As I Sit Through These Impatient Hours...

This chair here doesn't belong to me
& these impatient hours I sit through
don't seem much like mine at all

The chair was made to be comforting
so that I might sink into it quite easily
and so there would be no need to add
any ligature-straps or electric currencies
to hold me here or render my heart still
But somehow the chair seems more like
it has been wedged up my keystare
blocking my bowels from going with my gut
and purging myself of all the emptiness
that these impatient hours force-feed me

I could push the chair away
or take time off or out of this
but I'd have to stand on my own
and answer these impatient hours
& others that never cease to ask
questions I can't readily satisfy

As I sit through these impatient hours
they keep urging me to more than answer
as these hours are stuck here with me
and they can't stand stagnation either
But my legs have long-ago gone numb
under the weight of my stagnant keystare
so that walking away seems harder than
soaring above some storm-stained sky

As I sit through these impatient hours
I wonder through fixed/fragmentary frames
of pseudo-conscious commercial breaks
how patiently I've become so impatient
or how impatiently I can sit here patiently
while these impatient hours keep leaving me
as I continue failing to escape them all this time

Eventually what is left or no longer left of me
may be removed from this wretched recliner
as these impatient hours cease to move me
and I can no longer stand to sit through them

Bloody-Hell...

It was between an ad for tampons touted as more than twice as absorbent as other brands and an infomercial for an all-natural wonder-drug that had been scientifically proven as more effective in treating depression than the leading placebo that eye-rolling syllables materialized from this obfuscated dimension of existence which rests tangentially removed from the realm of such ad-things.

"Bloody-Hell"

The interlocutor shifted in an ergonomically designed recliner while searching for the device which had been imbued with the gawd-like power to teleport viewing consciousness from one reality TV-show to another. After having retrieved the magic-wand/remote-control from the forgotten and obscured abyss approximately located between memory-foam cushions and a too-casual-for-company clothed arse more focus-group type feedback was transmitted.

"Why don't they just cram all this pschyt up their ahss?"

The mute button was depressed and channels blinked into and out of perceived existence as I sat silenced and bewildered with my consciousness skipping through un-televised thoughts. -Who\what were these they---Why would they---Don't tampons go---Was that drug-thing supposed to be a suppository---

Even though I've left the room I still feel as if I have been unable to remove my head from---, but more importantly I fear I may be unable to ever truly leave this remote realm. It's as if--- Oh wait, my show's about to start! Maybe I should call that 1-800 number to order those anti-depression suppositories they were selling. They're supposed to be better than placebos.

Languished Lingo...

I keep hearing things

that hold less weight
than ghost flatulence

Two trust-funded students
argue over political ideals
with no mass behind their
appendix acquired terms
to convey the same weight
words seem to hold when
they've been long lived
before having been spoken

A professor of history
blathers about a past
that died long before
any story was written
and ages before this
expert's astute assessments
of unaccountable accounts

I keep hearing things
in this languished lingo

A single/divorced mother
describes virtuous true love
to her devoted daughter
in a popular TV drama
before briefing her about
the importance of prophylactics

An androgynous amphibian
gives anthropomorphized advice
about staying true to one's self
in the same sort of stilted soliloquy
that an automotive automaton
uses to advise a target audience
about accident insurance options

I can't be too concerned
by all these things I've heard
in this languished lingo
but the things I no longer hear
make the vacuum of silenced space
seem like a soul-sucking abyss

Somewhere beyond the wastelands
of all this languished lingo
the resounding reveries of reality
must still be sung in solipsistic serenity
as individual voices idiosyncratically intone
the words that become more than words alone
when they're declared as words of their own

...and the wind just blows and blows
as words from voices fade in its flow
and even sturdy sounds cease to echo
above a silence no ears will know

Above that other silence all ears hear
comes the screams of an honest fear
as shrieks of some beast moves near
yet some inner voice remains so clear

I'd sooner be insulted and offended
than hear hollowed hearts contented
and lavished in the languished lingo
of some banal or baneful bellow

So speak and sing
the singular sentiments
and solitary statements
vital to your virile voice
and let limp lips lavish
their languished lingo
and lament in limbo

Time IS Money...

I'll never understand why there are no dollar-signs

on sundials, calendars, or clocks
Or why money isn't counted
in terms of hours, days, or years
Or why moments are seldom valued
like funds, or bonds, or stocks

What is all this time worth
if it isn't time we cherish
What would we trade it for
that wouldn't with it perish

In times of my poorest despair
I'd pinch pennies & hope to wake
from the impending fearful nightmare
where I've nothing left for death to take
But I've lived long enough
to have considered myself wealthy
even as times have been rough
and I've been so far from healthy

Time is money
Trade one for the other
Time is money
Each affords the other
It has only ever been what time
we spend, share, save, or squander
that has afforded our hearts to crave
and endowed our minds with wonder

Having earned a chance
a lifetime will be spent
and in death's romance
its fortune will have came & went
and so it goes
as it goes on

Lo and Behold...

Lo and Behold
Said a traveler on his way
as he traversed the ancient sands
of some hourglass gone stray
and those gathered with him did lo and behold
admiring another place they'd never stay
at a loss to long lost lands
in their beauty and decay

Lo and Behold
Said a scientist today
as he elevated triumphant hands
over his head so shocked and gray
and those gathered with him did lo and behold
astonished beyond what old words could say
so they twisted fractured strands
into what they'd not convey

Lo and Behold
Said a prophet rapt with rage
as he relayed his gawd's demands
and foreshadowed a mighty war to wage
and those gathered with him did lo and behold
adamantly rattling from some existential cage
they echoed back their own commands
each one as their own sage

Lo and Behold
Said a pamphlet's cover-page
as the salesman shook new hands
and promised what many products could assuage
and those gathered with him did lo and behold
adoring the inventions of a new space-age
as they salivated from all their possessive glands
for advances on their wage

Lo and Behold
Said the jester from a stage
as he stood in front of no band
and displayed no vocal range
and those gathered with him did lo and behold
amused by the indignance of a faux-thoughtful exchange
as each tired joke went on as planned
in the mockery of change

Tongue 'N' Cheek...

I was in need of something to keep me dry among other things. This desiccant-desire led me to the ultra-mega-mart where I intended to buy deodorant, groceries, and a short list of other odds-n-ends. As I entered the store I grabbed the first available cart that appeared to be low in visible  fecal-content, unhindered by shoddy wheels, and of reasonably low-risk for tetanus (note: this was not the kind of cart with electronic-propulsion, power-steering, and a seemingly infinite carrying-capacity). After having procured this buggy I scurried towards the hygiene section of the store with a repulsed form of urgency as it had seemed as though all too many of the other shoppers were somehow oblivious to such a section and were in great need of its wares.

After having yielded to several sects of chaotic children, short-tempered speed-shoppers, and scatty-strollers I eventually reached the deodorant aisle. I had held my breath as I'd made most of my way into this scented-section, and there was a welcomed sense of relief as I'd inhaled the artificially-aromatic air and placed a plastic plank of anti-stank into the buggy. The clank of plastic against the pseudo-metal of the cart seemed to cue a recently added advertising station into blaring-away from the adjoining dental aisle.

The words that came blasting out of this automated-ad-station seemed as if they were being emitted from some alternate-reality where irony had either never existed or had developed quite differently than I could have previously imagined. In a non-whimsical, totally dead-pan, and infomercially dry tone the ad-voice read the words as if they had been recited from an encyclopedia.

"...the only tongue 'n' cheek toothpaste."

My mind seemed incapable of processing these words, and my only response was to wonder if there might have been some kind of product next to the laxatives or colon-cleansers that might have remedied my mental digestive tract in a similar manner. Alas, after having perused the many digestive aids no such cognitive-cleansers seemed to have been developed and approved for consumer use at that time. Without such a product and with no known holistic alternative I was forced to strain my cognitive-kegels in order to force these words out of my mental-meatus.

With a rictus grimace not unlike that of someone perched in horror over a chemical-toilet whilst abiding an onslaught of abusive pounding upon the none-too-secured plastic door plank and expletive-laden demands to expedite excremental evacuations my mind pondered... Surely, there must have been some intentional jest in this ad... Perhaps the editor had mistakenly used the wrong take of that ad-line... Maybe the tooth-people had hired some kind of avant-garde director that had been lobotomized just before they'd produced the ad... Someone must have signed-off on the final cut of it though...

I looked for some sign that perhaps I was all-together wrong about the ad. As shoppers walked by I waited for one of them would exclaim how they'd been waiting for a toothpaste that could cleanse their entire mouth just like the 3-in-1 body-wash/shampoo/conditioners they used on their scalp and back hair. If even one person would have picked out that particular toothpaste with a look of clear intentional discretion I could have perhaps sensed at least a subtle sense of this senseless ad-affliction subsiding.

No such remedy could be found in the aisles that day. Instead I was forced to suffer in silence until I could return home and push it all out with the rest of these words I've written here. I can only hope that my sentient-systems will recover to a state of more or less normal functioning, and produce more modest samples in due time. For anyone else that might have been similarly afflicted I hope that these words are of some assistance to you. If there happens to be a class-action law-suit pending with regards to the adverse affects of this ad please refrain from informing me. I've been bound-up by such things for far too long as it is.

...Merdre! As a result of all this I forgot to buy more TP!!!

The Chili Dog Commencement (Air Force Blues)...

It was a sweltering Texas summer day, and I had been dressed in my only remaining set of properly anointed and inspection-ready Air-Force Blues. This was the day of my graduation from the Air Force's basic military-obedience and potty-training course. After having completed the mechanical mass-marching maneuvers and synchronized-stagnation sections of the obsessive-compulsive commencement ceremony I'd been granted extremely limited authorization to perform non-supervised and semi-autonomous activities.

The amount of time had been restricted to only a few short hours, after which I was due back at the dorm. Additionally, I was not permitted to enter the dorm prior to the approximate end-time of this authorized allotment. Another condition was that I was to remain within the confines of the base. Most importantly though, it had been mandated that I remain in these holy and wholly uncomfortable Air-Force Blues throughout the duration of this time.

Perhaps the most prominently featured lesson during the course of my initiation into military subservience was the critical importance of compliance with clothing criterion. I'd spent countless hours each day trimming micro-fibers away from hymn-lines, folding and refolding articles of clothing using a ruler and tweezers, and constantly checking and adjusting my zipline to ensure that it was always oriented in laser-focused center-alignment. These practices along with the constant instructor inspections and their subsequent vituperation had pressed the imperative nature of clothing-regulations in a highly-starched crease down the center of my mental fabric.

That crease was ever present as my mother had come to meet me following my release from the commencement ceremony. As she'd greeted me with a familial embrace I was careful not to allow my uniform to be unduly disrupted, and I was quick to ensure that all necessary adjustments were made to properly align my garments just as I'd been trained. Once my uniform was adjusted there was little discussion as to what to do in the following moments due to the limitations of on-base attractions and time.

There was an area nearby that had been designated especially for commencements. This area was to have food, seating, restrooms, but most importantly on a sweltering Texas summer day- AIR CONDITIONING. After informing my mother of this key factor we proceeded directly to this large, nondescript, and numbered metal building along with a large percentage of the others that had been in attendance of this day's commencements.

The inside of the building was cramped, crowded, and cacophonous so that it seemed like a sardine-can that had been overfilled before having been sealed air-tight so as to trap the eternal echoes of sardine-screeches inside of it (or something just as awful). However, the outside temperature and humidity were on an electronic screen displayed prominently, and the air inside seemed like an arctic dream come true for all the sweat-soaked souls that invariably decried the triple-digit integers after seeing them upon this screen. I personally welcomed the building's cool compression as it offered a promise of ceasing my slow-soaking sweat from permeating through my uniform and causing shame to seep out onto myself and all that the uniform was to represent as a result.

When my mother and I found the menu it turned out to be quite limited. Aside from beverages and side-items the dining options had been nachos, burgers, or chili dogs. By the time we'd been able to order however they had run-out of burgers and the nachos had appeared as sad stale discs of off-white spackled cardboard stuffed into a flimsy see-through plastic carton with a reserved square section of a rubberized and solidifying orange-yellow ooze. Since my mother was not restricted to extended confinement on base she'd opted to postpone eating until later. Given my ravenous hunger and perspective food prospects I'd ordered a pair of meat-slop smothered tubes of miscellaneous meat-byproducts more euphemistically known as chili dogs.

After having retrieved my order of sustenance/slop my mother and I began weaving through the sea of sardine-packed people trying to find an available table. Just as a space opened-up at a table nearby someone came bounding through the crowd like a pinball ricocheting unpredictably off of the human obstacles on its journey to... somewhere. A nearby human obstacle had tried to avoid colliding with this pinball-person, and in doing so inadvertently forced the chili dogs I had been holding cautiously in front of me to be squashed and smeared into the front of my all-important Air Force Blues.

The subsequent apologies, napkins, soda water, and frantic scrubbing in front of a bathroom sink had only managed to reduce the mark of the chili dogs from a dark to medium brown. The splotch on my uniform was still prominent enough to have been considered an abomination by the innumerous training instructors, and could have even been considered an offense punishable by death. My only means of salvation from this scourge was to access a replacement uniform before having encountered any such authority figure.

Since the dorm had been off limits, and my other uniforms had all been sent for laundering my only viable option was to acquire a new uniform. My first attempt at this was to visit the very building where I'd been issued my uniforms during the early days of my training. This clothing-issue building was within a walking distance, but it was by no means close to the chili dog building.

In order to reach this building without too obviously displaying my shameful stain I'd had my mother walk slightly in front of me and to the side of approaching human eyes. I'd also made use of a discarded paper menu by holding it over the more prominent portion of the stain. With every person that entered into my vicinity it seemed as if the sweltering sun had increased the day's insufferable heat that much more.

By the time we'd reached the clothing-issue building they were closing the doors. I'd attempted to appeal to the clothing-issuer with the keys by conveying the life-and-death implications of my plight while also having offered vast sums of money in exchange for the necessary replacement clothing items. Despite my desperate attempts the clothing issuer had informed me that no sale of such items had been permitted at this post, and that I would have to venture to a building far across the expanse of the base grounds known as "clothing-sales" in order to purchase uniform items.

After graciously receiving directions to this clothing-sales location my mother and I had proceeded in the same strange manner as before with her following in front of me as I'd strategically positioned my paper stain-masking menu. Upon reaching the entry-way of the clothing-sales building we'd observed that it had closed some time before our arrival, and that there would have been no way for us to have reached it before its scheduled closing time. In referencing the time it had also became apparent that it was going to be extremely difficult for me to journey back to the dorm without being late, especially considering how running in Air Force Blues had been strictly prohibited.

My mother then assured me that she could find her way to the shuttles that would return her to the hotel off base where she was staying, and I had left her with an abrupt and awkward goodbye. I'd then taken off at a brisk pace in the general direction of the dorms. Along the way back I'd kept scanning for other humans as I'd alternated between jogging and walking with the menu-mask always held in front of the stain. At some point I'd wondered if this would have been what it was like to have been an insurgent, but my mind had raced quickly past this and all other notions as I'd continued onward.

By the time I'd reached the dorm the clock had shown that I was 2 minutes late. Despite this fact I was surprised to have discovered that our flight instructor had not shown-up yet. I was also shocked to learn that a note had been left to inform everyone that they could change out of their Blues once they'd returned to the dorm, and that we were to then begin packing for the next day's departures.

Upon reading this note that had been plastered up in the commons area I'd gladly changed out of my Blues before having stuffed them deep into my laundry bag. Everyone else on flight had been in the dorm chatting-away about their joys of the day when I'd returned, and it had seemed as if none of them had noticed me, my stain, or my elated relief. After I'd finally settled into my bunk that night I'd wondered if I'd ever been as supremely thrilled at having been left unnoticed, and then I'd slipped into another dreamless sleep without having noticed either.

Down To The Coals...

In this trial by fire
this life in a blaze
every flame will tire
choking in a haze

Everything burns or
is burned by it all
Everyone's consumed
or frozen in an early Fall

See all these burned-out faces
seared with scar-like expressions
See all these melt-down places
molded in charred-out impressions

They're all down to the coals
& on the way to a frozen hell
Old mountains smolder as knolls
wafting a cauterized smog-smell

Of course I've been burning too
in my fever to stay warm
but my flame now barely flickers
under a dark & gathering storm

Now I'm down to the coals
and I'm smoldering away
In need of some fuel to find me
beneath these ashes in the way

An acid rain pours down
from a polluted sky that cries
Its rain-tears slowly drown
as all these fires euripize
Is this sky's wrath vindictive
or is this flood sympathetic?
Failing flames agonize to agnise

And it's all down to the coals
-unto ashes or back with flames
As it's been so many times
there's what has burned
& what burns yet still remains

As I Stare At My Pen...

My thoughts are out of shape
and the ink won't form words
So I just stare at my pen

There are occasional spasms
but the ink just doesn't look right
So I just stare at my pen

If these thoughts won't collect in ink
I'll just stare at my pen
If the ink doesn't shape them right
I'll just stare at my pen
As my mind is draining down some sink
I just stare at my pen
As my soul lacks either light or might
I just stare at my pen

Because my eyes can't see it in themselves
when it's not reflecting
and my ears cannot hear themselves
while my silenced voice isn't echoing
I'll stare and stare
as if to instigate my own will to dare

I'll just stare at my pen
and stare until the next time when...
the words show me something
more than a load of more nothing
and turn this phallic-like-scepter
into a magical-wand or an enchanted receptor
but for as long as it takes, and until then
I'll stare and stare
and stare at my pen

Humanity In Hiding...

There's a love-sickened creature nearby that is trying to explain various abstract notions as to the essence of an un-named entity that has somehow afflicted him with an affectionate obsession that he regularly refers to as love.

"To even see her as a human being-" he says,
"you have to look past all the layers of chaos constructed around her."

As my ears encounter these words they hone-in on the love-sickened speaker despite my mind's strong aversion to eaves-dropping. They seem to do so in much the same way that flies are drawn to the scent of excrement. Upon realizing this I immediately muse myself in thinking that perhaps this is just the kind of pschyt that humans instinctively feast upon despite any inherently negative connotations.

Meanwhile the love-sickened rather eloquently explains how it isn't just the graffiti-like tattoos or their juxtaposition to her otherwise scantly-clad flesh that obscures her human-essence. The innumerous assortment of piercings that renders her likeness as somewhat of a low-tech cyborg or some shrapnel-skewered soul does not explain the extent of her humanity-masking obstructions either. Even to look past the hyper-colored arrays of her ever-altered phosphorescent hair-configurations which perpetually obscure her eyes- that have been rendered unnaturally black by either contact lenses, sorcery, or some other modern scientific advances in cosmetology will still not offer even so much as a glimpse of her human-essence according to the love-sickened.

With a hint of some inner-conflict the love-sickened continues to elaborate as to how even for someone to glimpse beyond this fabricated-facade she's constructed around herself one must tread through the wake of this chaotic circus that seems to constantly envelop her. This circus contains (among many things) a coven of similarly chaotic characters that he describes as though they continually revolve around her with constant cackles and chatter. Upon hearing these supplementary characters described my mind conjures-up images of swarming bats that screech-out protective spells as they create a cloud surrounding her.

Supplementary to these uninhibited familiars the love-sickened depicts a wake of fragile and shattered male psyches that figuratively fail both as suitors and as drama students. Despite the failure of these supplemental creatures the love-sickened articulates how they are seemingly unable to get out of their costumes and relinquish their addictive-auditioning for the role of leading-man in the highly improvisational comedic-tragedy of this chaotic central-character's life.

After discussing the minutia of these addicted-auditioners, the characteristics of the chaotic-coven, and a host of social-constructs the love-sickened's conversational-counterpart advises him that any attempt for him to peer deeper into the human-essence of this chaotic-character will likely be futile.

The love-sickened concedes this point to his conversational-counterpart and goes on to provide what would seem to act as supporting evidence to the validity of this rebuttal. After arbitrarily asking to suppose these barriers can be perceptually-penetrated the love-sickened describes how so many layers of obstructions and disguises further obscure his affectionately-adored's humanity. Much of her speech is described by the love-sickened as consisting of referential regurgitations, banal besmirchments, and a plethora of pejorative-platitudes that function as cynical-shadows that swallow and conceal any real sentiments within the oblivion of their domain.

After listening to the love-sickened describe a myriad of masks of this affectionately-adored's non-verbal idiosyncrasies, gestures, and facial expressions it seems as if only a series of disguises could subsist in the depths of her true & abysmally removed human-self. From his depiction it is as if she is so purely comprised of deceptive layers that it even seems as if her very soul must consist of some series of confounding riddles encrypted and inscribed on the surfaces of some hypercube-puzzle-thing.

Just as it seems as if the love-sickened's account of this affectionately-adored soul is too dismal to permit my ears from continuing their heist of my mind's attention he says some other pschyt that recaptures my insect-like auditory focus.

"...but if you could see through all of these layers..."

Without completing this sentence the love-sickened seems to settle upon some quiet and esoteric sense of comprehensive catharsis. His conversational-counterpart silently nods his head along the invisible affirmative directional axis, and he seems to observe this moment of silence in much the same way as those called for in instances of collective commemorative mourning. I find myself in a similarly strange state as my mind can only understand this silence as a form of absence, and I cannot accurately or acceptably conceptualize what it is that has vanished and thus created this hollow vacancy.

As the silence becomes unnerving my mind welcomes the sounds of buzzing machines, un-synchronized footsteps, and the greater cacophony of what must be more than voices and insects. Then as my mind becomes re-acquainted with this subtle and constant chaos I begin to hear the sounds of my own heart beats and breaths.  After a while my mind serves-up a few words to fully pacify me as I slip comfortably back into a state of homogeneous solace. "Humanity will always remain in hiding"...

Occupancy Of An Abandoned Whore-House...

I've been looking for work
and have begun to feel
as if finding a decent job
is about as promising an endeavor
as looking for a nice chaste lady
in an abandoned whore-house

Wandering through these ruins
there are haunts and relics that
make it seem as if such decent
and disparate things once existed
-like the words of old men that
speak of how they started-out
-or the framed first-dollar-earned
that remains perched on an office wall
behind some ancient owner's proud desk

These things seem as out of time
as a chastity belt left to rust
within the dust-covered space
of some faded chalk-outline

Now it seems every employee
considers themselves no more
than a prostitute of professionalism
bound by some indentured indecency

And somehow this defiled vacancy
is continually saturated to max-capacity
as vast covens of occupational occupants
steadily empty their hollowed-out shadows
into the abasement of this abominable abyss

In all this horror I wonder of the living
They must be out there somewhere
or hidden behind all this bitter darkness
And they must be waiting & wanting
to get out of these abandoned whore-houses
& to build a more lively place
where they can live, & work,
& do more than just phuck
and get phucked-over

That Little Light Of Mine...

Before I was very bright
I used to sing songs upon command
One song, I remember
was about a light
& I'd sing it even without any demand

In that song I swore an oath
that I would so solemnly shine
a single little light,
a little light of mine

At that age such proclamations
were more a timbre than a testament
like vows of a prearranged espousement
or the pledge of allegiances to nations

Still,
I swore to take my little light
around the world & let it shine
(although the ways I'd not define)

As dim as I was then
I'd had some sense of light
but beyond where I had been
was a dark I'd yet to fight

According to the song
I would protect my light
from any that would blow
like winds of a Stygian-night

Now whatever light remains
of that little light of mine
still flickers, flares, & strains
as it refuses to resign

And I'll burn till I burn-out
in the decrescendo of a song
or an abruptly silenced shout

For that little light of mine
has just so long to shine
and that little light of mine
I'll let it...

Phantoms In Their Fugue...

These ghosts of people

that haunt themselves

with their own absence

They cast their vacant shadows

where the darkness has always

been indifferent and unaffected

by the nothingness of such

faint and flattened figures

All of them declare themselves

to be the hushed silences

that exist despite them

as they are but

phantoms

in their 

fugue

These imaginary creatures

all walking, and talking, 

and completely convinced

that they are each an enchanted hero

in their own live-action life-story

that unfolds unto this world-setting

And all these other characters

only mistake themselves as if

they are the true heroes 

in some supplementary script

None of them see themselves as

the supporting characters,

villains, and extras

that have lost the real plot

They all complain to some

absent or deaf director

that all these others are

ruining all of their scenes

None of them can see

how they have been re-cast

as phantoms in their fugue

They have all been erased

by their own imagination

and reality has been removed

from their field of depth

or pushed out of their frame

As their eyes linger in lost lenses

they do not even notice

the lack of their reflection

And they go on like this somehow

perpetually oblivious and fading

as phantoms in their fugue

Megalomania/Martyrdom...

My Truth
MY Truth
My truth is your command
My Gawd
MY GAWD
My gawd will guide my hand

I tell you
and it's true
cause I speak divine demands
I damn you
for what you do
cause it's not within thy plans

You asked me
what I'm for
and I've listed all I'm against
You ask me
much more
and I shake self-righteous fists

My bombs, my guns, by blades
Don't you know they've all been blessed
My wrath, my mind, my hands
Don't you know they'll never once rest

My truth
MY Truth
My truth is my mortal test
My life
My death
All to serve in this protest

I tell you
what to do,
how to think, and what to profess
I warn you
not to
illuminate things that I detest

You ask me
why not
and I list all the weapons I've got
You ask me
what I've wrought
and I brag of the battles I've fought

MY Bombs, MY Guns, MY Blades
Destroy the wrongs all yet to confess
MY Wrath, MY Mind, MY Hands
Anoint themselves by all that I attest

My blood
MY Blood
My blood boils over
My blood
MY Blood
My blood spills over

As I die
you try
to make sense of what I've done
As you cry
I sigh
and pray for vengeance on everyone

You see me
and you think
my hatred dies with me
You see me
and I wink
cause my war's still yet to be

My hate
MY Hate
My hate carries over
Your Love
your love
your love turns over

Fish Out of Water...

Fish flop and fly
frolicking in the flow
One fish flies far
without a splash below
Stranded on a muddy shore
and flapping for a storm,
Praying,
"Rain, Rain, drown this pain,
and I'll swim forever-more!"
As a clear blue sky burns so blue
with a West wind blowing through

On banks nearby today
the fisherman all say
Fish On
Fish On
They're running in this stream
Fish On
Fish On
They're biting like a dream

Fish bite and spawn
in waters oblivious of the shore
Flowing by as fly-fish flounder
under a sky the birds adore
Till drought will drain the water
and their beds become a shore
Then fish helpless to the vultures
are picked to bone-hull core

While far away at sea
the boatmen sign with glee
Fish On
Fish On
The nets are filled to their extreme
Fish On
Fish On
and live this sailors' dream

Schools of fish dismissed
diminished by the drought
while birds fester in their feathers
with no fish to fill them out
The fishermen all stranded
by boats with empty nets
As sharks prey on depths abandoned
to the abyss all else forgets

While all along the shallows
the hungry birds all scream
Fish Gone
Fish Gone
There's no sign of any bream
Fish Gone
Fish Gone
The water's turned to steam

Rains come, floods flow
and pour back deeper streams
From deep below
the realm of common schemes
fish come, fish flow,
and swim as new regimes
And other fish will fly so high
above the new reviving stream

Then birds and fishermen sing
the song of every spring
Fish On
Fish On
We've missed you in this stream
Fish On
Fish On
And spawn the next years' dream

The Little Engine That Shouldn't Have...

I recently revisited one of the bed-time stories that had become idealized by the subconscious distillation process that naturally occurs when childhood experiences are left to fondly ferment in the untended vats of altricial memories. My recollections of "The Little Engine That Could" prior to this reexamination had predominantly consisted of impressionistic abstracts linked to venerable notions such as perseverance, diligence, and optimism. Upon reexamining this tale I found a litany of much less venerable elements of symbolism, implication, and somewhat subliminal messaging lurking beneath the narrative of this story. My reexamination of this children's classic has made it appear as more of a blueprint for some real-life horror-story or modern dystopia than the motivational adventure I'd once believed it to have been.

In the beginning of this tale a red engine chugs up a hill with a payload consisting of all kinds of toy-animals, all kinds of dolls, a toy-clown, and lots of tasty Michelle Obama approved treats. As the soviet-red engine pulls its load of what might be consolidated in terminology to be opiates for the masses it breaks down like the chromatically corresponding crimson tide of communist Russia. All the occupants of the train then try to push the red-engine up the hill, but like the stranded population of Russia following the fall of communism they find themselves too weak to effectively move their stalled government-machine forward.

Following the stagnation of this soviet-machine the anthropomorphized toys appeal to a series of color-coded engines that appear to serve as the symbolic vessels of non-soviet modalities. The first of these symbolic vessels the toys appeal to is a golden engine that arrogantly boasts of having luxuriously transported oligarchical passengers as it refuses to assist these metaphorically-marooned toys. Although this engine has completed its daily duties proudly and these toys have offered no compensation in exchange for this engine's services an implied sense of scorn is assigned to this elitist-train in snide declarations that it is headed to the train roundhouse where trains go when they have nothing to do.

The next color-coded engine to encounter the toys stranded in the middle of their self-important escort-only-journey to go and play with children located at a higher metaphorical/geographical local is... black. Note: Due to this tale's apparently progressive p.o.v. any potentially racist symbolism presented by this chromaticism must be considered incidental rather than intentional as there are of course no racist progressives. This happens-to-be-black engine also refuses to assist the stagnant toys as it states that it is quite tired after a long day of pulling important things, and it too proceeds unloaded to the roundhouse (as it is again noted that trains go to this place when they have nothing to do). Also Note: A less condescending tone is used to shame this train in its refusal to pull the toys as it is painted as an arch-typically overworked and exploited proletariat vessel manipulated by the system into becoming unfeelingly dismissive of those stranded so near to them.

Having been dismissed by two implicitly callous capitalist-vessels marked by strong masculine/patriarchal traits the toys continue to wait for another vessel to come to their aid. At no point is there even an allusion to considerations for them to simply walk the rest of the way to their prescribed destination. It is also unclear as to whether or not another engine might be dispatched for them should the black or gold trains forward the news of their stalled journey at the roundhouse upon their arrival. Note: Perhaps what is most troubling is the solipsistic predisposition of the toys that masquerades in this tale as a protagonist's plight as their quest to please children precludes any consideration for the mere possibility of validity in the omitted backstories or continued plot-lines of the unassisting engines (but I digress...).

Luckily for the stagnant toys a more petite and sympathetic feminine engine painted a democratic-party blue arrives. Note: The symbolic implications of this feminine train's blue color may additionally indicate something of a transgender or rebellious feminist nature given the long-standing associated uses of blue for boys and pink for girls. This little blue engine quickly points out to the toys that it feels small and has never been up the mountain before as if to imply that female trains are not given the same opportunities as other trains. Despite the little-blue engine's disclaimer/missive she none-the-less pleasantly agrees to pull the toys up (capitol?) hill to the elevated childrens' whereabouts.

Then armed only with the power of positive thinking, the moral support of the toys riding on her back, and an author's intent to bring a climatic "you-go-girl" moment into fictional fruition the little blue engine delivers these toys to the predestined empyrean peak of child-mountain. All is implicitly made right in the world, and its happily ever after, &c, &c, &c...

Considering the numerous concerns I have over this tale and the length at which I have already gone in this admittedly snide synopsis I will soon adjourn my dissertations until later or perhaps never. In any case I hope that anyone reading this manages to make their way up whatever proverbial hill they are climbing, and I encourage that you to do so on your own steam as I believe that will offer the most satisfying result. Should you require assistance it is of course perfectly acceptable to ask of others, but you might be well advised to know that they are all on journeys of their own of which you may know nothing. And whatever else there is to say about this or any other story there's always power in affirming those little-engine words "I think I can"....

Misanthropic Principle...

The greater the amount of humanity is viewed,
the greater the aversion to humanity is seen.

The Wind Echoes The Owl...

It's late at night
and I'm running again
Running and thinking
Thinking about the world
that hides somewhere
in all this darkness and
rests reticent somewhere
beneath all the lunar silence
And I'm wishing someone
could wake us all from
our nightmarish slumber
as a breeze brings banter
from a banal barn-owl

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO...

My mind is filled with flickers
of names, & news, & nonsense
as the wind calm and cool
carries the faintest sounds
from the eons far and wide
to where my ears reside
I'm wondering of the origins
of all these ancient whispers
and I wish this wind knew
a name to cast the blame
for all these diurnal blights
and perpetually placated pains

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO...

My mind and muscles
in automated-ataxia run along
to the convoluted cadence of an
unsung &/or unsingable song
The song of some syllabic-search
for rhymes and reasons
that can only be feigned as such
and quiesced at the sounds
of this song's own treasons
As essences of words themselves
demand to be declared through
exhalations of some divine
or decent/dignifiable name

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO... 

My mind and muscles
diminished of all might tonight
return to where they first began
this run upon the nocturne-land
And I'm left to question who I am
And who cares
And who knows...
As the world still hides
in all this darkness
and the inquired words
are hushed by starkness

& I listen for the wind
as...
The wind echoes the owl
...wHOO...wHOO...

Four Eyes (Not Two)...

There are not two but four eyes
that the mind sees through
These are the eyes of
  To Me
  By Me
  Through Me
  & As me

Through the eye of To Me
the world happens to you
and you are at its mercy
Of course the world has
no mercy, and so you'll see
that you are its victim
in its reflections of your view

Through the eye of By Me
blame is cleared from view
and personal responsibility
becomes a magnifying lens
so that all you see is amplified
by your view of what you'd
insist that it all should look like

Through the eye of Through Me
the death-grip need for control
is released from ocular constriction
and the eye is cleansed with a
faith and trust in a larger view
so that what will happen can happen
and you can see it without glaring

Through the eye of As me
the heated friction derived
from seeing self vs environment
is soothed to a cool calm
as the eye relaxes its pupils
so that a larger view of both
the self's soul and the world as a whole
are harmoniously illuminated
by the very same constructing light

These are the eyes
that reveal the I's
behind their view

Here's looking at you...

Adam Ate The Apple...

The sun was shine'n'
over that garden grand
as the old snake came slither'n'
and advertise'n' its brand
Of all the varied fruits
from all their different roots
that apple red delicious
had hardly seemed malicious
despite the prohibition,
the warnings, and apprehension
And as the apple of his eye
urged him to taste the sky
adam ate the apple
but never did say why

...and now, and how
we all walk, and talk, and feast
like men, like women,
-not descendants of some beast
All of us so all consuming
of all we're led to be assuming
We breathe the breaths of adverse ads
and follow the paths of stagnated nomads
while ill-advised appeals replace ideals
as greater thought gives way to feels
and we choke 'cause we refuse to cough
being strangled by bitter scorn and scoff
as if our adam's apple were a snare
to trap us in the sins we share
since adam ate the apple
and still we don't know where

...and now, and how
the headlines turn heads into lines
releasing memes from their confines
while quotes, stats, and evidence skews
until it all supports the narrowed views
as the men and women are all turned to stone
to bear inscriptions of some subscribed throne
All becoming one and the same
as the snake that started-off this game
when adam ate the apple
of what knowledge we proclaim

A Parental-Parable...

I was standing behind someone in line. They spoke loudly into their cellphone, and I couldn't avoid overhearing what was being said. Essentially it sounded like a parable of elementary-aged twins with an impending birthday and a set of circumstantial concerns related to this approaching event.

One of the twins was interested in models. From the discussion the supposed parental figure was divulging into the open air and cellphone network I deduced that the progeny was predominantly enthused by the kind of models that require diagrams, specialty glues, and assembly rather than wardrobes, professional lighting, and lavish levels of narcissistic supply. It sounded as if this doppelganger had been in good standing with his teachers and parents, and that there was only the lingering question as to what particular modeling-kit would be purchased and bestowed upon him for his annual commemorative celebration day.

The other duple had demanded a kitten as a token of admiration for his demonstrated prowess in surviving yet another year of elementary existence and educational tribulations. This duple had been recently reprimanded for refusals to share with his constituents at the educational institute where he was still presently deployed. I heard the voice in front of me imply that given this circumstance and the fact that one of the parental-entities possessed feline-allergies perhaps some other token should be considered for this impending occasion.

I found myself almost annoyed by the dissemination of these audible insights as I waited in line, but then I noticed something. My eyes had instinctively been scanning over all the last-chance items that had been arranged like beggars under the command of a military drill-instructor with OCD, and one of these pleading packages drew my attention. Perhaps the advertisers for this particular product had succeeded, or maybe my mind was showing early signs of some cognitive-collapse, but my hands reached over as if possessed by some imbued spirit's ataxia, and requisitioned two of these individually wrapped products.

Just then the voice had ended its cellphone transmission. I requested the attention of the beguiled parental-person before mentioning that I had inadvertently overheard their preceding conversation. Then I passively posited that I might have had a solution to this parental-parable. With a look of favorable inquisitiveness I was asked pleasantly to divulge my advice.

I handed the parental patron two KitKats®. The first one I explained, was for the twins. This would serve as a model for sharing thus allowing the model-enthusiast a gift fitting his interests, and providing the stingy duple with educational reinforcement while still granting him the gift of a Kat in accordance with his wishes.

The parental person appeared to have become perplexed and perturbed by my humble suggestion. Then holding the second KitKat® in front of us the beguiled guardian asked me why I'd handed-over this duple-delicacy. I calmly pointed to the advertised slogan printed upon the front face of the wrapper and mentioned that I thought given what I'd heard perhaps it wouldn't hurt for a parent to give themselves a break too. (Even if such a break required paying full retail-price).

Before the perplexed parent could thank or condemn me another register opened-up, and I cordially excused them to take advantage of the reduced wait. I didn't see if the parent ended-up purchasing the treats or putting them back on the shelf. Perhaps I'll never know if I was of any help in this parental-parable. As much as I'd like to have thought that my recommendations had been useful, by the time I was actually ready to check-out I'd added a Snickers® to my cart.

Note: I do not have any children of my own. You are all welcome.

Colloquial Prognosis (This Goes On)...

The door-to-door salesman
has gone peer-to-peer
as mailmen are replaced
by another kind of drone
and all the people go postal
posting pitches and pantomimes
as mankind mimics mockery
in a meta-maniacal mundane mania
growing cynical of all but cynicism
declaring everything catastrophic
except for the existential catastrophe
they decry of every attempted apostrophe
for the possession of only dispositions
has dispossessed the sovereign soul
from every so-called sentiment professed
as fear and loathing become dearly blessed
while the social-senate sanctifies sedition
and sedates the sanctimonious until sinister is best
as the market crashes and crashes are marketed
in the downward spiral of spin-doctor-sales-pitches
advising spaniels submit to be spade & segregated
so as to spare other bitches
from slumbering unto their eternal sleep
while everything without a remote controller
is gradually turned down or off
as it all goes on and on
going on and on like this

And It's All Screaming...

The sun rises slowly
and the birds and bird-brained
begin their vital vociferation
As owls disappear knowingly
from the light and the light-stained
that complicates their contemplation
For it's all screeching, all beseeching
And it's without dreaming
And it's all screaming

I open my eyes to the blinding glare
as my alarm sounds its horrid blare
And it's time to move
and get into the daily groove
With the radio, tv, &/or internet on
Advertisements declare new dawn
Each signal streaming
Every impulse beaming
Not as it is, but as it's seeming
And it's all just scheming
and it's all screaming

Faces face the bumper-to-bumper
Exiled from their existential stumper
Stranded in these crowds and droves
with scalded hands held over stoves
All silenced by the dense distractions
All numbed and dulled to real reactions
The desperation in each stare
This disparate journey to no where
All so demeaning, beyond redeeming
and it's all so quiet & violently teeming
and it's all screaming

The faces facing-off
take turns trading talking-scoff
As mockers mock this mockery
Debauched by this debauchery
Voices raised in frantic phrases
All trails lost to inflammatory blazes
And everyone is steaming
in this infernal mainstreaming
And death presides undreaming
and it's all just screaming

Redundant Redundancies Redoubled...

Can't go anywhere at all

without going back to being gone

Can't do anything at all

without doing what's been done

Head spinning round

in a round spinning world

   in a spinning galaxy

     in a spinning universe

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Double-down & double-down again

Gotta get away, get out, get over it

without leaving, without grieving

Gotta get on with it, or get into it

without thieving, without deceiving

Double-down & double-down

So as to get back what fortune lost

Till there's no affording the fortune's cost

Double-down to double-back & double-up

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Echolalia! Echolalia!

Trying to go somewhere and get something

Till arriving at nowhere and finding nothing

With all that's lost in the infinite inbetweens

Lost again to dead-eyed glares

Cast over these graveyard scenes

As zombies seek-out zombies

& vampires suck on vampires

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Echolalia! Echolalia!

The exit signs of the prison marked

& illuminated through hours night & day

The roads from every here to where-

All made clearly legible in this same way

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Echolalia! Echolalia!

Proclaim!! Proclaim!!

Caught dizzy in this circle as a square

Gone woozy as a renegade in despair

Then falling in a twisted fate

Then falling as the heart beats faint

From the nothingness before first birth

To the final void for what it's worth

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Redundant redundancies redoubled

Echolalia!! Echolalia!!

Proclaim!!! Proclaim!!!

The Bird-Merdre Bridge...

I sometimes walk under this rail-bridge
On a sidewalk spackled with thick-layers
Of bird-merdre from feathered nesters above
The cars whiz past me with amplified echoes
& trains trudge-along causing violent tremors
The birds all flap their feathers in futile frenzies
At these perpetually perturbing passing sounds
Before they return to their roosts and perches
And its all right there like it is everywhere

The trains return to their stations time and again
Just like those dirty pshyt-spackling birds
The cars go here and there and always home again
Just like those circle-chirping feather-flapping birds
And I walk right under, and next-to, and over it all
With the cargo-clamor rattling and resonating through my bones
And the aural-automotive atrocities agglomerated to my footsteps
As my mind flaps and flutters in its futile furies
& the fallen fecal-filth I tread through sticks to my shoes
While I traverse the terrain between one nowhere and another
and I'm the same there as everything is everywhere

It's all just scattered pshyt and futile flapping
It's all going around in the same circles over and over
and getting nowhere else without taking the same pshyt
you walked out of right along with you
whether you go right back to your nest above it all or not
It's all the same clamor, and clatter, and chirping, and chatter

But then there are those few times
In a few of these very same places
When you find yourself somewhere
Or on your way between nowheres
And there you find everything is missing
The trains and their tremors are elsewhere
The cars and their clatter are between commutes
The birds have all flown away or been chased off
and the rains have rinsed away the spackled-pshyt
Then and there in all that abysmal absence
You find something so austere and obscene
That you can neither stay nor leave
Because your shoes will chase it away if you stay
And if you leave it will never be there for you again

I think that's why it's the same everywhere
All those fine places we try to stay must leave us
and all the places we leave are stuck to the bottom of our soles
or are lost to us before we ever get there
For all our dreams of fortuitous flights through sparkling/soaring skies
We keep awaking to some bridge above our own fallen feathers and filth
Where every local motion is a locomotive commotion

We can never stay
We don't know how to leave
and we don't know how to arrive

One day I'm going to learn to fly
and I'm not going to pshyt on everything beneath me
and I'm not going to perch anywhere near the cars and trains
that go from one nowhere to the next along the same paths
One day I'm going to fly away
from this bird-merdre bridge
and all the futile feather-flappers

Until the day I finally fly
I'm just going to practice proper flight
I'm not going to chirp and chatter
over the tremors and traffic
I'm not going to flap my feathers in futility
I'm not going to pshyt on everything below
So that on the day I finally fly
I'll be able to leave the bird-merdre bridge
To really leave it
and not take any of its pshyt with me
To properly arrive at someplace proper
and be able to stay there too

One day I'm going to learn to fly
And there will be no bird-merdre bridge

Cold Feet On The Coals Of Hell...

Walking along
However wrong
With cold feet
On a burning street
Coals roasting against the soles
Holes melting through their wholes
With a smoke-singed sinister smell
from these cold feet on the coals of hell

Which steps had gone so wrong
How are strides misled so long
As feet still walk along
Each step so ever wrong
While coals still callous soles
Of these evaporating souls
And blisters coat these feet
Still cold despite this heat
Their steps still cast as if by a spell
That curses cold upon these feet
Feet frozen upon the coals of hell

Where else is there
What sight beyond a stare
Just as uncertain as unaware
Without care enough to dare
Tread on and not away from this
Reaching no grounds to later miss
With nowhere left along the right of way
Only melted glaciers of fire-lakes today
Where cold drips from frozen soles
That waste away on aimless strolls
As strides curse footsteps where they fell
Upon these cold feet on the coals of hell

Far too dumb or cowardly still
With no want to fuel a lack of will
All this nerve that cannot feel
All face lost and turning heel
As coals still melt the soles
Burning holes through souls
While no force can attract or repel
These cold feet on the coals of hell

0.0 Precursor (Caustic's Opening Chapter)...

Something in this world has gone terribly wrong with me. If I had known what it had been I wouldn't have decided to have demeaned myself by having written these words. I have only resorted to words as a desperate and perhaps final attempt to have understood what it is that has gone so terribly wrong.

These words should not be misconstrued as anything other than an infernal investigation of my insidious existence. These words have not been intended to have served as a confession, an artistic expression, or anything else a soul might deceive itself into having believed. If anyone aside from myself should come to have read these words let it be known that I did not write such words with any intention or consideration regarding how they might have been received. All of these words will have been mine alone and they have only been intended to have served me.

I had decided to have used writing as a means of having explored my quandary because of the fact that writing has long been dead. Since much of my existence had been so heavily involved in death writing had seemingly been a naturally suitable method for this existential-exhumation. Had I not already understood the role of death in the course of my existence writing would have been as useless to me as the words above every grave have been to the corpses beneath them.

My reasons for having discerned that writing has been dead haven’t been wondrously ground-breaking or elucidating. I’ve not been the only entity to have walked through the tunnels and corridors in the catacombs of this world having searched for meaning and found but words. Many more eyes than my own have buried themselves in the pages of the great or so-called-great novels, poems, and essays to have found nothing greater than the silenced echoes of the unutterable dead.

My entombed-eyes had seen how all the writers that had ever existed with any degree of talent or potential had been plagued with death. Their lives had been no more than prequels to their obituaries and their obituaries had been no more than a summary of their death. The writers all died having thought their words would have lived-on and that their deaths would not have been so desolate and vain.

Their words had all decomposed just the same as they had. Some of them had festered longer than others but all of them have gone to rot. There had been some remnants of words that other writers had necromanced and attempted to have resurrected or conjured into their own words. These necrophilic-possessions had been no more than injections of embalming-fluids to the marrow of their literary-skeletons.

As their headstones have crumbled and the ashes of their pages have vanished in dead-airs all these writers have only decayed in eternal oblivion. The words of all these corpses have become the antiquated ghosts of decaying sentiments. They haunt only the cadavers that have long been dead despite all these spirited words.

I’ve already understood that my own words will have been no different. These words will not have lived any more than I and I had never even been born into this world but had been delivered undead. With these words I will have but gazed into the face of my existential decay so that I may have glared back into this void of death and dying. If I am to have died it shall not have been without the horror of this grim scowl having been reflected. 

So let these words be known for all that any words have ever been. Let these words be doomed to have become the self-proclaimed death-rattles of but another maligned corpse. Let it have been known that even as these words had been written I had either been dead or dying. Let anyone that is to have looked upon these words have been forewarned by those terms that have been engraved above the catacombs that shall have forever become host to my dissolve-

“Let no one follow in these footsteps, lest they become their own”.

When I Was small...

When i was small
every little thing
was a big deal

An ice cream cone
could make my day
A new toy could
entertain me for ages
A small compliment
could define who i was

When i was small
nothing substantial
amounted to much

A house was nothing
but the place i slept
A car was nothing
but a way around
A job was nothing
but a tiny chore

When i was small
everything made sense
or didn't matter

The sky was blue
and i could play
If i skinned my knee
i could finish playing
before i got a bandaid

When i was small
everything was close
everything was within reach

My friends were
only a phone call away
My dreams were only
a wish or an extra chore away
My every delight
was at the edge of my fingertips

When i was small
i'd dream big
and live small
i'd play hard
and work playfully

The bigger i got
the smaller all those little things seemed to be
as everything substantial amounted to much more
and less and less made sense but more and more mattered
until it all seemed so far away and out of my reach
and my dreams diminished
and life was too big
and it was too hard to play
and there was so much serious work to do
And I had grown out of everything that used to fit so nicely
And I had wished that I could've remembered what it was like
When I was small

I guess sometimes less is more
and more is sometimes less
i should have learned
to grow with greater gratitude
and not just increased magnitude
I should have appreciated what i'd known
When I was small

CAUSTIC...

NOW AVAILABLE!!!

Something in this world has gone terribly wrong. Having been delivered into this world undead an unnamed narrator recounts its existential dissolution in order to determine what has gone so wrong. It may have had something to do with the narrator's origins, a Kuru epidemic, the Vory's coercion of Empyrean and Revelationist global systems, or any number of things.

Available on Amazon in kindle and paperback
Also available in paperback on Createspace.

All the Birds Will Sing for You...

Born into this world alone
Ventured out all on your own
Found a face and found a home
Nestled in your chosen throne
Watched as little birds had flown
Without the need to hide or roam

So at ease in every where
Always with that peaceful stare
Beaming back at every glare
All your long and wild hair
Tangled-up without a care
Beyond the joy of being there

All the birds will sing for you
Grass will grow and sway there too
Winds will turn the sky to blue
Clearing clouds that rained for you
And all the birds will sing for you

The magic of the sounds you made
Remains though all the echoes fade
Many wish you'd longer stayed
Despite all time or how you'd greyed
Before you'd gone into that shade

All the birds there sing for you
The way you'd always asked them to
They'll flap their wings and play for you
As grasses grow and dance there too
The birds will always sing for you

Beware of Man...

Beware the man
that gets what he
does NOT want,
for it is rarely by
mere fates that such
things may be received

Beware the man
that gets more
than is merited by
his deeds,
for this has been
the way that many
have been deceived

Beware the man
that destroys
yet never grieves,
for from such a man
only death
has been conceived

Beware the man
that acquires
as he deceives,
for in such a man
nothing may be believed

Sounds From A Sinister Sky...

I'd been up all night and most of the morning hours writing caustic lines. Eventually this had tired me out enough to finally get some sleep. During my slumber a pleasant day had transpired.

When I'd finally dragged myself out of bed it had only been raining for a short while. I'd stumbled to the restroom, and found the dog huddled-up and shaking on the bathmat. That dog had been terrified of thunder since she'd been a pup. Although she'd gotten to be quite old and had almost gone completely deaf the subtle sounds of distant thunder had somehow reached her.

The dog hadn't been the only creature trembling at the sounds of skies. I'd decided to see what the media wanted to tell me about the world, and discovered that a series of meteorological-omens had been issued. There had been prophecies of deadly spired wind-beasts, turbulent bombardments of ice-clad munitions, and torrential cascades of voluminous rain. Scholarly members of the sky-clergy had advised everyone within the prophesied vicinity of these afflictions to beware of the mighty fury of this impending tribulation.

People had taken heed of the elder sky-scholars' warnings. They'd all scurried in a fever to purchase milk and bread in case they would be forced to remain within their shelters for more than a few hours. Then they had all rushed to insulate themselves from the darkening storm clouds that rose above their houses. As the rains began to fall some of them issued penitent prayers to various deities in desperate attempts to gather favor and be protected from the wrath that was lurking in the gathering darkness.

Then the rains had poured down with greater fury and the winds swept through the air at powerful speeds. The trees had tossed and swayed as their leaves had shaken violently, and some of their branches had been torn away by the winds with a resounding crack. Rains had then turned from driven droplets to blinding sheets cast down from the sky. Hailstones the size of pod fruits pelted the surfaces of everything under the darkness of the storms above, and created a cacophony of countless cold collisions.

All the while pulses jumped with each perceptual development of the storm. As the peak of the sky's wrath forced the electricity inside homes to flicker, and some even lost their ability to fuel their artificial lights and media projectors an ominous sense had gripped the people inside this scourge. Their greatest fear had been that if their power had been lost they would have to wait in obliviousness until their service could have been resumed. This didn't cause them to tremble, but to twitch and tweet in a fever of melodramatic dread.

When the skies thundering groans had begun to silence I'd noticed how the cat had yawned and stretched from its comfortable chair. The cat had grown to be nearly as old as the dog, and it had almost gone completely blind. It had heard every clap of thunder and every drop of rain. It hadn't bothered to decipher anything the sky-scholars had said, and it hadn't concerned itself with anything the people had been concerned themselves with. Somehow that blind beast had known better than the deaf old dog and the hyper-conscious people. There hadn't been anything to blink twice about. It had been nothing more than the sounds from a sinister sky.