Welcome to the Twilight Zone

Welcome to the twilight zone
for twilight presages the night
the beautiful, magickal night
where any wish can happen
any hope can be revealed.
I ride a marvelous dark mare over evanescent swamplands,
mysterious passageways into undiscovered treasure hoards.
There is so much, mirroring its way into the future,
recombining images, sounds, visions, eerie macabre skeletal touch.
Endless morphing whirls through me.
Each change fleetingly touches its sweet taste onto my tongue,
eternally cherished in magnificent instant.
There is no future in this moment, no past, no present,
only surreal landscapes, seascapes, skyscapes.
An anticipatory quality moves, dances,
ever out of reach, never coalesces into form.
This is the essence of magick.
This is the promise, the curse, the incantation, the lycanthrope’s roar.
This is the homeland of vampires, goblins, sorcerers from beyond.
This is the holy see, the mist shrouded mountain peek, the smoky lake,
the boundaryless mystery.
Welcome to the twilight zone,
expanding band of pale purple sky
that draws us home.

Quite Insane

I am quite insane
I speak in rhyme that often doesn’t
expecting to find reason.
I live in a world of ritual
and season.
I make plans like mad
then go off and free or freeze them.
I hang my pride on a carousel ride,
tell tales of horror deep inside
it’s heaven or hell, but I can’t decide
Tell me you love me
Tell me you need me
Tell me you’ll hold me and never free me.
Tell me the time, and make it snappy.
Tell me I don’t deserve to be happy.
It’s not that I love you or want you or care
I just want to know that someone is there.
It’s better than the alternative.
If this is where I’m gonna live,
I don’t wanta be in it by myself.
I am quite insane
and dangerous.

Over the Rainbow

New edge, over the rainbow.
Sparkling arch above radiates through iridescent swamp.
Lush green
Mystic desert silken kissed
with drought-killing snow.
Who do we ever really know?
Sins and shadow lore
erupt like boils, or
volcanoes dormant for years.
Sardonic smiles:
“Caught you! Thought I was blind?
Or a fool! Can’t catch me twice, with
one eye sleeping. My fury knows
no writs nor injunctions.
Take your medicine, writhe in
agony; lose integrity,
become a thing of poignant
beauty, limping off into bitter
No dignity. No glory.
In verdant trance, I sneak through a crack
above the world.
Here centered, we free spritely bake bread;
forge goldless, sublime treasure; sing
holy melodies into the hopeward ears of
distant, misbegotten slaves.
In times of dissolution a song on the radio,
slipping through the airwaves,
tells us something true.
Sometimes I look at you,
and see wonder’s child,
rainbows shining in
wide-open dreaming eyes.


Years of my life I believed
why wouldn’t I?
how couldn’t I?
Give more than I receive.
Most importantly, give to humanity.
Never mind humiliating pain; let it rain,
take the drenching. Perfume mendacious stench
prattling pretty happy plans,
idealizing mankind as we could be
brought to peaks of glorious peace and bliss.
The word these days is Passion.
A flying heart.
The ache of Art.
Find where my mind takes ease,
soars with eternity, smiles with fluidity.
Learn from those few I can respect;
let go the rest. 
Float, a ghost in repose, leaving regret
for scavengers to eat in my wake.
Every dawn could reveal inspiration,
unrestrained by beliefs in gifting obligations.
Streaming energy gleefully received.

Unicorn Thot

The thought of a unicorn is as real
as a goat butting in the face,
an apology or a disgrace,
as real to our neural sense
as any disaster seen
where?  on tv? or the street
where we live — to all intents
the same.
A thought is a thing, a noun
to be verbed.
We are disturbed quite as well
by the thoughts we dwell upon
as any interaction, even more.
Angry thought leads to war
more surely than imminent threat
without the spark of blame.
Without the slightest muscular pose
we understand dense declarative prose
to be a deciding reality.
Why presume doing on fiction’s discourse?
Thought is indeed the story’s source.
I think.  I say.  You feel.
No thing could be more real.

Earth Goddesses

Ceres, mother of the Earth
Athena, of cerebral birth
Juno, queen of all the gods
Vesta, pure against all odds
Virgo woman, faith bequeaths you,
standing proud amongst your sheaths.
Cunning service, gifts of grace,
in all fields is your place.
Virtue’s reason, mind and soul,
You plant the seed. You help it grow.
You till the soil and prune and weed.
You are the soil. You are the seed.
A snow-white light on field’s relief
reflects upon divine belief.
The image of a wishful star:
A steady shine — but still so far.
The nights of hope; the days of pain.
And on and on, that old refrain.
We are the lung, the gut, the spleen.
We are all we’ve known, foretold and seen.
We are the truth that marches forth,
boldly speaks, rebukes false swords.


Some Sunday Evening
When the sky is still half blue
And magic is oh so present in the scented breeze,
The mind may take pause from the conventions
of the weekday world,
Take pause from its frenzied hiding,
Peek from behind the metal barricade of
“No, no. No time for that now.”
And dream the impossible, unforgettable dream
That brings man above the machines, into humanity;
Above the burdened beasts — into gods.
Then, tell me your dream, and I’ll tell you mine
(Quickly now, before they’re jackrabbit scared beyond recall — such
fragile things are dreams).
It starts on a pure-white, fine-grained beach,
silhouetting a wide teal,
eternal, crystal sea.
A blazing blue and yellow sun-rayed sky overhead,
and sparkling sea shells beneath your feet.
And the sea breeze and lapping waves make the only
sounds (noisy traffic, heated pavement, not
even a memory. It was really such a bad joke.)
There’s a girl: long silken hair of sunlight,
long supple limbs of grace.
And a boy
Both clear-eyed, strong-lunged and alive.
See them play.
Air, Earth, Fire, Water
Then transformed above the clouds
In the knowledge of universes
“Here we are to meet our makers”
— among them ourselves.
Roll call of the gods and goddesses
up for reassignment or rest and recuperation
among the stars.
I dreamed I was on Earth and saw a thing called war
(shudders) — a psychic trauma
to be overcome.
So let us play in our past
and watch the field unfold
Tanks and Generals and Implements of Destruction
“Why, they’re only paper cards.”
Pawn to Queen Bishop Three
And check; and mate.
Such silly games we find to play.
I’d rather make love with you.
Slippery union by the seashore
And close your eyes as we make love
amongst the galaxies.
Let me feel you; let me be you.
Your skin merging with mine
So soft and warm,
ah, sensation . . .
floating higher and higher
and higher — beyond all time or dimension
You know, it’s all one —
The rest is a game
A cosmic joke.
“Hear the gods laugh”
You laugh — delightful.
And now we rest on the beach
under the bright, warm sun
floating through black eternity
amongst the pinbright stars
4th of July sparklers
or Christmas tree lights
Softly floating down and down and
The holiday is over.
As Sunday night turns to Monday morning and
we don our masks and securely hide our dreams,
til it’s as if they were never seen,
tightly behind their barricades
and a muffled “mornin'”
is all we’ll allow in greeting,
eyes shielded, limbs confined,
back into our workaday existence,
reading the war news
fighting our own private wars with the
infernal traffic.
The dense fog descends to hide the sky and sun.
The water’s polluted,
The sidewalks encrusted in broken glass.
And, I’d tell you my dream, if you’d tell me yours,
But —
“Don’t be ridiculous,
We haven’t time for dreams.”


Let us contradict the hours
And walk awhile amidst the flowered garden of
Times so bittersweet and true
Their precious etchings scarring as they grew
into your essence.
Breathe deep. Look inside your soul
For pack rat hidden magic tones of
carefree, joyous laughter
To salve old wounds with tender care.
Awakening, a new self-awareness emerges after.
Yes, let your inner chorus sing:
We are the source of anything
we wish to make our mission.
The key is to relax and dream,
Floating down a buoyant stream
we’re learning to envision.
Through weary hours of bitter nights
It helps if we can fix our sight
upon the rays of morning.
Time is not the enemy,
But more a growing friendship
we are tentatively forming.

In the Details

And though “the devil is in the details,”
so are the gods.
In the Details
Beauty lives in curves
and correlations,
simple intricacies
fitting frame to frame,
the potency of exactly
demons and destinies.
daily meditations
reach heights of ecstasy;
practice becomes mastery.
Beauty must disturb,
send waves displaying
meaning into neural crevices
thus saying:
Stay deeply in
this brief eternity …


Is a reflection in a glass,
like moonlight,
half empty or half full
or, like moonlight
filled with the stuff of dreams?
What is the sound of moonlight
dripping onto earth
down a silver stair?
What is the demand of dreamlight?
Emotion spilling onto sand or clay,
igniting roaring soundwaves?
Light coalescing into sound into waves into sea?
What is the demand of sky
of sea
of fire
dripping through twilight?
half moonlight, half mind.
Weave into vibrant fabric of a tribe of artistic dancers.
Fall under the spell of pure magic.
Silent night, peace and awe.
Imbue me with music.
In ecstasy, I dance to the stars.