Saturday, October 23, 2010


I sit here, where Eliot could not,
Twenty floors above the street.
People below are color spots—
Trowsers, rolled? Flat-front or pleat?
Of their flesh is a matter of guess.
That they are human, a matter of faith.
What are they—  What? Tsk tsk, sot—
I simply take note of their game,
Watching as the hawk eyes prey from afar
Through great lanes of land and air,
But I do not swoop, I lick my feathers clean
Of the knowledge my hawk eyes glean,
Here are not matters of pride or shame,
Here is only a question of how to compare
One spot to another, high above it all—
I do not swoop because swooping involves me,
And well, you see,
The twenty floors between,
Naturally, disinterest me.

The sweet familiar scent
of Sunday services
Has broken through my wall.
Tribute of the dead and the dying
                invades my cubicle.
A deathly seeded air, Oh from where?
I wonder, aloud. A grunt ripens my awareness—
A small bit of mass in my hand.
Unwrapped dark chocolate, opiate,
Sweetest antioxidant on the market—
Here is a good and many flower,
come by someone’s lover
let’s us all feel its power
like a body full of wine.
Ah, but for the moment, to save the minute
wherein lay my reverie,
Back to hover at the conference corner,
To the gaping view and my friends below.
Save me that chocolate pill till commentary
Warrants a plenty candy
And my own flower dandies
Reeking like hospital rooms and funeral parlors
Sometime distant from now.
Now for the quiet clamor of thoughts
And observations on these presentations of spots
and the complement of simple crackers
in this waxing lunch hour.

Ground level and the elevator dings,
                released, free.
                Ear popping the new altitude.
Six o’clock train is five blocks away
There’s fresh air and a breeze. 
What an hour for a tour, its nice walking
with a gentleman’s ease.
Thoughts of my work, behind,
ahead is Thank You and Please.
Yet now on the ground floor, I am blind.
Every five steps, I must stop and unwind.
There’s music of every channel, beating,
                and a show of skin bleating,
                as the fresh meat competes.
My eyes are burning raw, my mind is burning.
All the voices, emanate a beckoning.
All the bodies, animate a reckoning.
My safety train is five blocks away,
That fact strikes me plain.
So get up and get on,
                but I’m already on.
I whisper my strife,
I’m a young man, after all,
And this evening I walk with a cane,
As this evening I walk off the pain,
On this evening I crawl to the train.

Dear me, you’ve pulled down your pants
here in the village square.
Strangely he did not stop, though he stared
Caught mid-ecstasy.
Desist, I insisted, you are making a scene.
I don’t care, he said, I don’t care.
I am an individual, you see, I am me.
And continued to build on his high,
He exercised his control button
While I stuttered in my step to move on.
Heard him calling on as I ascended the hill
I am celebrating myself, right here,
I celebrate me.
What is the natural distance of crazy
In its equilibrium state? How far a walk
Between the wave patterns of outlandishness,
They, the crazies, certainly do give each other
A wide enough berth to feed  on normality
And let normality replenish
Before its next encounter with absurdity.
I think one hundred paces is not enough room,
But then some may not like what I presume,
Oh well. This is just talk,
Crazy talk on a crazy walk.

So when the poet gave us Mrs. Porter
                and her daughter
He was careful not to wash their feet
                in silver water.
Yet why would they not?
Shouldn’t they so esteem?
Silvery feet, is not such a thought
Buried one fathom in every dream?
By nature, the Porters are hot commodity,
And I should find them sitting well
When they have silver feet, shone properly
As would match their sylvan retreat.
Such is the natural effect by a moon
High and bright, and water thick and calm.
The trees are silvers in the water glass,
And silver eyes then shine from mother and her lass—
So why, poet, should they not delight or else
Why do you spare to indulge them the minor sprite
of nature’s own argent light?
‘Soda water’ in the Wasteland
Is this poet’s tricked rhyme,
Isn’t he grand? He transforms the water thus,
Matches the scene to his minor fuss.
But we are sure to know,
By the graces of that natural glow,
The Porter girls, both Miss and Mrs.
Are out each night, taking dimes
and giving kisses.
And silver feet marks their stride
From here to there, passing No Where Place,
And in the bowers of love they hide
Where others define them
by the show of their lace.

Dear Great Sea, admittedly,
I have great confusion in place where
Great Enlightenment should be.
Is this because of you or me?
Or maybe I just see confusion
In the place of Enlightenment—
But who am I to pass such judgment?
Maybe, though, I am Enlightened
And the whole place, because I am,
sends out a steady beam
that makes it all seem
A great confusion.
If so, I pray now for the arrival
Of the code and way of fusion,
Perhaps not of the body,
But of the minds, undeniable
The power we could be
If our minds were, like you, a Great Sea,
Fluid, changing, sustaining
Bodies within and without—
I keep reserved the possibility
This is how it is now
And I am the last one to cast aside doubt.
I’m almost there, Great Sea,
Almost reconciled the differences
Of senses between you and me.

I should hire a biographer now
To follow me round with camera.
And every time I enter a cab
or exit my door, in that moment capture
my morning stroll through the park.
Like John Lennon and Daniel Johnston did.
This is the time to capture my mind
Before it fizzles and is gone,
Before its memory dusts down
To a form that supports another system,
a thoughtless system,
                my mute corpse,
some kind of a chair,
A throne for nothing to lay upon,
Nothing but day light and star light,
Wind, grass and dust.
A throne for DNA of all sorts
But the one thing of miracle
That made the material me, gone.
Snap, snap---biographer come too
in the maudlin dawn, me and you,
through the sobering morning!
Note how I take my espresso
And lean against the bar and window
To see and be seen and wonder
Who from among them knows what I know,
Who knows more and who will share today,
Who can love without impediment,
Each moment a dying moment,
Each love an eternal love.

Memory, of the lives we were before,
Hawk-like above, watches with disinterest,
Waits for the moment for us to figure it out,
To stop in our tracks and look round,
To remember everything as it was and
What happened to make it as it is---
Memory, she will start
like the crack boom of universal birth
When we achieve the critical mass
Of remembrance---and laugh in universal chorus,
We Angels, who traded the fixed rate of Heaven
For this volatile market of Life,
we shall soon remember why we did it,
we shall soon regain immortality.
Snap, snap, biographer, we haven’t all day
To lurk about. Now’s our time
For rounds and visitations,
For dying creatures’ permeations,
For yesterday’s insights
And tomorrow’s revelations.
Look here how I style my scarf
And fix my cap, oh how my ephemera sparkles!
Matters nothing but in the instant of now
I shine the all of who I am,
snapshot of my mind activity,
into the fixed lens of your eye,
the black hole of your mind
absorbing all of space and time
letting nothing escape—
Nothing escapes you, biographer!
Here, let me take one of you too.
We can over-develop these later,
Put filters on and see all the lovely wonders
Hiding safely behind our plain sight.
The light we are is order and chaos together.
The light we are is harmony of the two.
Here we are proof,
Heaven is alive and well
beaming in all directions
sources many, variable and unknowing.
Every ounce of every being
comprises that being’s confessions,
Heaven is to witness truth.
In the hours of life and life’s departure,
We remain as we are, gentle creatures,
In moments of chaos and order,
Across periods of harmony,
An artist and a biographer,
An ebb and flow within a Great Sea.
Dear biographer, dear Memory,
Remember me and remember me.

The sign round the peasant’s neck read:
Judge me not by my morning glow
                Nor by my setting worth,
Judge me by the burn I place
                Upon the skin I touch.
Okay peasants, you are judged.
And I stand burned by your awful truth.
More reliable than sunlight and starlight
Is you. The forever position you hold.
Trustees of an ancient attitude,
That when forsaken it is okay to display
Shameless destitution
Before a mass of blessed creatures,
Evidence, truly, that anything is okay.
Shipwrecks off the Lighthouse course,
               Here is not the way.
How fragile the divide, I am sure,
Between my Here and your Here,
How varied the daily trek we steer,
Yet how unconquered our minds both are,
              I am a star,
              You are a star.
Upon this battlefield we both have come
To Be, Am and Are, the ballast and bar,
The changing variables and their sum,
Part players, I play smart, you play dumb.
Interchangeable, the change observable,
One life another life’s dirigible.
In this life, peasant, you may have heard
Fewer times than I these words, Thank You,
But that look in your eye
And its mirroring the world you see
Is my undeniable cue, to you many times
                Thank You.

For the eternal envy we, who have, inspire,
You, who have not, persevere just as well.
You, Odysseus, blasted out of your ship,
Robbed of your men, kingdom and queen,
And, for one ounce shy of your customary wit,
Forsaken by the gods—
no chance to re-string the old Bow
                no chance to overthrow
the lesser suitors
and peer again with their betters.
Timeless as you are. Eternal as you are.
Sorrow and sickness follow you---
But you had to make such friends in Hades,
As you did, these wicked friends of an old war
Who still have nothing better going on
Than to sit and cant against the Paragon.
They found you again. Shy of Paradise.
            Their shade is your demise,
            here in the land of the wise.
The depths your mind lurks in still,
These shades you draw upon cloak you
And keep between you and a lighter mind,
And neither the sand of time
Nor the heart waves of neighbor’s care
Can shield out this torment and despair.
Balanced or not, it is fair
You must overcome it all, reclaim your will,
And wit will find you again.
The dormant gods’ love you once soaked by
Will then excite inner warmth, the shades will disperse,
And pennies in the pocket, burst and burst,
This blessing of thought shall lift the curse
And hold it still---Odysseus, the only wealth is will!

The peasant swung the sign on his neck round
And made of it a cape and shield, draped on his back,
And drew to his feet, stepped off the path,
And stumbled onto the field.
He beat his emaciated chest,
Scratched his face, pulled his hair,
And screamed to the day light
                I am the best!
                I am the worst!
I could take your homes by force,
I could fill this human ocean
                 With my superior seed.
And be king of the world—
                 Grandfathered in, by deed.
But in life we incubate,
In death we culminate.
My will is not to compete for scraps
Of the scraps of the scraps of the scraps,
My will is to remain true to patience
                For a time yet to come,
                For the lifting of the Veil---
                And the Veil shall soon be lifted.

Apocalyptic visions, in the park like pennies,
A stack never higher than an Attic column,
Promising a part of the present hardly anyone can see,
For that part resides between each moment,
As one moment passes, the next approaches,
And the exchange point is guarded
By the progenitors of time---not figures, not people,
But concepts driving a slave mass,
Concepts that operate the blinds, control the gas,
Inspire self-guided minds through an eternal pass.
But for the handful that can see between,
Nothing is secure. Hard to know for sure
What may happen if the blinds stop spinning
And the gas flow ebbs and the machinery halts—
Some among us think this would breach an omega point,
Ignite a fusion reaction, where it all comes back in,
Or detonate every particle---perhaps to begin it all again.
There must be some who know what will happen,
And they do not speak. Maybe there’s no language for it.
Maybe their patience is great.
Maybe they’re still writing the Standard Operating Procedure
For the Ascension of Mind to Telepathy,
To make it much easier for you and me to agree.
Maybe next year will be the roll-out,
Maybe the roll-out is now and next year
                will be the dawn of awareness,
                maybe the Veil will lift soon
                maybe in our lifetime!
                maybe I presume—
But better to say now what I think
Then to wait for forever to come and
Gargle my thoughts with some notion of peace.

How many times have I heard from another
To cease this line of thought, to not bother
With a whimper or growl about the Who, What, How,
Let alone the Why.  All we really have so far
Is Where, here, and When, now.
The rest of it maybe tattooed across our brow,
Or figured in the particle lights that dance between eyes
Or resting on a quiet plane deep within the mind,
But somewhere, for sure, is truth,
               Who we are, What we are,
               How we are, Why we are,
So many angles to approach the answers,
And we need them all, for We is the word
for all us dancers,
all our genius
all our cancers
Yet how many times have I heard it said,
These thoughts are absurd? We is just a word!
Yet the thoughts still come. I, for one, let them---
Illumination surely succeeds openness.
And We is more than a word to me,
A concept of collective oneness
That must require training and focus
To bring it into a being of chorus.

Two hemispheres of truth, parted by mystery,
Wait in each other’s darkside for that moment
Where the bridge forms and they can share
Knowledge of illness and cure from each side.
Bloodlines a million years old and more
Come together in a wipeout of separateness,
And a new chapter for discovery lasting
The merest fraction of the age of blood begins.
The survivor lines shall be emerging soon,
We hope, but the chaos of union still rages.
                All have the moon
                and sun in common
All fear the serpent when he enters the garden,
All have reason to hold the heart through the stages
And pray decimation will not end their line of ages.
No one particular can stop the great machine in motion,
Land masses once separated by two great oceans
And singular fantasies divined under the same skies
Come together now, some parts thrive, other parts die.
                This tree of Life is you and I
                and of Knowledge is We,
                You and I, a tree.
Rooted, uprooted, transplanted, spliced,
Socrates, Buddha, Confucius, Christ.
In the ground when we feed grass, or dance in the air as ash.
Osmosis of mind to mind, set in your truest rash---
Let us have the final test now, Clock strike your final chime,
Our biology is so perfect, we will reach Equilibrium in time,
Mind wave patterns, alpha, beta, gamma, delta, align,
Heart beats in this great entrainment, synchronize---
                inhuman parts of the world
                watch and wait for us to realize
God’s dream was to make life make life make life.
We were seeds in the beginning.
We became trees, by and by, and under the surface
Our roots entwined. It is time for us now to flower.
We can have a unified world, and it can be our bower.
                Bodies and minds, language of bodies,
                minds and bodies, language of minds.
Animation of laws and principles, government of passionate mass,
Dams in a great river. Life held back. For electricity, so primitive.
Yet the Great Flood shall come, as always,
And dams of every cause, fall.
                Made, hear the Maker’s call.
                Ego gives rise to We
                and the voice We hear—
                 let it be All.

No comments:

Post a Comment

More God Bolts