Monday, November 23, 2015

Scorpio ends

Long-toothed grey-white horse munches, trots,
watches occasional cars go by the road along this corral.
Drowzing afternoons remembers flying, wide white wings.
She has horse sense, wild strong senses, instinctual balance.
She eyes those passing passengers without comment.
If she needed, she could fly out of range, disappear from men’s
landscape.  Not resigned, nor exactly happy – comfortable,
content, completely free.
Soft blue star surrounded cloud, interrupting constellations.
Those who foretell by omens might say our future is our own,
hidden from plotting overlords.
If my day is unwritten, unentangled from hyperboles of legends,
how to navigate?  By what scores do I judge, am I judged?
Or do I write bright passages contoured to my immediate vision?
Improvization respects every directional view.
Fragile and fleeting, encapsulated brilliance.
Portentous metaphors profoundly impermanent.
Firefly signals blanket chambers of sleep.
Sublime encounters pass unmet like unaddressed needs.
If we might see still peace, mindful passion, dance of
slowly melting glass beautifully held, transcended.
Only beauty answers, in her aspect of eternity.
Estrellita veils of splendid gauze, adoring gaze, exquisite focus.
Heavenly, celestial, outside of social lines.  Beyond bind of word.
Open adventure to taste inhaled molecules from exosphere.
Echoes wavering surrender to smog of enduring vibrations.
In this small space starlight smiles, sun rays slowly kiss
strength and warmth.
Movement precise, exquisite as terpsichore sprites in ablution.
Leave bold solutions, false gods, ghosts not meant to be friends.
Befriend profound experience.


Monday, November 16, 2015

my share

Worthy Purpose
Cultivate your small plot.
Make it as beautiful as you can
every day.


Think to fool?
You have the stink of those
we hate instinctually.

Nobody talks to me.
So how can I speak to them?
I give what I can
looking on.

See, feel, bring into
conscious image
See it and say it.
Inchoate moments clarified.
Say it to see, to read, to realize,
satisfy all too vague yearnings,
sparkles that fade and
brighten so far, tantalizingly
If I am relentless, ever returning
to my private mission,
clear and magical vision
manifests exilhirance.

Don't matter if it's crap
just learning your hand on
the gun game
Same cave song -- can't
remember the tune
background music that carries
the plot over mysterious rivers,
under hurricanes or holocausts.
Fiction is meant to speak
beyond its specificity.
All language is metaphor.
Every story has many realities.
What is a story but an argument
in narrative clothing?
It's not about winning, but
crushing an impression.
Scary, surging, sending a message,
a meaning, reborn.

So he told me
it was like a wheel.
Each spoke held a special
memory, an occasion that
would not quietly fade.
A memory with which to while
dead time, make it less than,
more than real.
Locked away, alone.
Physically there is no torture,
not even discomfort.
But what to do, how to behave?
No one to scold or contradict.
No one to hear or listen, to
play against as friends, to share
the chores of explaining our world
into being.
This world I imagine, develop
its contours within my inner eyes.
I explain my world's many layers,
massive geologies, pretty associations
becoming ecologies.  Over condensed,
imaginary  eons, populations
of sentience evolve.  I scope in on
individual psyches.
I intuit their reasons and yearnings.
I listen to their anxieties and dreams.
I have found my vocation,
world viewer, thought spun into
alchemists' gold.


shush and chatter
nothing matters
it's all just noise
and sometimes for an instant


Monday, November 9, 2015

still point

at the still point
world wind bumpily blows,
calls eerie calls wise
calls yelps shrieks moans whispers
if the prey birds listen, if the forest
whips wails demands prophecy
Sun licks lizard tongued, quick
(too quick to resist) sprinkling cinders.
Comet careens blam! and seas explode.
Worshippers sacrifice reason, reciprocity,
genetic empathy for terrible blessings.
Mechanical beasts blend with desperate
incantations to dystopic ends.
Drama worthy of Dionysus, (flourishing bow)
dear friends.  We are entertained.
Britely Britely pyrotechnic passion. 
Out, deep, beyond land view
silent, stirless, moonless, so cold, distant
starpoints, projected sky, empty eternity
Here the dance is all, prescient to music.
The still dance that balances the turning world.


Thursday, November 5, 2015


The game doesn’t notice pauses
while gods attend to mundane concerns.
All these micro stories, so real,
anguish in motion.  All those petty irritations,
iterations, guilt and shame outside, above --
bubbles afloat hug personal worlds within.
Time as pages, folding back, musty, almost
golden.  Pages forward clean, unwritten
(unless with mystic’s invisible script).
Vastly illuminated bubbles, strong protection,
transparent.  The game invites us,
keeps us equivalent to sane.  Intent on weaving stories,
cast consciousness has no receptors for pain.
Only vicarious exquisite impulse emotion --
better than drugs.  More addictive.
Projected suffering marionettes our motives
manipulate, yes, we may identify deeply as we choose
to so intoxicate.  What have we beyond the ever more
intricate game?  Nothing so grand.
Gypsy trance
low light
insistent beat
syncopated heart
womb memory – or wound.
Tell me your painted stories.
Imbue magic by your tragedy,
solve your tears.
Pits, caves, dark shameful places
adhere, embrace like sad children.
Say again. 
I truly mean to hear you.
Shake me.  Don’t snarlingly leer
as I drift.
Those constant damning voices lull
Please don’t mistake my struggle to
understand as not caring.
But, no, you simply have no use for
powerless extras.


Sunday, November 1, 2015

Tonight’s Impression 11/1/15

Dig, deep into unlikely crevices.
Unsightly blemishes
covered in mud, old crusted blood,
more suffering than shame.
If none know my name,
can they curse me?
Always rehearsing for
untended curtains, productionless
Say something! as long as it cues
my wise response.
Make me believe what I want
is a true guiding star.
Then make me believe what I want
is at your command.


October end

We are called.
We answer.
That’s all a witch is.
Self-complete conduit,
No god’s bitch.
Devotion quid pro quo.
Service to learn – unbound
when we know, to go forward.
Self-Creators playing chords of destiny,
witch’s dance.

Those adorable babes become
people, like us, damaged goods
yearning for release.

Fresh with the stink of inspiration.

We ought to be smart enough to co-create
systems nurturing to all of us.
Survival through mortal competition
may sound romantic.
It is not ultimately sane.
The better in health each of us is allowed,
the better the general cultural ambiance.
Yes, keep us honest.
Insist on personal self-determination,
free expression,
zones for abdication of social mores,
far horizons for explorers to explore,
for enterprise to flourish.
No need to diminish.
Expand consciousness within/without denial
of laws of ecology.

Searching for epiphany
-- aren’t we all!
Brilliant sacred grail, unmistakable
Siren call.
True prophecy, clarity, unfaltered fates,
guiding stars, wouldn’t we feel sated,
grateful as prescribed.
Comfort, calm, certainty curled into
glorious ecstasy, escape as instant of bliss.
To exist fully astounded, completely aware
beyond boundaries.
How long can we hold that stare?
No limits of this moment.


Who knows what Future may bring,
or if there be future at all?
Who among us is worthy, has that elevation
to see and judge?
Prognosticators so often fail
both hopes and dark negative hopes
for terrors we fear we deserve.
Our power of judgment, of discrimination
to know Truth or Consequence as if from above, beyond
fallacies of everyday immersion,
observe stochastic
patterns, believing in self-talk divinity as
sarcastic jester, sadistic confessor.
We salve our sins with brand iron
blisters to ever remember lest one
true moment’s peace
would wrench our conscience, dispel.
So much easier to begin and end within
gods’ great constraint.
Free will or fate?
Not the relevant question.

If we love, rejoice, embark upon trails sought for peace,
balance, not evaluation but embrace of this eponymous
best friend, extend that blissful grace, what need have we
to question worthiness?