Bittersweet Unction

When i

(think i)

have turned

every stone

groan tired

fall down

pick up

throw

 

fragments of ego

incinerated

dissolved

separate-ed

like husks from the gold & white seeds

carve reason through the river bed

stained black from the martyrs

and the heretics we’ve bled

 

empty bell

rings out

longest and loudest

acceptance of the

unacceptable inevitable

for now

and for never

 

sea change – polar shift

under broken bones

picked – apart – dispersed – no

chance for conjunction

cleaved by clever scavengers

with extreme unction for the faithless

to survive a little bit longer

the Diaspora of the human mind

Spirit corroded under

acid ocean swells and rain

blinding prophets and seekers alike

grown tired of the heavy light

the final night looms on any path we make

corn-harvest

Under the Pregnant Moon

Something like bearing witness to a rape and murder

behind unbreakable glass. The air has been taken,

yet I do not suffocate. At least it doesn’t feel that way,

but I do not feel at all. Even anger and sadness escape me.

I am neither hot nor cold. Everybody’s gone,

but a ghostly reflection stares back through

from every direction horizontally.

 

I look up in

to the cloudless night.

A pregnant half-moon,

a trillion dead stars

make everything

clearer than day.

 

I look down upon my feet

an inch or two above the ground.

A lake of blood blossoms out

over the broken asphalt.

I am somehow spared the touch of the creeping fluid

spilled from the hearts of unknown men, women, and children.

 

Without knowing why, I expel what I expect to be a scream,

but not a whimper heard. Just a gust of icy fog that instantly

evaporates.

 

Is this reality?

Is this a dream?

Is this another place

between death and awakening?

 

Who I am

I spat in the eye of pity
through the eye of the Milky Way
spreading my seed of contempt
on the faces of those who believe.
Those who believe in universal law
of good and evil
Those who believe in the (wo)manifestation
of peace through good intentions.
Oh, sure, they mean well
but this is MY mind that holds itself together
this is MY body that mends the wounds
and breaks the rules
when they only apply to me and my kind.

I was the Sun
I was the Moon
I am the door
I am the room

The look of pain in their eyes
tinged with shame and disgust
for the animate remains of a warrior
turned inward against instinct and pride.
I laugh. They look away.
Is it tragedy or comedy
that brings us closer? I wonder
before averting my gaze
to the page of a story
with no clear beginning,
no protagonist, no author.

I was the Sun
I was the Moon
I am the whore
I am the groom

Take names and take no shit
from anyone but your ‘superiors’
Beings who bring a good name
to a good community
with bike lanes and allies
united in a struggle
against unfashionable opinions
and the racket of coal trains.
They are knitting a future
for the quiet achievers
and academic believers
with well-rounded diets
and manicured amygdalas.

I like the beer
and the rainy days too
‘cause I am the Trickster
I am the Fool.

Pronouns

I write to write
not to right the wrongs held by hungry men
and women who want just a little bit more.

We take and we react
to the injustice of others who take more than we
giving a shit only when it suits our needs.

He, she, or they are always to blame
for the wars and global warming
so live for yourself only for today.

You come to poetry readings
to hear something real you can really relate to
and to be seen by others just like you.

That is the problem that dares not keep a name
behind plastic smiles, it hides in fear
of seeing the other in our own reflection.

My darkness casts a shadow
upon the prim white lilies
bred for perfect splendor
in safer spaces
free from wild wolves.

But who will do the culling
to keep the beasts away?
Or, better yet, extinct,
just a glorified myth
fading like a memory.

Write Autumn 2014

Sunless cerulean sky

etched by the October tree-line

lends a clammy breath

through the yawning grove


Eyes come alive

Tree spirits friendly?

Some sound offended

7 cedars await me


I see a sine upon a ridge

stubbled by the corn harvest

careful steps, uncertain ground

I hear the owls’ signature sound

a few simple questions

If you were God,
condemned eternally to omnipotence,
supremely alone in unparalleled power and glory,
unable to create anything perfect as oneself,
omniscient and painfully aware
that everything you create must die,
and the closer your creation comes to reflecting
your perfect knowledge and wisdom,
the more it must suffer the process,
would you too not go insane?
would you not hurt from your creations’ resentment?
would you too not want to simply
disappear?

Creeping Kind

creeping with my kind-
hearted siberian wolf
stalking with caution
down the mossy spine of the
crunchy gravel trail
brushed by moon shadows
slashing through the murderous
calm

jade comes home bathed in
hydro-chromatic solution
aquamarine silver ghost light
flush familiar warmth
from the growling aspen grove

we breathe through our pores
bushes speak truths in subdued tones
coyote intentions
speak in foreign tongues

Robert Anton Wilson’s ‘Right Where You Are Sitting Now’- in 500 words

I’m only an ordinary machine to bring you a thunderbolt…

HOW TO COPE WITH MARXIST FREAKS LEARNING RELIGION STRAIGHT FROM GOD ANARCHY AND FEMINISM MENTAL PATIENTS LIBERATION

     The job here is to put you in the head space where an ouija board predicts the future; where you are living in a foreign country and it all begins to seem normal to you, so that a visitor from your home country suddenly looks alien and strange; where a new scientific theory begins to make sense; where a work of art that had seemed a hoax or a barbarism abruptly becomes beautiful and full of meaning; where you are first waking up and can’t remember who you are or where you are… Verbal chains guide us through our daily reality-labyrinth.

“Hairy metaphors for a potential Nazi you,” said Simon.

“Gentlepersons,” said Clem Cotex, “I think we are living in a novel.”

     If the control buttons are outside you, should not your principal concern be with recapturing the Reality Studio and taking charge of your own script? For that matter, the Psychologist could not help wondering how much surgery in our own society is a similar form of dramatized placebo. Every conspiracy collapses eventually, because of Washington’s Law (“no permanent allies, only permanent interests”), and also because of the psychological likelihood that those who are superlatively clever at deceiving others become equally clever at deceiving themselves. Disinformation (politics by normal means) eats those who create it.

The ship appears Futuristic. Skeletons in Naval uniforms stand about aimlessly exploring Mexico, the sea and sexuality… a unique experience in living alternatives–educational, emotional, and sexual!”

     Evidently, we have always sought our deepest yearnings, though consciously only daring to express them as myths or fantasies, while pretending to ourselves that we were accepting the grim, pessimistic, hard-nosed view of the hurt-child aspect of ourselves. Under the present brutal and primitive conditions on this planet, every person you meet should be regarded as one of the walking wounded. We have never seen a man or woman not slightly deranged by either anxiety or grief. We have never seen a totally sane human being.
     There is the Copenhagen Interpretation, of Niels Bohr, which says in effect that the whole problem is emic– created by the symbols (mathematics) which physicists use to communicate with each other.

     We encounter the same dismal and depressing experiences because they are repeating tape loops in the central programmer of our brains. We can encounter ecstasy over and over by learning the neurosciences that orchestrate all incoming signals into ecstatic tape loops. The contact has already happened right where you are sitting now. Whether it is tuned-in or not-tuned-in depends on your skill as metaprogrammer.

     A new “you” and a new “external world” appear in the process. Many an artist has decidedly fused into the glorious nude female models he paints. AMERICAN LIFE BOMB WENT AUTHORITARIAN IN FRONTAL ATTACK ON AN ENGLISH WRITER. AM I THAT? AM I?