November 13, 2007

an absentee banshee

the glistening howl
saturated with opulence
senses voided (vocitus....vacuus)
an ebb....facetious
in lieu of a heart beating hale

retracting cilia
intent on probing the past
too late (laeter...lassus)
the cries....forestalled
for no ears tune to the sufferance

anon to the beckoning
it shall away
to reappear....oh, but do not cast
for you can't not see anyerr

to bound, howl, leap towards abeyance
and joyful sounds erupt
when the glance averts true relation
and neglect engenders trust

Plain vs. Serrated: The Conventional View

you think other people choose the current situation, the one we all have to live in day in and day out, on their deathbeds?

how they feel at the moment of death determines how the rest of us live out our meager existences?

you think our intents are snatched at the moment of release?

used without our consent or even knowledge?

the juggernaut released and harnessed....mankind's contribution to the struggle
tween left and right
on and off
dark and light

I think i can make do with only the 3 dimensions....yes
the first, uninhibited spree
the second, guilty sobriety
the third....

but why can't we live in the third?
i want the choice of a recycled balance
to stand tip-toed on the knife's edge
that saps the strength of our dying breathes
with the resultant wavefront creating the first and second
and a fourth if wedged properly


yes, i know of the faultless dark
they of the glaz-ed eye
who look upon our dearth of dash
and disembowel our sigh

they gaze
this glaze a smear of cause
and lift the guise as is his due
and yes....I know
I know it well
as surely as do you....

you can not blame hormonal surge
that animalistic fruit
it has no place in suffering
that light is lit and mute

just fade to shade
construe, knew
you stand aglaze

the sacrifice was neer refused
now hollow be your values queue
oh ye of the glazed eye

Hard Wun Truce

when the One has separated

excrement from mind

learned to leave and recognize

migrators at odd

the ego is allowed its rightful place

in the homage to the theatre of Wun

psyche’s doppelganger

i see the deliberate ones
bereft of a stagnant ego
floundering on the shoals
of insolent sacrifice
taking that unconditional dip
into temperance

why would you deny
your wright of joy
that wonder of rue
the flailing journey
to marrow?

why do we all neglect
the curcuit taken
in ever deepening spirals
out...ever out
beyond our joyless throes

to find the one within
who shouts, yearns, bleeds
for the retribution
of forgiveness

why abandon indulgence
when you can surrender
to extravagance, bounty
grace and cruelty
the Crown of Rout
your everlasting garland....

tell me
....tell me

the parabola of affection

you promised
when you lain down
amongst the fiber of my soul's entanglings
to hold with a forgiving regard
neer to cherish the familiar impulses
bled onto these foils of a season spent

you promised
when you clasped my offer
of a loving inconvenience
to turn your heedless eye apparent
not to view the manifestation
of those strokes given to a blessing sink
but to let loose when the flint struck
and connect the brilliance scrapped

you promised
when you made this
appointment with sufferance
to hear that unconditional heartbeat
the one that rushes down galleries
aligned with clueless shivers
intent on a perilous joy

you promised
when controlling whispers burst
upon the countless cascading mottos
of hollowish salvation
an adoration warm with truth and pulse
the obvious deprivaton pre-ordained
bona fide and distinct

you promised
with that haphazard motion thrust
all opportunities to beckon
with a simple lack of reflex
and it's suddenness plummeting
amid endurance of a vacancy grant

you promised


with echoes
of a vague recollection
carresses that stroke
a sheath held long and punished
those imprints left behind
a sensation best hid
from the all knowing eyes
of a sun

through and free
down layers
of buttressed empathy
it's bliss worn and frayed
no longer taking visitors
towards the memory of

by the view
of heals of devotion
wandering afar and astray
the connections
but a dream of withered lust
that curdles the blaze
of sanity

all those dreams flee
for none can withstand the
lucent reason and complacency
while shadow runs unrestrained
through the weave of device and desire
gone off course

'mongst twisted shells
discarded in the throes
of a neglectful rapture
the only tangible evidence
not of god
but of a warp and flushed truth
to bold to contain our paradigm

this tenement lorn
this ardor bled
this existence recessed....

despair despeir desperare

A reverent sobriety

suspicion equals fear equals denial

Denial of our judgments

Denial of our ever-evolving hypocrisy

Denial to surrender (aww surrender….know it well)

who is it that's supposed to be acceptive of whom?

if you can not accept your own base nature

how can you then accept the fears of others….

but then I'm sorry to say..….your fear is YOUR repression, not mine

I have no qualms….I am satisfied

my truth is no fantasy

and your opinion is irrelevant

why fight fire with fire

when you don't even feed yours properly

at least I've faced down my vile beast within

you……you run from yours

a persistence of vision

to range the very air
through travail's ghastly shaft
this journey's scope
but a surged blur
superior, far and affrayed

your struggles
are yet a memory's pall
i have moved beside
in this route taken
linear to the melee
and they unravel with fret
side and spite
their purpose a care
smitten with a disagreeable ennui

while mine
having been left by their infancy
lush and wet with tears
too soon shed midst misery's terrain
are let loose in jest
on a populace less reflexive

we enroil in a brume
hazed and adjacent to the landscape of my ideals
simply an after-mirage in the rear view
that should have burdened....

was there something to that trepidation?
a psycho physicality
that synthesized into a frequency
i should have taken notice of?
i thought it but a phinomenon of perception
twin brains surmising movement
a flicker fused....
to give
yet another
of normality

de facto’s rote

could you travel half-way to reality
on the faith of a written word?

as the whim of others
attempts an unbroken dash
over ruts worn thin by
euphoria and remorse
the question always arises....
why would one want
to rescind and bide
a step away from apathy?

the incurious
clear the blue glow
of a full moon's right
with fog drenched vales
spiked with haunted fingers
of agitation

but I negate your bliss
please leave me torpid
tween headlong and even
don't drag me down
to your rapturous twilight
that burns with a sacrilegious wick

lethed melancolie
is it's own reward
for a life blown hard
by the roar of chagrin

reality’s bellow

the focus
hollow and lacerated
the view
what looks to some
a blank hue
is in fact a ludicrous contest
with eternity
that wrest of one last drop of birr
from the embrace of silence

the vessel withered and crushed
as one long lost ship
dredged from millennia's nether
having been chawed and spat out
ad infinitatem
by the sucking maws
of unfathomable gluttons
for audacity

they have hard-won the havoc
leaving the soul divided
eternal charisma shattered
the outcome open ended

the vacuum’s gnaw

a call
out of the mind
of an abyss gone rampant
while running blessedly through
the fields of remark

on my way
to a moment encircled
by all views
what to you
does my pause accomplish?
i have nothing to offer
such a lambent query of requital

should i halt....for thu
you who have no delineation
no boundary left
or structure of assumption?

you made me pivot my intent
through the core
deeper than that familiar voice
and now I channel the void
that has no tongue

there is nothing to hear
here in the vacuum
why do you answer?

there is nothing sincere
here in the wildness
why do you linger?

there is nothing to volunteer
here in the collective sigh
why do you besiege?

i shudder along with the cryptic child
who flinches from shadowed pulses
that linger long veins
flush with remembered perplexity

those embryonic enigmas
embedded too deep to make my own
is this what you call to
when you surpass this hermetic shard?


You know what frightens me the most?
Not monsters, or the lush effects so common now-a-days. Not Death, nor weapons, wild beasts or brutal assaults…..
No….no, my pet fear is madness.

Madness terrifies me, that total mental collapse into spiritual decay.

I have this image in my head from a movie I saw so long ago. Of a woman, from a pre-civil war, well-to-do family, who loses touch with the commoners one day….

She takes to her hands and knees, crawling the house day in, night out, her black taffeta gown dragging the floor, her perspective halved and lacking.

At moments she seems as sane as you or I, just a peculiarity, this viewpoint from the hip so to say. But then eyes turn inward and she sees something that starts the foray……

The moaning and denials, screeches that reach sub sonic frequencies, to be followed by rushed whispers, the dialogue frantic and centered.

This….this is the effigy I fear most.

brittle dichogamy

a healer of appulsed stars

that appear quasied

but genuinely retroglide

through the solstice eve

the psycho-pompo-us mediation

skates tween con and un

a membrane most delicate

if you point the sun

against the universal centre

and heaven's fire

rich with humidity

fecund and deprived of the night's glow

coasts neath the right ascension

small and rare

solstitially arriving

with it's twin barrels of divine stigma

to agressively phase all those

standing agog....

all hail, all hail


an ever-revolving cast of espousals
the multi-states of mind flicker
out and round this iso-late crater
like an old time projection
cast by the setting sun
through the pulp of decay

words flicker by
on the window of contingency
assigning identities
too fast to hope the reserve

i analyze the repetition
a morsed dream that delves
broader afield with ever incarnate
dialogues scripted yet unique
if only in spectrum

i've heard....what was it i heard
i've seen this....yes, yes
again and amongst the lines....

so fragile
to be inhibitionalistically bound
restrictively foiled
by the ghost of retreat and plunder

too good
at anger, those tears which burn
the birth of verbatimed accusations
that control in the light of reason

resolve in this dance
to an ancient abuse
mis-faith, and the trust wanders
mis-used, even the echo will brood
mis-amity, and affection spits from inheritance
mis-aligned, we will all sabotage the assumption

feel the urge to be caught
in the midst of myself
once again....are you?

the stratum haunt

So I was standing still at 67 miles per hour again the other day, and I came across a tableau that was astonishing in its aftermath, though the moment seemed but a transit stroke. The second the scenes unfolded, each in their sequential pomp, the awe factor ratcheted up notch over notch till I was flabbergasted and wanting so to return to the act of the "crime".

Layer one….Red lights flashing in the distance, not unusual for a busy weekend by-way. Came up on brand new dooley pulled off to the side of the road, big and red with tinted and viewless windows and driver. A muddy brown sedan with hidden lights flashing in the back seat behind. Once you were up on the duo the lights faded in and out with strobic intensity….they are there….they are elsewhere….

Layer two….A man, in civilian clothes, walking from the sedan. Nice clothes, middle age, out of shape. But the odd factor was that if a vehicle is being pulled over by any law enforcement, the officer would be cautiously approaching the offending vehicle, weapon drawn and at the ready. Yet this man was sauntering through the roadside grasses like he was on his way to Sunday church services.

Now if this wasn't enough……on the other side of the road, almost directly opposite of this "crime"….

Layer three….at first glance I thought it was an elemental, a groundling deva type pacing the setting sun, waiting for its proper time. This "man", nut brown, with dirt so ingrained and skin so oakish as to appear black, yet with those piercing light eyes….

His clothing was an odd mish-match of extremely well-worn denim and torn-up, not-oft washed plaids. His boots were at least a half inch thick cowhide, gnarled and twisted to exactly fit his pristine feet. His hat, a twisted heap of fiber, molded by sweat and sun, to only vaguely resemble a sun bonnet. Thick of chest, a man who worked and fed every muscle, not just paid homage in a mirror. But the clincher, the item that made me realize I was not witnessing a modern day man walking along the road as if on an errand, were his chaps.

They were not the common full-leg, up-to-the waist kind. No, these went only up as far as the knee – thick unbending leather bells. Snake charmer chaps we call them here. Now, we have our share of local rodeo groups, but this was no sideshow-rodeo-cowboy-clown. This was a throwback to those days gone by of the cross-world cattle drives. And where would this creature, if "cowboy" he truly was, be coming from? We were on the side of the road, no ranches or developments or homes anywhere for at least a mile either way……

He was directly across from the officer and his offender. He looked at the scene as if to say "yea, I see it, I seen it before, it's just a late evening heat mirage. It will disappear as always when the sun sets down. But in the meantime I'm gonna take notes".

Highway 130 is cutting across old highways and back roads that were once trails between ranches and markets, auction and slaughter houses, and railroads and big cities up north and east. I think things other than the dust are being disturbed. And I truly think this is why my perspective is being so distorted….one of these days I won't just be driving by one of those portals, I'm going to drive 'through'……

lusus naturae

a deformance of soul
the gnarl and kink
unable to wreathe our

a barrage and butt
against our pitch
demanding indemnific entrance

a lamentable ado
when understanding eclipsed
these simple flurries reviled and latent

any appeals
blown down and neglected
all percusses reciprocated
the claws descended and razor dark

it's instinctive
this knotty tread can't be helped
can't you see....
the strength is a shield
not a weapon

this yearning for consent
the dip into the cusp
is exactly what marks their aura suspect
for the quarry can sense the courser....

yet not one of you will allow
....that even monsters
need a kindness now and again