Shell Game

 
 
 
Eggs drop – shards and viscous yuck.
A mess, better left unbroken;
walk softly, whisper, agree
to be agreeable.
Breakfasting on soggy cereal or
just a cuppa.
Smiling lamely through the
livelong day.
“Please don’t let me be a burden.
Please, allow me, walk upon my
crooked spinal stairway while
I carry your petty parcels
in my cracked, bleeding teeth.”
Eggshells break monthly
inside my womb.
But we don’t speak of that.
Not polite.  Not politic.
Like religion and horse races,
consuming addictions.
‘Cause we’re alright, ya know.
We’ve nothing to complain of.
Got our daily cakes and tea,
obeisance to some faith based Queen,
jolly good, jelly roll.
On Easter, in the blessing of Spring,
we paint sweet pastels
gently upon hard-boiled shells,
promise to be good little lambs.
The crust of the Earth
protects primeval fire and
gemstones.
Seed of the Sun
bears a glorious array of
multi-hued fruits
upon which we feast
for energy.
Part of this complete breakfast
rounded with an omelet
for growth and repair.
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Poems for Sale

 
 
 
Pimping to Main Street.
Boobs and balls for
me ma’ams and gents,
sweetly dipped in excrement
for your shocking awe;
packaged in plastic, curse
of dinosaur extinction.
Consumers of distinction
may choose leatherbound,
even snakeskin.
Aiming to please the crowds
who adore confusion
in profusion
as long as it makes them
look real fine.
I set myself a task
in childhood
to learn great secrets
unobscured by truth.
But what I learned was
shameful and so sad.
I understand why so few
would listen.
No clever, teasing entertainments
enrich my humble wares.
Pay a pretty penny dipped in heartache;
I will sing to you your native tongue.
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Paradigm of Death

 
 
 
Cut off within,
without connection.
“Why do I lie so alone, live
desolate?  Look at
what I’ve perfected,
coloring inside the lines
even when shocking pink
was the style.”
Longshoremen in early dawning
stench.  Dead fish.
Seagulls’ wet cry
forlorn. Sea entwined
with sky casts about
into brutal day.
In city gutters,
(homes hide those inside,
but out here)
rabid eyes, aching tense
grimy and sore
another and another cycle.
Cut down wretched bands that swell,
fester, invert pleasure,
ooze septic grind.
Laugh with angry spittle
into God’s eye,
hoping to be struck on this spot.
“No!” defiant “No excuses —
the service is lousy; no tip for
you scuttling scum.”
Echoes shatter through numbness,
erupt abruptly, seep through sleep,
settle into stones and weary sand.
“I told you!  Don’t disturb my grandiosity!”
Working, negotiating plans for
more effective extermination.
Organic stink, putrefying,
must be extinguished.
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perceptual shift

 
 
 
Ecstatic movement past revelation
from which there  is no return
to what you used to see
who you used to be
That ultimate step to transcend
eternity’s threshold,
wizard trick of the eye
Mind when it moves
so easily,
newly emitted
light belies
primeval storm,
primal fear, attacks
of unclear meaning
Reset
Eyes, now excited, aware,
reveal new landscape
Ready to venture,
map and design
this blazing trail
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Progress

 
 
 
Getch yer gimme
Pull that file! Collapse that case!
You are obsolete — unexistent
And ain’t no one gonna hire you in this industry.
Whatcha holding on to?
Whatcha going on to?
Whatcha gonna live for?
Got a score to settle while the dying’s cheap
Gonna find a rooftop and fire.
Gonna tap a neural gap and get higher.
Gonna hold a seance and retire.
Become a log a’rotting in the wood.
Enter eternity a nonfunctioning robot.
Captured in resistance, electronic impulses,
air tremors and interruptions in space.
We make no difference to a meteor —
any blind force that destroys without design.
We make no difference to our own kind.
Blind orgiastic miasma,
pressing, moaning, sucking in life.
Entropy.
Elegy.
Ontogeny.
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Mind Game

 
 
 
Mind can be more lonely
than body would imagine.
Mind can search for answers,
for questions,
for quests,
for endless conundrums,
and so enjoy the game.
Yet mind wants other minds
to play with,
to bring in ideas that surprise and excite.
It is spirit that knows to blend
and meld into all that is.
Yet spirit too can identify with
loneliness, as an essence, as a way to die
a little while caught
in the ecstasy of exquisite pain.
There must be a very important reason for loneliness.
There must be a wholeness of interconnection
that we truly need to attain.
I’ve been working the random universe
/intelligent design/mystical maya
one quite a bit lately. My conclusions are
sometimes random, highly emotive, itchy and veiled.
However, I had a revelation
about the dweller on the threshold
(a revelation to me at least).
It’s not about going over the threshold.
It’s about living that eternal magic
between the worlds and
enjoying the view from each side.
There may be a time when going onward
is appropriate; I don’t know.
First I have to build my home
on the threshold,
learn about living there,
learn who I am that I may have
myself as a trusted friend
on the continuing journey.
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Dimensionality

 
 
 
Out of the scope of words’
static definitions.
Immanent realms.
Indeterminate, all around/within
expansion. 
Configurations advance through
amorphous totality.
 
Travel a chosen light beam,
branching out into
another and another.
No time, no space, no box.
Unfolding.
Unlined.
Unreasoned.
Take a little trip with me.
Loose every adhesion.
Float, swim, tumble, spin.
Paint the image
Within your own frame.
Step back.  Enjoy the perspective.
Step back into the painting,
Strolling past the point
The eye has learned to see.
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Re-creation at the End of the World

 
 
 
The end of the world as we have told ourselves is nigh:
Widening eyes align, focus to define shifted underpinnings,
first causes, metaphors, stories of us.
Disruption, distorted transition, fear and distrust
wildly galloping trample the field, cry out the call
“Just let me rest. Just let us lie here, ashamed, afraid
to allow such blinding disarray. So much safer
to fall, over the end of the world.”
Could we, softly, sanely, edit together heavenward pleas,
harmonize with birds, bees, thunder, settling sighs?
Meme-shattering symphony dilated eyes happy to see
bright patterns coalesce, myths reassessed,
zest of surprise?
Would we recreate deity as an image more amiably
embraced, Empathy for the 21st century?
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Uranian

 
 
 
Not the fire in the belly,
but the air in the lungs.
Clarity.
Fire warms, then burns in passion,
flaming shame, blame, conflagration
of sin and victory.
Buddha-like compassion,
saintly wise, learned in cycles
of conscious labor, blessed bliss —
messages like this mentored, memed,
given credence in electric market,
synapse scent, inhaled essence.
This is not a sketch.
This is awakening
from deep drudging entanglement
in eiderdown.
Memory march in hideous mime.
Despair hangs heavy, grey,
unbounded.
Changing course, textured currents,
slowed for inhalation, beckon,
wave, invite companionship.
Bubbles surface, break
like flowers expelling seeds.
Breathe the inspiration.
 
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