are these things worth
What's under your control
If your soul is alive
If your life bears your soul
May your life earn its keep
so your soul may be full
When you do sell your soul
be sure it's worth losing
because down in a hole
there's no more refusing
in silver,
in gold,
magic-beans,
false-promises,
time-shares in eternity...
Your soul is for sale
(All souls are)
and you name your own price
or accept the terms you're given
When death comes
you'll pay with your life
and all that will remain
is what your soul was sold for
What is it worth?
There are no guarantees
Every sale is a gamble
What is it worth?
Death recycles everything
that life will ever see
and if there's more beyond this
it certainly won't be free
What's your life
What is your soul
What are these things worth
What's under your control
If your soul is alive
If your life bears your soul
May your life earn its keep
so your soul may be full
When you do sell your soul
be sure it's worth losing
because down in a hole
there's no more refusing
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Time & Space > Earth & Humanity...
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
The age of the universe is approximately 13.8 billion years old
According to NASA the universe is flat
and therefore the size of the universe is infinite
The total surface area of Earth
is about 197 million square miles
(71% is water and 29% is land)
The earth is about 4.6 billion years old
Humans have inhabited earth for 130,000 years
Worldwide, the average life expectancy is 71 years
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
The average person spends 99,117 hours at work,
sleeps for 229,961 hours,
waits in lines for 6 months,
and watches 11 years of TV
The earth's urban areas occupy
approximately 3.5 million sq. kilometers
The population of earth is approx 7.125 billion
The earth has a maximum capacity of 9-10 billion people
The earth may remain habitable for another 1.75 - 3.25 billion years
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
What time is it now?
Where do you stand?
How big are your ambitions?
What are you doing?
It is now.
You are here.
All ambition is small.
You are alive.
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
The age of the universe is approximately 13.8 billion years old
According to NASA the universe is flat
and therefore the size of the universe is infinite
The total surface area of Earth
is about 197 million square miles
(71% is water and 29% is land)
The earth is about 4.6 billion years old
Humans have inhabited earth for 130,000 years
Worldwide, the average life expectancy is 71 years
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
The average person spends 99,117 hours at work,
sleeps for 229,961 hours,
waits in lines for 6 months,
and watches 11 years of TV
The earth's urban areas occupy
approximately 3.5 million sq. kilometers
The population of earth is approx 7.125 billion
The earth has a maximum capacity of 9-10 billion people
The earth may remain habitable for another 1.75 - 3.25 billion years
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
What time is it now?
Where do you stand?
How big are your ambitions?
What are you doing?
It is now.
You are here.
All ambition is small.
You are alive.
Time is too long
Space is too big
The world is too small
Life is too short
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
The Lion('s/s') Share...
The alpha-male struts proudly
watching over its pride
It harvests its prey
and takes the lion's share
The whole tribe feeds
off of the same source
As the alpha succeeds
the pride is kept alive
in many ways like this
When the alpha-male
is slain or surrendered
the tribe is endangered
The cubs are unprotected
from invading successors
and the lionesses are left
to submit to every rival
The lion's share
that creates
the lions' share
is lost to
hunger
scavenging
waiting
This is the order of things
and this is the way it will be
There is never enough
and always too much
The true butchers
cry for the blood of kings
while weeping angrily
over the blood of beasts
This is how the pride
becomes lost
This is what the cubs
all too often learn too late
This is the order of things
This is the way things are
There is never enough
and always too much
watching over its pride
It harvests its prey
and takes the lion's share
The whole tribe feeds
off of the same source
As the alpha succeeds
the pride is kept alive
in many ways like this
When the alpha-male
is slain or surrendered
the tribe is endangered
The cubs are unprotected
from invading successors
and the lionesses are left
to submit to every rival
The lion's share
that creates
the lions' share
is lost to
hunger
scavenging
waiting
This is the order of things
and this is the way it will be
There is never enough
and always too much
The true butchers
cry for the blood of kings
while weeping angrily
over the blood of beasts
This is how the pride
becomes lost
This is what the cubs
all too often learn too late
This is the order of things
This is the way things are
There is never enough
and always too much
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Woe and Work...
The work itself is rarely difficult
It's the nonsense imposed on you
The prohibited language
The useless forms
The dress code
The pointless meetings
and everything else
that isn't your job
It's the petty co-workers fighting
for a promotion
for validation
for favors
and nothing,
and nothing,
and nothing
It's an incompetent boss
that gets in your face
blaming you for faults
that are theirs alone
It's ignorant and rude customers
that you can't ignore
and you can't insult
no matter how insipid they are
It's the endless parade of
degenerate dummies
deplorable decrees
and dissociative doctrines
It's all these things that don't work
but that you have to work with
It's all these worthless woes
It's not the work at all
I can't say why
all this nonsense is made mandatory
I don't know why
all this woe is imposed on work
I don't see why
all these people insist it remain
I can't tell you why
it's more important to conform
than to excel in tasks you perform
I wish that people could be themselves
I wish they could work together sensibly
I wish they weren't so restricted and confused
I wish that people could be themselves
I wish they could just get things done
and leave each other alone
I wish there wasn't all this woe
I wish that work was just work
I wish people could be themselves
I wish it all made sense
But it's not the way things are
It won't be that way any lifetime soon
So I suppose this leaves one hand empty
and another smelly and full
Oh well
It's not as if this work can't all be done
with one hand tied behind my back
It would be nice to be able to wash-up
but there's too much other pschyt
for me to worry about right now
It's the nonsense imposed on you
The prohibited language
The useless forms
The dress code
The pointless meetings
and everything else
that isn't your job
It's the petty co-workers fighting
for a promotion
for validation
for favors
and nothing,
and nothing,
and nothing
It's an incompetent boss
that gets in your face
blaming you for faults
that are theirs alone
It's ignorant and rude customers
that you can't ignore
and you can't insult
no matter how insipid they are
It's the endless parade of
degenerate dummies
deplorable decrees
and dissociative doctrines
It's all these things that don't work
but that you have to work with
It's all these worthless woes
It's not the work at all
I can't say why
all this nonsense is made mandatory
I don't know why
all this woe is imposed on work
I don't see why
all these people insist it remain
I can't tell you why
it's more important to conform
than to excel in tasks you perform
I wish that people could be themselves
I wish they could work together sensibly
I wish they weren't so restricted and confused
I wish that people could be themselves
I wish they could just get things done
and leave each other alone
I wish there wasn't all this woe
I wish that work was just work
I wish people could be themselves
I wish it all made sense
But it's not the way things are
It won't be that way any lifetime soon
So I suppose this leaves one hand empty
and another smelly and full
Oh well
It's not as if this work can't all be done
with one hand tied behind my back
It would be nice to be able to wash-up
but there's too much other pschyt
for me to worry about right now
Thursday, July 23, 2015
I Am...
I started to speak the words
"I am..."
and then my sentence
confined me to a cage
that I couldn't see
This cage of words
limited what I am
and what I might be
Then I started to say "We"
committing a greater crime
betraying myself and others
by diluting each individual
into a formless/nameless mass
After that I went on
and confined us all
to some other all-inclusive
sentencing of the same nature
and we all went along this way
for far too obliviously long
Now I struggle with it
trying to be more than
what I said I am...
and trying instead
to live accordingly
with what things
simply are
and the notion that
like all these things
the fullest truth is that
I am...
"I am..."
and then my sentence
confined me to a cage
that I couldn't see
This cage of words
limited what I am
and what I might be
Then I started to say "We"
committing a greater crime
betraying myself and others
by diluting each individual
into a formless/nameless mass
After that I went on
and confined us all
to some other all-inclusive
sentencing of the same nature
and we all went along this way
for far too obliviously long
Now I struggle with it
trying to be more than
what I said I am...
and trying instead
to live accordingly
with what things
simply are
and the notion that
like all these things
the fullest truth is that
I am...
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Waiting For Sun To Shine (As If There Isn't Enough Light Within)...
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
as the clouds stand still
while growing dense and heavy
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
with no connection to my own will
as if its held behind some levee
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
so I can reflect its light a bit
and pretend I'm shining brightly
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
to bask in its warmth a bit
forsaking my own warmth (tritely)
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
as if there isn't enough light within me
while the sun's eternal day goes on elsewhere
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
or something to ignite from within me
while holding onto this unfixed stare
Waiting for the eventual
despite the events of living
Waiting through the perpetual
for whatever pathology is giving
Waiting for the conceptual
with the concept I'm still missing
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
as if there isn't the same light within me
Waiting in this dark decline
until I cease to merely be
and seize the reigns- becoming me
as the clouds stand still
while growing dense and heavy
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
with no connection to my own will
as if its held behind some levee
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
so I can reflect its light a bit
and pretend I'm shining brightly
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
to bask in its warmth a bit
forsaking my own warmth (tritely)
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
as if there isn't enough light within me
while the sun's eternal day goes on elsewhere
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
or something to ignite from within me
while holding onto this unfixed stare
Waiting for the eventual
despite the events of living
Waiting through the perpetual
for whatever pathology is giving
Waiting for the conceptual
with the concept I'm still missing
I'm just waiting for the sun to shine
as if there isn't the same light within me
Waiting in this dark decline
until I cease to merely be
and seize the reigns- becoming me
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Cognitive Elation...
Rising above ignorance
Transcending normality
Achieving ascension
Cognitive elation
It's better than knowing
It's learning, yearning, working, growing...
Until achieving the living knowledge
Earning more than comprehension
What's common place
is often in poor taste
and common grace
is often a mere waste
Excellence, Achievement, Wonder, Awe...
Becoming Incredible
By doing Great Things
As personal vision is beheld
Cognitive Elation
The sun shines brightest
upon those that reflect its brilliance
But brighter still
is the light within
that adds its brilliance to all illumination
Cognitive Elation
Let the darkness see
that it may be compelled to shine
Let the enlightened speak
through more than just a shrine
Let the world choose to foster
more than petty inspiration-
Cognitive Elation
Transcending normality
Achieving ascension
Cognitive elation
It's better than knowing
It's learning, yearning, working, growing...
Until achieving the living knowledge
Earning more than comprehension
What's common place
is often in poor taste
and common grace
is often a mere waste
Excellence, Achievement, Wonder, Awe...
Becoming Incredible
By doing Great Things
As personal vision is beheld
Cognitive Elation
The sun shines brightest
upon those that reflect its brilliance
But brighter still
is the light within
that adds its brilliance to all illumination
Cognitive Elation
Let the darkness see
that it may be compelled to shine
Let the enlightened speak
through more than just a shrine
Let the world choose to foster
more than petty inspiration-
Cognitive Elation
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Over Time...
There are times
when things perpetually
go wrong
become worse
remain relentless
as if death is on overtime
trying to cut its way through
all you have
and all you are
before dragging
whatever is left
into a dismal grave
where your only relief
might be found
There are times
when nothing seems to
add up
work out
matter
as if the sum of all your efforts
in all the extra hours you work
tying to make them amount to
something
anything
are all just futile measures
of compounding nothing
by powers of zero
There are times
when your whole life seems
disappointing
unfulfilling
useless
as if there were a universal script
where your character was phased out
without triumph
without defeat
without notice
and you are left waiting for some cue
to perform your part in a scene
that was cut
along with your character
and any relevance
you might have had
There are times
that you have to get over
Short Times
Long Times
Even Life Times
of trying to ascend the face
of a mountain of dung
as the rain pours heavily
There are times
you must get over
sometimes
many times
all of time
If you allow these times
to remain above you
and act as if you are under them
then you will only feel the weight
of being under these times
as these times crush you
with the very dreams
that you left on the far side of time
and became detached from
There is time
You must get over
the past
the future
the present
Your life, Your time
is now
is always
It's all under your thumb
It's all at your feet
It's all beneath you
Time is always underway
You have to rise above it
You have to get over time
when things perpetually
go wrong
become worse
remain relentless
as if death is on overtime
trying to cut its way through
all you have
and all you are
before dragging
whatever is left
into a dismal grave
where your only relief
might be found
There are times
when nothing seems to
add up
work out
matter
as if the sum of all your efforts
in all the extra hours you work
tying to make them amount to
something
anything
are all just futile measures
of compounding nothing
by powers of zero
There are times
when your whole life seems
disappointing
unfulfilling
useless
as if there were a universal script
where your character was phased out
without triumph
without defeat
without notice
and you are left waiting for some cue
to perform your part in a scene
that was cut
along with your character
and any relevance
you might have had
There are times
that you have to get over
Short Times
Long Times
Even Life Times
of trying to ascend the face
of a mountain of dung
as the rain pours heavily
There are times
you must get over
sometimes
many times
all of time
If you allow these times
to remain above you
and act as if you are under them
then you will only feel the weight
of being under these times
as these times crush you
with the very dreams
that you left on the far side of time
and became detached from
There is time
You must get over
the past
the future
the present
Your life, Your time
is now
is always
It's all under your thumb
It's all at your feet
It's all beneath you
Time is always underway
You have to rise above it
You have to get over time
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Shackles No More...
When no man lives
for any other
nor binds another life
to their own
When value is earned
through productive achievement
Not given
Nor taken
and is traded freely with others
on the sole basis
of value for value
When tears are not treated
as if some entitled tender
and are dried by the noble fires
that burn in the eyes that hold them
When the poor and the foolish
are wise enough not to berate
or beg with vicious resentment
for the earnings of the prosperous
When no envy or sloth
are accepted as just cause
to venerate covetous thefts
When men and women are worth
exactly what they earn through industrious labor
When no chains tie them down
or bind others to them
When they are no longer shackled
and there are shackles no more
There in that dreamland of true freedom
There in that paradise of truest virtues
There in that place of individuated unity
There will be the land of great beings
There will be the age of great prosperity
There will be the illuminating euphoria
There will be shackles no more
for any other
nor binds another life
to their own
When value is earned
through productive achievement
Not given
Nor taken
and is traded freely with others
on the sole basis
of value for value
When tears are not treated
as if some entitled tender
and are dried by the noble fires
that burn in the eyes that hold them
When the poor and the foolish
are wise enough not to berate
or beg with vicious resentment
for the earnings of the prosperous
When no envy or sloth
are accepted as just cause
to venerate covetous thefts
When men and women are worth
exactly what they earn through industrious labor
When no chains tie them down
or bind others to them
When they are no longer shackled
and there are shackles no more
There in that dreamland of true freedom
There in that paradise of truest virtues
There in that place of individuated unity
There will be the land of great beings
There will be the age of great prosperity
There will be the illuminating euphoria
There will be shackles no more
Friday, July 10, 2015
These Things Will Lead To Others...
A bad idea
A delusion
A scam
These things will lead to others
A collapse
A catastrophe
An apocalypse
These things will lead to others
A reckoning
A redemption
A resolution
These things will lead to others
An ascension
A renaissance
A pinnacle
These things will lead to others
A plateau
A stagnation
A regression
These things will lead to others
A squandering
A surrender
A defeat
These things will lead to others
An Individuation
An Industriousness
An Independence
These Things will Lead others
A Virtue
A Valor
A Venerability
These Things will Lead others
These Things will lead to Others
A delusion
A scam
These things will lead to others
A collapse
A catastrophe
An apocalypse
These things will lead to others
A reckoning
A redemption
A resolution
These things will lead to others
An ascension
A renaissance
A pinnacle
These things will lead to others
A plateau
A stagnation
A regression
These things will lead to others
A squandering
A surrender
A defeat
These things will lead to others
An Individuation
An Industriousness
An Independence
These Things will Lead others
A Virtue
A Valor
A Venerability
These Things will Lead others
These Things will lead to Others
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
The Needle & The Thread...
The needle takes the thread
into its tiny little eye
and hands guided
by a focused view
will move with purpose
The hands will take
the needle and the thread
weaving them in order to
mend and manage
or
make and mystify
as what was frayed or formless
becomes a functional/useful thing
The thread is but a strand
without the needle's strength
The needle is but a prick
without the thread to follow
And only with skilled hands
can they together be of use
This isn't a parable
it's not about men/women
it's not about people
that are like the needle
or are like the thread
This isn't a cryptic thing at all
Things are what they are
Hands do what they do
When hands move
the needle and the thread
with purpose and skill
this world becomes clothed
open wounds- stitched & closed
In fact hands hardly even need
the needle or the thread
How many things can your hands do
all on their very own
or with only some small thing(s) to hold?
Forget about the needles
Forget about the threads
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
It's not what you hold
It's what your hands
will work to create
and behold
or fairly exchange
with handshakes that mean
something venerable and old
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
into its tiny little eye
and hands guided
by a focused view
will move with purpose
The hands will take
the needle and the thread
weaving them in order to
mend and manage
or
make and mystify
as what was frayed or formless
becomes a functional/useful thing
The thread is but a strand
without the needle's strength
The needle is but a prick
without the thread to follow
And only with skilled hands
can they together be of use
This isn't a parable
it's not about men/women
it's not about people
that are like the needle
or are like the thread
This isn't a cryptic thing at all
Things are what they are
Hands do what they do
When hands move
the needle and the thread
with purpose and skill
this world becomes clothed
open wounds- stitched & closed
In fact hands hardly even need
the needle or the thread
How many things can your hands do
all on their very own
or with only some small thing(s) to hold?
Forget about the needles
Forget about the threads
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
It's not what you hold
It's what your hands
will work to create
and behold
or fairly exchange
with handshakes that mean
something venerable and old
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
It's all in your hands
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
i am that grey sky today...
i am that grey sky today
hovering over nothing-lands
without any motion
but feigned emotion
as i pretend to be a blackened sky
knowing i'm just benign & gloomy
i am that grey sky today
i won't bring much rain
maybe none at all
i'll just diminish the sunlight
not enough to bring darkness
just enough to cast a dull dimness
i won't bring much rain
i am that grey sky today
looming until the night ignores me
and negates my negations
drifting until the dawn comes
to clear me out of its way
and make room for a sunny day
but as for now, all i can seem to say
is that
i am that grey sky today
hovering over nothing-lands
without any motion
but feigned emotion
as i pretend to be a blackened sky
knowing i'm just benign & gloomy
i am that grey sky today
i won't bring much rain
maybe none at all
i'll just diminish the sunlight
not enough to bring darkness
just enough to cast a dull dimness
i won't bring much rain
i am that grey sky today
looming until the night ignores me
and negates my negations
drifting until the dawn comes
to clear me out of its way
and make room for a sunny day
but as for now, all i can seem to say
is that
i am that grey sky today
Monday, July 6, 2015
The Short Hands Of Broken Clocks...
The short hands
of broken clocks
all pointing it out
Not the time of
day or night
but what it comes to...
In hypnotic micrometer motions
tic, tic, tic... tic, tic, tic...
Perpetual pendulum-puppets
marching to the madness
of carbon-copy chromatics
as time torments the travels
of synchronized second-hands
The hands surrender seconds
of time, or second thoughts
Adding up the increments
like connecting little dots
of stories without plots
Funeral bells will sound
as the echoes of fallen trees
with ears nowhere around
Though the timeless eye still sees
the forest through the trees
the lifetimes in second-hands
the stillness that still stands
The short hands
of broken clocks
all pointing it out
Not the time of
day or night
but what it comes to...
Let time keep to itself
Let the second-hands
keep counting in circles &
continue revolving around
the same dizzying clock
Let them tic away at nothing
Let them tic away at each-other
instead of giving them the time
to continue ticking off
of broken clocks
all pointing it out
Not the time of
day or night
but what it comes to...
In hypnotic micrometer motions
tic, tic, tic... tic, tic, tic...
Perpetual pendulum-puppets
marching to the madness
of carbon-copy chromatics
as time torments the travels
of synchronized second-hands
The hands surrender seconds
of time, or second thoughts
Adding up the increments
like connecting little dots
of stories without plots
Funeral bells will sound
as the echoes of fallen trees
with ears nowhere around
Though the timeless eye still sees
the forest through the trees
the lifetimes in second-hands
the stillness that still stands
The short hands
of broken clocks
all pointing it out
Not the time of
day or night
but what it comes to...
Let time keep to itself
Let the second-hands
keep counting in circles &
continue revolving around
the same dizzying clock
Let them tic away at nothing
Let them tic away at each-other
instead of giving them the time
to continue ticking off
Saturday, July 4, 2015
To Live Like Beings...
Don't believe the things your told
Don't agree if you don't understand
Don't be afraid to make honest mistakes
Don't try to do anything, but simply aspire
to live like beings
Don't attach to what you cannot hold
Don't cower to a senseless reprimand
Don't hesitate to do what it takes
To achieve a true thing, before you expire
and can no longer live like beings
Don't let your death be a threat
Don't let fear taint your breath
Don't make room for regret
Don't live-out your death
Don't forsake the chances you get
to live like beings
To live like beings
to do great things
to let your heart be filled
to make your life fulfilled
to know your own truth
to retain the joy of youth
Know the things that children understand
before being trained to forget
Know that your life belongs in no other hand
and that days don't end as suns set
Know that everything is negotiable
and elation is more than emotional
Know that you can become anything
and you can achieve everything
Never forget these things
to live like beings
To live like beings
to live with things
to live without becoming mere things
to live as if with wings
to live as more than mortal kings
to live like beings
To Live
Love Being
and keep singing
to live like beings
Don't agree if you don't understand
Don't be afraid to make honest mistakes
Don't try to do anything, but simply aspire
to live like beings
Don't attach to what you cannot hold
Don't cower to a senseless reprimand
Don't hesitate to do what it takes
To achieve a true thing, before you expire
and can no longer live like beings
Don't let your death be a threat
Don't let fear taint your breath
Don't make room for regret
Don't live-out your death
Don't forsake the chances you get
to live like beings
To live like beings
to do great things
to let your heart be filled
to make your life fulfilled
to know your own truth
to retain the joy of youth
Know the things that children understand
before being trained to forget
Know that your life belongs in no other hand
and that days don't end as suns set
Know that everything is negotiable
and elation is more than emotional
Know that you can become anything
and you can achieve everything
Never forget these things
to live like beings
To live like beings
to live with things
to live without becoming mere things
to live as if with wings
to live as more than mortal kings
to live like beings
To Live
Love Being
and keep singing
to live like beings
Thursday, July 2, 2015
The Parts I Write (Where's The Rest?)...
The sound comes easily
The song is elusive
The masses blare
makes many reclusive
In muzzled screams
or forgotten dreams
The parts in view
are never whole
and usually distorted
to fit a role
Backstage realms behind the set
Hole cards checked before the bet
Words in ink
away from meanings
A clever wink
to sway your leanings
Slight of hand
A grain of sand
Beyond all view
More than true
The abundance is there
behind the glare
So be aware,
beware,
or dare
to do more than stare
or just compare
and see the things so truly rare
things only silence may declare
The song is elusive
The masses blare
makes many reclusive
In muzzled screams
or forgotten dreams
The parts in view
are never whole
and usually distorted
to fit a role
Backstage realms behind the set
Hole cards checked before the bet
Words in ink
away from meanings
A clever wink
to sway your leanings
Slight of hand
A grain of sand
Beyond all view
More than true
The abundance is there
behind the glare
So be aware,
beware,
or dare
to do more than stare
or just compare
and see the things so truly rare
things only silence may declare
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Dirty Hands...
Hands without callouses
Softer than pillows
Extending empty palms
Begging for alms
Complaining of hardships,
of exhaustion, of woe
with sweatless-furrowed brows
Saying "... man- you don't know."
as if their true faces don't clearly show
They give empty words
of thanks with no intent
for every unearned dime
that they'll squander & lament
And to all that ignore them
they will viciously scorn
Shaking soft fists at them
because they won't mourn
The dirty hands
of the under-handed schemers
defiling the sands
stolen from the hourglasses of dreamers
As the industrious creators
shake clean hands with firm grips
and pledge to produce
what the thieves won't eclipse
And the dirt on the hands
of those in between
that toil in virtues
learning what their lives mean
can be covered in mud
but remain honestly clean
Softer than pillows
Extending empty palms
Begging for alms
Complaining of hardships,
of exhaustion, of woe
with sweatless-furrowed brows
Saying "... man- you don't know."
as if their true faces don't clearly show
They give empty words
of thanks with no intent
for every unearned dime
that they'll squander & lament
And to all that ignore them
they will viciously scorn
Shaking soft fists at them
because they won't mourn
The dirty hands
of the under-handed schemers
defiling the sands
stolen from the hourglasses of dreamers
As the industrious creators
shake clean hands with firm grips
and pledge to produce
what the thieves won't eclipse
And the dirt on the hands
of those in between
that toil in virtues
learning what their lives mean
can be covered in mud
but remain honestly clean
Monday, June 29, 2015
And There- Love Was Not...
And there- love was not
In the crowded rooms
like overloaded tombs
In the busy streets
where time retreats
In the arms of strangers
and their unstable mangers
Inside their church
where many search
In eyes that stare
but never dare
In souls that yearn
but never learn
In all these places
with all those faces
Here and there-
Love was not
In the time of need
In the kindest deed
In the greater good
In the understood
In the freely received
In the always deceived
In here and there-
Love was not
And what love was where
was all forgot
And the will to care
was all for not
And then, and there-
Love was Not
And just the same
with all to blame
what will be next
in future's text
The love that was not
or the end of no plot
where Love was Not
In the crowded rooms
like overloaded tombs
In the busy streets
where time retreats
In the arms of strangers
and their unstable mangers
Inside their church
where many search
In eyes that stare
but never dare
In souls that yearn
but never learn
In all these places
with all those faces
Here and there-
Love was not
In the time of need
In the kindest deed
In the greater good
In the understood
In the freely received
In the always deceived
In here and there-
Love was not
And what love was where
was all forgot
And the will to care
was all for not
And then, and there-
Love was Not
And just the same
with all to blame
what will be next
in future's text
The love that was not
or the end of no plot
where Love was Not
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Little/Little...
Little bits
that mean so much
So much
that means so little
Little by little
It's so much
for so much
Then so long
to so long
Little by little
It all adds up
as it all comes down
Then it's time to pay up
(End of the count down)
Little by little
Given and taken away
Little by little
Living and passing this way
Little/little
The division of all
Little/little
The division from all
Little/little
Until that is all
...
that mean so much
So much
that means so little
Little by little
It's so much
for so much
Then so long
to so long
Little by little
It all adds up
as it all comes down
Then it's time to pay up
(End of the count down)
Little by little
Given and taken away
Little by little
Living and passing this way
Little/little
The division of all
Little/little
The division from all
Little/little
Until that is all
...
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