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!—