"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

                       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!—

See the Stones Break Loose now 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

  They are Prone to Burn at any Instant.

 

Chance be had—I sit Here, Now

  Guilty of the Summer's Heat—

Melody Smothered by the Mowers

  Killing the Insect Symphony.

                        ~

No more Innocence on the Page

  Have I to pull from Years—

These Rented Walls come with Age—

  An Outer Peace—No one hears.

                        ~

See the Squirrel, On The Fence—

  Caution in its Gait—

For the Jolt of Energy—

  Both It, and I,—await.

                        ~

Words are Timid to a Thought—

  Attach—Commitment's Task—

Importance, we are amply Given

  Yet of Nothing, does it Ask.

                        ~

We—the Killers of the Silence

  Draw, and Bleed, and Sweat—

To Ask of the Black Fountain

  Am I Alive—Yet?—

                        ~

Arriving at this Spot Demands

  All Attention—Focus—

The Spinning Blade now fast Approaches—

  Blades of Grass—at last.

            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—

                       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.

           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—

 

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?