Thought of The Day No. 8,976

 

All Is Quiet

 

Oil The Axe

 

Pure White

 

Time To Come Home

 

 

At a Truckstop for The Night

 

The Sea Gives Back

 

Recrudescence

 

 

Upon Waking

 

The Unwelcome Silence

 

The Chorus of The Song

 

Ode to Us

 

Interdimensional Course

 

Tonight

 

Shannon

 

Ashes & Embers Ignite & Rise

 

Shannon

 

For Shannon #47

 

Unimaginable

I Never Realized how Inferior

The Imagination actually is—

How Incomplete and Diluted

Dreams can be,

Until I Finally Found You—

Above and Beyond the Threshold

Of Existential Potential...

All that Time Dreaming;

All that Time Waiting—

Wanting but Never Expecting—

Was Nothing but Tolerating

Imagination's Inadequacies,

Compared to the then-unrealized

Reality of You...

The Empire of Desire Crumbles

Once our Queen of Love 

Is Found.

Finally, Home.

 

Elemental Prey

 

We’re It—

 

Interstellar

 

Again, as Before

 

Lullaby #666

 

Contact

 

Cobblestone Romance

 

we hide in the crowd

behind words on paper

behind metaphor

laughter...

reconnaissance requires secrecy

anonymity is necessary

if we are to convey

any dose of reality

untainted by perspective

uninhibited by the noises

of any particular vernacular

and its accompanying thresholds 

Poly-Schematic Tactics

Pontifications from the Podiums

Articulate the Addendums

To the Contracts of Existence—

As the Governments Lament

Over Lost Accomplishments—

Destined to Devour

The Ivory of their Towers—

Flicker

Who can Deny

  The Lazy Eye—

As it Looks Down

  With Aimless Frown—

Which once Looked Up,

  Containing Stars—

Too Far to Light

  This World of Ours—

Beauty, which Waits

to Destroy

its Patience,

is Power

Beyond the Attention

of Mortality.

From Dust To Sand

 

Into The Abyss

At the Precipice of Emptiness

  We Gaze Into The Abyss—

Black is All we're able to See,

  But Echoes Hang, Reminding—

The Sea of Infinity Surges Below

  A Veil of Dark Surrender—

To It do we Trust—enough to Jump—

  The Break, as Fall Intended?—

Their Sky is Grey, Our Land is Dead—

  The Air—Cold and Still—

Breath Reminds us, what's Inside us—

  A Debilitating Will—

And Words will Circle as we Fall,

  As Birds of Eager Prey—

We Catch their Eye, & they our Trust,

  Now we cannot Look Away—

And by Them we're Saved before we hit

  The Surface of the Sea—

Allowing us the Grace to Swim,

  And With the Darkness, Be—

Full of a Light we'd Lost up there,

  Up on some Dreary Lea...

Muted Resonance

 

Vanishing Point(s)

 

About An Artist

 

A Poet’s Manifesto

 

Scream And Tell

 

Echoes & Shadows

There are Faces in the Shadows

   Everywhere I Look—

And Echoes of the Gallows

   In Every Look Mistook—

And Mystery in the Hollows—

   Secrets of The Rook—

Some Ghost that Always Wallows

   In The End of Every Book—

A Precipice to Every Age—

   A Storm in Every Cloud—

A Nightmare for Every Page,

   Pausing—at the Speed of Sound—

And Seven Reasons to be Afraid

   Of Paralyzing Reveries—

Faces Cold, and Still—Displayed

   In Agonizing Freeze!—

Tortured Souls Held in Abeyance—

   In Prisons of The Mind—

Though Free of All Attachments,

   Swaying, in the Noose of Time—

And some of them Perfected Breathing

   While Overcoming Strife—

And many of them still Waiting—

   For some Perpetual Life—

So I keep a Lantern at my Side,

   But with the Wick down very Low—

So All the Faces have a Place to Hide,

   And the Echoes, a Place to Go—

And Every Night, in Every Dream,

   We Always Meet, Inside The Mind—

We say Farewell—though no one Leaves,

   For what's Alive, will Never Die...

   

  

Footsteps in the Dark

 

The House On The Hill

 

Prepare the Harbors

 

Sympathetic Resonance

Consciousness—the Ephemeral Noise

preventing us from hearing the eternal music—

waking us from the Dream on a daily basis—

while the dream, 

regardless of our observation or awareness of it—

continues uninterrupted into latent infinity. 

Meanwhile, the great race continues to accelerate—

faster than anyone can even begin to comprehend, 

let alone accept—

at a dangerously progressive rate—

killing more than any recognized war—but ironically,

no one has any time to stop and prove it.

As chronic repression prevents the masses of individuals 

from attaining any presence whatsoever—

Instead, training to Stay Awake, in their Proper Place,

within their Hours—reciprocally increasing to appease

the disillusioned illusion right back to sleep...

The majority are generally oblivious 

to the tricks being played—and distracted by the Game, 

regress back to their little impression on their dime of time

as soon as curiosity starts feeling like doubt—

comfortably preventing accidental transcendence

into a dark unknown realm of existence. 

Reactionary reasoning gains strength and popularity

as linear thinking completely overtakes orbital soliloquy 

for the sake of safe, effective, and accepted

forms and norms of communication.

All the while hiding behind an unapproachable scowl,

crouching over a drink in a dark corner of an ancient dive, 

sits some anonymous old soul,

a wretched wreck of a human, who knows, 

that to sink into unconsciousness intentionally,

is to rise into an awareness of the Infinite Sea of Being—

its subsequent Meaning then granting one the ability

to fill any human void, to mend any human wound

with cosmic confidence, completely, and efficiently...

Meanwhile, an old upright piano sits outside a junkstore

in the bright sun on a crooked sidewalk. 

It's rolled outside every morning 

to make room for the treasure-seekers and bargain hunters...

The business owners pay the rent and their taxes on time,

hoping to once and for all be free of the old piano's Burden 

every single evening they have to roll it back inside—

The Homogenized Noise

Of Public Place—

Amplifies Silence

Of Private Space—

Promoting Extraction

Of Cosmic Musing—

And Distillation

Into Poetry—

Cosmic Dancer

On Her Toes—

But is the World Ready

For the Moves

She's about to Make?—

The Jagged Lines

Of this Reality

Stand no Chance

Against Fluidity—

Confront

As Above, not always—

  So Below—

To the Light, not always

  The Way to Go—

And in the Depths

  Are Great Unknowns—

And the Wind

  Will Tear your Sails—

The Sun itself

  Will Burn your Skin—

The Map's been Lost,

  So Let's Begin—

Build the Vessel

  Light and Strong—

And Ride each Wave,

  To its Nether End—

Flow

A House is Built

A Life is Born

A Wage is Earned

A Will Prescribed—

When the Ambulance Arrives

It's no Surprise—

The House is Sold

A Stone is Carved

A Box is Dropped—

Tears,

Indifferent to Rain—

All Through The Night

  The Words are Dancing

Along to a Melody

  Nobody can Hear—

And when Finally The Pen

  Is Driven to Write—

The Explosion is Poetry—

  To Anyone's Ear—

On A Cloud Of Found Souls

On a Cumulus Cloud of Timeless Drift—

  Up where the Albatross Soars in Glory—

Up where the Atmosphere's Clean & Crisp,

  Begins a most Fantastical Story:

Of Beings not Made for Earthly Ground—

  Once Lost and Wandering,—Incomplete—

But Drawn to a Distant, Skyward Sound,

  With Dreams of Wings, instead of Feet.

The Limited Dimensions of Human Existence

  Weighed on their Bodies & Slowed them down

As they Wandered from Place, to find their Presence

  And a Cure for the Common, Human Frown.

Robbed of the Currencies of Fear & Desire—

  Homeless Among the Deserted Weeds—

Looking to the Sky for Signs of Fire—

  Hoping the Stars could Feel their Needs.

And at their Lowest, the Notes took Hold,

  And Lifted them up off the Filthy Ground—

The Sound was New, and had never been Sold—

  Sung by their Muses that were Finally Found.

With the Help of the Angels the Souls were Lifted

  Along with their Muses, now Finally Free

From Stagnant Darkness—Now so Distant—

  To The Cloud so Present, to Eternally Be.

Dystopian Pandemonium (2024)

                        I.

The Parade of Bombs Marches On—

  The Mob of Flags Wags its Tail—

The Screen Reveals the Noise to All,

  And All, Keep to Themselves—

They've Learned to Deal with Massive Things

  By Placing Themselves Before the Drop—

A Fantasy, they'd Die to Keep—

  And by their Beds, to Help It Stop...

                        II.

For Chaos is the World We Know—

  Mayhem is all we're Here to Make—

Our Fears—Falling from the Sky like Snow—

  Killing—and Freezing the Crystal Lake—

Nefarious Intent is what we Spread—

  Fuel to the Flame we Abundantly Add!—

As Prisons Release the Air-born Illness,

  While Guards stand Watch as it All goes Mad...

                        III.

Our Factories Invested so Heavily in Chaos—

  Manufactured Daily by the Metric Ton—

The Hammers stay Busy Forging New Faces

  To the Origin, as it comes Undone...

                        IV.

The Machines are More, than Anyone Now—

  Public Opinion Recorded and Saved—

Facts Attack like red-hot Arrows—

  To Justify your Next-Door Neighbour's Grave—

The Houses Arranged in Mathematical Rows—

  And Painted the Same Precise Middle Grey—

All Movement is Tracked, all Thought Repressed—

  Feelings are Pills with Nothing to Say—

Escape Erased from the Current Vocabulary—

  The Rivers all Dyed a Natural Blue—

The Sky's been Deleted and in its Place

  Is the Nothing of Everyone & Dreams of Youth...

                        V.

They Whisper Resurgence—from Deep Below—

  Some Madness to Shift this Dying Paradigm—

Life Against Death—& Death is Life—

  The Activist's Grip on their Revolt is a Sign,

That Nothing is Ready, quite yet, this Time...

                        VI.

             Deus Ex Machina:

The Machinery of War—Seized in the Sand—

  The Bodies left over, all Withered and Frail—

No Strength or Materials to Refurbish the Land—

  All Eyes on Each Other, knowing it's Failed—

Through Fields made of Concrete—too Hot for the Feet

  Run Rivers of Acid!—To Oceans of Fire!—

Armageddon at last?—but where are the Meek?—

  Are the Skies too Thick for the Flight of our Saviour?

The Curtains are Closing, but Earth is not Done—

  It shakes off what's left!—Insignificant Fleas!—

With a Shift of the Poles, the Ground Opens up—

  And Hell Finally Swallows, what's Left to Believe.

                                   —in remembrance of 1984 

                                                 by George Orwell 

Thought Experiment No.6,895,093,330,763

Creation, Lends itself to the Patient—

The Patient,—Simplicity—

Time, to Complexity—

And Paradox, to Eternity—

Once we Question Reality,

It has already Ended—

And a Beginning Implodes—

Taking Everything with it,

Into the World of the Unknown—

Presence

Slow it down and Let it Drown,

  Into Glorious, Golden Light—

And as it Sinks, Out of the Darkness

  The Maiden Rises into Lethal Sight.

Circumference is Seen while Deep in Sleep

  As Memories, Yield to Future—

And as Gravity Pulls, us gently Awake

  The Moment, will slowly Surrender—

Giving itself the Size of the Sun,

  And the Depth of the Deepest Sea—

As the Weight of the World is Finally Lifted

  Allowing—the Now, to Be—

Tumbleweed

Where oh where

Lies the Destined End

For this Rambling, Wayward Weed?—

From the Ground it came,

But the Sky it Seeks—

To Fly,

Forever in the Torrents

Of its Obvious Destiny.

Selective Refusal

January is a Centre

Of Definite Winter—

We Suffer Now, the Weather—

And yet Accept,

This and All the Rest—

But Death, & His Sister, Evil...

Blake Knows

Every Poem is Now or Never—

  Each Situation—quite Unique—

It is by Chance, that anything at all

  Gets to the Page, through me—

It's always Rushed, and never Planned—

  I am Never, in Control—

But I Allow,—and put Aside

  Everything else I Know—

For Timeless Words, that would not Be

  If I'd no Ears to Listen

To the Faintest, Fading, Broken Voice

  Of an Angel's Ghost in Prison—

Her Slow Escape, is my only Goal—

  And I've seen Her Eyes in Lucid Dream—

And I would Guess, there's only One,

  Who'd Believe these Words are not by Me.

Mute

"You don't talk too much do you?"

  "Nobody asks the right questions"

...Communication Reduced to Clarification,

  Society Reduced to Classification...

Capture me, and put me in a Cage—

  Clip my Wings, and lock the Door—

Feed me daily—say "hello" if you'd like—

  But that is all,—nothing more—

I do not want to be Free, anymore.

I'm a Quiet Bird, I will not Speak—

  Just hang my Cage in a Cozy Corner,

With a Perfect View of your Immense Collection

  Pinned to Glass, in Perfect Arrangement—

Species with Labels,—I Give you, my Patience.

What we See—

We cannot Say—

And what we Speak—

We do not Mean—

For we are Human—

All too Much—

Deaf to Sound—

And Numb, to Touch—

Under The Covers

There is something dumbly comfortable

with an adequate cover artist—

Singing along confidently—

without experimenting—

Doing nothing daring or risky—

doing us all a favour—

giving us something familiar—

We can all relate—

to being mediocre—

And we all love the cozy atmosphere

of no surprises—

Thank-you tip-jar artists!—

Your basic chords

are resounding unanimously—

With all of humanity—

Currently, unconscious

In this room,

                   Tonight—

A Lullaby

Sleep, Take me Over—

  Slow this Brain to Delta—

And Save its Precious Fuel—

There's Nowhere left to Go Today—

  But Tomorrow,

I'll Rise the Fool—

Upon Waking

"Must we earn the ability to dream,

  or are we given it?"

                              —Anonymous Eternal         

         (the alarm clock rings)

Time!—Oh what is the time?!—

Where did Yesterday end this time?!—

Where Now, must I go?—

What Now, must I Do?!—

I was just having the most wonderful Dream,

But I have no Proof!—

Who Asks what of me Now?!—

And why?—What have I done?!—

That I am forced so rudely Awake

By the Inhuman(e) strength of Day,

Overcoming the Angelic Weakness

Of Night?!—

Oh Time!—What have you done, and why?—

To this cumbersome Body of mine?—

Oh Humans!—This Heart?!—

We strain to simply Change Position—

To walk Upright,

Even though We Flew, so effortlessly,

Just Moments ago...and again!—

I have no Proof!—

But I know—

The Irrelevance of Gravity while Sleeping,

Is astounding—

And the Relevance of Responsibility

Upon Waking, Incarcerating—

Pounding the Potential Pleasures

Of Physical Existence,

Into finely pulverized Oblivion...

The Seventh Draft of this Conscious Life

Slaps me in the Face—

I guess, I'm Awake...

                          (to be continued)

The Cosmic Seamstress (a story of Creation)

There is a Darkness you can Hear

  And a Silence, one can See

And Weaving in and out as Air

  The Cosmic Seamstress, Seamlessly

Sews them into, One for All—

She Mends the Wounds of Ancient Worlds

  And Lights the Way for an Unborn Star

Then Gracefully, a World is Hurled

  Into Rotations, Near and Far,

And Muses Rise, from their Fall—

And with the Finest, Silken Thread

  She Weaves the Dreams with Care & Ease

Of both the Living, and the Dead

  Into the Future's anxious Pleas

Giving Breath, to Cosmic Death—

And as you Love those Stars Above

  Remember Her Tender, Patient Hand

As She Promoted it All with Love—

  Devoted to the Ocean and every Land

Allowing Time, to take a Breath. 

Night Drive

Through an Exclusive Night

the Sky Withheld

its Secrets from All but Me—

While the Road was Guide

to Past and Future

Treasures only I could See—

And only in the Hours

just before Dawn

will Spirits come out of Hiding—

While beside all the Fires

up there in the Sky

Voids, Release their Lightning.

And to Capture the Energy

is a Precious Task—

not fit for the Faint of Heart—

And all that's Asked,

is to Savor, not Squander

The Dangers, of Galactic Art.

Loudmouth

Who are You?—

but an Obtuse Observer

of my own

Cute Destiny?—

Intruder!—

I have no Guns—

Only Poison(ed) Empathy—

Slow, and Disguised—

Goodbye—

Winter, Wins

A Poet has a Task:

that of Transcribing the Divine—

organizing waves into measurable notes—

giving form to the shapeless cosmic—

preserving intention and trajectory

while inventing a universal Vessel

with Partial Tools—

the ethereal made tangible—

its structure, altered,

essence preserved.

Through Language, degrees of Failure

have warmed the hearts of generations.

And Winter,

Continues,

to Freeze our Fall.

A Feast of Thieves

The Muses are restless tonight—

they've had too much to drink,

and are now incapable of containing

their powers with any amount of dignity

or restraint.

Unabashed by their renewed sense of innocence,

their sublime ignorance,

and lust for More,

they look me straight in the eye,

and I crumble.

They look away, unamused,

as I run away,

with what's left of their Wine.

Fallen Angel

The day never ceases...

the night always ends—

words come and go as they please

regardless of feelings' demands—

When do we get to decide,

on our own terms, any of it?...

Crouched over this machine—

such a pathetic creature—

reaching,

pulling atoms from the eather

hoping for an explosion—

knowing, the danger...

Diving into the swallowing embrace

and laughing out loud

at our own disgrace,

to Her ever-so-patient,

perfect face...

Oh night, come back!—glorious night,

I long for your company—

the sun is so lonely,

suspended,

in this obnoxious, bright sky—

The clouds so scattered and shapeless—

and my shadow—

that ridiculous follower, mocking

every attempt I make, toward night...

Night, Drowned in Wine,

  In Her Gown of Stars,

Pale, and Breathless,

  At Peace, in Eternal Sleep:

come back to me—

The Quiet Ones

For Us, there is no Silence—

The Internal Dialogue is Relentless

As it Demands our full Attention

Depriving us of Peace.

The Tangents lose us in Possibilities—

Questions have too many Answers—

The Voices all Shouting at once,

Cancelling each other out.

External conversation offers no Relief—

Stones skipping across the Surface—

Only to finally Sink, in an Emotionless,

Overly-rehearsed Plop.

Submersion is what Consumes Us—

It chokes the Voice as we try to Relate—

The Ocean Pushes from all Directions

And we Spin, until Dizzied to Sleep.

And then, there's This:

A Dim attempt toward Direction—

The Bright, Desperate, Eternal Clutch

Just Beyond, the Upward Reach.

Time, has these Moments—

Where it Grabs you and Stops

All Thought—Allowing

Some Divine Transaction

To take Place, while Serving

Your own Consciousness

To the Desperate Hands

Reaching from the Depths

For Anything

They can actually Touch—

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!—