Comfort

do i understand death for the first time?
is it the passing?
like the friends that aren't coming back?
after college, or the move, or the transfer or the the wedding?
the dear collapse of the day to day love?
is that a that the death that lives in the passing of love gone by?
when I say goodbye like they tell me to say goodbye?
then do I suppose for the first time that I actually believe it is goodbye?
an ode to goodbye?
as if the naiveté of youth disguised the truth that we are only on the stage?
but for that fleeting moment?
and whether the drama is worth the time in the globe?
the time we experience is that always the same?
and the love that is true between two people is absolute unto them?
and when I say goodbye is that burial of my feelings?
or the acknowledgment that our moment in time was forever?

Phony Fake News

#newera #newwords
Millenial consciousness streams across my face like the baby
Zhe's perfect little face, complexion the gas chamber
Crawl towards that beat dream
Drum lines march to the sounds of the drum major
My feed always talks about #blacklivesmatter
#bluelivesmatter #fakenews
IG: my friend @youngkidjane
She's says I'm trying too hard.
"Don't put your reservations on me."
We say that to each other all the time.
It's what I read on the Daily.
#everyonematters
https://www.reddit.com/r/Groups/us
Its like the words don't matter anymore
Maybe they don't
Hashtags say everything
When they say something
Saying nothing
Sometimes is everything
@twitterfeedwhateveritistoplease
@reallystopitplease

Those Neverending Math Equations

Syllables
Blocks upon more blocks
Climbing high

Sentences run long
But the imagination
Is far more complex

Paragraph labrynth mindtraps
Eviscerate their intended prey
Slurping wretched emotions.

Miracle chemistry is slaughtered
Carcasses of prose hang like participles
prepositions ending too often

Constructs should make the building safer
So why's this such a rigid way to communicate?
Are you hearing what I am trying to say?

Crying screaming tugging at wet umbilical cords
confusion incubating cocooned mother's milk creation
The war rages between the words and each person's truth

When words are scarcer what happens with feelings?
Drying like a raisin in the sun, do they defer?
Emotion should never defer to language.

Time here runs short with each utterance
The spectrum of love and hate shrinks with each word
Grammar restraining our love to give

Expanding the universe
Is as much art as is it science
Stretching minds and compassion.

The classic phrases
Will always have an impact
But we are much more.

Words will fail
Love expands depths of
Time and space.

Stargazing

I forget the words
Where the night collapses upon my insecurity
But if they made any sound they might speak of you:
You dancing along the shores of my dreams
You are not mean
You are crazy
You believe
Your love is stronger
Your concern is greater
You offer me the privileges of understanding
You mention love as if you respect the admiration I have for you
Your recalcitrance again an angry machine moved to make me love
You want so little other than peace and quiet to exult.

Those words are difficult
They do not fall easily before these fingers
Although I escape subject upon subject
There is a mirror of myself you make sure I see:
The darkened stage bursts under a spotlight of your navigation.
Those who defy gods should never defy you
Because the work of the universe is alive inside you.

Another Giant Wave of Sadness

There is no pretending as much as there is no hiding.  

There is no protections as much as there is no happiness.

Surfing down the face of the of darkness, demons twisting 

In the wreaths of seaweed and the faces of fear, 

In the sponge from above there is the sheer terror 

That water will wipe away the sun the from the earth, 

Plunging into the deep deep locker below.

Dreams turn to terror like days on the water turn to nausea, 

The undulation of the vast ocean of emotion swings 

The pendulums of insecurity wide and far, 

Bouncing across the bow, from stern to aft, when all of the sudden, 

In deepening dampness of the sharp shine of the summer day, 

The foggy bottom of the great below and the spun riddles of suffocation 

Standing like somber wall flowers 

Paralyzed underneath by the vast seas of sadness.

The waves pound against the shores where landlubbers stand.  

Is there a fear that keeps them perched like sunflowers 

Before their own descent beyond the Fibonacci science?

No - not here.  Here there is the unscientific sequential passing 

To the nether world where the sunflower seeds dry and fall 

So there to does the flower itself as well.  But why not plunge?!?!  

Why not fall down into the dirt and the muck and the awful stench of compost.  

The land buries its many fears into the worms' work.  

Where the the slinky centipedes and the bustling beatles climb 

Over the organic carcasses without a word or worry.

The demolition of the earthly spirit is a quiet processional; 

The requiems of all souls certainly find the eternal silence.

That is not for this moment - where we contemplate the slow and unemotional 

Parade from big bang to big bang.  

A never ending carousel upon which ride the eternal footman -

We, the yeast in their beer, 

We, the ants on their meats, 

We, the dirt between their toes, 

That is not for one to contemplate here.

That is only the atomical bomb of nothingness.  

That your own universal composition is just a brief intersection 

Of electricity and good fortune.

No, not here.  No, the Earth is not aware.  

But the below, in the depths, where the sails and the surf 

And the tide and moon and the tears and the hopeless - 

They all collapse into a dark liquid obelisk that towers over 

The water's surface and then, unlike any fallen tree that crushes the body, 

The wave pummels the water below.  The long tossing beneath the surface 

Bleats the air from the lungs, 

The oxygen from the capillaries, 

The spirit from the heart.  

There is the epitome of despondence - 

A massive tube of salted water foams at the mouth 

Pulling towards the rabid spirals beyond physics - 

The water pulls and pulls and pulls like the baby to its own umbilical... 

Where on the sea floor there are no scissors, 

There is only the unending attachment to the terror.  

The asphyxiating awfulness of the profoundly sad world above.  

Death is that sleep, perchance to dream.  And here is only the rub.  

The sad unending tale of yearning - the begging for breaths and relief 

Only to find the crushing emptiness of the cold ocean.

II

Pinned to the bottom of submerged canyon 

One looks above to the wash and tumble of the incomprehensible world.  

Sharks and dolphins spun in a mortal coil,

Twirling bodies like yins and yangs 

The light skinned bellies blending in to one another.  

Monochrome spirals and sparkles for a distinguished eye.

Fish which prey upon other fish which prey upon other fish 

Which prey upon other fish which prey upon other fish.

No one cares, talk not of the descent, 

Simple troubles for simple frenzies (no one cares).  

No the crags and hollows of the cavernous ravines or the darkened palace dungeons -  

There is still no escape, there is no rationale, just a darkened mystery of the pain itself.  

As if questioning is not enough, there is no question that goes answered 

Except for one constantly answered riddle: when will the pain return?

All the time again - all the time again.  

The answer to silly questions are not so silly as they are terrifying.  

How could simple confusion conjure the darkest twists of the desperate breaths? 

Remember those times - when the words are breathy escapes of panic?  

The unending paranoia of anxiety in the fearful breaths that come. 

The simple answer would be to collapse like a sunflower, 

So proud in the afternoon sun and so ashamed 

Its bows its head in submission to its own brief time.  

No, that is for the landlubbers, the smiling cheshire's 

Dancing from myth to myth but never really attentive to the moment.

They are not submerged and caught under the sea of a rotting nothing everything.  

The endless turning screw grips at the threads 

Piercing further into that once unpermeated membrane.  

The stinging sensation as the vessel turns 

In the creeping and sweeping underwater currents, 

Tthere is just the push of just dissatisfaction.

The waves above are only the symptoms of the petrified life 

Resting on the ocean floor.  The exhibits of sadness within the the oceanic museum 

Where the world is not one's one.  There is no privilege here.  

There is no comfort.  There is the tossing torments from above.  

Tsunamis that threaten the landlubbers above.  

That is no comfort and the darkened world from below is past the saddened collapse 

Of the eternally giant wave.  The wrecked depression of the soul 

Thrust down beneath the waves where the sadness is a way of life.

 

Enjoy

the Silence that old friend, that attic where the owls hoot and demons and groan
that place that creeps from all the minds and the organs moan
the rhymes that cackle like ladies lost and loves bygone - yes the rhymes of eternal damnation
in the emily space, the names that bounce, the heroes of significance - redundancy
much like the conversations.  from ever, from all, the conversations
they are not unique, bland casing from listless artillery
like the agonizing screams from an in surgery amputee
the rickety shack where would she be in a shanty town love den
she hides her poetry from and the peaceful string of recorded music
pours over my ears where I hear the pounding beat of my self-involvement
a heart so strong that it fears nothing of modern medicine nor fate
she calls and the enduring longing for the siren voice springs into nothingness

what does Silence say? that never ending nagging from the back of the mind
Silence that says so much, roaring like a dying lion bleeding into the serengetti
much like the sun screams in agony as it burns in the sky
where fury makes the energy, an absence should not be considered irrelevance
the anger in the night sky might be the howls from the human prison cells
or it could be the stars raging in the science of gods and universes

questions unanswered are the Silence of the mind, such a Silence again that tugs
Silence pulling from behind the ears and into the cerebral cortex
zoos of exhibition alight in the presentation
where the casting of thousands of captives under the warm disbursement of spotlights
brings the din of the animals to cacophonous roar
a roar, that sounds in the hissing and purring of all the cages
Silence bursting forth into the iris much like
impressionists who dared in abstract - losing hearing to madness
never consider that silence is not an arsenal with which one can win a war
the devastation of a emptiness can often collapse the soul like supernova

those raging bullets in the night that fire off nothing but hopelessness
those Silent piercings of the soul
they hurt much more than the overpowering ring from the chamber
those bullets that burst the vessels to shred an organ
the damage releases far more in that Silence: the dying organism
the sutured future which operates to end the power of hope
the quiet dying from the rageful ringing is far more powerful and disastrous
than any hymn or argument could settle

when the poem is done, i'll tell you it's done
when the words are complete i'm sure you'll be quick to tell me they are
but the dictionary is a never ending story
all the words that matter so much will become emotion
the sense of sensibility will be literal
the words will be the passionate call of the past
where people yearn for balconies and gloves and suns and cheeks
when we used to beg for the touch of one another, much that the words could matter
but what I feel is within, like the rest of us
and when that internal pyre climbs to heights of curiosity there is nothing to say
in Silence.

The Cipher

How long will it last?
Til the poor get more cash?
Fools broke out, to be broke at home.
Goal get took out being broke alone.
In the struggle together -
Fittin' to make it mo better
Than the past was
Letter to the debtor
Writin' to let'em trus'.
Words in one ear, out the other?
No! So, you know we wrote about
Dough, cheddar, green
But the lines we spout
Just like the kettle at
Grandmas' house
Where tea run short
And syrup sandwiches
Let me have a crack at this
The capitalist tells me to sit
With all his shit
He owns his own house, his second house
And the mortgage on my Granmammas house
And what's he gonna do with it?
To wit: you care about the neighborhood,
suburban dude?
Where the cops stop,
Ride along side my radials, like riot squads
With the hummers from the video
They don't hear you though
My papers, registration
But they're the niggas with the guns
Gon' shoot, first to loot,
Scrap eatin' fat pigs and thugs
Taking government funds to shoot my nigs
Its rigged, system is,
When the wars is done on the brown man shore
Rich banker man starts to get bored
Ain't no future in shit that don't break
So staff up and protect the blue line
The lives that matter is color blind
Blue little police man, got the gun in hand
A note from the tax man
Bullets and guns, is good for the people
Two wrongs is right, like fists and fury
Turnin cheeks in the steeple
But on the steps, mothers wept
In a hurry, funerals, buri-
als and the street its videos, twitter - digital egos
And images, murderous villages
Where the money pours in
For the stored weapons
When the peeps on the street wanna a bite to eat
Aint looking to end a life
Strife, kids, ills, wife, bids, bills
Like it matter
With no cheddar we sittin in sweaters sweating
Til they come cash collectin'
Or just to put me back in prison.

The Freezin Scene

Take forty-seven:
Skunk lying in the middle of the road
Johnny mixing the medicine
Woman descending in her old red dress
ACTION
Bags of dope dangle from the arm piercings
Tattoos fed on blood thirsty ink
Mothers crying in the streets twisting like folds of a frock
In the wind the trees twist and turn and cascading leaves
Leaving seasons turning and turning and turning and turning
The calm look of satisfaction streams across their faces
Cut!  From the top!

Take forty-eight:
Deer look over the fence of a slaughterhouse
The hurricane escapes
Ships arrive in the harbor
ACTION
Starvation is one of the most familiar concepts
Children from decrepit nations and fat wealthy woman tired of their own sloth
To feed a pig and to feed from a pig
The animals in the forest don't care about the corpses they consume
Since bacteria has the last laugh before life emerges
Full of maggots and penicillin
Eventually the cures to all mankind can be found in the hope of today's child...
Cut cut cut, that's not right.  Try it again.

Take forty-nine:
Sewage bloats a body floating in the river
God is on the right side
The woman's child is allowed in the house
ACTION
The lights of the stadium show the lions and the Christians
Praying to a higher power has never been the same for everyone
Dungeons of greed torture the dreams of the future
Even outside amidst the burning trees and swelling tides
The doomsday device, the blindness of primates to conceive their limitations and achieve their expectations
Where the explosive nuclear power plants charge the imaginations to far off lands
That books conjure what science has disproven time and again
Yet text book functions as the check for the spirit
While the Bible promises anything one hopes to inure
Caught in the cross fire are the muddled minds and creative bellies of the less fortunate
How long will the guns keep them busy?  How long can they really want to hate their neighbors?
When the sun shines and burns away the dismal distortions of kindness, the antiseptic light of our own awareness becomes a beacon of...
Cut cut cut, I hope that's not right.  Take it from the top God damn it!

Take fifty:
I cooked the fish floating next to the boat
The artist has everything he needs
Put that woman in the red dress back in the attic
ACTION
Fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire
Yeah, I went to the movies last night.
How was the show Ms. Linco...
Cut cut cut.  Who wrote that cliche crap?  Again!

Take fifty-one:
Slaves still clean our shrimp
Working with Maggie, pa and her brother
Have them hold up today's paper
ACTION
We're here talking to all the servants about man and god and law
All the good stuff the men talk about when their thinking about
Screwing the other guys wife.  Or screwing the other guy's daughter.  Or just screwing the other guy.
Ain't never heard of no God actually making a law.
I heard of a lot of men making laws that God said he made.
Hearsay, is what that's called in the court of Man
But in the word of our Lord for anyone zealously representing the great Father
Hearsay is but a dream, or a man from a mount, or that man upon a cross
The world of the Lord is bandied about in the thunder and lightning of curiosities.
The images of those miracles where the water walkers and fire finders moved amongst us
Seamlessly the stories built like a bonfire built not just on faggots
But on the words of others.  A contemptuous plagiarism in the form of book burnings.
That man can only stand to hear himself roar from atop the mountain.
When the echo comes back the stench of the breath of each and every respondent
Singes the eyes and burns faith to the ground.
For a faithful man has no fear
When the foul mouthed echo of his prison conjures the hate of those that are different.
No, the faithful man knows the different are just like him.
A belief that rages into the mind of righteousness and love will have no fear of those whose drummer's rim shots bounce recalcitrantly off insecure foreheads.
Cut. Again.

Take fifty-two:
Armed warriors next to ignored opium fields
I'm on the pavement.
Lobotomize the woman in the red dress please.
ACTION
I've been thinking about you so much
When are you coming home?
Soon
When?
Harry, can you come today?
Yeah... I'll come today.  You just wait for me, alright?
Harry?...
I'm coming back, Marion.
Yeah.
I'm really sorry, Marion...
I know.
Cut. That's a wrap.  Nice shoot everybody.  Have a great weekend!

Order

What is happening
In the ballgame they're playing
Happens all the time -

A random sequence
Bouncing between hands and toes,
Balls doing as told -

Constantly different,
Outcomes unpredictable,
Rules always the same.

One eye up, Captain

Dancing shadows of the things
We don't  know a slow intoxication
A frustrating burn that does not think
Again, this will be the first time?

Cascading hope, don't let me think.
That this will be the first time -
Mighty might be somehow
Sung here unto to me now, please.

A twisted turn of the wretched cargo
Then there is nothing left.
The ocean floor makes the beautiful music.
Only when it is in sync.

Odes to the M.C.

Kicks flicks sticks
what sids flints
wicks pricks licks
fools that kick and rhyme
like those old times
souljas cut inside my DNA
like flows past from Rakim
old steps danced to Sugarhills
gangs flows for the thrill
kill, will still
flow inside the restless day
moves inside the public square
twisted rifs licks and spits
inside the way we play
hoops and goals
like class and schools
where we know we don't want them
explain laws not to let them
regret those who let them
not true
shoe drops on the fool
that the dudes who once spoke the truth
ruthless scruples
gangster ripples
concentric circles
lost in the gruff rough tough stuff
that decides
for fickle fate
for the black man
don't wait for the main
strain and pain no gain
for the tan sand
blasted but lasted
upon the man where beats bit
like whips that kick
against the back slits
where thin flits
and the blood bursts to squirt
don't think these words fall
so seamless, the team with me
that they spall
and sicken, to quicken to hurt
to thicken the words
the gravy it burns
the poison it stings but the rhymes the sing
master of ceremonies proceed to do your thing
classist - fascist bash this
beat like a skull
beats quick
why do you live with me
the maniac Pyscho
society
pulls out their jammy
it might go
you like me know
did the rebel not allow
or was he all to inviting
exciting the rhyming and biting
the beats and the timing
was the who was trying and inciting
for the records they were buying
the maniac psycho
believe that and you might go
where?
there?
who knows how?
now?
wow?
to try and contain and maintain
just fights the blinding stain
the stinging rain
that's who comes crying with pain
through tears and hears
years of fears
and the law is not discreet
it tears and it sears
to cut the wrinkles and time
they cut and the clip like beats
as they stick and still the
master he ceremonies
the horses the ponies
they run in the circles
like the records
the mic it spits
the rhymes they hit
and still we sit
that's what he did
hid
bid
and that's what they said
segregation topics
political politics
syllables that don't fit
they don't want to hit
where it might stick right
where you think it fits
they been lying
dying trying hiding
they got us fighting
lights blinding
fact finding
searching seeking
lurching sinking
times is crazy
folks is lazy
eyes is tight
trying to get it right
money is slim
budget don't fit
wanna grip
waistlines trim
is shit grim?
well don't believe the hype
get yo ass up and fight
cuz they figga like you figga
my nigga
please they gonna come try and take you out
that's what its about
ship em our and get em gone
and when we fighting ourselves
they know it won't take long.

The Albino Mexican

The bald bleached Californian and the backs of McDonald managing poverties.  The names roll of the tongue - the easy ones: Jaime, David, Isaac, Jesus, Pedro, Juan, Miguel - so the list goes and the challenge increases to name the many: Rafael, Leonardo, Jorge, Fernando, Benito, Ramon, Vicente.

Moctezuma, Itzcoatl, Tizak, Cuauhtemoc, Acamapitchli - these are harder.  They do not roll of the Anglo tongue.  They didn't roll off the Latin tongue... and eventually the colonialism bred the new world's first mixed breed:Andrés de Tapia Motelchiuh, Pablo Xochiquentzin, Diego de San Francisco Tehuetzquititzin - something you can understand.

Names are the forgotten casualties of conquering, lost in the victory ceremonies of feasting glory or the rewarding rites to rights of rape and the bloodletting of the warrior spirit currency does not get change.

Names and names and names.  They come and go attached to deadmen dreams or the infantile perfections where mothers see the enternal spirit in the eyes of their child,  the untroubled babe being the closest man comes to perfection.

Then the name - naming the body, the hosting address which assumes the cloudy tempests of each and every civilization, fight and slaughtered and reduced and reintroduced with a new address, a new name for the babe.

"What's in a name, what's in a name, what's in a name," ask the refugees.  Wyclef answers, "You sure you wanna hang with old Eddie Kane?" Hey Mona Lisa?  No Eddie can't play the mysterious white lady.  An actor is an actor is an actor... the actor is not unto themselves a fantasy.  Just a name.

America Verspucci, we all stand for thee.  And God, I stand for thee... how do you name justice for all?  Tiffany, Jeremy, Brandon, Melissa, Annie, Alice.  The blind statue of free market arguments often can't see the money that tips the scales.

What happens to the mother?  Is she the unnamed deus ex machina, artificial intelligence of our souls, an annoymous source against our greedy talons and incisors.

Mothers have stumbled the streets after their mad children for years, howling for their bodies, their corpses, their restless souls, in order to the name the grief and calm the rash of this planet on the skin of all the starving babies.

Convention is such a bother.  The nomenclature disguises the fact that we don't care.  Like one would name a sandwich or a meatball on the dinner plate only to devour her young as if were the sandwich or some litter of meatballs.

Mothers have let these children run nameless through the streets, roughshod in the alleys, pirates of the arcade.  The many children who have come to know the legend of Zelda, or PcaMan's villanous spectres, the assaults on donkey kongs

Sabrerattling never felt so good.  To hear the icy iron clang from the scabbard and the cold fear that lingers on the brow of the opponent.  Where you look for them the next morning - yes, you now you find grave men.

Fiction has the heros that we all adore. Romeo, and Juliet.  Sara and Abraham. Han and Leia. Popocatpetl and Iztaccihuatl.  Iocasta and her kid.

They have names.  The same names we tell our children.  All the tales we make believe.  Those innocent and lewd, those tales we've told before, even in centuries of solitude.  Those good days with colonel.  The lover.  Ursula.  Becky.

The mothers have names at one point, maybe before they are bound to the agreement with nature.  When the whole of a heart warms the eternity of the soul - the calm of the world rests sweetly on the songs of our mothers.

They do not need names only defense.  Their patience and quietude rattles the nerves of only the rowdiest child, bullying and tussling with the other children because homework is boring and hugs are infrequent.  We name those children.  Give them lofty names to calm their fears.  Their silence is a somehow deafening indictment.  But lay blame.  Do not lie blame.  For an honest accounting is what the kings request.

A loneliness strikes chords against an angry harp and my eyes roll back to the top again.  Pinball machines of dreaming and waking, scoring again, words colliding against that similar frame of reference - to exclaim that the play is the thing when the sentence itself is the rub.

Words landing into the wading pool of my memories or contemporaries and dreams divided and collided.  Things that might satisfy a reckless mind much as the felled tree and man can sit for a while - this is no satisfaction.  Time rages on like a fury men cannot understand.  Women are seemingly more patient, hoping that time might heal all the wounds that man has made.

Dissatisfaction naturally sweats off the brow, and the drenching anxiety of morning attacks the bleached sides of youth.  Where the colors leap and dance across from the imaginations of babes to the wailing screams of sophomoric music, the painted sides of the nursery dull after all the years when the colors must be dampened for the sale.

Mortgages that could be paid off in pickle juice and peanut butter jelly snacks for sandcastles in that lot just outside your parents window?  Those are much more expensive now.  Those plastic trucks and GI joes are more real now than they were then and they are actually way more expensive.

Educating the saddened mind meditating on dementia aloft above an abyss, dismal heights above the perilous depths of a mortal souls.  Curious minds make for restless bedfellows, slumbering into the late mornings when the dragons whip and swirl through cocktail chandeliers and champagne fountains.

The weddings that we witness now are ornate dedications to our own fears of solitude. The loneliness screams and screams and screams like a baby, death chamber marching an all, this ode to all of those things that comfort us.  The madman howling to the witnesses, "You may now kiss the bride."

Such a comeuppance for the human web of sheer dissatisfaction - constant treachery in the houses of others but in galaxies quite near to hear, a refrain comes from mysticism, "Never his mind on where he was!."  The excited voice in the desolate land - the immigrant hides a scalding fear of recognition.

The negro samurais of the underground railroad do not receive the credit they deserve.  You say to yourself that there were no negro samurais.... to which I say, "That is because there were so silent and effective you did not even know they were there."

African Kings, and Aztec Rulers and Chinese emperors, Black Jesus, Moor Generals, Islamic Presidents - words that sting the entrenched hypocrisy of todays kings god emperor children that monitor this life for failing pulses and limited brain activity, hoping that mindless children in prisoncell classrooms still make for deposit slip taxes.

You cannibal legislatures - we point to your dinner table served by the myths of time and the impoverished realities of the servants to your cups, overflowing with bloody fictions of meritocracy and cooperation.  Blood runneth on to the floor and drowns the dark skinned monkeys you insist swim to your table side.

What is then nonsense?  Nonsense? The blanketed Fort Whimsy of my youth where the truth can find a shelf and sit like a vase while the histories of nebulae can absorb the million opportunities for myth and love to collide upon a rock like, eagles coming daily to disembowel the slumber of the great adventure.

For across the seas when the truth happens it falls to the ocean floor like the souls of those that never mattered to begin with, so they never existed in first place.  Creating fictionalized realities to sort the wills of Man - in return for those many baskets of gold to the court and it's undying servitude of the rotten original sin.

And when the court is finished counting the many ends of their many rainbows and they insist the jesters come to dinner the invitees and the menu share so many of the same names:  Tomas, Judas, Andrew, Diego, Samuel, Anthony, Michael, Kyle, Steve, Harrold, William... that one almost hopes they are not invited to the royal feast.

Monday

The computer screen
Blinking over and over
Is repetitious,

The television,
Many rainbowed images,
Drawing me closer

Like art exhibits
Pixels play upon my mind
Dancing on canvas;

Irises spring forth
Into imagination
Where spirits want rest -

Eyes are prisoners,
Witnesses of weakened men
Blinking only once.

Deciders of Normalcy

Boil boil toil and trouble rhymes and rhymes and how they double, strings of time and lines unwind left to wonder.

Done again and again they repeat - so normal, so formal.

Molds make dessert just right, gelatinous, once viscous but they just won't keep: the rotting, the wretched, the best kept secret of sleeping, perchance to dream.

Speaking so sonorously of the Elizabethan dream - a head full of steam.  Sing of what they days could bring.

So it sounded so long ago - those days of yore.... now it's just life.

Flatulating fields of nonsense clouds stratosphere of hyperbole within the undulating sin waves cosigning my earthly mortgage.

Emojis taunt my scrambled breakfast orange juice so that I can carbo load days and days of crap into recyclable shopping bags.

The anger man torments the hangman stickman mortuary for his inability to spell simple phrases across the hallways of his empty tombs.

Why does the yelling bang drums from hallow oars and wakes of ships tossing future dreams to the shark passages of middle earth where the nigger drowns off the page.

The tokens of Tolkien pouring from ivory tower fantasies to Oscar nominated grouches for orcs and men to have their days to read.

The hard work is toiling.  The work is hardly toiling.  The toiling for hard work is an omnipresent spectre that stands within that persons own icons - there is always someone else to do the bidding.

The brown angels pour lava from the black hole pores pouring forth much more than the chasms from which the miraculously emerge.

Scientists are lost to the times forgotten to explainthe magic of man and his quest for nothingness.

The work shall not be mine.  The product of another's hand.  Skeletons til the dust.  When the day is done and the dignity pressed from my soul can I say that the I have earned everything with the sheer force of my bare hands.

A myth of light pierces the angry mob, the shattered skulls dampening the sirens with the broken dignity of the wretched poor laid to waste... and can the pigs fill the troughs with their succulent ethical snouts.

What's different?  What's true? Whats that?  Who's who? Who is you?  Those same rhymes and rap and all that other crap? Yeah it's where what is at.  Who's that?  Is that a fact?  Cut me some slack Jack and step back.

Why on earth should it all sound the same?  Look the same?  Be so tame?  Simple things are for simple folks but this is complicated.

Dedicated and explicated is how it's eradicated. Celebrated all day each day is where it's actuated. The weird words come in and out and to fro.  

All those things that simmer right below.  You tell me this and everything you know.  But I'm the decider of normalcy for all that is me - that's what I know!

Agapanthas

The agapantha blooms are wilting again, another June here on the Central Californian shores

Up towards towards the crusts of the cerros and lomas tucked in behind the water

Rivers creep through the landscape dwindling down to inevitability and into the vast Pacific

Gravity pulls us all down to the earth eventually, for even ashes will fall after they've risen.

The water is no different: a wave crests because it will fall, a tide rises to retreat and the waterfall crushes the rocks below.

Even the mountains can only fight gravity for so long, as the water will eventually wrinkle the face like tears tugging on an old man's skin patience will eventually takes it toll

Time walks slowly, depending on perspectives, and watching the hills move at an incalculably slow rate I realize how rushed we must seem

To the flies that buzz or the scurrying mouse, time must move like lightning - and to the gods and planets we must look foolish and hurried.

This behavior seems normal and to a casual observer, at the least liche.  Shameless moments are the spine of routine and the spleen of social function;

When people take for granted their actions rather than rehearsing the excuses for their behavior.

So we do this over and over again, bound by gravity, rising and falling to the turning suns

When the light cascades through our windows the fight begins, a wrestling stance positioned against the very nature of science

Trying to move ourselves in the light against the pulling Sun and Moon, as if this were the hyperbole of ancient tales.

No, this is now, a rising fight against the morning sun to steal its energy and force this planet to meet my needs 

I want this to be only my reservoir of energy flowing into and out of the fractured landscape cut by the labor of my fathers and mothers before me

A ware waged against and amongst the selfish interests of my fellow man - lest I forget how typical my plight here is.

When the day is done, we cease the fight, if only because we are flawed and cannot fight the Earth forever.

We lay into the gravitational pull and rest as the Sun tugs on the warrior spirit of our fellow space travelers.

There she is in the morning, the wilted Agapantha.  Those purple leaves that stood so tall, tilt towards the earth

Parallel to the axis and askew to those leaves, dangling just above the earth and feeding from the Sun, the stalk of the agapantha wilts.

In the blink of an eye the stalk shoots to the sky, awake and ready to fight against the cosmic bodies pulling us round in cirlces

The purple petals, the bulbous cocoons, that erupt in sleek geographic flowers for a saloon of other planters:

Birds, bees and the squirrels that terrorize the trees above my roof, they move about in an orbit of these earthly flowers

Then, almost selfishly, they cease to function.  The stalks no longer spring above the the ground, but they fall almost ashamedly back to their genesis, as if this were not normal

But every year as the Sun stretches its light further and further out the agapantha stalk lifts it head from its emerald pillows and goes to work

Then, like an old broken horse, the stalk limps further and further closer to its master, cracked and bent the petals long since blown away, together they weather the final storms of time,

Where eventually the spine and rigor breaks and the cells have no function but to fade.

And the gardener finally comes to sweep the debris and chase the insects and remove those useless stalks so they may be composted for next spring's soil.

Never Ignorant, Getting Goals Accomplished

Rip rap flows
Inside domes
Letting go
You don't know
As if you did,
I saw you hid, kid
That's what you did
Quicksickle
Lyrical
Did I once here the word Dicksickle?
If this will
Sit inside your mind
A timed bomb
A thrill ride.
Don't stop 
As the freestyle could
Would should
Did dude
Hood wood
Fool, feel the good
That thud
Those slugs
In the forest
In the game
In jungle
All the same
Say dudes
From whence they came
Like growns up
In the project
Don't forget the steps
That were set 
Before we got to rep
Those ripped away talents
The stripped away pageants
Mowed down by sergeants
Lieutenants, generals, emperors
Ephemerel lechers
Twisted whimpers
In noose drawn embers
Like cross sawn endeavors
To trick Medger Evers
But the point does stick
In the craw that you lick
Real thick it gon' pick
And eat away at you.
That this little dance
Like some tip toe blues
That woos that woozy
Spirit back up the roof
Moonlight drowns
Where the city sounds
Sparkle right before your eyes
The ears hear so much
That the sight of light
Hits a sound wave
Across a cave
Those cavernous streets
Where the tenements cross
And the neighbors meet, greet, seat
Be discrete
A loss that costs a very real price
A time passes and gone off
At too steep a price
Like an auctioneers own take
The point that I make 
Or hope to impart
With some escape 
Before I depart
Is that I ride
On a wave
Of so many before
A slide to my grave
From the words of this whore
That I steal
I study
And reveal something
That has been said again
and before
Like rainclouds and storms
Coming and going
Like they've gone before
So little, no cunning
Just jumping ashore
To get to land
Where I can identify
Some feet in the sand
And I want to signify
I want to stand
And stand
Stand.
And my feet ruffle the cirlces
Like puddles eternal
Still time so brief
For others much briefer
And I must appreciate
What came before me here. 

An Early Morning on Planet Earth Enjoying the Rise of Gloablisation

Saturday morning soccer
From across the globe
Is literally a quiet joy.
Where the cheers of crowds,
Muted in the morning,
Are seen and hot heard
As birds chirp awake
To goals and near misses.

Racing Comets

An almost intangible exhaustion, not because the fatigue is so strong because it is so abnormal,
Like strange parasitic references to moments lost into the vortex long ago.
Numbing paranoia to numbness as if feeling is the strangest feeling at all.
The exhaustion like a freight train nightmare finally resting on the open eyelids of relief
The dwindling sanity of understanding from the kings and queens, democratic royalty and meritocratic victories
Which are what in the mind's eye?  Like beautiful reflections into the iris - they belong only to whomever possesses the flowers
The madness of a cut rose, bleeding palms and caressing rose petals - the goals of the moment to torments the senses
Yes, exhaustion.
But not a real exhaustion no.  For I can describe this.  The name.  It has one.  It may make of many words but this is tiresome.
I'm not ascended from the coal mine or descended from the coal miner
My grandfather long ago ran across the fiction lines and across obelisks of sand  - those torturous natural walls that dare someone to test their mettle
This is not the exhaustion of a woman pushed to her limits, a prenatal notion of a birthing fatigue that no man grasps.
This is not an unending love that torments my soul and titilates my friends from the reckless nature of romance.
This is just exhaustion.
I run through mummified moments of expression and tombs and tombs of individual though.
I burst through the simple victories and dwell on lonely planets or vacation dinners from the comfort of my own internets tunneling in screens and screens of more surface area.
The depths of my understanding are forgotten biological principles - where people turn cold in the night office air and air conditioned routines.
This is a weary eyed, sweaty toothed mad man and he begs for a blanket.  Kicking, Scremaing and in the tired tired light he will never be free
A seizure of seizing, frozen assets capitalized by those demonic Wastes Oftime.  They scream from each and every corner of civilization - dirty denizens hell bent.
To lie down is to let the winds swirl across the panorama of a ceiling, the bed tied to the certainties of the day and world whirling by above as it never existed.
That is the the exhaustion
A running lap of effort to track down the sun, the moon and the gods themselves while they laugh at the flailing arms and terrible form
The sprinting nature of looking for answers in all the places they won't be found -  human errors in judgement and failing to trust the nomadic love of ourselves
Looking deep inside is a proportion so twisted with self-loathing that the mind years to be distant
Racing to be on the horizon before the horizon exists, like wrestling the sun into submission and beaming its light to shine across your golden medals
Those are the races we dream of winning, the races into eternity where we think we see a light at the end
A never catching
A never up
A never here
A never there
A never never.

Natural Miracles

Eclipses are the softening of the light

Into a massive wall against the sun

Blocking out only temporarily

The light that might be shone.

People gather like they always have

Mayans somehow more ready than

The many technophilic generations to come

Standing, waiting for astronomy to be fun.

Years of science and observation

Are the bedrock of these fantastic reunions

Where humans look beyond their lives

Each moment and memory making up a collection

When everyone comes together and looks up

At the stars and galactic itches of the One

Its not so much their God they see

Its the power of all us together all at once.

The Atlantic Was Born Today

What's the rule of law

But just a bunch of words

Where the words just matter

To the people who can afford to fight

Starving people often 

Don't care to speak.  No matter,

The laws were not made for them

If not to rule them.

High pine trees, knotted thorny plants, muggy tired heat

A jungle of tired plants wilting to the sidewalk next door

Dogs used to scramble beneath the shade

Foliage hanging like apples, the sun shooting high overhead

The fire and fury of the world dampened by the soft underbrush

Where shadow wallpapers the ecology.

No, not now.  The cracked stone underfoot

Bikers and businessmen step through the shrubs

Chaparral, tumbleweeds, saguaros

Fractured bones of lost natural beauty are stunned

But was there anything to protect?  

A moment that mattered?... so to speak.

The rule of law is penned by the privileged

Is Mother Nature subject to the rule of law?

Family fights are normal.

But don't we respect our elders?

There was a time when the words of Moses were the laws set upon the land.  God was mean and his people barbaric - warring factions of men from across the known globe - trying to avoid starvation amidst cravings.  Times were hard and the bible was the law and that was how people set their calendars and solved their problems and married off their children.  That was law then until it changed.

The era of nuclear proliferation politics

Science and law fused like the Enola Gay

Words have scientific weight ordained only by the faithful.

Those who are believed will always rest

Upon the tops of totems

We straddle a world that knows the debt of life

With a world that assumes life was owed to them

There are no words to fuse the souls

The fission in this medieval time is a scientific impossibility

Great bounties of energy are sacrificed

So the laws can change - arbitrary rules.

Bare bones schools where fusion isn't even in the textbooks

Skeletons reminding us of the insignificance of literacy

Surgically removed hospitals on life support 

Filaments flickering in bloodless operating rooms

Churches with their bibles in the fire, congregations still cold

Entire pews filled with children running off

To the city.

Please remember this:

These buildings did not build themselves!

These corners and constructions are not accidental.

Who willed the industrialization of society?

If anything it willed me

To learn its power, to understand its language

Where the force to turn emotion in to action

Is through the language of the damned.

And here we are.

So convenient the rulers can forget the laws they made

So easy the laws they made were made for them

There was a time when the laws allowed men

To package one another like an Amazon delivery

With a bulk rate just as if you were a Prime Subscriber.

Man has been waiting for drone technology for sometime.

... Oh those city nights!  Light and sound awash with the benefit of privilege.

Across the middle passage men lost their lives

Man's soul overboard and the sharks victoriously feasting 

At the bloody seafood buffet without a care in the world.

Nature cares not what the men high in buildings

Decide what's best for them and their children.

Yet the do it anyway -  footmen of all dimensions take note 

The inevitable whimpers of their masters.

Out of spite, trampling out the vintage.

Having loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible, swift sword

Never knowing really wrote His words...

...So many angry men.

They are all seem so angry - and why?

Why is a person angry?

What makes the baby cry?

A mother always offers of herself first

To calm a hungry baby

So why is a person angry?

Do we change so much?

Are the needs so different?

What makes a person angry?

Feed the belly and let the mind rest...

Feed the belly again and let the mind wander

Feed the belly again and again and again...

Then might be the time to ask those questions

Mornings wind through the hills and cows are already at work

A strange land of farm hiding from suburbia.

Man tries so hard to blend in like the tall referee at midget wrestling

Such a subtlety only man can define.

Bedtime

I don't know what I want to say tonight.
I thought about it all day and I've run out thoughts
There was a point at my desk
When I smoked so much medicine the screen was blurry.
Thank god it was Friday (I did that).
I would hate to take myself too seriously.

Haikus for an Ethnocentrist

Boy, its a damn shame
All this yelling' and cussin'
Cuz somebody's black

Thought we moved past it
The hate eatin up our souls
But it just don' die

Makes you angry, sad
Them white folks just so angry
Crying like a child

Not too much to do
When them chillun' is yellin' - 
Beat 'em or feed 'em.

Beat them children
They'll just learnt to hit you back.
Makin' them scars worse

Feed and love that child
They'll learn to do it right back
For all their children

Hate yells like hunger
Like babes with empty tummies
It sounds so awful.

How Long Should I Keep Walking?

The dirt clods muck up the treads of my boots
The dust makes circles around the the dog
The trail turns and loops to make for a nice distance.
And I count the steps until I finish.

The trees loop down and hug the trail
The leaves clog the stream where the trickle is quiet
The bugs swarm about, yes they swarm 
And the steps continue until I finish.

The marks on the road are from earlier
The arrows show how someone else got back
The shadows keep the air calm and cool
And the steps are the steps until I finish.

The other travelers are just locals
The other dogs on the trail just want a quick sniff
The meandering passers just move to the right
And the steps are my steps until I finish.

The world moves when we wish it still
The gods keep to themselves, just like the raccoons
The seasons change the trail
And the steps are just steps even after they finish.

Conmen

Tired and rested waking up slowly of Nightmare saucers of plate filling heads decapitated from chests as if art      making know it alls could make man into art.

Flatulating fields of nonsense clouds stratosphere of hyperbole within the undulating sin waves cosigning my earthly mortgage.

Emojis taunt my scrambled breakfast orange juice so that I can carbo load days and days of crap into recyclable shopping bags.

The anger man torments the hangman stickman mortuary for his inability to spell simple phrases across the hallways of his empty tombs.

Why does the yelling bang drums from hallow oars and wakes of ships tossing future dreams to the shark passages of middle earth where the nigger drowns off the page.

The tokens of Tolkien pouring from ivory tower fantasies to Oscar nominated grouches for orcs and men to have their days to read.

The hard work is toiling.  The work is hardly toiling.  The toiling for hard work is an omnipresent spectre that stands within that mans own icons - there is always someone else to do the bidding.

The brown angels pour lava from the black hole pores pouring forth much more than the chasms from which the miraculously emerge.

Scientists are lost to the times forgotten to explainthe magic of man and his quest for nothingness.

The work shall not be mine.  The product of another's hand.  Skeletons til the dust.  When the day is done and the dignity pressed from my soul can I say that the I have earned everything with the sheer force of my bare hands.

A myth of light pierces the angry mob, the shattered skulls dampening the sirens with the broken dignity of the wretched poor laid to waste can the pigs fill the troughs with their succulent ethical snouts.