When the sun frightens
the clouds and kisses the bare
blue sky, the parents strap the kids
into cars that exhaustingly choke
the trees and blind
that fly frantically like mighty minivans
thundering over freeways
to look at the ani-
locked into a steady diet of
camera flashes that darken the sun and fresh goop
made from last year’s zebra.
Zookeeper says stare into the
eyes of a lion and it will stare back
or your next visit is free. And the kids scream onward
painted as elephants, tigers, monkeys –
fingers suffocating coke bottles and hands hidden
deep in the mysterious abyss of nacho boxes,
past 50 foot tall burning giraffes,
set ablaze to raise revenue.
For an idea, emerging from the dullest and crudest firmament, a forcing of white from filth, excess is detrimental. It all begins with a flickering light; on, off, on, off-on-off, on on on, on so bright as to obscure surrounding evil, past evil, future evil - the skys explode in marvelous blue, boom boom, sky blue consumes the heavens; and an insidious buzz sings the glorious choir, when a flash-pop-sizzle guides in the lonesome winter. I breathe in a stale, orange air on a stale, orange couch. I, the feverish wanderer, have opened an invisible door, oh so willingly, for wonder is inviting. The first of all passions, ladies and gentleman, let not wonder grasp you for all mortal time or the succeeding passions will lie unfelt. A man of diminishing knowledge, lacking emotions and feelings, will emerge; and this earth will be raped of all her most secure mysteries. I tell you, I sit on a couch, one embraced in a dusky leather, tucked away in the basement of my mediative house, where those who are not - are. I leer out before the steel carpet, the treasures forever trapped in flimsy boxes, and the grand keyboard that may/will only sound in my head. Silence; I hear nothing more than television programs, radio waves dancing from white room to white room in rejoice, a sort of celebration, of a disrupted purity. Silence! and nothing more. May only the human eyes help me here, for these ears are caught in a fending off of the dancers’ rejoicing, the causers of my seeing red. But, what more must I ask of others?
And, nothing changes; nothing moves.
But, still I breathe in and out, in and out, with a peculiar fixation on what lies before me. But, still I breathe and touch the defunct couch; the cold, still air lifelessly standing far off, yet just inside the senses. Oh, how that air stands, stares, watches…and, nothing changes; nothing moves.
The wild wolves are out, surrounding, and I sit and wait, hoop and hollering, begging to catch a glimpse, to understand. Oh, how I wish to understand.
I seem to deem it necessary to diverge from right turns to take a left here and there, getting lost along the way, leading myself deeper and deeper into a mysterious pleasure - a painful burning. So beautiful this way is; how captivating, however painful. Further I journey into this fragile world built up on cardboard and false truths. I wander alongside the hollow, beautiful others.
We all refrain from talk.
We all just walk; lost within ourselves.
3 and the floor falls from beneath.
Deep darkness was my morning,
where shadows danced about the soul,
and owls cried in the lonesome moon, screaming: Dream, Dream.
Dream while the cosmos shine, that short glimpse of true beauty, before the midnight sun clouds the mind - the eyes. I dwelled where light dare not enter, clothed in moss, I basked in that morning moon, screaming: Dream, Dream. And, I dreamed. And, I became the vast nothing hiding between the stars (they live inside, you know). I woke to dream, to catch a glimpse of the reality of things - of who we are and what we are made of.
Oh, in the morning, how I breathed the deep darkness; how I dreaded the midnight sun.
above a Bloomington sky,
thirty-thousand angels die.
To my dearest miriam,
To the soul, eternal - living through us,
a delicate breeze to flow ever and after all have perished,
I write you till Hypnos wakes
heaves my restless self past the poppies and ever into Lethe,
I write you before I can no longer.
The sands dwindle down, dear
my thoughts mustn’t begin to cease yet, o mi amor, is it not,
and all past days included, but a foreshadow to the end?
How grand! For I dream, I dream of you.
the morning sun brings definite haze
beautiful chaos, until she rests atop her throne and
the sky opens from warmth above;
clarity below. I move through you, love, and the holy dove
ever into the dusk
immersing, together, into a time of reflection,
a time for comeliness, and too we rest as the sun (a life so long)
a day so lived, patient for the children of dark night,
and I watch Thanatos take you for eternity, patient for my turn,
He consumes me as well.
Now I ask: Are our waking hours but not a minute life?
Will you appear to me this night?
Please my dear, will you and the Holy Ghost call my name once more
All that consumes my wonder will fade into a definite air, a definite passion of my soul.
(Love, hatred, desire, joy, sadness, never-mind which).
I am to judge all things in terms of my own preservation, my own ends.
Further, still, in the Labyrinth I walk, a journey to the center of all things;
and, I send above -
all that I know, all that I love,
for a world dancing relentlessly on Hope,
(may your drum beat on
never ceasing, until the hide tares
in the center,
and the wood splits, lights, and turns to ash
from a burning heat expanding forever outside of time and space)
I cry to dance no longer and urge a pause,
to breathe the breath of air, and enter this mortal Labyrinth placed before us.
All things withhold a journey, and all things have a center.
Every box to grace the floor must be forgotten. Every soft speaker must be forgotten, told as I near my conclusion of hell. A moth through a door, I never hope to return. Oh, how soft a truth falls. Past days burn brain cells - it’s what depressed bosses don’t tell you. An intellect pounds from inside the mind, she throbs. I’ve walked miles in one direction, backed up, and walked it again. Day after day, loaf after loaf, heroin straight to the immensity of things. They all sloth about the same, and this is where I’ll be found, forever alongside the wasted.
And I sit,
under lamp, under nothing
there is to see.
Kitchen cleaned, swept up and
dry as the rag I used. And how dirt collects,
attracting the gnats, sorry; how dirt collects
without water. And I drink Nature’s drink, so when is
dirty too dirty? when is clean too clean?
And I speak, I speak up.
never-mind the kitchen, which no living soul
may judge; focus on me
under lamp, under nothing
there is but what I wish, what I say.
And is it possible that the purpose of one life is
to protect another? one other.
And what does it mean to make sense?