#poetry - Fewer Pieces Left Behind

(written January 17th, 2010)

I am the first born of the dead and one of the rulers of the kings of earth.
Now and again there comes in mind as here--
And I ask myself shall I return to my Church?
Shall I return to Church before I return to earth?

How swiftly we do, how swift rather,
   how swift we do

             forget and remember
             friends and waters
             lends and grants
             deeds and sovereigns
             echoes and chants

fateful journeys we take, fortune telling the wake
how swift we do harm by the length of this psalm
yet we are the writer now and
bid the reader smaller bites to eye will
preserve the psalm from harm and the eye as well.

I am the porcupine. This is my spell.

And I heard tell
"The Gods are coming down. The Gods are coming down and that's a guarantee."
                                                                     - John M.

In a place where I wrote, "A Gent of the System"

And who are you today, Senor Ortiz---
~A Gentleman of the Sister Temple~

And what have you to say for yourself, Sir?
~You have forgotten already my name-
and from where we wonder are you now came~


"The Hunting Verse" from The Jungle Book by R. Kipling

Feet that make no noise;
eyes that can see in the dark;
ears that can hear the winds in their lairs;
and sharp white teeth;
all the things are the marks of our brothers
except Tabaqui the Jackal and the Hyaena
whom we hate."


B-Bop-O

few er peace S left b-hind

#poetry - up and down the hill

i don't have to keep going up
and down the hill

to know, all you have to offer me is up
and down the hill.

and after having gone so long up
and down the hill

i think its time to stop going up
and down the hill.

i think all about this now and i'm up
and down the hill

so i now i will end this lullabye up
and down the hill.

colossophy

in the morning giants spring
and the cupboards make thunder.
steam rises from cocoa cups
while sky overcast materializes
a butter spread over dawn---
yawning, we bring out blankets.

western voodoo princess,
rum soaked divinity shining,
with painted coterie mid-spin,
keeping time whistling jigs,
there with almighty Nikon kin,
fully charged and focusing

time, your Ur speaking to mine

time was nothing to you
until you were born.
then you had to suck it all in
and wonder about its wings.

memory loss must be the worst,
the before and during shots
one's life and body toil for.
then to reach back for tatters.

i thought we had something there,
your Ur was speaking to mine.
our animals had a golden age,
don't you remember any of that?

sentient spaceship passing by,
hail! all ten million nanometers
of you, fibrous whispers and color,
do, i wonder what you taste like.

in this universal jungle
there lived a universal monkey
swallowed by a universal snake.
monkey's universe never quits.

nihilism's alright i imagine.
life being grand is also a sigh,
sure, sure, for granted, sure.
but death, now that's something!

long after the swallowed becomes
the swallower, swallower changes,
and we're not sure yet but
the swallowed might live on.

i saw it once, a long lost diagram,
approach vectors and hailing protocol
to meet and be nourished by a mind.
but i wasn't supposed to see that.

three years now and counting on,
i've had the same apple in my pocket.
we're buddies, this apple and i,
now if i could just find a peach.

trade you right for some feel good,
i'd rather be dead wrong of truth
and comforted by a fool
who knows how to make comfort.

be bop oh, be bop oh, be bop oh,
the trinkets of youth gather dust,
ejected booster rockets, idle,
missing little below the dull orbit.

tear hence, my ginna,
a mushroom is jesus christ!
locked away in the forever hold,
be bop oh, be bop oh, be bop oh.

master's spirit revelry dance

"master here who is who here master"

       its a bubble.
       its a bubble...

its a question at hand,
its a mirror at the eye---
its a mirror to the stare
holding the question to the eye.

       its a bubble.
       its a bubble...

i walked into his classroom a rogue.
Joseph Deroche, the lord of words,
wielder of wit, beacon of knowledge,
graceful in his trial
and just in his critical mark.

the classroom, his court,
the students, attendant lords and ladies,
and i among them, boy becoming man,
saw virtues in him that stand
only with upright forms.

when i first heard him read poetry
he spoke of his fair lady of cairo.
i knew then he would be my master
that i would be an apprentice.

and as he showed patience on me,
each day i tested his test,
i knew the respect of the finest craftsman,
warrior only to breed new warriors.

      inside i'm screaming
      demonboy demonboy
      demonboy demonboy

he was the swan
and we were the sparrows who fell
silent, as the moment before dawn,
at the sound of his magnificent song.

i gazed inward daily
combed my own waves for strength
to make sense of his truth
and order my response
and signal a worthy stand.


it came forth in his smile,
he too believed
he and i were a predestined arrival
and whatever words would follow were real magic.

      doing time inside, doctor of my own mind.
      how feel you? how feel you?
      i feel fine.
      i feel fine.
      all the time, i feel fine.

the truest light on the moonless sea
is a beacon calling me home.
the cold waters show love in this dark way
while the harsh wind is rolling foam.

my captain lost his mind out here
and the first mate fell in a gale.
for awhile we followed the harpooneer
til he drowned in the hunt for a whale.

i am telling this story, heart in hand,
for you who man the beacon light to hear---
i am all that survives the journeymen
who left you, stout and brave, for lands of fear.

i have no will to walk alone knowing
what i know and pray that you still live well

            for i am called home to you
            to be a shield not a sword
            an anchor, cannon quelled and

love in the oven
love in the oven
you are love in the oven.

walking in the late march night
i found you again at the corner
of mass ave and inman street
a clever ghost, using near likeness form!

and felt the warmth of you when
i thought "hello eye, i missed you"
and knew again, oh it came again,
the power source that powers me.

declared to you my fealty
the instant i saw you, the all of me,
without hestitation, dropped to one knee.
i wanted to ask, how are you?

but you were a ghost form,
the real world could not know
how it was i saw you,
so to myself, i honored you.

and when you disappeared, i felt a surge
every part, and the all of me sang

            i am the sun power eye
            i am the sun power eye
            i am the sun power
            i am the sun power
            i am the sun power eye

remember the night we sat together,
atop the docile elephant
you a lotus and i an indian child,
we prayed for the good people of cambridge to see

            the light of wylie coyote
            meet the all coated
            all colored, all shifting skin
            of the ocean guru man
            who came down from his mountain---

the snakes of the world were banished
and fled at the tremble of our ride,
the words that by neither of us
were spoken were blazoned as stones
on their subway tokens---and two women
fell from the sky when the earth quaked,
one singing in slow time, 'hold her tight---ride!"
the other too shy to sing or cry---

            she could not fly
            she had to die.

i shuddered when i looked for you
at fort phoenix in my fairhaven
during clear quiet white midnight
and saw your beacon become the cow---

i stared long and hard and before
the cross came burning

            i saw the letter tau
            aching and stretching
            limbs that turned black

turning into six black arms
that slithered out the black white skull---
at the core were two eyes open
and one eye closed
                  na na na nirvana
                  singing, the beacon wave
                  crawled up the hood of my car
                  and i felt fear again!

the first time fear since i ascended
and became like you the one eye open,
first fear, the black skull near---
  
                  where have you been
                  these long cold nights?

i feel you as my counterpart,
voice inside my voice. two words occur to me,
etched into my tree, an oak that never bends,
knowledge and instinct,
they form a single focal lens---

                  there is a hole behind my eye
                  where life can wander off,
                  and every now and every then
                  my mind escapes the slough

where were you on that night, those nights,
when my company saddened to depraved action
and sadness became a pill that verified
all the truth you laid upon the altar?

                  i genuflect there still!
                  the grace of augustine
                  and donne, hold me up
                  for what i've done when
                  laiden by lady mary and
                  bored by maiden alice

and positive in my direct way,
i, who ate the fruit and slaked the chalice
and, i, who stabbed them with my quill!
but, i, who spilled not a drop, nor loosened a crumb,
neither mute in ectasy, nor in good word dumb

                      just a just song to sing---
                      all is right, everything,
                      all is harmony,
                 
                      she and i and you and i
                      illume, illume an eye!

fallen by the sigh, in quest of the why,
i will walk up to your door, but
with my white hair waving black
and my face all stern but ashen pale

                      will you know me anymore?
                      and when our embrace quickens
                      my heart, will your bones
                      be sponge and frail?

what is your name anyway? i called you Joseph DeRoche,
i knew you as my wordsmith coach,
i saw you standing by the gate,
and felt you waiting for the day

                      when saints would walk
                      with saints and say,
                      "here we are on
                      Judgment Day---

the journey we took, at start apart,
but at the mystic brook we met,
where we watered our cantered horses,
and how we led them the same way,
you walked your horse side by my side
though you the better man

                      the highway robbers
                      would stop and spy
                      to hear your answer
                      to my why and

try to be high way men, and then
would quit the back bay fens while we
walked gaily to the public gardens and
left our horses with the swans and climbed

                               the beacon mountain
                               released the guardian
                               who sat atop the candlestick
                               to wade the frog pond

in the grand hall parkman we saw the shades
of master conductors dancing to and fro
grand coated channing bowed grandly to emerson,
dickinson presided.

                               i asked her for a dance,
                               by chance she gave me her left hand---
                               you encouraged singer sargent
                               to scetch the brief romance

and sad were you when mother goose came wrangling with his crowd,
the rowdy sons of liberty, drunk on ale and loud.

you charmed the guardian then to blow his horn
and flesh was ash that lifted high
to coat the light torn thorn.

                               sad too was i, by and by,
                               you raised my chin up high
                               i saw the ethereal ringing glows,
                               blooming easter's mystic rose
i saw you, lifting off your toes,
become your true form---Fountain!

i knew you were the mystic man i dreamt of in the mountain!
my skin was gold, my skin is white---your skin cascades pure light,
and words and numbers round and through, you are an angel sight---

                               my eyes have seen through mist,
                               my mind is clear as glass,
                               the spoon looking at my face
                               knows to uncurve his bend

but there i stood touching ground when you began to ascend---

i lost your eye by silohuette,
i saw the sky magificent,
you turned me round and round.
the trumpet blast came first and last,
all things came roundly down---
i sat with you, a man again,
sage without a sound---

                       an ancient craze
                       beset my eye
                       and burned the questing
                       wonder why
                       and silence bloomed in me too
                             
                               and there we sat
                               just, me and you,
                               silent as the tomb
                               for truly there was nothing
                               left to do.

                                          but then you laughed
                                          and softly asked
                                          'want to play again?'
                                          and tossed a coin---
                                          for the head of tales
                                                 
                                                   determines
                                                   who is who's
                                                   master and
                                                   apprentice in
                                                   this game that
                                                        never ends.

                   

Prelude for White Midnight

take this dram of medicine and watch them fade away,
the self-important stars that burn holes
through night's abyssmalness--
the elder lights, the guiding voices of choir,
who alone, but never are they alone,
would make a thought seem like a mirror to them,
but together turn all thoughts into dreams.

take this dram and watch these strings of light beams
pull taut their puppet, you,
and bring the silence some call peace,
this manifesting choir's appetite--
say good night to your night time friends,
say good morrow to their cousin, the nearer star,
and good heavens for, the nearest, morning star.

take this and watch the stars unfold in your lidded eyes
how they never could by uncovered skies,
oh how they trip and fall within your mind,
oh the comet's ball that is your mind!
and save this night-sky for another time
when the tide of your days shortens and the mystical eye widens,
and in the yet longest hours come the white midnight flowers.

from soul mountain's hereafter

ice monkeys came down from soul mountain
with banjos and mushrooms
to meet blue piggies in their sty.

caught unaware the piggies stood still
and liquid mud dripped off their snouts
and piggie semen dripped too.

your piggie sty is out of tune!
the ice monkeys declared sound war
and they shot the blue piggies dead in boom.

mushroom makes for merry laughter,
ice monkeys do no harm but play.
blue piggies hear all within soul mountain's hereafter
and wake in tune to the monkey way.

for the shaking and the cold

here and now is a man who has more than once
seen, felt, smelled, heard and even tasted
something in life that had no explanation.

the origin is subject to debate,
its nature inexplicable because
touch was never part of the experience.
that it was real is questionable,
that it happened is not.

the cause may have been linked
to the unraveling of old woes in his mind,
to a journey he kept well by for awhile
within the self, a boring into the psyche,
where many ancient voices reside.

to say he was unable to endure or sustain
himself upon these journeys is fair,
for his body did collapse
and his mind spiraled out of control.

to say the nature of his journey was spiritual
more so than mental or physical
is also fair
because the nature of the spiritual world
created a constant throb
out of his questing mind's ambition.

yet here is a man
composed more of questions than answers,
challenged by his failure to endure them,
having suffered and suffering still.

he attempts once more to reach the summit
of his mind's hidden knowledge,
the realm he knows to live by its own accord,
the most ancient thoughts that have no master,
the thumbprint of a collective
over the slide of his mind.


he found himself yesterday
holding up his end of a conversation.

one man said everything is going to be okay.
the positive man's name was king.
king was at peace with the world.

monkey thoughts are dominating you, king said,
let the monkey thoughts be, endure them.

but king overlooked how the man's shaking
was out place, for the midday sun was hot.
shivering the man tried to explain
how it was he felt cold.

he was then experiencing a separation of his mind.
and if it were true the monkey brain was amok,
what could there be
to explain the shaking and the cold,
but the fear?

he who found himself shaking and cold
was standing on a threshold of knowing
that death was not some far off kingdom,
not some tale to be told another day,
but more like a constant river flowing
through to an ocean of all things,
having many tributaries touching everything,
always in contact, never apart.

in the evaporate phase, there in the vapor,
in the solid phase and downpour,
there gathering pools and in the ice form waiting,
feeding off life as it blooms,
registering that life itself is death's food.

and yes he saw death, he was hyper-conscious of it,
and fear became cold and shaking,
like prey stood over by a steady silent predator.

and fear not for pain
but for the contemplation of the nature of this predator,
because death is the end of his body,
what he knows to be his body, by small and large knowledge,
because the end of his body
is perhaps the end of his mind,
the end of his being.

the pointlessness of his life he considers in this moment,
not the whole of life, but one's individual life.

long ago the collapse began, not his but all,
his collapse is a share of the all.

he can see it now,
this universe is like a dying star
with no memory of its origin,
it traces back to a point in space and time,
when everything was all,
and on this side of everything it was good to be.

it was then, it is not now.
memory before the bang of life as is known has been erased.
each time he nears restringing this broken memory,
elements of the universe outside his mind
and inside, by thoughts and happenings
that seem to have no origin,
come calling like a stranger claiming earlier acquaintance.

he believes it is true
that the other side of everything,
having endured its own cold, its own time of doubt,
its own merciless upbringing,
has reached already a zenith of being,
knows now how to maintain its original form,
how to return to the warmth of all,
how to become core and perpetual life,
               without individual body---

he laments
oh how this universe of ours has been forced to expand outward
on behalf of its counterpart
to be mere emblem of an architect,
emblem of the architect's abandonment,
example of rules and functions,
of actions and consequence,
and sequence without observable cause.

he believes
all life forms, on this side of everything,
are allowed a minor rise and fall of consciousness
but condemned to be forgotten after it all.

he observes
if it is an expansion, all shall continue
until entropy has fully asserted itself.
moments and subjects of all
are challenged then to enjoy life's flicker
and not require by an eternal store,
to have this one moment of time
to be this one subject in space
and learn to abide by the passing of all,
learn to accept erosion,
and not to worry
where pieces of being are left behind
perhaps never to be found again.

he says
we are the capitals in this world
and we feed on everything we find
and try to hide the fact
that we have been found by greater capitals
and are, likewise, food.

he volunteers
there is a being who can feed on our thoughts!
imagine how we are a plant in an other's garden,
changed out when our soil dries,
weeded if our flower should show different color,
cultivated for maximum yield,
guided by many messages across time and space,
encouraged to flourish as we are,
but pruned back as the hedge blocking a driveway.

he thinks
perhaps in this metaphysical understanding,
we could or have once been able to render toxin,
be as psychoactive substance,
to be poison to our caretaker,
and, by our essential quality, benumb and stupefy,
therein, for just a moment, perhaps an eternal moment,
to be still a wild flower, still un-calculated,
still able to break the harness,
to grow upwards and outwards,
unbound, without rule, truly free to live
and live without worry for pruning.

yet how often do our own crops fail us
or our livestock orchestrate rebellion?
how many generations of lesser bodies
have risen and fallen
to provide life substance to our own bodies?

we are not so different from our caretaker,
nor shall we be different from our food.

and here he is, this man,
many mind trips beyond the limit of his body,
seeing the real world outside his form,
so far outside it his form would wither,
his mind nearly dying, as flames un-stoked.

he is a match head struck, burning
by accident, perhaps. without purpose, perhaps.
or with a purpose he cannot accept, likely.

for it may be true the entire conception is false,
that the body creates the mind only to govern itself,
not to question the ideal framework
or make argument that would appease the monkey parts.

his worry comes from a glance at the whole,
seeing himself as one part of a string,
one bubble in a boiling universal ooze,
having temporary form, aspirations to grow forever,
perhaps to bubble off
and be separate from the all-ooze---
to reach autonomy, self-renewal, agelessness.

his worry comes when he imagines
how often the bubbles burst and splatter
and fall back into non-distinguished form,
as if the bubble itself never was anything
but a sound attempting an echo
in a timeless vacuum.

and how to change this or how to accept it
are two stories yet to be found true.
and they cannot yet have been found,
for there is too much anxiety in this air,
and that is perhaps the best explanation
for the shaking and the cold.

the special trick and truth

sadness has a special place in the heart---
but it leaks out through achy bones.
vibrations of chemically altered
footsteps' pulse
through floorboards and
activate rock mineral's low
            frequency song---
nearby vegetation wilts alittle,
cellutoid response then is poison
in the air and the whole world suffers
the chain reaction,
the body quake of a morose mind,
unable to trick the truth
            or by truth
relieve the sad trick its place
in the special heart.

the return

"the return"

i have come by air
to this land of rock, sun, and sea
i was born here
two thousand twenty eight years ago
                this is the song of me
                here i go
there on that cliff my earth mother stood
and she unveiled for me the world
she turned west and the sun bowed
she turned east and the sun rose
she looked north and the sky was blue
she looked south and the sky was red
she threw me from that cliff  turned
                and my earth mother fled
echoing the words she whispered
i sank to the deep still in the lack of light
nothing is wrong my dear and all is right
and the sea about was cold though amber hued
and the sea above was strong but not rude
yea my sea mother took me in and sang in me too
i coasted on her current and learned the sea song
i fed on weed   weaned on sea mead
rolled on waves and bathed on surf
                till i was tall
                lithe and strong
then i broke on every reef that contoured the earth
and followed my sea friends in cancer and capricorn
helped them wreak havoc round america's horn
                i sang williwaw
                williwaw williwaw
a song to bind all sailors with care and awe
i tickled the unzipped zippered masses
at the deepest dive at the darkest core
got drunk off sulfuric gases
and learned what seeing without sight was for
where earth warmth glows without light
where the weight of all is great
and where nothing feels wrong but all feels right
                and earth stillness reigns
                till peace is made plain
then i fed by the nipples of leviathan dens
and twisted the whirlpool ripples to a fine lens
and became a force of fury that danced
atop the crowning plumed whale spray
where into the sky i lanced
now mist and mystic
and there with mistress air
became the tempest's friend
and she my wind mother sang in me too
i was the rosin of her bowstrings
and our sonic tune bent all things
                mainsails topmasts
                pelted mariners aghast
precious cargo and stowaways  i cast them all below
then worked the great maws great bellows
up onto the rocks unyielding fjordal mass
                whirlpool monsoon
                typhoon  hurricane
a dance of sea and air i became till
my mothers' giving hands gave me to the sun goddess
and she my sun mother sang in me too
with light and fire so that i learned
                the beauty of all
                and the how of how
to make fog crawl and thunder call
to ache with lightning and strike once and once more
to bake the earth core and boil her sister sea
to quake the spoils of each by each
to rake the toils outreaching reach
to slake in the spirit of elemental fury
i saw all and forgot nothing
i heard nothing become something
i felt something touch everything
i know that everything is all
and to forget this would be my fall
i was caught and captured by
learned and mastered the cry
                mesmerized  memorized
                i was immortalized
by the gentle vigor of my mothers' lullabies
by the sea, wind, sun and earth song
                all is right 
                nothing wrong
and born from this past
to the cliff i was cast
i return
                well now
who am i
perhaps  just an oversexed demon boy
                with a few things to say
                to many many people---oye oye oye---
get your harp out in your hand
and strum it right to the rigid chord
now turn to your friend with the bare hand
and make her beat on your drum skins
till the skins bleed drum noise
lose sight of things and see
what sight your song brings
hear the thousand tribal voices
emanating and
sing the song they sing
feel them respond to your change
                of pitch and tempo
                change with them too
show them you are worthy
of the song they sing
and build on that song of verse
a chorus of light and sound
break thunder with your drum
charm lightning with your harp
in this song there is no wrong
this is the song of your life
                repeat crescendo
                temper your tempo
                repeat decrescendo
                quaver high and low
now gnarl the staff at hand
and make the crisis stand
                repeat
                and separate
your hands are mindfuls aflame
your tone is a miniature cave
your expression is soft and grave
you have become both noble and knave
turn to your friend again
is the song at end, she'll say
no---you return---be brave
                let silence fall
                listen for the call
and then oh then then then
my beautiful friend then
                refrain
refrain the song of me
find the song of you
and when your mothers sing and teach
return to this cliff or to that beach
and we'll sing your song too---
return to me as i return to you.