Thursday, June 24, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
A basic Savagery
I once wrote a poem
That I thought was of me
A song of myself
A person to be
But upon further inspection
And deeper reflection
It came to the surface that alone
Is not to be
In fact to find alone is not to be
And not not to be
But not to see
Not to hear not to feel
Not to want
But dark
For to be is the inverse of me
It is, fact, the we
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a golden track
It still reminds me
From under the rock
From under the shade and
The safety and security and hate and cynicism
Every once in awhile
It comes to the party in a black cocktail dress
Showing just enough leg…
Just enough to wonder what’s beyond
But Christ we all know what’s there
“Why yes I know him
Indeed, the thickest of skins
A real man’s man
Oh What a deer
Vest he is wearing…”
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a Golden TRACK
A hunter, a gatherer, an assimilator are they
A curdling crisp air built in a flood plaine
THOMAS what a coincidence a derivative
Of the word and of the paine
The inverse of me
Is we
Without we cannot be
The inverse of me
That I thought was of me
A song of myself
A person to be
But upon further inspection
And deeper reflection
It came to the surface that alone
Is not to be
In fact to find alone is not to be
And not not to be
But not to see
Not to hear not to feel
Not to want
But dark
For to be is the inverse of me
It is, fact, the we
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a golden track
It still reminds me
From under the rock
From under the shade and
The safety and security and hate and cynicism
Every once in awhile
It comes to the party in a black cocktail dress
Showing just enough leg…
Just enough to wonder what’s beyond
But Christ we all know what’s there
“Why yes I know him
Indeed, the thickest of skins
A real man’s man
Oh What a deer
Vest he is wearing…”
I saw it creeping through the black
Leaving behind a Golden TRACK
A hunter, a gatherer, an assimilator are they
A curdling crisp air built in a flood plaine
THOMAS what a coincidence a derivative
Of the word and of the paine
The inverse of me
Is we
Without we cannot be
The inverse of me
Monday, May 17, 2010
Euterpe
This happens, doesn’t it
Everything has a volume
Not an empty or full volume, no
It’s all empty and full
But a volume
And I am turning them all down
Not consciously
But so consciously that I don’t even
Know
And that’s always been the secret
Hasn’t it?
Live, dead, meaning, not meaning
Bright happy happening fiction
Volumes of knowledge and experience and life
A simple knob creates one from the other
God’s fairest equalizer
Everything has a volume
Not an empty or full volume, no
It’s all empty and full
But a volume
And I am turning them all down
Not consciously
But so consciously that I don’t even
Know
And that’s always been the secret
Hasn’t it?
Live, dead, meaning, not meaning
Bright happy happening fiction
Volumes of knowledge and experience and life
A simple knob creates one from the other
God’s fairest equalizer
5th gear
the fragile
a metaphysical bug zapper
at 1400
headed due southeast
I Saw him
Dressed in denim shovel
In hand the savior had come
He was no diviner
No soothsayer
But a simpleton in
“necessary” garb
for he repaired while we slept
shielded from our cast aversions
he creates lines for us to dwell upon
and within our lives
lines connect
lines divide
that bug zapper, the lines were pulling me in
who is this mystery, such thankless work it is
repairing these lines
thankless for a reason
i’m sure as hell not thankful
the fragile
a metaphysical bug zapper
at 1400
headed due southeast
I Saw him
Dressed in denim shovel
In hand the savior had come
He was no diviner
No soothsayer
But a simpleton in
“necessary” garb
for he repaired while we slept
shielded from our cast aversions
he creates lines for us to dwell upon
and within our lives
lines connect
lines divide
that bug zapper, the lines were pulling me in
who is this mystery, such thankless work it is
repairing these lines
thankless for a reason
i’m sure as hell not thankful
Monday, May 3, 2010
a prayer
What, did you see Galileo
When, gazing through your
Glass, eye
Why, did it blind you so
What, was the empirical fool
To, gain from such meta
end, deavours
what, if your eye were diseased
where, did you find hope then
were, you not more lost after seeing
nothing, now seeing nothing but
knowing, and having seen everything
now, nothing
why, should the light blind you so
why, is the light there
When, gazing through your
Glass, eye
Why, did it blind you so
What, was the empirical fool
To, gain from such meta
end, deavours
what, if your eye were diseased
where, did you find hope then
were, you not more lost after seeing
nothing, now seeing nothing but
knowing, and having seen everything
now, nothing
why, should the light blind you so
why, is the light there
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Metamorphosis
Icarus has come between me and the sun
His void is a wasteland
An ethereal longitude
All things shall pass
At home with the sweat
Drip from his concerned brow
But fearless
It is an opera of hoops and hollers
That keeps Hektor
That nothing is O K
Constant threat and change
That he is constantly inadequate
Constantly at odds
And constantly tested by
The men in white coats and their
Spears and shields
This is peace of mind in war
Fear dwells in the dust
And apathy
So let it not settle
Be not content with the music
Sirens oh the sirens
It is not cute and there is no solace in it
Vapid charybdis hides in these crystalline waters
I can hear their whispers
A temptationless whisper is a howling feral dog
I float above behind my (e)yes
His void is a wasteland
An ethereal longitude
All things shall pass
At home with the sweat
Drip from his concerned brow
But fearless
It is an opera of hoops and hollers
That keeps Hektor
That nothing is O K
Constant threat and change
That he is constantly inadequate
Constantly at odds
And constantly tested by
The men in white coats and their
Spears and shields
This is peace of mind in war
Fear dwells in the dust
And apathy
So let it not settle
Be not content with the music
Sirens oh the sirens
It is not cute and there is no solace in it
Vapid charybdis hides in these crystalline waters
I can hear their whispers
A temptationless whisper is a howling feral dog
I float above behind my (e)yes
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Never leave home without your hammer, a word with the Orientals
Are such sporadic incantations
Of inebriation
Harbingers
Flares, desperate screams
By some bestial lord jim
Drowning in a sea of
Gramophones
~ OH GOOD SIR, YOUR MANNERS ARE QUITE KIND~
eccentric exo-centric ex-centric
Why’s wise is why is wise why
Is why’s why is why wise wise
Is why why’s why wise
Devastator
Manipulator
Verdant foliage
chromatic ecstatic
It is bad when one thing becomes two. It is the same for anything that is called a Way. If one understands things in this manner, he should be able to hear about all Ways and be more and more in accord with his own.
Of inebriation
Harbingers
Flares, desperate screams
By some bestial lord jim
Drowning in a sea of
Gramophones
~ OH GOOD SIR, YOUR MANNERS ARE QUITE KIND~
eccentric exo-centric ex-centric
Why’s wise is why is wise why
Is why’s why is why wise wise
Is why why’s why wise
Devastator
Manipulator
Verdant foliage
chromatic ecstatic
It is bad when one thing becomes two. It is the same for anything that is called a Way. If one understands things in this manner, he should be able to hear about all Ways and be more and more in accord with his own.
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