Party Like It’s Armageddon

The Devil is due any day.
He may come calling for His payment,
penurious mortgage of future existence.
May as well be merry,
cutting up carelessly without regard
for life or limb.
Might as well throw all riotous sins a celebration
like apocalypse is near.
Fear of approach to each potential moment
when suddenly a price must be paid,
so hoped to avoid —
Abrupt devaluation of dear bought skills,
once certified as worthy trade for authorized continuation.
No ardent wife nor devastated child to cry upon my grave,
or pray for my salvation.
No cause for pride to reveal
a noble station in which
my qualifications are uniquely required.
Merely these paltry hours
of breathing free
that I might waste in pleading
my wretched case.
Much more wise to spin through this last act,
grab a  final chance
to loose awareness as mad and joyful dance,
allow fate’s fire to consume completely.
Leave Satan waiting well past statutory expiration.
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terminally unique

How unique am I?
When the product dissatisfies
When the project just up and dies
When the object of my desires
tells me my time has expired
When the last of my stash is nothing but ash
When I’ve set all my bridges on fire
When I haven’t a hand or a plan
When I’m lost in a strange, hostile land
When I no longer believe that I can
understand how to try
How unique am I?
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Star Stuff

Potential sensitivity.
Fragile. Slippery.
Encased in floppy, opalescent shell.
Aeons accrete, minutely by moment.
Coalesce, increase enfoldment.
More solidly sure dynamic fluidity.
Gestation, vast conductivity
slowly, instinctively
deepens.
Sensory input explored,
assimilates into expanding core.
Briefly crackling magnetic touch,
unconscious triggering
neural structures,
synaptic interchange.
Madly, groping, grasping.
Letting go.
Process accedes to SOP,
encoded, translated empathically.
Organs, systems
evolve successively.
Self-adjusting blueprint,
rooms malleable to adaptation.
Cosmic dust travels as waveforms,
acquires subtle entanglements.
Exquisite fulfillment
a habit of spontaneous resilience.
Transmuting themes inherently implied
need only whisper,
hum flickers of familiar tunes.
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Scryed from my mind, upon this cyber page

It’s not that everything old is new again;
or that nothing unique arises under obdurate Sun.
Creative designers derive and develop impressions,
ideations from within humanity’s psychic maze.
Meanwhile, unfazed, unasked reality evolves
its erratic, merry way.
Revised maps appear each day.
Most of us just fall in with  the crowd,
focus caught up in our current task.
Limited by what tools come to hand,
what we’ve been taught.
 *
(Badmouth the disorderly man — the message lost,
never usefully discussed.)
We want to believe in stability,
in natural laws that are fair and follow sense.
Kind destiny to float in a halcyon bubble
outside of duration,
insured against consequence
of change.
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Of the People

 
 
There’s always steel-eyed trepidation. 
Especially when yer poor, automatically suspect,
not in vogue with fashion or manners expected. 
Though there’s plenty of blame to go around,
it gets stuck right here.
 *
Adversity happens pervasively. 
Tragic heroes get special prayers,
funds raised through makeshift fairs,
helping hands clapped across their back. 
Except cast offs across the sacred track,
proffers of papers that don’t quite pass inspection.
 *
Of course, we reap treatment we deserve. 
If we live beyond the pale,
whatever be our tale,
it’s our rightful place to serve in silent awe. 
Our cross to bear, because we’re born impure. 
Damned lovely that source can be so sure.  Insurrection
 *
never condoned, nor endured. 
Suffer contrition for sad condition,
failed dreams, unseemly scraping by. 
‘Tis not an Imperial I who makes these rules. 
Thus it’s ever been, will be, unless at last we choose
honor, admit reality of human institutions
as negotiations for solutions,
until we can agree the power of fusion
surpasses perceived utility of mutilation.
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state of intent

Streaming in and out of consciousness.
I don’t know what I know. I feel,
but fleetingly. I feel exhilaration and fear.
I feel so abysmally sad, so
ecstatically unbound, so small and insignificant,
so rebellious and angry,
so tired,
so endlessly used up,
so guilty, so abused, so resigned, so itchy
to be free, so overwhelmed,
so stagnant, so magickal, so impossible,
so
dangerously close to the edge yet happy to be here
dancing on the head of a
pin too small to do other than hover.
There is magic.
There is the ability to send out energy and have it return
as your heart’s desire.
There is a magical path that will take us there
once we have the courage and grace to find it.
Like the end of the rainbow
with its pot of gold,
tied up in koans, hidden between
dimensions.
The only thing I know to do is listen.
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Snowy Sunday

Trying to remember fall
        — tumbling through mad memories.
    My life revolves with the seasons.
    Now is the time for mulling, assessing.
        Sitting in dark cafes on snowy Sundays
        and listening to sad, dark tunes 
        while remembering
        yesterdays’ frenzies, desperate remorse.
    I have decided to learn happiness.
    I have decided to learn your essence 
        to keep with me.
    Happiness is not as costly as despair.
    Love is easier than ire of yearning.
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art as I as we as you as they appreciate

 
Brilliant strokes.
Magnificent moves.
Beautiful pictures enthrall, enshrine.
Uplifting notes,
affecting themes,
track social rhythm, mark liminal time.
Lyric, simple sweeps of tone and cue,
never meant to trip up but evoke true
meaning.
In unknown dark,
shadow hosts
deep thought to lark and lounge.
Dawning form seeps toward reward,
to speak out what’s been found.
To astound or be roundly overruled.
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Grey Sky

People I became over ages.
Foolish sages.
Slave to wages.
Humble servant to whomever
gave a glance.
Always ready for a game with chance,
burning bridges to
swim in fate’s brave waves.
Summer days, bare of larder,
footloose, daring perils
over zealous ardor.
Winter nights, warm in fantasies’
strong embrace, kept safe from waking.
Betrayal trills a theme distance can’t quell.
These stories, myths for believing,
self-cast spells to conjure meaning. 
Selling candles to pay that piper, fear.
What is the price of surrender? 
Gauze white, ghost quiet.
Flock and lost agree:  all born to die.
Years dissipate. I wander under roving sky,
breathe greying air.
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Sustained Adaptation

Any self-organizing system is limited by the confines of environment
within which it must find sustenance to survive.
I am no good at flinging darling anecdotes from pithy trunks of
collected gems, street stoop wisdom, chit and chat on
an evening breeze.
It’s not like when the lines come prearranged ready to sustain visual fantasy;
or jagged, crazy waves obscurely accent sounds we hear only by reflection.
Cracked glass from which all energy has seeped.
Empty, fragile, without purpose.
High on the kill-endorphin ecstasy,
orgy of war against all who are not me.
After firework fog clears and faint light becomes tomorrow.
Nothing left to confess;
cleansed, hale lungs assimilate new suggestions.
Appreciation, cooperation imbued as art.
True beauty trumps
exhilaration of destruction.
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