Words—

…Snippets of previously Published and Unpublished works. I will eventually put all my writings in one place, online, in the cloud........as well as self print, again, but until then...…Completed books have hitherto been self-published, printed in small quantities, distributed sparsely, and are no longer available. Most of my writing was done while living in St. Augustine Florida, & Boston Massachusetts, my Bicycle Flight to the West seemingly ending any regular writing as I focused on Material Manipulation. Any previously published work of mine, not printed by myself, whether in publications, compilations, or editions, has unfortunately mostly all been edited and arranged up to and past the point of my disapproval. So until I take control over my published works, find a concrete floor on which to land, and begin the long process of arranging and printing my 7 completed books of Poetry and Prose, I will add bits and pieces here as my mood sees fit.....

Titles By Lucien J. Boisclair:

The Instinctive Search and/or Distraction, or Destiny of Beauty Maybe!?    ©2003

Confessions Of An Astronaut     ©2004 

The Mechanics Of Panic And Poems Still Unknown     ©2005

Subjectively Random...     ©2005

Transition      ©2006

A Drawn Out Picture...     ©2007

The Western Edition     ©2012

And I Overheard an Ocean Overhead       ©in progress(2015–2023)
                    
--------------------------

              Stargazers

                                  –dedicated to C.W.

Under the full moon's Light there is a Massacre
A slaying of Grounded and Bound Realities
An opening up of Wounds and Worlds–
A sure sign of the times to come.

And under that sky there's an Opening
A broken window of danger and Opportunity
A looming gateway to fear, love, pain, and bliss–
And helplessly they Fall, eyes closed,
Tightly embraced, and Sure,
             ...of Nothing.

And what is that Ahead on their Horizon?–
That faint Glow getting Brighter and Brighter?
Is it a Star? another World? an Illusion?
Or is it a flying machine carrying their dreams
from one Place to Another?

And look!–the Beating Heart has shadowed the Moon
The Skies enlighten a darker shade of Black
Now,–now they're Sure it's a Star!–
But will they ever find a way
             ...to get to it?



                                                ©L.J. Boisclair
                                                   August 7th, 2017
                                                     St. Augustine, FL


--------------------


          Toward Rotation

                    .I.

Open their eyes to a new tomorrow–
  yesterday's long forgotten.
the Here and Now is finally upon us–
  for what have we been waiting?

But a Memorable Eternity
  dreaming of us–
an unknown Entity,
  returning to Dust?

A silence that rings
  and sings us to sleep;
A darkness that holds us
  and wants us to weep….

But Now We Are, And Here It Is–
  what can we do but choose?
To forever remember or quickly forget?
  to love completely or intensely regret?–

What should we do?
  but nothing at all:
allowing Everything,
  while expecting Nothing:

Becoming only a fleeting memory,
tangled in the eternal flicker of conscience:

                  .II.

and back into the world of consequence!
last night's dream was kept alive
–or shoved, –by not quitting.
I've let it seep in and taint, and ruin,
as we are nothing more than
a series of consequences
upon waking.

oh please tell me to shut up!
I beg for your attention
and you for mine!–
you mock and scorn
Poetic Ridiculousness
yet could never fathom
even the shallows of your own Heart!

–oh bite! –I have bitten!–
do you not dare to compete and play?
alas! You have quit, but long ago
only now realizing
the importance of persistence
as you see a dream appear
hovering over you as a ghost,
forever haunting,
     forever wanting,
forever taunting you back to sleep!


                                     © L.J. Boisclair
                                        Summer, 2017
                                          St. Augustine, FL

 -----------------------------


              The Exit—

No longer do I know Day—
   When the sunbeams gleam
And the Light is harsh
   As it spills itself wherever it wants.

No longer will I be a hand
   On this ugly, sinking ship—
I have no desire to contribute
   To an abrupt decay of Beauty.

No longer shall negative thoughts
   Enter this mind of treason
For purity has found its way
   Into the abyss of a forgotten prison:

To what are we chained but our own past?–
   So easily forgotten yet still Retained—
Oh tell me the Time so that I may live
   In your indebted world of selfishness.

Yet from all of this, I reluctantly rise—
   An attempt to fly with imagined wings–
But in the Dream I cannot walk:
    My legs are made of lead.

And so I exit, on the Ancient Wheel
   In search of the softest Light
Where Shadows hide and Angels sing
   And I can finally Sleep at Night.

And too, do I, nervously tremble
    At the thought of an Invisible Horizon—
For nothing, no nothing's, more misunderstood
   Than the darker side of the Sun.

                                           ©L.J. Boisclair
                                      2017,  Philadelphia

-----------------

                 (from "The Western Edition) 

Tired Eyes Wait 
For a fresh morning light
In the drab, drawn-out
Halls of Night.

All doors: closed.—
At the end, a Bed
And headstone left
Unintentionally blank,

Where is the sun
When you need Her most?
She only shines when we are strong
And blinds us when we're weak.

Secluded in this delusion
we wade—
through still ponds of lost illusions
hoping—
for solutions in sleep.

-----------------------------


            The Opening
                                      (for B.B.)

The pictures are dark, stark with feeling
    They draw me in, but with quiet patience
Their delicacy timid, and the colours Shy
    As the whole screams out and courts the Eye.
                            ~
And what is this? a piece of linen—
    Folded up and placed within
A wash of ruin, a Pastel Bed—
    A familiar place to rest ones Head.
                            ~
And deep within the Perfect Placement
   I see the person, in Silent Torment—
I see my own lingering passion
    Contained and withered—haphazard.
                            ~
I see the Blood, and yet I loiter
    To brace for my own imagined Tornado
But oh!–—it's so silent—the typical calm?—
   Or have I finally, here, gone Deaf?
                            ~
Have all the things I've lost come back to yell at me?
    Or have I not Spoken loud enough
For anything to stay?—
    Who here sees me self-distracted,
Taking pictures of the surrounding nic-nacs?

                                                    ©L.J. Boisclair
                                               2016,  Philadelphia

--------------------


(....from "The Philadelphia Experiment and the Lost Years")

"Where to?—says the Shoe
    Tomorrow.—Sayeth the Brow—
Legs of Lead, let us tread
    On the concrete of Repeat…."

Along this 'walk
   no one talks
      except within themselves

And going Home
   means nothing more
      than returning to empty Shelves

The place was dark,
   and I sat still
      as another sat beside

We drank our fill
   and nodded heads
      both choosing to quietly hide—

But oh the comfort!
   of being with
      another, unwilling to tell

The depth of loneliness
   endured and kept
      within our own gates of Hell.

—From The Silent Bar
   to the lonely street–
      the Sidewalk shows the way

Back to our Beds,
   made with Stuffed
      Statues of Yesterday—

Where Future is placed
   upon the Shelves
      of rented, painted, Place—

Where we are wrapped
   within ourselves
      wanting only to relate

To Something other than this Hell
       —something to keep us Awake.

                 ~

...And there she stood,
   was it a dream?
      ahead, in looming fog

People were pointing,
   laughing and mocking—
      how long had this gone on?

I wanted to save her
   but Roads were blocked—
      something had crashed and Died

And then I awoke—
   It had all been a dream—
      and our dreams are where we Hide.

              ~

With this I walked
   to my favorite Bar—
      the Sidewalk guides the way—

A Drink is Poured,
   Money Exchanged—
      there is nothing more to say—

Except that rather Simple Thing,
   so complicated and Grey:

"Where art thou,
   dearest Lover—
      when I wanted you,  
            Yesterday?"

                                            ©L.J. Boisclair
                                               2016
                                                  Philadelphia
                                          
-------------------------------------

0.108.

(the day after the election, 2016)

When Escapism becomes a Suffocating Fantasy
    for staying or becoming Sane,
When Fighting becomes a Reluctant Necessity
    of Unity, Sense, and Peace,
When Logic is Confused and Lost in a Maze
    of Difference—
            Indifference becomes Evil,
    and the Good, tired—

When Strengths are drowned with a Sinking Dream
    and the Sound of Wind becomes too loud,
What have we got but Bodies Suspended,
    faithfully, faithfully,
                         breathing?

----------

0.333.

              The Year's Sunrise
                                   (dedicated to B.B.)

This day always moves me to watch
  Time, rise into View:
How majestic and foreign its passage and presence
  —How ultimately, I'm thinking of You.

And only now can I Know this Power—
  Can I Feel its colorful effects—
Even though I'll feel it intensely forever,
  I pause now just to Reflect—

On how this rising, glowing Motion
  Draws out and Christens a falling Tear,
As precious memories run out from their Chambers
  To Welcome the pawns of Fear—

How happiness so slyly sneaks its way in
  Behind life's Tragic Decay—
How transitioning light slowly opens the eyes
  To the Darknesses of Yesterday—

How my Shadow now dances Naively in front of me,
  Colourful and clear as glass—
How my future stares me down and frowns
  At my attachments to the past—

And how time is now, no longer against us!
  But holding us up at last—
So let's graciously stare, at the sun for too long 
  For soon this too,
                              shall pass—


                                                            –Jacksonville Beach, Florida
                                                              November 7th, 2006

---------------

.1.

(from "The Western Edition"  - untitled)

© L. J. Boisclair 2012

                                                       ~

                     Summer
                                  (for e.r.w.)

Where are We now, but on the Edges of a blurry photograph?
  A Sunbeam dim on a Sky turned grey?
The cicada Symphony of Eternal Desire?
  Another Glass tipped, and slowly breaking?
                            ~
Where are You now, but très loin?—
  Too far to touch, too close to Fade?
Your Colours long have bled the Sunset
  Where I run motionless, without aim—
                            ~
Except to Noon!—That highest of Noons!
  Where we were Tall!—our Chorus long!
The sunlight played with our reflection
  And our Reflections played the Song.
                            ~
"Hello Angel" I whisper loud—
  The Owl turns its head and calls:
The sun is down, the colours drown—
  A Star begins to Shine.

                                          © L. J. Boisclair
                                               Summer, 2015
                                                  The Ozarks

---------------------------------------------------------------

.2.

...from "Subjectively Random
             Prices & Weights
            Quotes & Opinions
             Options & Dates

           On Objects & Subjects
            & Concepts that make
           For Confusions & Delusions: Fragments,
            Ill-written in Haste"
                                                             © 2005 L. J. Boisclair

Another Vehicle set on Fire:
  Smile as you Pass–
Secretly hiding Inner Laughter?–
  Though returning to the Gas
Every sickly, dim Desire
  Burns, and it burns fast
A Hole through every burning Heart
  As Breath is killed you gasp
Remembering the distant Air
  Of an Oxygen that lasts.

All day & Night you love to squander
  Watch the News and ponder
As Highways rise they topple over
  Mechanical Mother and Brother
Faster than ever–it happened before
  The Dozer ploughs it over
Making room for more an more
  Fire to fuel the Laughter.

While Panic-stricken Mothers hover
  Over burning Babies
Set aside at Mechanical Nurseries–
  Automated Infirmaries
Covering ears & eyes with Sighs,
  Their Tears with Inner Cries
For a World with whiter, lighter clouds
  And Azure Summer Skies
As we live to pretend, & please a Time
  When the Fire burns the Rhyme.

While Under Hood the Engines rumble
  Muffled by the Whine
Of a Driver dodging Reflective puddles
  Of Exhaustive slime and grime
As he rides with timely, ticking Clocks
  Winding down the Chime.

-------------------------------

.3.

...from "Subjectively Random.../..."  ©2004

I dreamt of Music
   Composed by me
Though I cannot find
   The Melody

It did escape
   And return to the Place
Where it was Born
   Without a Face,

Where Sound & Image
   Float as vapour
Condensing chaotically
   Whenever a Dreamer

Has the Capacity
   To hold it together
Just long enough
   To Remember.

-----------------------------------------

.4.

(from "The Western Edition"   - untitled)

Lightning Candle in the Chamber
    Of the Sleeping Dragon
Cast the Shadow of its Victim—
    A Sculpture made of Bone—

And let it Dance, oh let it Dance
    But the Dragon, do not wake
For it must Sleep, yes soundly Sleep
    For Tomorrow, it must Pay.

Through the Storm its Dream remains
    Fueling its fiery Breath—
But in the Morning blinding Rays
    Send Thunder to a shuddering Death!—

Creators & Killers live side-by-side—
    The one knows not the other—
And when they cross the World is tossed
   Backward,—then Forward further.

                                        ©2009, California.
------------------------

.5.

From "The Instinctive Search and or Distraction or Destiny of Beauty Maybe!?"
                                                                              ©2004
                                                                  St. Augustine, Florida

…first a bit of background information:

   This was my first book of Poetry. I had never written Poetry before and then one day, beyond my control and without me trying, it just happened, and so I went with it. I allowed it to happen, and as it continued, it took control of me. I was forming my understanding and view of the World with it and through it. I have fond memories of being taken over by its depth, the trance-states which consumed my consciousness and produced such Beauty, so complete, so simple, so direct and effective. This method of expression did, and still does suit me quite well, even though I have perhaps been less open to letting Poetic Thought take hold of me lately due to the need to survive in the Bay Area of California.

   As with all things I do, I did not keep it simple. The book, as it wrote itself, clearly showed me that what was happening was far from simple; that each poem was part of a whole; each poem came to me in some sort of indecipherable order.......I knew it was important to keep the words in order, as they came to me. I could tell that a book was being formed, even after just a few Poems were written. Where did they come from? I knew it was important to record these thoughts, I am grateful that I was given them, I am grateful that I was in a position to let it happen, to write it all down, accurately, and that what came out was something Beautiful, and as far as I'm concerned, worthy of Existing. As more and more Poetry came out, I soon started to notice "sections" of the whole, and so this book is actually divided into 6 chapters. I realized a similarity of the tempo and structure of what was being written to the story of the 7 days of creation, and so there is a 7th chapter left empty, all but a single Poem as its title. One could perhaps begin to understand why I was never happy with partial publication of anything from this book; and how something read from chapter 6 before reading up to that piece, would be much less of a Poem than if it was read in order.

   I started writing basically as soon as I started reading outside of school. I dropped out of high school in the 9th grade even though I'd always had good grades. I decided to race my bicycle and work out in the real world instead. It wasn't until I was about 22 years old that for some reason, I was pulled into the Library and began reading all the work by every secular philosopher I could get my hands on. I was addicted to this information, I soon began buying the books instead of renting them, I needed them, on hand, at all times. My small apartment soon became filled with bookshelves. Something was happening. I was discovering a Truth through these Philosophers and Poets. I associated with and understood Nietzsche the most. I was pulled into his writing and I remember so clearly, the awe I felt at this knowledge. I would read his books over and over again, understanding more and more each time. I worked at a print shop where I ran printing presses. During the long print runs I was reading Nietzsche. I would have to rush into the bathroom and write very often. That was the only private place where I could go and not get questioned. I could still hear the machines running from in there, but I was able to be alone with the thoughts trying to come out..........

The first Poem from this book that I'm including on this temporary page, is the Opening Poem of the book, which is how the Introduction of the book ends. I wrote this when the book was finally complete. Throughout the writing of the book, it came to my understanding that what was being written was for a certain type of reader. That what was happening to me could and should be happening to others: Truths being discovered, unencumbered artistic expression realized and as catalyst for Reality. I felt I was writing to the whole world. I saw so many people around me living incompletely, believing lies, falling into false ideals, worshiping paper gods, relying on broken systems, hoping and wishing for something concrete all the while being a cog in the production of tinsel. I felt that the words which I'd written down were a beginning, one of many potential beginnings, to the roads of true integration, where Life as we know it is complete and fulfilling; where we are not alive for someone else; we are not working for another's means; we are not waiting for another life; we are not wishing things were different than they are; but that we are everything and everything is within, and when projected outward, creates our World,     and it is Beautiful,        –it is Perfect.

This night of distant, diminishing light
   Shall dance with all its worthy might
 For now it's written, immortalized
    With all my enraptured, pent-up might
  Bringing solace to the eternal cries
     And meaning to every enlightened sight
   While bringing relevant beautification
      To a dying, starving, troubled nation
     ~       ~       ~
And I shall attempt, a task unattended–
   Addressing what has yet to live;
What centuries have nourished, they've thoroughly ended–
   But I have begun, and attempt to give.
     ~       ~       ~
And when these are visible, with forgotten sight–
   The things that matter most–
New empires suddenly will spark into life,
   That since had been only your companion ghost
And you'll grasp with all your pent-up might
   The reigns of every wild horse
Leading the way to a future, beyond,
   The wavering horizon, continuing on,
      Through deserts & cemeteries–your destined Course!

-----------------------

.6.

     ...(from "Confessions of an Astronaut")

"Evil Anne"

The face of Evil stares at me
Then slowly smiles, and sincerely
Asks a question just to see
If I'll listen, or agree
To the importance of listening
To Evil's constant questioning
And now I find I'm answering–
Not only that, but smiling–
Her trap is set, I'm idling–
I've been caught, and she has taught me
How to love being captured
By my own wandering,
Restless mind.

I've left behind
All those who've run
So quickly from her smile.

And how she winks
When our eyes meet!–
How my heart sank
When she escaped–
I've since attached
Her wings to mine
Just to know
She didn't lie
When she said
She'd rather lead
Than be led
Through the same sky
That's ever-changing right above
And infiltrating the skylark mind.

©2003 


----------

.7.          (untitled)

So slowly Dies the lowly Poet–
  Inside, he falls apart
As rotting Anger and Disgust
  Tear apart his Heart–
So Useless Now, Withered and Frail
  –The Reward for Enduring Art...

Throughout his Life, a Constant Struggle
  To Do and Be what he
Believes to be what's Right and Just
  So All Live Pleasantly
And so he Smiles–with acquired Strength
  To not complain, but Thank

Dear Life itself and all its People;
  Their Noise and company;
For all their good and endless evil;
  Their Ignorant Hate and greed–
For he prefers to See this World
  Standing, not in Need.

His Gaze distorted and occupied
  By Dreams and endless Bliss
Paid for by the Comic Tragedy
  Of Living through all of this
His Strength of Character carries him
  Through Filth, to Nature's Kiss–
His weaknesses not seen at all
  Except through things like This.



                                        ©2004

--------------

.8.

           ...(from "The Mechanics of Panic and Poems still Unknown")

  "Dinner"

Stifle now, and idle while
You sit with fake, distracting smile–
Sit and twiddle simple thumbs
While staring down your highest pile

And see it glisten, see it run–
Streaks run downward in the sun
Bleeding, steaming,–lines in paint
Dream of what had bought your fun

And sit alone and ponder now–
How it worked, and ironed out
Hear the echoes sounding faint
Of the workers slapping paint

On everything and everyone
Covering up what wasn't done
Before it rose and shone for us–
The source of Life,–the distant Sun

Now stand up higher, hire, admire
A capable company for mixing the mire
Pour in the ashes, mix in the dust
Enhance the Wound and eat the rust

Of the fattened, baking Cake
And hurry up before it's late!–
Others want what you have made
And if you're still providing Shade
Never could they ever be so late
So as not to get what you have paid.


                                             ©2005

-----------------

.9.

Sing to me now, through the Fire and the Woods
   No one will know what the other is thinking
   No one will see what the other is doing–
It comes to me now through the power of Words:

The Forest is full of the Shadows and Doubts
   Surrounded by Stars and everything Ending
   Grounded by Laws unknown and receding
Hindering thoughts while amplifying Shouts

The Music has been ringing,–no never ending
   Is our Desire to be singing in the Fire–
   Burning hot with Ashes rising even higher
Than all the pretty Voices through the forest ringing:

"Oh we're so Alive,–so deep inside the sound!–
   Of our own Instruments resonating loud
   Of our own Intentions never letting down
Our beating hearts so Youthful, never touching Ground!"

So join us & start Singing, the music showers louder
   Drown out all distractions with a cleaner sound
   Softer tho' intenser,–with meaning we have found
That Music makes us happy, glowing stars Forever–

Now all that was so Dirty, sparkles in the Sun
   And everything once empty, now it overflows
   And all that had been angry slowly starts to show
The Happiness of Music, made by Everyone...

                        (...from Subjectively Random, Part 1: Music)
                               ©L.J. Boisclair,  2005
       
-----------------

.10.

"Coffee & Wine"

With coffee & wine I've spent much time
with my confusion, with my rhymes
with my illusions, with my eyes
tightly shut, or open wide

With my mind, (but not always)
I spend my nights, and many days
floating, drifting, always changing
the rate at which my heart is beating

When I feel lonely, wine is only
there to make my heart beat slowly
and when I'm angry, or even happy
coffee keeps me always writing
about my hatred, or my joy
(or a substance I employ!)

…To laugh out loud or fall flat down
to stumble, mumble, scream out loud
to float around above the ground
to be drunk, or tightly wound–
so many ways our thoughts are found…

When Beauty hides, when tides recede
when nothing rhymes, when we're in need
of something different, something new–
there's always something to abuse!

And though we may not find our Muse
at least we've briefly been amused…
-------------

.11.            (untitled, from "A Drawn-Out Picture")

      rooftop patios – hidden bird
night-life galaxies – shadows in the club
    stand behind laughter smoke,
                       drunken oblivion
    childhood hiding places
                       – laughters of the sun.

rushing hour traffic signals–
                       walkers on the run–
  liquor stores' doors are open
                        to settings of the sun.

and look!:
             who will now excitement run
   down the stairs from staring
     at the world once whole remembered–
        forgotten through the drum's
beating faster, harder, louder–
                to melodies of none?

–to yell & shout, to scream the dream–
      clouded by the fumes–
to those who knew, the silent few
      –but now so deathly dumb.

skyward stairway – forgotten voices
    –sheltering silver moonlight
speaking clearly to the early
       dreamer on the run–
away from piercing, filthy wartime
          life within the gun.

oh help please come – to drown metallic
    echoes with softer tones–
life in tunnels becoming harder
       than forcing ourselves to drown

oh help please come – be on our way–
    to help those poets say
what's not yet known but wants so dearly
          to be felt today.
 
                                             ©L.J. Boisclair
                                                  2007
                                                    Boston
-----------

.12.
                 from: "(A) Drawn Out Picture(S) of Everything Something As Is"
                                                         ©2007

Song Of Civilizations, Part Two

Sit, hands folded, on the Ground staring
  At the Sun, sitting low, now, almost setting
Purple clouds forming Shapes, saying what needs saying:
  Beauty holds what we have dropped
                                       while running toward our Painting
                                  .  .
Within our Walls we've painted 'till
  The Canvas was complete
Shaped and stretched to suit the Room
  Then Hung for eyes to meet

Our Vision, our Voice,–our answer to the Question:
  Can we make what can't be taken,
    Will it last, or forever, be forgotten?
-------------

.13.

         (from "The Western Edition")
                                        ©2008

               Silence Sees

Within the Nest, we'll find Unrest
  As most seek Satiation—
But those who See can comfortably be
  Alone, full of Contemplation.

And as Hunger rouses rested Noise
  The Crowd never fails to Form
And in its Shadow, Silence sees—
  A Ghost, so pale and torn—

She sees the futile, eager Desires—
  So Base and Unfulfilled—
She sees herself, a Silhouette
  Of a Past, that once was Real—

She wants to Dine on Social Ground
  But never found the Way
So now is known, but only Partially
  As mostly in the way—

Oh hear the constant screaming Hunger!
  The seekers of Satisfaction!—
But Look!—the Silence of the Seer:
  So Full of True Detachment.
-------------------

.14.   ...(from Confessions of an Astronaut)

......so cold and lonely–
         Weak shadows only–
      so meet me by the Grave...

     Yes right at midnight–
        It only seems right–
     For secrets to be saved...

     And though we walk,
        And deeply talk
     Across that misty lawn,

     Within the Shadows
        Throughout the Hours
     The Night is never too long...

---------------------

.15.    ...(from The Western Edition)


                  Trieste
 
                      I.     
To the Depths of every Ocean
  We find ourselves Devoted
Swimming with the sinking Current—
  Capture every Drowning moment:
                    ~                       
Goodbye sunlight, goodbye air!—
  To the darkness of despair!—
To the depths of hidden madness—
  To the Palaces of Sadness:
                    ~
Downward ho! away we go—
  Anticipating quite a show
Of sophisticated Evolving Creatures
  Adapting with such curious Features!
                    ~
And into Darkness full ahead—
  Across the ocean floor we tread!—
Kicking up the Ancient Dust—
  Of all there Is, of all we must.
                    ~
And when we Rise we meet the eyes
  Of Daylight's anxious, curious cries:
What did we see, what did we learn?—
  What questions, answers, scratch & burn?
                    ~
And all we can do is sit and stare
  At our Ship so proud and Bare—
She's the Answer, and here's the Key:
  Our Machine is more than we can Be.

                       II.

We invent our world through words like these
  Creating elaborate philosophies
And when we try them on for size
  They're much too large and hurt the eyes
                        ~
And so we turn to Nature again
  And put its Sky within our heads
Shrinking down what floats around
  To land beside our grounded frown
                        ~
And this is just a fleeting moment
  In the life of every person—
As soon as it starts it ends again
  Before we know it we're buried—dead!
                        ~

Our lives so full of contradiction
  We block out reason, curse the sun
Falling back on Ancient Pillows
  Entertaining and staying numb—
                        ~
And so our hobbies are alive and well
  And show us more about ourselves
Than our jobs or spoiled religions
  Could ever do, or show, or tell—
                        ~
So let us ride our grand Inventions
  Into the ground where we'll be buried
Already deep,—and already grown
  Are the weeping Weeds 'round every headstone.

___________


Alone, in the Dark
                           Christmas 2017,
                                         Malmö, Sweden


The sun hides behind the rain
and the smile, the clock,
as life's tragic decay laughs in the face
holding back its shape.

Speech has become pointless
and speaking, painful
as nothing and no one is able to keep pace
with our own wonderful chaos

We aggressively splash through reflection
and our clothes become soiled:
oh the horror of all horrors!:
we can no longer look up! nor out!

Inside we Are, –but wait!–
ah! –there is no waiting–
the clocks tick on
and we must Obey.

alone, we scheme up a plan
to overthrow–
in the dark, we see
the horrific Joke, which is,
...the Human Condition:

tick tock tick tock
and who the hell knew?–
hear the ringing of the bells,
–always on time

tick tock tick tock
and who the hell are you?–
count your steps as you walk
for the Park prefers
tiredness, fit for walking.

alone, our Country crumbles
the Holiday disrupts,
satellites crash into each other
and there is no way to record.

in the Dark, our ghost sits beside us
and we've turned the world off to hold its hand
we feed it our last supper
and intoxicate this last chance.

Inside, it's warm by the fire
our glass is full and there is much laughter
but oh!–through the same glass stares
the bane of our existence.

so keep it full! oh keep it full!
with the darkest, strongest wine
for we know not when,
no we know not when
the prison clocks shall break their time.

and notice now! the skip to your step!
your singing voice unfettered
your beating heart has stolen wings
and you, without hesitation, have chosen flight

from the air we dream, from above we see!
below, the war carries on unbothered
by our perspective and unwavering,
it was there all along….
it was there all along.

there shan't be any bashing through the present
to get to the future–no,
for We are Here, and Here we Are
and our own weight was Nature's first Mistake.

------------------------

Depth is the Allure
of the Darkest Waters
for which I'm Building
a Prized Vessel~

---------------------------

                      The Mirror  

Through the Dirty Lens of 'Things not Completed'
  I stared for long, into the Glass—
Now Broken and missing half its pieces
  From Falling through it the night before last.

                            ~

Oh what debaucheries had we indulged?—

  What interrupted the progress of Days?

Where are my keys?—my wallet is missing—

  Bring me a Potion to change this Phase!

                            ~

The things I said last night by the Fire—

  Does anyone remember at all?—

I seem to remember it was getting Profound

  Sometime before my Fall.

                            ~

And thus sums up the Cycle Complete—

  Silence—Idea—Revelry—Void—

Regretting that there was no Pen nor Machine

  Nor Mind to Build the Voice—

                            ~

The notes I've lost!—or could not find!—

  The Words that never Arrived!—

I Forgive the Instruments, tuned and ready—

  For it is I who deem them Alive.

                            ~

For what is Lost, by me or None

  Was never Lost Itself—

It Remains,—as it always was—

  Waiting,   to be Pulled from its Self.

--------------------------------

                        Human,

See all of Our laughter, trailing and weak,

  Watching elected celebrities Age

As we let our Language succumb to meme

  And our Dreams turn a Fading Page.

                            ~

Our legs are sore, the Gate, unfound—

  To which we've always held a Key

Our Heartbeat winding, quickly down

  From keeping a relentless Beat

                            ~

Of a Song we could never Perform or Perfect

  To a Tempo too much, too fast—

A Melody born, first strong, and pleasant,

  Turning Dissonant and shadow-cast.

                            ~

Our brains are tired, from taming* our Hearts

  And alas!—they're now Deflating—

Now all that's left, are sad-heavy limbs

  Crawling down shady Scaffolding.

                            ~

The life we've built was never expected,

  Nor, what we had Imagined—

As Children, we dreamt of far greater things.

  As Children, we never were tired—

                            ~

We've Neglected the Sun, too long, to Light

  Ever fully Remember—

Perhaps our Fire no longer is needed

  To fuel the Fearless Ember...

                            ~

Smolder on all Ashes!—To the Aether all Dust!—

  Revel and Dance in our billowing Mess!—

May it End with dignity, pride, and Hope

  For another Chance at Lasting Success...

                            ~

The Machines live on, to tell the tales—

  A thousand Voices never Heard—

They'll focus in on Impossible Details—

  Let's Hope, they're permanently blurred.

    *scolding

-----------------------------------

        The Hour Glass

                     I.

Before we ever fully Live

  Death too often Takes

All there ever was to Give

  Caring not the Stakes

                    ~

In a world we never chose as Ours

  We try to make a Point

We try to Fit inside its Hours

  We try to make a Choice

                    ~

Time cares not our own Agenda

  —Has no Respect for Beauty

The Earth rotates without Direction

  But we, Direction Choosing

                    ~

Go about our Way with Might

  Just to have a Part

In this Blade we all call Life

  And that, is our only Art.

                    ~

                        II.

The Page Commands what we Say

  Our Sky, how tall we Grow

Our Eyes, how far we dare to See

  Our Mind, how much we Know

                        ~

Our Heart is Here, to only confuse

  The Order and length of Happiness

And at the Core, we're all abused

  By our own flooding carelessness.

                        ~

The Age Demands what we Say

  The Wind, the ease of Direction

And in the Eve of every Day

  We heal from Time's Dissection.

                        ~

                        III.

In Leisure touch the Greatest Thoughts

  —Songs, so Pure and Free—

How dare we move about so fast—

  And Limit what we See!—

                        ~

How dare the Clock Mock the Time

  With its Calculated Movements

For it knows not the Meter and Rhyme

  Of our Own Precious Moments.

--------------------------------------

                 Parked on Charlotte

"And the Wolves were Out seeking Lambs

    And the Humble, their Lionesses—

  Power is not, the Ability to Pursuade,

    But the Vulnerability to Love..."

                            ~

The Fog of Transition, Lifting Slowly—

  New Light washes the Murky Noise

Of an Inconsistent, Swarming Night

  With a blue-white Steady Wind.

                            ~

A Pristine Air, Rushes into the Lungs—

  Fresh off the Sea it seems,

To be the Surest Sign of Life—

  Raised by the Ancient Sages.

                            ~

As Echoes of the Asthmatic Night

  Ramble around Inside,

And stumble into subconscious Realms—

  The Catacombs of Memory...

                            ~

And what was She, who sat Alone

  Deep in Distant Thought?

But Molecules, so Delicately Arranged—

  Inimitable, as Fire.—

                            ~

And what is This?—but an Anchor Cast

  With threadbare Sails still Raised—

Tearing violently in a Vicious Wind

  Too strong to Light our Way?

                            ~

Mere Tricks of Strength have left Them Blank

  And I, from Robbing Graves—

Pulling all that I can possibly Carry

  With me, to the Master Page—

                            ~

For Love is what we Always Seek,

  But few ever fully grasp

The Forms, the Depths, the meanings of

  Questions, that Love may Ask.—

                            ~

Must Love be the One, always asking?!–

  Or is it Fear who cannot Know?—

Have I been Spoiling all I Suppose

  With Bones Buried years ago?—

                            ~

Do I have the Courage to Fall once more?

  Strength, to Cry in Vain?—

Will I Allow myself to Feel,

  —Short of Breath, again?

----------------------------------------------

                       Insignia

Bring me Sickness with my Health

  That I may Feel a Little Death—

Auction off my Tools of Steel

  That I may Dig, with Filthy Hands. 

                            ~

And let me Stand, by Lying First

  Face-down in a Bed of Dirt—

With heavy Weights upon my back

  And Cameras rolling to film the Act.

                            ~

And watch the Rain come down and turn

  My Bed into an Alter-Urn—

Then Watch as I with Foul Face

  Mock the Worms that Drown in Grace

                            ~

By Standing up so Tall and Proud

  Proclaiming something, somewhat loud—

As if to say, "I've Cheated Death!"—

  When in Reality, I could use the Rest.

                            ~

But we All know Poets—how they Lie!—

  We want to Taste, without the Weight—

Cowards really,—or perhaps we're Brave

  Enough to Touch, but never Save?

                            ~

For what has Eyes upon its Pain

  Cannot Face Death the Normal Way—

It may live past its Expiration—

 "The Good die young"—our Exoneration—

                            ~

We Refuse to Return to Mortal Dust

  While claiming Beauty Belongs to Us—

Could we ever Build a Temple of Air,

  And Claim no Land, or Person there?

                            ~

But Let our Souls Live On as One,

  And through our Thoughts, when we are Done—

Becoming Less than Human Flesh!—

  Attached to and Torn 'tween Life & Death!?

                            ~

But Humans have, as their Central Art

  The Will to Become, both Ill and Smart—

Prone to Inventing their Noble Schemes

  Where Insignificance, shall Never be Seen.

_________________________________

Remove my Skull

  That a Brain may Breathe

And Stretch into the Sky

  The Dream last night

    Wants to Return—

  It does not want to Die—

                ~

Too long it's Flown 

  Through Empty Air

Seeking Manifestation

  And I at last—

    Reality-Bound

  Am seeking Transformation—

                ~

Yes crush my Bones!

  That I may Melt

Into the Cosmic Sea!—

  This Heavy Form—

    Its Limbs Archaic!—

  With a Heart that wants to Be

                ~

On Time with Schumann—

  And yet Also

Paripatetic with the Dream—

  Oh Ancient Light!—

    Carry Us Away!

  To the Hindermost Galaxies!

                ~

Where all my Thoughts

  Can Wine and Dine

Without Exigencies!

  Where All is Sound—

    For This I reach

  Over Current Societies—

                ~

Who was that then?

  Where are they Now?—

What other World had I seen?

  And Why do I

    Remember them?—

  Do they remember Me?—

                ~

What was that Place

  So stark and vivid—

No Memory did produce?

  I'll await Tonight

    To Travel again—

  My Agenda, I will Induce.

                ~

...But wait!—

Is it not I

  Who left unwillingly—

Called forth by This Reality?

  Or was I uninvited,

    But allowed to Visit?—

  Then why are you Haunting me?!—

                ~

How would I acquire

  An Eternal Pass?—

Yes this, I'd like to Own—

  No Cost too great

    Could ever there be—

  My Debt has built your Throne.

                ~

And with these Words—

  A Spark of Hope—

I Build myself a Fire

  Where I am Fulcrum

    To the Cold,

  Over the Decisive Pyre.

___________________

               The First Drink

Trapped in the World of Words!—

  We're born, kicking and screaming!—

Enjoy Today to Suffer Tomorrow!—

  The Heart is pounding, pounding!—

                        ~

In Prison behind, the Barren Land—

  Each day Blinding,—Silent Killer!—

And then the Night, can never Pretend—

  Each Thought Bleeding, turning Darker.

                        ~

And in the Comfort, of my Palace

  I arrange the Figures closer, closer—

As I pour the Faithful Drink to Think,

  Words are Melting, softer, softer—

                        ~

Thoughts Escape with Borrowed Wings—

  Three large exhales Fill my Lungs—

The Ocean wants to Show me things,

  But I forgot what that entails.

                        ~

As What I Know, lets go of Me—

  And Who I Was, is now Forgotten—

Who I Am, is Undetermined—

  A Vase of Marbles, without Flowers.

                        ~

And then the Figures, start to Resign—

  My Walls are Painted, as the Sky—

My Dreams forgotten, and better still—

  The Shore Recedes, with a Nod, Goodbye~

_____________

            The Solar Flare Nightmare

                                          —(a Basement Tragedy in 33 parts)

                         Part One:

"The Morning never Arrived like we wanted it to—

           Perpetually early—

                 and the Night, incomplete—

                          dissatisfied with Ephemerality.

  The Day demands too much from us—

            but we're taught to Fight, to Endure,

                    and so we do,    —but then,

                           we are too tired, for Dreams"

Silent Greetings, then Wait for Tomorrow—

  Unable to Purchase what we've Borrowed

As Previous Lives Fight for the Present,

  Our own Demise, is our Absence.

                            ~

A Song played Backwards, yet still the Same—

  Jumbled Oblivion—the Melody is Wrong—

New Life Enters without Permission—

  As we Laugh to Deny our failing Perception.

                            ~

The Light has long been Dim in our eyes—

  The Spectrum has narrowed across the Sky—

Obligations now emptied of all Recreation—

  Inventions now Posing Personifications.

                            ~

Divine Intervention has left us Stunned—

  From Fear and Truth we will always run!

The Fantastic Arrangement has already started,

  As we willingly stare into the Dying Sun.

                            ~

Our Curiosities—how, they wax and they wane—

  A Celebrated source of Infinite pain—

All Gains are fraught with equal Losses—

  A Natural Talent, in all of us.

                            ~

We've already Lost what we're trying to Find

  And the Void isn't even Partially noticed—

An Answer found, is a slave to the Question

  And we, to the Pangs of Distortion—

                            ~

This Dissonant Symphony of Devoted Emotion—

  Drowning! in the chaos of Idle Commotion—

We want Love to be enough, but never it is—

  Too often it Takes, all that we Give.

                            ~

As we notice the Spot in everything Clean

  As soon as our Eyes are Open—we See!

Yes True Perfection, is Unremarkable!—

  Silent, with neither Ambition nor Intention—      

                            ~  

And once it is Noticed?—Gone forever!—

  Escaping the Reason—the Noise of Existence—

It's by Chance that we Recognize anything at all,

  And Trying, is Crying to Fiction.

                            ~

As we tightly hold on, to all we should not

  For Treasure, for Hope, for selfish  Memories

We Shatter the Sand that made our Glass—

  Expecting even more than Charitable Reprieve.

                            ~

And always expecting some Unforeseen Joy—

  Then shoving it away—to Doubt—Revert!—

Our Plans are ruined by our own Failing Dams

  And the Water is Cold, and we are Submerged...

                            

                                Part Two:

Now what is this Angel?—dark-haired, mysterious?—

  The Moon reflecting off a shimmering Blade's Edge

    Turning Dangerous Rays into calm, soft Flames

      Which through Tired Eyes, warms a cold Heart?—

                            ~

Or perhaps She's the one with a Garden of Stones?—

   Its Statues innumerable from countless Stares

      Into her Deep, Dark, Tourmaline Eyes?—

                            ~

When the Sun throws a random, fiery fit of Rage,

       Do we Humbly bow Down, and to it, —Pray?

                            ~

Are we all just Demigods, spoiled by our own Thoughts,

      ...Desire, forever Cursed, in Exile?...

                            Part Three:

Our History Teaches us nothing New:

  Patterns repeating, Love, then Death—

Fighting to save, fighting to gain—

  The Record is Round, Play it Again.

                            ~

Our Land is stolen, our time is borrowed

  Our Life is destined by our Name—

Our minds are lost in seeking religion—

  Our Hearts know well, it's all the Same.

                            ~

The Sweat of the poor is Wine for the rich

   Empires are built by children and slaves,

Our Waste is seeping in through the Cracks

  Of our Helmet and we're starting to stink.

                            ~

A Jigsaw Puzzle,—we Prescribe it Life—

  We try to Know, we try to Feel,

We form our States and draw our Lines,

  Our Debt assures us that we're Real—

                            ~

We have our Number, we have our Place

  We have our Rank,—we're in the Race!

Running toward that Grand Illusion—

  The Dream was Real!—what's the confusion?

                            ~

The Family? The Government? Abel? or Cain?

  Likely stories keep Breaking it Seems—

Trivial Accomplishments keeping us sane—

  But the One Great Error, is All of our Being.

                             ~

Now we're tired from waiting, tired of wanting

  Tired of Talking, —Here we'll stay!

Let's Drink and Dance and forever be Gone—

  Drunk on the Beauty of Life's Decay!

                         Part Four:

As this tenebrosity creeps in slowly,   unnoticed

      —except for lines becoming blurred,

        lights too bright,    shadows even darker, 

                          details imperceptible,

    windows losing our interest,

                          faces no longer able to smile,

                 and laughter, now, a forgotten 

           bodily convulsion,

                   our attention shifts, 

 to imagining something...something...very different,

            and we are lost in contemplation—

    squinting into the distance

        at that mountain piercing the clouds—

its sight reminding us of something long forgotten—

             forever in wonder,     forever pondering

      the meaning,    and direction,

of it All....—and, 

        in the Heat of the Sun,—

    likewise—also bitterly resentful

                       of its own mortality—propose: 

"Perhaps the High Water Mark

       is too  far  Above  our  Heads...."

            (to be continued)

-----------------------------------

                The Plea  (draft)

Ok—A one, two three, four, here we go once again:

Off the Bottle, back on Time—

  Functions failing down the line—

Sickness creeping up my back

  What I can lose, might not come back.

So here I go, you Devil!—you Thief!

  Back on the Level, and out to Sea—

I could not think enough to rhyme—

  So Grounded by that heavy Wine—

Insatiable Liar!—Things are grand!

With the Bottle in my hand—

Prancing 'round like all is well

Not knowing I'm swimming thru' beckoning Hell.

My youthful Spirit now dead and gone

  And I've gone too long without a Song

With tired feet not fit for Dancing

  And every move abruptly ending.

So off the Bottle!—back on Time!

  Things were getting out of line—

Order has commenced full swing—

  I'll thank myself, I'll write again.

And I'll get back, I'm sure of that—

  All of it, the Girl, the Tact—

The clarity I need to Think...

  I'll get it back,....I think.

              The Stoop   (draft)

And the Girl! yes The Girl!—

  I lost her back in another world—

Too quick to fix what wasn't broken

  No my Angel, I've not forgotten—

The Colour of those painted steps—

  Your eyes, your hair, and countless sunsets

We shared together gazing Outward—

  Always reaching, pushing Forward

Bigger Dreams than we could carry

  With our Hearts already Heavy—

We drank it till it all ran out

  And then, and then, 

        you ran out....

Oh Regret! Sincere Regret!

  Haunts me every day and night

But now I know I think I know

  Enough to maybe make it right.

I need to Live that Day again

  When you put on that Vintage Dress

And we drank from the Autumn Glass

  Yes Life was You, and Full at last.

And now I sober, sit with you

  On this distant, lonely stoop

I smile to think I'll always remember

  That Field and You, in late October.

As water drips from swollen eyes

  I remember us both—Water Signs—

But I smile to think I'll never Forget

  The way you looked in Vintage Dress.

-----------------------

     

                Being, And I

    "......There have been better times,

  and we can all dream of Being

            born into them.

     However: Here we Are—

             thousands of miles

        and hundreds of light-years

away from whatever it is

            we're after.....

        and, what are we chasing,

  but our own Thoughts—

       only brave enough to come out

            while  we   Sleep?"

        Part One: The Meeting

There's something going on out there 

  I hear it all Around—

The Universe, as an Orchestra

  Waiting to be Found:

Mortality is Nature's Joke

  Said a Being from far away

All is Just, and as it Seems

  Except what is Now—Today.

Intrigued, I pour us both a drink

  And Invite this Being in—

Speak to me in your Foreign Tongue!

  And the Being, began to begin:

Your little Rock is in a different Time—

  Its Circumference smaller, and yet—

So similar is your Kind to mine—

  Four Limbs and Hearts, full of Regret

While you're asleep, I've shown you things

  Our Brains are Tuned—you are aware—

But you have not yet figured it out:

  How Dream and Matter, here, compare.

Your problems now, I see them, sure—

  Not too different than my own—

Your solutions though, do not Endure

  And fail, as History has clearly shown.

The world of Matter is tricky business

  And so is the World of Words—

Too often the one speaks not to the other
  And the Thought, though Pure, Obscured.

You've lost your Code, and rightly so—

  It lagged too long beyond its days

With that you're tired from asking questions—

  Your answers lost in a complex maze—

You Wander in, then you Stumble out—

  No Will, Direction, nor Drive—

A Herd of Followers without a Lord

  To Guide every Choice and Stride—

You're born from Love tho' fearing Loss

  Screaming in fear!—and so Alive!—

But Without a hand to clutch and kiss

  You're afraid, and from Life, deprived

Of the ability to focus and follow a dream

  To its end or indeed, your own!—

Your Elixir of Life—sadly diluted

  And has drowned your Philosophers Stone—

Let us go Out, and you can show me

  Your World, as you see it today—

From that I may better guide your Limbs

  Toward a Light beyond your Cloud of Day

  

For Reality and Fantasy—we do not have—

  The two to us, are one and the same—

Show me the Sane, and show me the Mad—

  From there, I can begin to explain.

For though I am Old, I'm also quite Wise,

  My only Intention is your Ascendence —

For Others will come from Other Skies—

  Parasites with Death as their ultimate Sentence.

At this I paused—uncomfortably Silent—

  Oh the depths this Being could See!

I Finished my Drink and stood up Decided—

  May it all not Be what it shall Seem!

  

      Part Two: The Showing

So out we go, the Being and I 

  In our usual Jest and full Disguise—

We go downtown, where the People are

  And I Begin with a heavy sigh:

See The People: some drunk, some laughing—

  This has become the Established Routine—

All their days are spent expecting

  A Golden Ticket to find and redeem—

Day in, day out, their feverish Toil 

  Is spoiled by the Idols they kill or defend

And here in the bars and darkened theaters

  Is where and how they make their amends—

Drowning Dreams in Drink and Laughter!—

  Can't you hear them? Hear them Crying?!—

No this is not the thing we're after!—

  It's what we found while Soberly trying—

  And Look! There! —

Their heads pulled down, faces a-glow—

  Smiling at themselves, lonely, scrolling—

Saying nothing but complaining, blaming!—

  Pointing to a Nothing that draws their finger.

  And Look! There!—

They voted for the scum of the rotting earth—

  For it is their Right!—and have Everything

To say about it—so they Blame out of disappointment

  Lost, and too stubborn to ask for direction.

  And Look! There!—

They are obviously Sick and they know it—

  And there is Everything we can do —

But they have their hobbies & they have their games

  To stay Busy, Avoiding.

  And Look! There!—

See how they consume with closed eyes

  And open mouths bored, frustrated, insatiable

Discontent!—we have no Leaders—no!—

  This you already saw and you are right.

  And Look! There!—

See how the smart ones keep to themselves!

  They are Preserving their Tranquility—

We have forgotten how to Live Dangerously—

  To build Fires in a forge of Force!—

  And Look! There!—

They are suffocating! bleeding a River of Ants!

   We have indeed forgotten how to breathe 

In this vacuum we call Existence!—

  Hangovers and Debt—our greatest obstacles!

  —A Revolution is out of the Question

For we have been Taught to have Answers 

  Lined up in a row before us

 Before we ever even open our mouths—

                 or minds...

  And Look! There!—

They are trying to create the New Language—

  But no one cares to listen,—it is White Noise

To the black cloud of a drunk Society

  Reaching for their pink cloud of a final Sobriety.

  

  And Look! There!—

They've managed to forge their Opinions into Blades

  And have thus cut their own High Perch

And have fallen, bones broken crying—

  They will die Alone, and miserably.

  And Look! There!—

They seek Happiness for they are selfish—

  And they are unlucky for they suffer the most!—

Their only purpose is to be Content—

  Yet break their necks by nodding in Agreement.

  And Look! There!—

They are genuinely unhappy but hide it well—

  Hiding in a self-made net of safety & comfort—

For at least it is not as cold and as dark

   As their once-warm Emotions have sadly grown.

  And Look! There!—

They are bitter and they grind their teeth

  They envy, and are jealous, they are full of scorn

For they once Had, but now Have-Not—

  Thus they fear to Have ever again.

  And Look! There!—

They are tired for they have tried, and failed—

  Numerous lives they wanted live at once—

They've succeeded and lost, but Loss always wins

  And now they drink alone.

  And Look! There!—

They are so bored all they can do is cause trouble

  For they are restless and born Alive—

Pain and death have become more Exciting—

  And this, is not their Fault.

  And Look! There!—

Their Religion has failed them—

  But they'd never admit to Treason!—

For they are safe and secure when they go out 

  Drinking and laughing among their Flock.

And I as well have indulged myself

  In various states of ill-repute—

And many a drink have I thoroughly enjoyed

  Forgetting what I can, and hiding the Truth...

At this I was done,—tired from Observing—

  I looked toward the Being,

    Who seemed to Be,  focused on Eternity...

     Part Three: The (partial) Telling

It all makes sense said the Being then—

  I hear the well-springs of your woes

Indeed we've seen all likes of men

  Behind which there, is much to know—

Your Bodies rule your base desires—

  Fear is guiding your every step—

You've taught your brains to figure out

  Mathematics, becoming quite adept.

But All is not in Equation form—

  There's another level of understanding—

There are no Symbols for what I mean

  Only Poetry can Begin to explain:

The trees have been Speaking to you all along

  But you, too busy to Listen—

With the Wind their branches are singing you songs

  Of your Planet's Cathedral Organ—

The Noise—White—has filled your days

  And nights, keeping you awake—

But behind your Walls—thick and Dark

  You Sleep and for Silence,—Wait.

Instead, you've Focused Intently on Birds—

  Their Obvious Voices of song—

And from their Bodily Notes you've built

  The World you've turned out Wrong.

And as the Wind can fell a Tree,

 So too you have Destructive Power

Derived from Intentions pure and sound

  But tangled within, Emotions' Wire.

At this the Being Disappeared

  And I was left Alone

With what Seemed to be a Dream

  Within a Dream I've Known.

====================

To End all Suffering and even Death—

  Such an Ignorant Fantasy!—

One only need Attend a Funeral

  To see how much we Need

To Feel our Pain, and Definite Loss—

  To Feel our Love, Inside-out—

To Know that we are More than This—

  And Death, the Everlasting Kiss—

For if Death was something to Overcome

  Would we not simply throw it away?—

Like Trash we put out to the Curb—

  And Forget, as we Leave for the Day?

If Pain and Loss, and Tears, were "Bad"

  How could we ever know the Good,

Of a Happiness that will never last—

  How would we know, it Should?

---------------------------

           All Thoughts Fly

The Artist must Walk the Other Way

  To See it All pass by—

To not get Caught up in the Flow

  Of the Current Paradigm—

                    ~

To hear the Siren's Pitch go up

  Then down as it speeds by—

To not Join in on Noisy Chatter

  To let our Voices Fly—

                    ~

An Airport is an Ideal Place

  To Live Inside the Flow—

To Be Still, and watch the Race

  Seeing All Arrive—then Go—

                    ~

Or a Truckstop, in the Night

  When most are sound Asleep—

To see the Freight in Constant Movement

  Is to Spy on Reality—

================

        A song for the Rotten City

With heads now drowned in the Rotten City's Water

we zig-zag down to the Booze 'n Boob—

its neon lights echo for blocks

and bring in the Insects

who fear the lonely lack of streetlights—

to get a good hit of chatter & laughter

but not before a quick tick right here—

through this armed door Embracing

our Wandering Disgrace.

Ah! Inside!—

the atmosphere is drenched with Thick!—

pint glass and shot glass both!—filled and spilled

with Laughter's angry Rot—

as the Bar Rags stay Wrung and Busy

sopping up Dreams faster than they Spill—

Oh how the City Night Stinks and Sings!

======================

            Killer in the Sky

The Killer's in the Sky this time

  With no Gun nor Mask—

Fear the Star that Shines the Brightest—

  And Believe it's not the Last—

And Smile! Please!—but hide your Face!—

  No!—don't breathe the Air!—

Poison Spawns in every Case

  That starts with a Killer's Dare—

As Home-Made Spaceships skyward rise

  To Puncture Boundless Void—

The Cosmos Littered with Curious Traces

  Appeasing the Paranoid —

With the Sniper, Timidly, on the Roof—

  Sees everyone Pointing at Him—

As we're taking our Final Cautious Breath

  He sets and locks his Aim—

While the Merchant in the Dying Market

  Sees Hopelessly Holy Pockets—

What was for Sale, now unavailable—

  Reserved for the Wanted Artist—

As they pace behind their borrowed Walls

  Bleeding out the Rent—

While serving Patrons withered Hearts

  Long after they've been Spent.

And Science pushes out their Quotas

  Seeking lost Believers—

To fuel a Monster that will Deceive us

  And keep our Dead Redeemer. 

While the Banker sweats & smokes his pipe

  His Existential Exhale

Fills the Air with the horrid stench

  Of Blackmail still for sale—

So exhume an Artist from their Grave!

  Harness the Lightning from the Sky!

Set the Pace of a transplant Heart

  And wait for the Creature to Rise!—

Impaled by Debt and Buried with Doubt—

  Disgusted by the Poles Elect—

Liberty herself, no longer appointed—

  And Patiently waits to Reset—

While wearily—Faithfully—we raise a Flag—

  Reciting our peaceful protest—

From the Gutter to the Glove 

  We're lured and dragged

    By the Hand that knows no Rest—

  

=======================

A Conversation with The Forgotten Recluse

Sir, I have come very far, for I have heard that You are the One

whom nobody Understands.

I heard you were once a great Musician, composing Songs

nobody could understand; sung in a Key nobody could hear.

Sir, I too wish to compose Music, but not sound that generates outward,

no, rather, sound gathered from all things and directed inward,—

I wish to Live in this Song, but have not been able to build it.

Most seek Houses for Shelter. I seek Music. Can you help me sir?

"Love is the Fuel of the Universe–

without it, we become weak–

we lose our balance and Fall, 

for we are Upright Creatures.—

One need only look to the Forest

for both proof and Inspiration—

The forest does not look outward

for strength or fuel—it Is everything—

everything it needs to conquer,

succeed, expand, and prosper.

It does not question the Fire

But allows and forgives

while standing proud and sure, 

of its regenerative Power.

"Life is suffering" say the weak—

they have lost their balance

and crawl, seeking Pity while

forgetting their past laughter.

"Yes" say the Upright 

"for without suffering,

there can be no Love"—

we all draw water from the same Well

and water weighs the same

no matter our Strength.

We are Vulnerable, as is the Forest

As is All Life, as is Love.

Accept, Allow and Love This.

The Barren Land Loves the Forest

For it knows it is coming—

The Forest does not Pity the Desert

but sees Opportunity.

The Forest does not curse the Fire

but understands, accepts, and adapts.

The Forest never loses sight of its Goal

for its essence is 'Goal'—

Attention and Intention—

it is Love.

We All Embody Love

for by it, we are Born.—

it is nothing we must seek out, 

but realize, wait for, and accept. 

Nothing else has ours.

nobody else has ours.

Every life-form has Purpose—

it is Universal Law—

even momentum has purpose—

crawling slows our momentum

accelerating Decline

Weakness then, makes room

for fear and isolated suffering

to form clouds and cast shadows

when we, as the Forest

require the Sun to Thrive.

The Forest is Memory

it is a scavenger

that squanders nothing

the forest has many long arms.

We are not the only Forces in the World

Thus we understand and accept

Life's Challenges—

reluctance is weakness,

Doubt is Ignorant

And Fear is unharnessed Potential.

Fire, Clouds, Hunger, parasites—

to understand all is to Love,

and Love is the Net

to all Condition's Pitfalls."

==========

  

                      Avalanche

At last, I built a Mountain of Snow—

  Steep and Piercing through the Clouds

Such Perfect Slopes out in the Open—

  Holding strong, for All to See. 

                            ~

The Winter Storms have Blessed the Hills

  And crags of Immovable Slate & Granite

With countless Frozen, unique Crystals—

  Quietly Bearing, in Placid Harmony.

                            ~

But just as We Touch this Frozen Scene

  Of Water & Stone, and Earth & Vapour—

A delicate Balance—a thing of Beauty,

  And thus, Inherently Dangerous—

                            ~

A Thing Completed stands not long

  Before its Time runs out—

For off in the distance, another Storm

  Approaches with chaos & Pregnant Cloud!

                            ~

Shards of Ice now Piercing the Words!

  Strokes of the Brush losing Stability!—

The Violence surprisingly Quick & profound!—

  Dismantling the Mountain's Orderly Repose.

                            ~

Now Feel the Rumbling from Underground!—

  All Connections—disconnecting!—

All the Stones now Loose and rolling

  Downward in a Wave of Deletion—

                            ~

The grade too Steep to hold the Weight—

  The Sun at Noon, relentlessly throbs!—

Cracks are forming as the Snow

  Starts to Shift and Crumble—Down!

                            ~

And see it Falling!—gaining Speed!—

  It Falls upon itself and More—

Collecting Everything in its path—

  Suffocating All with Cold Irrelevance!

                            ~

Beware! you All, about to Climb

  Upon these Slopes of Titanium White—

For the Weight of what we think we Know

  Can Break the Day—into Pieces of Night.

                            ~

And no Apologies from your Gods,

  But Warnings Fairly, always given—

And as we paint our Pretty Pictures

  We are Free to Burn at any Instant.

===============

            The Possession 

Demon!—Rid me of this Burden!

Rid me of all Desire! of all Thought!

It is of no Use! I am of no use!—

I am not Here any longer!—

I cannot go on waiting for Nothing

to Happen, or not!—

This Slow Death called Life.....

—It's Dead! 

I now Live and Thrive

Behind the Impenetrable Walls

of Death itself!—

Where All is Born and Re-born!

—Yes!—

I've accepted my Decline!

Into this repulsive decadence!—

This Controversy!—

This ridiculousness!—

I indulge in excesses of every kind!—

Addiction!—Obsession!—

Infatuation!—

Yes! Yes! Yes!—

More!—MORE!!!—

The Ocean Overhead!—

The Abyss Below!—

Both have become too Loud!—

I have gone Deaf and now,

Somehow I've grown New ears!—

My Dreams are Disturbed, stressful!—

I lay half awake all night,

floating in and out of some other Hell

Besides this one!—

I have no desire other than to sleep!

But I am unable to do even that completely!

I've been pacing anxiously,

behind black curtains—waiting,

—Waiting for what?!—

Oh Leave me alone!—

Please!—

Why me?!—I am not the one!—

...I need a hobby...

Oh, but hobbies bore me to death!—

I would rather die from confusion than boredom!—

I would rather Suffer! why?!—

Leisure without purpose—

Is Death!—

Inexcusable death! irresponsible death!—

NO! —something is Important and it has ME!—

It is not important the why......Focus!—

Have I gone Mad?!?—

I've already done everything I know to do—

Everything that I can think to have in Place, 

Is in place!—

AH! I am missing something!—

That's it!—

But What?!?—

I am climbing, yes, did I forget my Shoes?

Was I Trying to get to a point high enough

So That I may bolt on my wings and Fly!?—

AH! where are my wings?!—

They are stored away—

Why did I take them off?—

I was tired, yes!—I'm beginning to remember

Singing rearranged folk songs in Flight

upsetting my stomach...

Ah!—my perception of the Present

is tainted by my assumptions of the Future!—

Where is Ground Zero?

What world is real anymore?!—

What I thought I knew has been 

Replaced!—

By Memories!—

Oh how can I trust the Past?!—

Is it not tainted by the Present?!—

Only when we are Invisible

is anything able to be Seen

for what it really is!—

Can anyone see me?!—

—No?!

—Excellent!—

Oh Alcohol!—bring me Words!—

A sign of the New World!—

A revolution!—Fuel for the tired Engines

An epiphany! a revelation!—

A new obsession!—a new infatuation!

New eyes!—A new mind!—

New Blood!—Put the Beast in front of me

and let me at it! Give me something!—

Something to, Fear!!!—

Yes! I have become fearless! careless!—

There is no danger here in this Garden!

Show me the Devil himself!—

Or Herself!...ah!—I have seen them!—

But they are not really Devils!—

No!—Men like to fear what they cannot 

possess!—

Oh I digress!!!—

Oh but they do fear God yes!—but look!—

They worship God!—For they have created Him!

As a pet I tell you!—and thus many men

Prefer pets as wives!—

But no!—Women are Angels!

Angels I tell You!

I am not Mad!—

And this is why!—

This is why we put ourselves through Hell!—

We could never be above the heavens,

And we refuse to be equal!

So we choose to be below!—

And beg for mercy! for forgiveness!

We beg to be saved!—

Ah! no!—I am not talking about Christ!—

This is too much!—Too Much I tell you!—

Show me what awaits for me 

Should I stay Here!—Here,

In comfortable, incomplete, vague Hell...

...You taunt me, tease me with a task

Then leave it for me to figure out what!—

How cruel!!—yes!—

Anger!—

I can use my anger!!!—

I'll get out of this, you Demon!!!—

Ha! I have tricked you!!!—See?

Do you see Demon?!?!—

I am in Control!!!

...the Demon, smiles to himself, 

  and turns calmly away—

    content with his work,

      and patiently waits

        for yet another Artist

          to transcend their own Art—

...to lose themselves....

           and be resurrected

into the eternal purgatory of Existence...

===================

"God is Dead"—Nietzsche, 1882

"Clearly, we lacked the Upright Spine needed to generate 

the necessary Courage to actually Kill God, and so we used our 

famous talent for Cleverness to surreptitiously employ Science

to Artificially Preserve Him in a Cryogenic 

Chamber."

"And now, due the Inherent Nature of our 

self-destructive economic system, its gradual decline's

reciprocity has failed, gaining speed, and can no longer sustain 

the Expensive Preservation of Corpses."

"And Look!—one Nation under God never existed!—Divided

   we were, and Divided we Are.

And Look!—God has Thawed out, escaped His Chamber,

   and walks among us!—

And Look!—there is still enough Fat on His Bones that He 

    can Burn Brilliantly!—

And Look!—there are enough of Us to Capture Him and 

   Burn Him at the State once and for all!—His Glorious Flames

   Lighting the Way for the New World!"

And Look!—Mother Nature, (much too patient), waits for Us

   to Worship Her!....."

                                                        —Lucien J. Boisclair, 2022

=========

   (draft) unfinished~

to the Weeping Void the Poet Sings

so All may Dream of Peaceful Sleep—

Awake! we anxious, wait and morn

While Hoping for another Song.

The Poet too, lies wide awake,

Hoping there is no mistake

in the Posture of the figure

they were forced to deliver

--------------

(draft in progress)

             Driver

Part 1: Broken not Beaten

Part 2: The Mechanics of the City,

                  The Dissolution of Country

Part 3: Home, an Obsolete Concept

Part 1

Broken not beaten, this is what the world has made me

a swaying body, easily wearied

a life that is dark and ugly

i see it all and experience nothing

hiding behind a beard and glasses

a hat pulled down to shield my face

from the thieves of a dying society

i start my day when they go to sleep

and drink the blood of economy

just enough to stay alive

to pretend I am accomplishing something

i dream of home, i dream of friends

the place where i dream of peaceful rest

people to take me away from myself

but the highway demands my attention.

here is where i remember things

like what i dreamt of as a child

becoming an architect or racecar driver

growing older means compromise

-----------------------------------------------------

dictation notes from phone:

Loneliness creeps in as soon as you find company you want to keep.

The secret light of possession is pointless even if it is all we really have.

The memory of happiness is far too often the only real thing that stays.

The memory of happiness is the only lasting possession.

-----------------

the tension of cities built around pills and substances, pornography, detachments, needed to relax.

---------

How dare we send rockets full of our own ignorance into outer space

calling it the last frontier when space is Knowledge itself.

---------

an idiot who let his own swollen ego rain on his barren soul and cause weeds mistaken as flowers to rise from the nutrient depleted dirt that is his brain

------

      Between the Citadel and the Asylum

(draft in progress)

The Perversion of Poetry is a punishable crime

   Its abnormality rather disturbing—

Mumbling under Her breath, she paces

   Ignoring the voices in her Conscience.

Each Direction has its own Appeal

   As they yell toward Her in their Native Tongue

These deplorable events are rarely recorded

   So this is what shall now be Sung:

See her eyes, swollen and roaming—

   Her fingers counting things forgotten

Her clothes are torn and tired feet bleeding

   Her shoes were sold to buy her time.

And all along they knew her condition

   Would never let up until the hour

When She grew old enough to decide

   Which Direction to finally Conquer

And Her Secret burned inside her Heart

   The radiating heat could not be tamed

Temperatures rose every place that she went—

   She found her Home in the White of Winter.

At Night she roamed in freezing temperatures

   Until The World Outside was Quiet—

Until the Demons and Angels both

   Fought for her Hand commanding it Write!

And soon, her Language was fully mature

   And Proud, excited, she ran through Spring

And The Summer's Slumber of the Millstone Town

   Was awoken as soon as she started to Sing.

Curious, they rose, and paid attention

   Though quickly dismissed—annoyed and angry—

They could not decipher her Words nor Tone

   And so mistook her for the Enemy.

"She's lost her mind!" said that one there

   "Surely she's possessed!" said another

"She must be Helped!" they soon decided

   And thinking her mad, were Happier themselves...

At this she Started, but couldn't Decide

   Which direction would suit her best

And she saw the Town, how lively it was

   Now that confidence in their Way was strengthened

---

                   Solstice

The Chaos of Society's Night

   Disturbs the Peace of Winter Mornings

The Celebrations of the Grandest Nothings

   Could never Bow to the Beautiful Silence.

                        ~

And Here, is where I do the Work

   That in itself, is awfully Quiet—

But Here is where I speak the Loudest

   With last night's tired, cracking Voice.

                        ~

All their Laughter, and Stories Grand

   Keep my attention, to a Point—

The Pretty Face—the Conversations—

   All have an Ugly, determined End.

                        ~

See me—hear me—cries for Help—

   I listen—observe—emit Responses—

But no one hears, the Quiet Enigma

   So here it is—deciphered.

                        ~

Age is Lost among the Noise—

   Timeless Battles we cannot Win

We Find Ourselves Alone—Indefinite—

   Are the Answers in The End.

                        ~

One Big Question rules them All—

   How much is the Potential Worth?—

How much Time should I Devote

   To this Eternally spinning Ball of Dirt?

                        ~

The Shortest Day has finally Arrived—

   Less time to Dwell on things Unknown—

More Time to Spend. with the Coldness of Night—

   Its Noise, its Lights, & Blood-red Lipstick. 

-----------

you cannot change the sound of your voice

but you can scream

you can not change your height

but you can jump

============

                   Happy Hour

One dollar off your Inherited Misery!

  Two dollar shots of Instant Happiness!

City-wide specials offering everyone Hope

  For Society's Sobriety and loss of Faith!

                            ~

So call in sick!—Invite your friends!

  Open a tab and Close the Past!

Turn down the Clock as it All Begins!

  Believe, believe!—the Hour will Last!

                            ~

Choose a favourite song, and hit repeat!

  Convince, persuade all those who Doubt!

Let Confidence in the Economy Inspire All

  To get a fifth! a sixth!—a seventh round!

                            ~

A mini-Vacation of Intoxication!—

  Is waiting for You every day of the week!

Right Here is where your Failures can Dance

  Right off the Plank of Heaven's Cloud!

                            ~

And Lose yourself in Shameless Laughter!

  Dizzy yourself in Conversation!—

Tell it All!—like it Never, ever was!—

  And You, will Become, a God!

                            ~

And Fall back into the Softer Light—

  The Sun is almost Down—

Alcohol!—Darkness!—has lifted the Weight

  Out of your Sunburnt Frown!

                            ~

Chaos holds the Controls Tonight!—

  Torrential Pours of Golden Beer!—

All is Beauty through an Emptied Glass!—

  In this Rythm Lies Finite Perfection!

                            ~

Yes!—let the Angels pour you More!—

  But remember to Never Gaze Within!

For Behind the Eyes of any one of us

  The Devil is Dancing in Another's Skin!

                            ~

And watch the Magic pour from the Tap—

  Only with Poison we're Born Again!—

And there is no Shame nor anyone to Blame

  For Here, we've Drowned out Sin!

                            ~

And the Night is Young!—so let it Ride!—

  Last Call Waits for us like a Fever—

From Time-Drawn Sicknesses we naturally Hide

  But in the Hour, Lies, Forever—

---------------------

    How It Will End/How It's Ending  

The amber lights of our tired factories

  Still dimly aglow out of foggy habit

As society fades away into reclusive silence

  Out of sheer boredom and loss of direction,

There's a slow simmer of discontent

  Bubbling up from the underground—

The vapours waft in our general direction

  As we obliviously, breathe, and sigh—

Hopelessly shapeless, blindingly transparent

  And motionless without location—

It transforms, slowly, slyly sneaking

  Into everyone's homes and minds—

Uninvited, it enters our conversations

  Distorting our natural expressions—

It is everything that came before us, here

  It's the Nothing, we see, for miles—

It's everything failing, gradually, in secret—

  With no obvious, definitive cause—

No explosions, no crash, no obvious drama

  To fuel some chaotic frenzy—

No.—Just wind. blank stares—evasions—

  Clouds with nothing to say—

Yes This is how the world is ending

  With none of the Doomsday Prophecies—

No Armageddon, no famine, no world war three

  Just This, and these insipid words—

The Clocks do not keep Time for Us—

  The Clocks tick to wind down.

No roving mobs, no violent Revolutions—

  We've lost the strength for fighting, or wishing—

Religion is dead and shrinks out of work

  For sanity has lost its appeal.

Warehouses bulge with broken dreams

  Our futile inventions sputter and quit

Nuclear reactors squat safely in silence

  And Zombies have nothing to eat—

The Ending is an Abyss we freefall into—

  It's a thief in the night while everyone sleeps—

It's the thoughts that you had,

  When She sat down beside you—

But were lost in the Moment's Excitement—

====

no mass suicides, no shifting poles

no rising oceans nor depleted ozone

will be what finally does us in

while slowly, we lose interest      ?????

=======

From the Page to the Grave the Poet goes—

  Through Hidden Doors & Sketchbook Windows.

We See them in Words, we know them?—No!—

  They've Built the World, may we be Shadow.

As Celestial things, have Given Before,

  Now Earthly things, must Endure

The Tragic Job, of Cultivating

  A Seed, Resisting, its Placement.

------------------------

            The Mad Dream

We are Building an Empire of Rest—

Deep, Dark, Sweet & peaceful—Sleep—

We've Lived—

through the Torrential Torments of Rimaud—

We've Seen the Divine Revelations of Blake—

We Have the Perception of Dickinson,

with the Patience of Death itself.

We Live, Breathe, and Take

from the Disgusting & Depraved world of Baudelaire—

Through the Disappointment & Anger 

of Bukowski,—we have Risen—

as what flows through our Veins

is no longer Blood,

but Acid.

We have Materialized Ephemeral Eternity—

into the Ethereal Spectrum of Dream.

Every Night we Live, and Live Again—

and every Morning we Desire—

More.—

Thus we Embody Nietzsche's Word—

The Eternal Recurrence is our Reality—

Chaotic and Beautiful, where there is no Pressure

to perform nor Give—

but are allowed to Observe—freely—

without Judgement—

to Take without Guilt—

to Forget without Regret—

and to Remember by Choice—

To not be in Control and Allow

is the Highest Power...

So Pleasurable is this Acceptance—

our eyes stay closed in Ecstasy—

our minds Tuned only, to The Cosmic Soul—

now Singing loudly, in the Choir 

of the Underlying Matrix

of Everything.

The Cosmic Beast backs down—

its tail between its legs

at the Sound of our Song.

And as we pick only the Richest Fruits of Life

From the Forest of Everlasting Love—

from the Temporal dying Tree—

and from the Transtemporal Temple—

they Thank us

     for our Desire

          to Overcome—

----------------------

                                   A Cabin in the Woods      (draft in progress)

    A cabin in the woods waits in silence. Deep in a forest of jagged, snow-covered peaks, where tall, straight, slender pines sway, to the shifting moods of the Divine Whisper. The single, south-facing window is partially frosted over with intricate patterns of unique crystals, and although the single, heavy wooden door is closed, it is unlocked. A single old, rickety, heavily weathered rocking chair sits on the covered one step porch. Weathered shingles and a steep sturdy roof embrace a stone chimney on the north wall, where no smoke has risen for quite some time now. And the wrought iron weathervane on the peak of the roof, heavily rusted, complains to the varying winds of the divine whisper, and yet, reluctantly obeys. A few paces from the front porch there is a covered, stone well, its water frozen over, for it is the dead of winter in the far north, of a remote Land. Seen from the Well, the Cabin is splattered with vertical beams of golden, low winter light, making its way through the swaying pines and one could see the cabin as a stage, for the Divine Whisper and the Light, if one, was there.

    Inside, immersed in the cold pale grey light of the single frosted window and the musty smell of wood and pine, and stillness, the hearth is dark and damp with an iron cauldron hanging at the ready.

The wooden planks of the floor would creak, should someone walk on them. There is a single bed, soft, made, with a down pillow and heavy sheets. In the center of the room, a single square, wooden table, simply made, and set with a single fork, spoon, knife, plate, and cup, waiting, and all covered with a thin film of dust. A single wooden chair accompanies the table, pulled slightly out from being shoved completely underneath the table, at a slight angle, suggesting approachability, vacancy, and accommodation. On the side wall leans a broom, comfortable, well-rested and ready, a single shelf with no books, and below the shelf, a row of four hooks, ready to accept hats and coats and scarves. Along the back wall there is a simple countertop with open cupboards housing a few basic tools and utensils for preparing and serving hot meals. On the old wood-burning stove sits an iron skillet, and a copper kettle, both cold and dry, awaiting use. In the corner sits a simple desk, and on it, a single sheet of blank, aged paper and a glass inkwell, its black ink long since dried up and a quill, all covered with a thin film of dust.

   All is ready, waiting, and patient. All desires Fire, and Occupancy, for though the Cabin can Provide Shelter, can provide Comfort, Fire must be Brought in. A soul must recognize the cabin for its potential, not its mere appearance in its current state. The occupant, must recognize what they themselves are able to bring to the cabin, and combined with the cabin's latent structure, able to achieve. Somewhere, there is a cold, weary traveler who would love to sit beside the warmth of the fire inside the protective walls and under the sturdy roof, eating a warm meal and writing a letter to someone, somewhere out there, someone who may be Waiting for a Letter.

----------

The cabin, waits for Occupancy, it waits to Provide shelter, silently, patiently, aware that a weary traveler may never come by, or, that a weary passenger neglects to accept the cabins hospitality, for, in all obviousness, the front door is closed, and by outward appearances alone, looks unkempt after all.

-------------

         The Divine Transaction

To Catch the Attention of an Eye

   Is to Live Within the Hidden Mind

Of Universal Form—Defined

   By that which Is—Beyond Design.

And those of Us with whom the Eye

   Belongs, can Choose how to Proceed—

Fundamental Desire can Never Die—

   But Can We Fulfill a Righteous Need?—

To Convey, Express, or Perfect Make—

   To Grant Ourselves our Secret Wish—

The Art is there for Us to Take

   And Give Back, More than was Made.

--------------------

     While You Were Sleeping

                

While You Were Sleeping—

  I Drove Through the Night,

Twelve Hundred Miles Away—

  The Full Super Moon

Threw Brilliant Blue Light

  Making Night about as Bright as Day.

My Deep-rooted Darkness

  And Inward-most Thoughts

Travelled with me on the Road—

  But the Blue Super Moon,

It Lightened my Mood—

  And the Past no longer was Known.

For While You Were Sleeping—

  I was Handed a Vision—

So Clearly, Directly from Heaven!

  And I Saw right in Front of me—

Instead of a Passing—

  Something not Taking, but Given.

For between the White Lines

  Was much More than Time—

Now I saw, not only The Motion—

  But in Each blinking Moment  

A Waiting Destination

  Wading in the Waves of an Ocean.

And Though You Are Sleeping—

  Soon will come Morning

The Day, shall Finally Begin—

  And in all of its Glory,

With all of our Stories—

  The Night we can Finally Transcend!—

And Light once Reflected—

  Now Rising, Directed—

The Transition—a powerful Tonic—

  Bringing Forward these Words

I've never once Heard—

  So Accurate and still, Euphonic—

Thank God You Are Sleeping!—

  I don't want to wake You!—

It's Early still—oh but I do!—

  Two Worlds are Colliding—

All this Time Hiding

  Within Me, and Obviously, You—

The Old World is Gone!—

   We've waited so Long!— 

Oh how many Tears and Hours?!—

  Now Open Your Eyes!

And Reflect the Skies!—

  See?—Darkness, by Diamonds, Devoured!

  

   -------------------------

    (draft in progress)

  

I'll not be the One

  To Tell you I need you

I could never be that Weight—

  But I will be the One

Right there Beside you

  Forever, while we Wait—

For Days are too long

  Without our Laughter

And Cloudy as the Waiting Wind

  Picks up and Pulls

The Clouds Away

  When Daylight comes from Within

---------------

               On The Road

As soon as I close my eyes I See

Your Tranquilizing Smile, & so I sleep

Peacefully, though you're not Here—

At least I'm alone, with You, my dear.

                        ~

And when I awake, to the morning Sun

Straight Up to it, I eagerly run

For in its Light, I see your Glow

And thus I know, my way Home.

                        ~

For Home is not out here on the road

But Time spent here, is how I know

Where I am Truly, supposed to Be:

In Your Arms, for Eternity—

                            —To Sandy

----------------

        Your Phone Call

A Simple Little Note

  To End the Working Day—

Something that I Wrote,

  And Simply Need to Say—

                ~

To You, though you're asleep—

  Since Schedules are vague:

That Call You Chose to Make

  Surely my Day Made—

                ~

For now that we're in Love—

  With Power, comes a Weakness—

Without You Here, my Love,

  I Suffocate in Loneliness—

                ~

Without You here to show me

  Life's Boundless, Precious Gifts—

Without You Here beside me,

  Each Breath seems rather pointless—

                ~

Without You to Inspire Me

  I quickly lose my Interest—

Without You to Devour Me

  I feel rather Useless—

                ~

So this Simple Little Note

  Is Simply, supposed to Say:

I Love You More each Moment

  Of Every, Single, Day—

                ~

And I Love You More Than Words

   Will likely, Ever, 

           Be Able, 

                  To Say.

                           —To Sandy

----------

Love, is Able—

To get to a Point—

Of No Return.

This, I know,

First Hand—

Because I've Never Feared

Anything More,

Than Letting Go

Of Yours.

---------------

To Knuckles & Sandy

Home is in a Poem

And in Walks well Known

Or a Song that You Sing alone

And Home is with Those

With whom Time Goes

Too Quickly out all the Windows

And Home is with a Cat,

A little black Cat

Who sees You off each Day

And with little white Knuckles

Wakes You to Cuddles

And Scratches upon Your Face

And when You come Home

To Knuckles and Sam

To Rest that Working Mind

Always Remember,

This Trucker Remembers,

And is Thinking of You All The Time.

-------------

(draft in progress)

Between each Second, there Hides an Hour

  Beyond each Thought—a Dimension of Feeling

Between Dream and Reality—an Abeyant World

  The Artist must Conjure and attempt to Persuade.

It's Beyond the extremes of Silences and Noise—

  Outside of the freeway's Howl at midnight—

It's Just Before the Fury of that lucky shooting star—

  And hidden Behind harmonics of an Oceanic Signal—

Where Instruments are Waiting to be set into Motion—

  And Songs sit still, awaiting their Choir—

Where the Arches of Cathedrals are built to withstand

  The extraordinary Light of a Butterfly's Wing—

Where Melodies not audible to Earthly ears—

  And Ideas too grand for any one Mind—

And Rain not keeping a familiar rhythm—

  But that of a Signature, still yet defined—

All wait for the One, if any, brave,

  Enough To Venture, Outside of Time.

--------

Expressing,

through an incomprehensibly Limited 

set of Tools—

the Interconnectedness of All Things—

the Interdependence of All Things—

the Ultimate Value of All Things—

the Beauty, of All Things—

all while Attempting to Pause Time,

or at least slow its Trajectory, 

even for just a Moment 

of Conscious Comprehension,

with the same, small set 

of basic, non-specialized tools—

Creating a Body of Work

with its own Gravitational Field.

This!—this is the unfathomable Task of the Artist—

Depth—Ultimately.—

Depth so great,

the inferior Human Body of the Artist 

is eventually Crushed,

under the Severity. 

Depth, is the Artist's Art—

Perfection, the Craftsman's—

You cannot stop either of them—

for the Love and Attention

they Give to their Art is Beyond Human—

it is uncompromised, unwavering, and irrational—

And even though Artist and Craftsman

are, in the End, 

physically destroyed by these attributes,

their Work—their Sacrifice, Survives.

Take Care of it. Learn from it—

and One Day,

Reality will not be something

Everyone tries to Sever. 

----------

A Secret Frequency of Mind

  Is where I call my Home—

No single Place, nor any Time—

  But Waves, I call by Name—

A certain Distance must Remain

  To never Feel Alone—

And what is Near too often Bears

  Weight, that is not its Own—

Time & Distance, if in Balance

  Keep Gravity in Motion

So that we're never Burdened by

  Static Locomotion—

------------

      The Return of The Queen of Beauty

Empires Crumble—will She ever come Back?—

  From the Sky Below, Rose an Open Abyss—

The Streets are Empty, except for the Fires,

  Smouldering, Obscuring the View.

The Rains have Fallen, but to no Avail—

  All have Lost Faith in a Cleansing Flood—

The Rats of the Sewers have Surfaced Again,

  And a Makeshift Saviour Partially Resurrected.

The Ears in the Clouds have slowly gone Deaf,

  As the Words of the World go Numbingly Dark—

Infested with Irritating Shavings of Plans—

  Crumbling as they're Whittled into Irrelevance.

As The Cures lie Helpless, in Forgotten Music—

  The Soul's one and only Elastic Escape—

As Bodies, Blindly, keep fighting their Wars—

  Which Eternity knows nothing about.

The Magic's been Lost through Dull Generations;

  The Spells have all been long Displaced;

The Rhythms & Melodies Drowned by The Voices

  Shouting into Oversized Megaphones.

While Her Castle of White, lies draped in Shadow—

  Vacant for Decades, decayed, and weathered—

Its Gate not Lifted for Hundreds of Years—

  The Plagues having Blocked all Roads of Light.

And Her Gown still Waits, safely in Her Chamber;

  Her Crown still Rests upon Her Marble Bust—

And even the Darkness—Deprived of Dance—

  Waits for the Fires, to be Lit once Again.

And Her Return Holds All, in Anxious Pause—

  The Prophetic Winds Nursing a Dim Harmonic—

Suggesting an Approaching Rise or Fall—

  As our Upward Gazes, Sound the Horns—

Oh Beauty, Oh Death!—We Need a Beacon!—